Golden Fever

by Carole Mortimer

  Clare swallowed hard, looking down as her fingers plucked nervously at the pillow she still hugged. ‘Me?’ She bit her top lip.

  Rourke resumed his pacing. ‘You’re as stiff as a board in every scene you have to do with me. I thought this morning might have cleared all that up—’

  ‘I’m perfectly well aware of the reason you kissed me,’ she choked.

  ‘You don’t know a damned thing!’ he dismissed angrily. ‘And I’m in no mood to tell you. Now I know you can act, I’ve seen the movies you’ve made, and you’re good. But around me you freeze.’

  How could she explain that with each moment she had to spend in his company she became aware of how much she still loved him? She had tried to deny it, even to herself, but seeing him with Belinda this evening had stripped away every barrier she had built up against him. She still loved Rourke Somerville, not even five years of not seeing him had changed that. Just as it hadn’t changed the fact that he was still the biggest rake in Los Angeles. And if he thought for a minute that she believed that story of Belinda being the daughter of an old friend then he was mistaken! She knew him too well herself for that.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’ll try to do better tomorrow.’

  ‘I hope so, because when I agreed to step into Jason’s shoes and do this movie I was promised it would be completed in four months, the filming at least.’

  ‘Four months?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Isn’t that a little rushed?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be, you all had plenty of rehearsals in London before coming here.’

  ‘But that was with Jason.’

  Rourke shrugged, looking lean and relaxed in a dark dinner suit, the tie discarded at some time, the top two buttons of his white shirt now undone, the gold medallion nestling in the dark hair on his chest. ‘It shouldn’t be so different with me.’

  Maybe it shouldn’t be, but it was, for her at least. ‘Your medallion,’ she went off at a tangent, staring at it almost desperately as she shied probing the reason it was different with Rourke. ‘Why do you wear it all the time?’

  He frowned his annoyance. ‘Clare—’

  ‘I’d like to know,’ she insisted shakily.

  He grimaced. ‘I bought it with the first fee I ever received for doing a movie,’ he sighed. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it means a lot to me! It means I showed that rich bitch of a mother of mine that I could make it without her, that I’ve never needed her or her money.’

  Clare hadn’t realised his bitterness went so deep—or that the medallion represented independence to him. It somehow made him seem as vulnerable as other mortals.

  ‘Can we get on with discussing this problem now?’ he said tersely.

  ‘Problem?’ she blinked. ‘What problem?’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Oh—oh yes.’ She chewed her bottom lip. ‘I don’t see what I can do about it. I just—I don’t like working with you.’

  ‘Because of the past?’

  Delicate colour tinged her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she sighed.

  ‘Then forget about it.’

  ‘Forget—?’ Her eyes widened. ‘How can I do that?’

  ‘It should be quite easy. It meant nothing to you, so why not forget it? If you don’t we’ll never finish the movie. I’ve never turned in anything but my best, not in acting or directing, and I don’t intend this to be the exception.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t help it!’

  ‘You’re going to ruin the whole movie with your frigidness.’

  As quickly as she had blushed Clare now paled. ‘I am not frigid!’

  ‘Not you personally, just you acting,’ he corrected tersely.

  ‘For God’s sake, Rourke, it was only the first day! Give it a chance.’

  He ran one hand through his already tousled black hair, cut shorter earlier in the day to be in keeping with the part of Gunther. If anything he just looked more attractive, the shorter style drawing more emphasis to the ruggedness of his face and the mesmerism of his deep blue eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll give it until the end of the week.’

  ‘And then what?’ she asked wearily.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.’

  Like he had thought of kissing her this morning! ’I’m sure you will,’ she derided.

  His eyes became cold. ‘I mean to have this movie finished on time, Clare, with or without your cooperation. I have to be somewhere else in four or five months.’

  ‘Your other film?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked interestedly.

  ‘Gun Serenade,’ he revealed reluctantly.

  ‘I—But—That’s my mother’s next film!’ She had seen reports of the film to be made of a South American revolution, and the Englishwoman who got caught up in it. She had also seen that her mother was to star in it. ‘I didn’t know you were the director,’ she said dully.

  ‘Well, I am. Unfortunately the place we’d picked out for filming has had its own revolution,’ he explained dryly. ‘The new government has given us permission to go in in four months. Too many arrangements had been made for us to change location, so we’re waiting the four months. At least some of the filming should be lifelike!’

  ‘But won’t it—won’t it be dangerous?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Clare,’ his mouth twisted. ‘Your mother will have all the security she needs. After all, she’s still the Queen of Hollywood!’

  Clare couldn’t give a damn about her mother’s safety, she was more interested in Rourke’s safety—and with wondering if her mother’s night security would consist of Rourke himself!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CLARE woke in the morning feeling physically sick, the nightmares so vivid, the bullets ripping into Rourke’s body taking him away from her for ever. Reality was just as horrific—her mother and Rourke back together. Because it would be as inevitable as night following day.

  The possibility of having Rourke as a stepfather loomed up once again, and she knew she couldn’t stand it.

  He had left her last night after assuring her that her mother would be well looked after, little knowing how little that bothered her, and she had heard the door lock behind him, evidence that he had taken notice of her complaint about him entering and leaving her suite whenever he felt like it.

  Her night had been full of dreams of Rourke in danger, so much so that she didn’t feel in the least rested, and moved listlessly about her suite getting herself ready.

  When the knock sounded on her door she gave a start of surprise, her senses numbed from lack of sleep. She opened the door to find the corridor empty. If someone was playing a joke on her they had picked the wrong day!

  The knock sounded again as she closed the outer door, and she moved to the communicating door. ‘Rourke?’ she queried tentatively.

  ‘Who else were you expecting?’ he drawled.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked irritably.

  ‘It isn’t a question of what I want, but what you want.’

  ‘Me?’ she echoed sharply. ‘I told you last night—’

  ‘Coffee, Clare,’ he taunted. ‘I have a cup of coffee here for you.’

  Her mouth set angrily, the aroma of strong coffee now reaching her. ‘Open the door, then,’ she instructed curtly.

  Rourke did so, handing her the coffee. ‘I asked Room Service if you’d ordered any, when they said no I ordered it with mine.’

  Clare gave him an angry glare, determined not to notice how handsome he looked in tight denims and a blue sweat-shirt. ‘I’m sure Room Service found that very interesting,’ she snapped, turning away to drink her coffee, her own denims as tight as his, her tee-shirt body-hugging too.

  ‘You look like hell—’

  ‘Thank you!’ she bit out angrily. ‘That’s just what I wanted to hear.’ She knew she looked ’like hell’—she had looked in the mirror this morning! She was very pal
e, with dark shadows under her eyes. And it was this man’s fault!

  Rourke shrugged, leaning against one of the communicating doors. ‘I can only tell you what I see.’

  She shot him a resentful glance. ‘You don’t look too good yourself.’

  He ran a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing his nape as if it ached. ‘I didn’t sleep too well.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘Frustrated, Clare?’ he quirked a mocking eyebrow.

  If it were possible she became even paler. ‘What do you mean?’

  His mouth twisted knowingly. ‘Well, you’ve been without Pryce for two nights now. Maybe you have withdrawal symptoms.’

  She slammed the cup down on the table, glad that it was empty, otherwise she would have got soaked! Her body was tense as she glared at him. ‘For your information, Harvey and I do not sleep together,’ she bit out fiercely. ‘So I’m hardly likely to be feeling ‘‘withdrawal symptoms’’!’

  Rourke’s eyes narrowed as they moved searchingly over her face, seeing the fury in her eyes, the anger in her mouth. ‘You don’t?’ he said slowly.

  ‘No,’ she sighed. Oh dear, she had told him the one thing she had intended not to! And all because her defences were down after spending a night worrying about him.

  She couldn’t understand herself. She had spent five years not thinking about him, five years when he could have been involved in heaven knows what, could have been killed a hundred times, and yet within two days of seeing him again she was worrying about his welfare so much it was keeping her awake at night.

  ‘Why don’t you?’ he pursued relentlessly.

  She flushed. ‘Harvey respects me—’

  ‘Not that one, Clare,’ he derided, shaking his head. ‘Have you ever slept with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you say?’ he probed her muttered response.

  ‘I said no!’ she shouted. ‘Now will you get out of here? I have to finish getting ready.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ he persisted on the subject of Harvey.

  Her eyes sent out sparks at him. ‘Mainly because we don’t happen to be married.’

  ‘I don’t remember that bothering you with me,’ Rourke derided.

  ‘You’re right, it didn’t!’ she almost spat the words at him. ‘And it was my—experience with you that soured men for me.’

  ‘You mean all this time …?’

  ‘Yes, I mean all this time!’ She was furiously angry, no longer caring what she said, what she revealed, not even noticing how pale Rourke had become. ‘But that’s going to change in the near future,’ she declared with bravado. ‘Why should I let one—disastrous experience ruin my whole life? Harvey is good and kind, and I’d rather have him as a lover than you any day.’ Her breath was coming in gasps at the end of this tirade, her breasts heaving.

  ‘The hell you would!’ Rourke exploded, coming forward with angry strides to grasp her upper arms and pull her ruthlessly against him.

  The force of her body meeting his knocked all the breath out of her body, rendering her momentarily helpless as his mouth came down to grind against hers, intending to give pain, not pleasure.

  Rourke’s complete disregard for her feelings caused the most pain, and she fought against him the whole of the time his mouth plundered hers.

  At last she managed to wrench her mouth away from his. ‘I hate you!’ she told him vehemently. ‘I hate you, damn you!’

  He pushed her away from him with a disgusted sigh, whether with her or himself she couldn’t tell, and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the short dark curls. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said tightly. ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

  Clare wiped her mouth across the back of her hand. ‘That’s the trouble, you never do.’

  He looked at her furiously. ‘I have control. It’s just that where you’re concerned—’

  ‘You don’t,’ she finished sneeringly. ‘Well, I do. And I don’t want you bringing me coffee any more, I don’t want you coming in here any more, I just want you to stay away from me!’

  ‘I get the message.’ His mouth twisted. ‘And don’t worry, I don’t want to be near you either.’

  After an ugly argument like that it wasn’t surprising that every scene they had to be in together was a total disaster—so much so that Rourke finally cancelled all their scenes together for the rest of the week.

  ‘I can cope,’ Clare claimed when she heard the news.

  ‘Maybe you can,’ Rourke muttered, ’but I can’t. Now get out of my sight.’

  ‘Rourke—’

  ‘Yes, come on, Belinda,’ he spoke to the other girl as she came on to the set, totally ignoring Clare as she still stood at his side. ‘I’ll help you with the lines,’ he soothed the other girl. ‘I realise this scene has come before you’re ready for it, but Miss Anderson isn’t quite up to her part yet.’

  Clare knew that the last was meant as a direct dig at her, and Rourke’s cruelty and Belinda’s catty smile made her so angry she walked out, still in her costume, uncaring of the strange looks she received as she hurried to her suite.

  Rourke had been cruel, deliberately so. The ruination of this morning’s filming was not completely her fault. He had been as much still Rourke Somerville as she had been Clare Anderson, and their antipathy had taken over Gunther and Caroline, making the whole thing a farce. Rourke had been right to call a halt to it, but not to put all the blame on her.

  She wouldn’t cry, she refused to cry. She had shed too many tears over Rourke in the past, she simply didn’t have any left where he was concerned.

  A call to Harvey’s room showed that he had already left for the day, leaving her free to do what she wanted. The trouble was she had no idea what she wanted to do. She hadn’t wanted to go into Los Angeles during her stay here, but she refused to just sit in her room like a naughty schoolgirl.

  She stood up with new impetus and took off her costume, taking care to hang it up properly—she wasn’t feeling so courageous that she wanted to incur Rourke’s wrath for a second time today. She had left her own clothes in the temporary wardrobe that had been erected on board, so she took out a pair of white tailored slacks, putting on a white silk blouse with them, brushing her hair loose about her shoulders, picking up her handbag and the keys to the car that had been put at her disposal for her stay here, then leaving the suite with a determined spring to her step.

  Where she was going she had no idea, but she wanted to give the impression that she knew exactly where she was going, not wanting to get waylaid by anyone on her way out.

  She didn’t, sliding smoothly into the low red sports car, driving off with a roar of the engine. She hadn’t driven in the States for years, and yet it seemed like yesterday; driving on the right-hand side of the road seemed perfectly natural to her.

  The traffic was mad, as usual, but no madder than London during the rush-hour, and she seemed to be driving automatically, finding herself at Malibu Beach.

  It was crowded as usual, mainly with fair-haired teenagers all wearing the minimum of clothing. Clare got out of the car and moved forward to lean back against the bonnet, watching the antics of the laughing groups on the beach.

  They all looked so happy, as she used to, and she wished she could return once again to those happy carefree days before she met Rourke. Then she had lived in ignorance of her mother’s greed for every man to be interested in her, only in her, had been happy in a way she never expected to be again.

  ‘Buy you a Coke, lady?’

  ‘I—Gene!’ she cried her recognition of the man who stood before her, the cut-off denims and tanned body so achingly familiar. ‘Gene Lester …!’ she said wonderingly.

  ‘None other,’ he grinned. ‘Don’t old friends get a welcome any more?’

  ‘Of course they do!’ She hugged him, still looking at him with disbelief. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she laughed breathlessly.

  ‘Neither can I,’ Gene laughed too. ‘My, you look good, Clare,�
�� he looked her over appreciatively.

  She gave a mischievous smile, feeling suddenly happy, lightheartedly so. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’

  ‘And that from the girl who walked out on me without a word five years ago!’ He gave a mock groan. ‘I was yours for the taking, and here I am, still a bachelor.’

  ‘You are?’ she teased.

  ‘I am.’ He put his arm about her shoulders. ‘Now how about that Coke?’

  ‘Lovely!’

  Clare took off her shoes as they walked along the beach, feeling as if she belonged now that she was with Gene, and not just an outsider looking in as she had done minutes earlier.

  ‘Why did you disappear so suddenly five years ago?’ Gene asked quietly.

  She didn’t even flinch, she had been expecting it. ‘I didn’t ‘‘suddenly’’ disappear, I went to England. I got a place in a drama school there.’

  ‘Bit sudden, wasn’t it?’ He eyed her questioningly, not fooled for a minute.

  She shrugged. ‘Not really. It was what I wanted.’

  ‘Funny, I thought it was Rourke you wanted.’

  She licked lips that had suddenly gone dry. ‘Rourke?’ she delayed.

  ‘I’m not fooled for a minute, sweetheart,’ he chided. ‘There’s only one man in Hollywood called Rourke. And five years ago you were dating him, pretty heavily.’

  ‘I was also dating you,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Not for two weeks before you left,’ Gene shook his head.

  Clare could see the direction they were heading, could see the familiar beach-house, and she didn’t want to go there. ‘Let’s turn back now,’ she suggested brightly.

  ‘So that’s Rourke’s place.’ Gene also looked at the beach-house. ‘I knew he had one along here.’

  She turned determinedly, giving an inward sigh of relief as Gene followed her. ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Bad memories?’

  ‘No, good ones,’ she said dully. ‘At least, they were good for me.’

  ‘But not for Rourke.’

  ‘Really, Gene,’ she was once again lightly teasing, ’you seem obsessed with the man,’ she dismissed. ‘Now, tell me, how is life treating you?’

  ‘I can’t complain,’ he shrugged.