LOVE IS FOR THE LUCKY

by SUSANNE McCARTHY

  ‘A place called Brannigan’s—ever been there?’

  She shook her head, her eyes wide—Brannigan’s was famous as the place where all the celebrities gathered. Her stomach was fluttering with ex¬citement. Something told her that this was going to be a night she would remember for the rest of her life.

  The restaurant was in a side street just off the main road. It had a discreet frontage, just a window ob¬scured by a rattan blind. Griff pushed the door open, and she stepped inside. Another couple had entered just in front of them, but their way had been barred by a neat, dapper little man who was insisting firmly that there was no room.

  Ros glanced around the restaurant. It was a long, narrow room, with the tables crowded together so that it was difficult to move between them. The decor was elegant art nouveau, all ice-cream colours and smooth curves. In spite of what the little man was saying, the

  place was only half-full—but it seemed that one had to be famous, or beautiful, or both, to be favoured with a seat.

  The couple in front of them conceded defeat, and as they turned to leave the little man turned to Griff, extending both hands in gushing welcome. ‘Jordan! Greetings, greetings! You’re looking great. When did you get back to England?’

  ‘A few days ago. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Simon—this is Rosalind Hammond.’

  Ros could almost see his mind flipping through its card index to identify the name. To her surprise, it registered, and she was favoured with a warm smile. ‘Of course—I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader, Miss Hammond. May I call you Rosalind? But my mother loves your books—I think she must have read every one!’

  ‘There’s only been four,’ she murmured, but he didn’t seem to hear as he turned back to Griff.

  ‘Where do you want to sit tonight, Jordan? I can find you a quiet corner if you’d prefer it.’

  ‘Thanks, Simon, anywhere will do,’ Griff responded genially.

  He placed them at one of the most prominent tables in the room, obviously delighted to have Jordan Griffin enhance his restaurant’s reputation as the ‘in’ place. All around them were faces as familiar to her from her television screen as her neighbours back home in Arnby, and they had barely sat down when the first of what became a constant stream of table-hoppers came over to join them for a few minutes.

  It was like some teenage fantasy come to life. She sat smiling awkwardly as he introduced her to them,

  but she could tell by the look in their eyes that they were wondering what on earth he was doing with her— every other female in the place was either stunningly beautiful or incredibly famous.

  She was grateful to be able to retreat behind a menu for a few moments while she gathered her thoughts. Although Griff seemed to be very much a part of this scene, she sensed a subtle difference in his manner with these people. And most of them were calling him Jordan; she could almost hear his own words, that first night she had met him—’My friends call me Griff.’

  There was nothing to complain of in the food—it was evident that Simon Brannigan’s reputation was based on more than just the glitter of his clientele. They lingered over the meal for a long time, and by the time they were ready to move on they had col¬lected a sizeable entourage of hangers-on.

  The club that they were going to was in the West End, just off Wardour Street. In the overcrowded taxi Griff had dropped his arm around her shoulders, casually, just to make more space, but he kept his hold as they piled out on to the pavement.

  The heavily built bouncer on the door recognised Griff on sight, and welcomed him with the enthusi¬asm of an over-large puppy. ‘Go on in,’ he invited generously. ‘I wouldn’t dream of charging you.’

  The damp heat hit Ros in the face, making her fear that she wasn’t going to be able to breathe. There were five young musicians crowded on to the small stage, attacking their instruments with such volume that it seemed to make every bone in her body vibrate, and the dazzling strobe-lights made her feel sick. She

  ducked gratefully into the shelter of Griffs arm as they skirted the crowded dance-floor to take over a table in an alcove close to the stage.

  He slanted her an apologetic smile as they sat down. ‘I’m sorry—this isn’t really your scene, is it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really. It’s a bit too noisy for me.’

  ‘Never mind—we don’t have to stay long. I can see what I need to see in twenty minutes.’

  But, as the night wore on, it seemed he had for¬gotten his promise. One of the beautiful butterflies who had tagged on to their party had claimed his at¬tention, and he seemed more interested in talking to her than in listening to the kids up on the stage. Ros’s head was aching from the noise and those horrible lights, her eyes were stinging from the smoke in the air.

  At last she just had to slip away for a few minutes to the ladies’ room to get a breath of fresh air. She leaned back against the pink marble vanity-unit and breathed deeply, her eyes closed. Disappointment was gnawing at her heart. Although he had asked her out, his behaviour towards her had been no more than friendly. She had been right in the first place—he wasn’t really attracted to her. He had just needed someone to come along tonight—probably as a shield against those predatory females they had met in the restaurant.

  She heard the door open, and someone else came into the room, but she took no notice until a voice said, ‘Excuse me, do you have a comb I could borrow?’

  She opened her eyes, startled. ‘Oh…yes, of course. Hang on a minute.’ She searched quickly through her handbag and found her comb, and handed it to the girl with a smile.

  ‘Thanks. Phew, isn’t it hot in there? I just had to slip out for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Me, too,’ agreed Ros, supressing a twinge of jealousy as she watched her comb her hair. Some girls just seemed to have all the luck. It wasn’t only the perfection of her finely chiselled features and willowy figure. She had a sort of glow. Her skin was flawless, and if her artlessly tousled ash-blonde hair had achieved that natural look in a hairdresser’s salon, she had at least got her money’s worth.

  It was hard to tell how old she was. At a first glance, Ros would have guessed about eighteen—but the low, rather husky pitch of her voice, and the worldly-wise expression in her brown eyes suggested that she could be at least five years older.

  But though she would have put any of the glossy beauties with Griffs friends completely in the shade, she seemed to be much nicer than any of them. She had noticed that Ros was watching her, and smiled in a friendly way. ‘What lovely hair you have,’ she sighed enviously. ‘Such a fabulous colour. I was thinking of having mine done red—blonde’s a bit insipid really, isn’t it? Do you think it would suit me?’

  ‘Oh, but yours is lovely,’ insisted Ros, surprised and flattered. ‘I was just admiring it.’

  ‘Were you really?’ The girl sounded really pleased, as if in spite of the evidence in the mirror she didn’t have much confidence in her looks. That was some¬thing Ros could sympathise with, and she felt drawn

  to the girl. ‘Well, maybe I’ll leave it alone for now. Have you been here before?’ she added, handing back Ros’s comb.

  ‘No. And I don’t think I’ll be in a hurry to come again,’ Ros remarked wryly.

  The girl laughed—a low, musical laugh. ‘I know what you mean. Who did you come here with, then?’

  ‘Oh, just a friend.’ A sudden, silly burst of pride made her add, ‘Jordan Griffin. He’s come to listen to the band—he’s thinking of signing them.’

  But if she had expected the girl to be impressed, she was quickly deflated. ‘Oh, Griff,’ she responded casually. ‘I didn’t see him come in. But it’s so dark out there, you can’t see a thing anyway.’ Suddenly she seemed to remember something, and began to search in her handbag. ‘I don’t suppose you’d do me a favour, would you?’ she asked diffidently. ‘I expect he’s forgotten all about it, but the last time I met him he promised to listen to a tape of my songs.’ She pro¬duced a smal
l cassette tape. ‘Would you give it to him for me?’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Ros readily. ‘But why don’t you come over and join us, and give it to him yourself?’

  ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t want to intrude. He’s probably forgotten all about me,’ the girl demurred modestly. ‘But I’d really be ever so grateful.’ She put the cas¬sette into Ros’s hand. ‘My name’s Stephanie Reeves— I call myself Stevie. I’ve put a little message on the end of the tape, so he’ll know how to get in touch with me. Well, I’d better be going. Thanks ever so much—you’re really kind.’ She had vanished through the door before Ros could say anything else.

  She turned the cassette over in her hand, frowning. She wasn’t sure if Griff would be very pleased at having it given to him in this way. But she had seemed such a nice girl—and besides, he had promised to listen to the tape. She tucked it into her handbag, checked her appearance a last time, and went back to rejoin Griff.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked as she sat down beside him.

  ‘Oh, I got talking to someone. She said she knew you—her name’s Stephanie.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ he remarked dismissively.

  Ros looked up at him in surprise. ‘She was very pretty—blonde hair…’

  ‘I dare say,’ he interrupted her, making it plain he wasn’t interested. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ she breathed in heartfelt relief.

  It was so nice to get out into the fresh air—there must have been a shower of rain in the past hour, and there was a delicious coolness in the air. He dropped his arm around her shoulder again, and they strolled along in silence for a while. They walked down Dean Street and into Shaftesbury Avenue, deserted now, the litter of the day blowing in the kerb.

  After a while he sighed deeply. ‘Ah! I can’t wait to get back to Yorkshire!’

  Ros smiled up at him. ‘What did you think of the band?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to sign them?’

  He gave a cynical laugh. ‘Oh, I expect so. They’ve got more hair than talent, but they’re what the mar¬ket’s looking for at the moment.’

  ‘If you don’t like that sort of music, why do you produce it?’

  ‘What makes you think 1 don’t like it?’ he enquired blandly.

  ‘Do you?’ she enquired, slanting him a dubious glance.

  He hugged her closer. ‘That’s my Ros,’ he teased. ‘My breath of pure, fresh moorland air. I’m glad I brought you with me. Nights like tonight just remind me why I left Los Angeles.’

  She could detect an edge of bitterness in his voice, and almost without forming the question in her mind blurted out, ‘Why did you? Leave Los Angeles, I mean.’

  She thought for a moment that he wasn’t going to answer, and when he did speak it seemed almost as if he were talking to himself. ‘I’ve lived there all my life. But it’s a very empty town—nothing but palm-trees and smog. Everybody wants to be famous, and if they can’t make it on their own they’ll hang on to someone who’s famous already, hoping to get a piece of the action. After a while, so many people have used you, you get to feel as if you’re all used up.’

  Ros felt her heart contract in sympathy, an emotion she could never have expected to feel for this cool, self-assured man. Instinctively she put her arm around his waist and hugged him. He caught her close against him, and as she lifted her face to look up at him enquiringly he bent his head, and his mouth closed over hers.

  Three months she had waited for this—three long, empty months. She responded to his kiss hungrily, surrendering blissfully to the fierceness of his demand, her body curved against his so intimately that she

  knew he must be able to read every quiver of desire in her.

  She didn’t even notice that he had hailed a taxi until it pulled up beside them at the kerb. He handed her into the back of it, and drew her into his arms again. Dark fires swirled in her brain, and she knew nothing but the swirl of his tongue deep into her mouth, the caress of his hand over the aching curve of her breast, until the taxi came to a stop. Only then did she realise that he hadn’t taken her back to Shelley’s.

  The taxi had stopped outside a long, low block of discreetly luxurious flats—she had no idea where. It certainly wasn’t Knightsbridge or anywhere like that— the road was lined with ornamental trees, and op¬posite there was a wide expanse of parkland.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked blankly.

  ‘Blackheath. I’ve a small apartment here—much better than using a hotel every time I come to London.’

  Ros froze. Of course he had assumed that she was going to agree to spend the night with him—after the way she had succumbed to him in the taxi, it must have seemed to be a foregone conclusion. She hesi¬tated as Griff held out his hand to her—but she was reluctant to argue about it in front of the taxi-driver, so she climbed out without demur.

  But, as he took her arm to lead her up to the front door, she said quickly, ‘Look, Griff, I’m sorry but… I’d rather go home—if you don’t mind.’ He looked down at her in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, I should have said it before, but…’ Her voice trailed away uncertainly.

  He heaved a weary sigh, and stared up at the sky as if seeking patience among the stars. ‘All right,’ he conceded, his voice taut. ‘My fault—I misjudged the

  situation, I guess. I’ll call another taxi for you, OK? Will you let me offer you a coffee while you’re waiting for it? I promise to behave myself,’ he added quickly, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence as he caught the wary look in her eyes. ‘If you remember, I once told you I’ve never forced a woman in my life.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you need to,’ she commented with a wry smile as she allowed him to usher her through the front door.

  The flat was the most luxurious Ros had ever seen. It was like something from a glossy magazine—open-plan and split-level, with a thick white carpet and fur¬niture upholstered in white leather. As Griff flicked a bank of switches beside the front door the lights came on, the curtains swished silently over the windows, and music poured from a stereo system.

  ‘Wow!’ she breathed.

  Griff laughed. ‘Have a seat,’ he invited cordially. ‘I’ll call a cab for you, and put the coffee on, OK?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She hardly dared to touch the soft white hide of the big settee, but Griff dismissed her anxiety with a laugh.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ he prompted. ‘I assure you, it’s all built to stand up to proper use—I wouldn’t have anything that wasn’t.’ He leaned down over the back of her seat, just a little too close for comfort. ‘Cream but no sugar, right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She eased carefully away from him, her heart thumping. Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed to come inside, after all. She swallowed, trying to clear the tightness in her throat. ‘Would you mind ringing that taxi now, please?’ she insisted rather nervously.

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘OK, I’ll keep my promise,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘There’s no need for you to be afraid of me, you know.’

  She lowered her eyes, feeling that stupid blush stealing over her cheeks again. ‘I know,’ she agreed in a tense whisper. But she had every reason to be afraid—not of him, but of herself. She had been stupid to come to his flat—she had walked right into the devil’s trap.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE KITCHEN was a gleaming galley in one comer of the flat, half-open to the rest of the room. She heard him talking on the telephone, ordering her taxi, and heard him humming to himself as he made the coffee. By the time he came back to her, carrying two steaming mugs, she had managed to regather some semblance of composure.

  He set the mugs on a low table, and lounged back on the settee opposite hers. ‘The taxi will be here shortly,’ he told her. ‘So tell me, what have you been doing with yourself while I’ve been away? How’s the book going?’

  ‘Not too bad. I’ve had a bit of trouble with the first draft, but I’ve had a good couple of weeks’ research down here, so I should b
e able to get on with it a bit better now.’

  ‘What’s it about? Or must I wait and read it?’ he asked, accompanying his words with his most charming smile.

  ‘Oh, it’s to do with the time that Drake attacked the Spanish fleet in Cadiz, and delayed the sailing of the Armada by a whole year. It’s about a Jesuit who becomes sickened by the intrigue of the Inquisition. He becomes a Protestant, and is persuaded to spy for the English. I was fascinated by what could motivate someone to turn traitor against his own country.’

  ‘Why do you set all your stories in the sixteenth century?’

  She smiled. ‘When I was little, I thought we were living in the sixteenth century,’ she told him. ‘My Dad used to talk about people like Essex and Burghley as if they were still alive. Besides, if you write about the past, you can use real-life characters and events—it makes it much more interesting.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to reading it,’ he said. ‘When will it be published?’

  ‘Oh, it’ll take at least another couple of months to finish it. Then the publisher might want some alter¬ations—they usually do. After that… Oh, it’ll be another few months before it comes out.’

  He nodded. ‘When are you going back to Yorkshire?’

  ‘I’m not sure—a couple of days.’ Even though the coffee-table was between them, she still felt nervous. With a determined effort of will she made herself continue the conversation. ‘What about you?’ she asked him.

  ‘Oh, some time this week.’

  ‘Are you staying long this time?’

  ‘I’m staying for good now.’ He leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. ‘I’m glad to be out of that nest of rattlesnakes,’ he said, his voice suddenly weary. ‘It’s a devious kind of business, at times. My ex-partner, for instance, would sell his own mother to white slavers for a couple of bucks.’

  ‘There are people like that in England, too,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. But the whole thing’s on a much smaller scale, everyone knows each other—you’ve an