Stormy Vows

by Iris Johansen

  That is, she would have enjoyed it, but for the scene she was forced to do with Blake Conroy. The scene would have been a relatively simple one if she had not had to contend with Conroy's sophomoric shenanigans. In her less irritable moments she could see why Charles had chosen Conroy for the romantic lead. He was an adequate actor, and he certainly looked the part. His bronze curly hair and tall muscular body, together with a rather dashing moustache, made him look as if he had just stepped out of a cigarette commercial. In all truth, he had done just that. He had been a popular and well-paid model before an enterprising theatrical agent convinced him that he was wasted in magazines, and his true métier was stage and screen. He must have been extremely easy to persuade for Brenna found him to be the most egotistical and smugly self-satisfied man she had ever met. Added to that, he was convinced that he was God's gift to women, and spent a good portion of every romantic scene attempting to fondle any available portion of her anatomy that came under his rather moist, fumbling hands.

  Tonight was no exception, and when she had unobtrusively moved his hand from her buttocks to her waist for the third time, she was tempted to dig her nails into his well-manicured hand. With some difficulty, she managed to finish the scene and walked into the wings followed closely by Conroy.

  When she was far enough from the stage to avoid disturbing the action, she whirled and faced Conroy. Her blazing eyes caused his smug smile to fade. “I've warned you before, Blake,” she said tightly. “I won't be handled by you. You either keep your hands to yourself or I'll put some marks on that pretty face of yours.” She curved her hand into a claw to demonstrate her sincerity.

  A flicker of unease passed over Conroy's face, before his inherent conceit discounted her threat. “I like a girl with spirit,” he said smugly, reaching out a hand to cup her shoulder.

  A line straight out of a John Wayne movie, she thought with exasperation, slapping his hand aside. “You'll see a violent demonstration of my ‘spirit’ if you don't listen to me, Blake,” she said grimly. “I mean what I say.”

  “You don't have to pretend with me, Brenna,” he said confidently, taking a step closer. “I know what a hot little number like you needs. Why don't I drive you home after rehearsal? You live alone, don't you?”

  “No, I don't live alone,” she said through her teeth. “I live with my son.”

  “Oh, the kid.” Conroy shrugged. “We'll just tuck him into bed.” An intimate smile curved his mouth. “And then I'll tuck you into bed.”

  “I'm afraid Miss Sloan will be too busy to accommodate you tonight, Conroy.”

  Brenna froze with shock as she turned to see Michael Donovan strolling casually toward them. He was dressed in a navy blue shirt and slacks and should not have been impressive, but to Brenna's annoyance, he seemed to make his surroundings shrink, as if he were draining their identity from them. Certainly, Blake Conroy became insipid in comparison.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Donovan?” she asked bitterly. “Slumming?”

  “We didn't finish our chat this morning, Miss Sloan,” Donovan said coolly. “I dislike leaving loose ends.”

  “I thought we both made our positions quite clear,” Brenna replied. “I know I did.”

  Conroy was listening to the exchange with increasing irritation. He never liked losing the limelight, particularly when he was smugly certain he was making headway. “Can't you see the lady isn't interested?” he drawled. “Why don't you go away?”

  Donovan gave him a razor sharp glance that appraised and then dismissed him as though he didn't exist.

  “Where can we go to talk?” he asked Brenna tersely. “Charles said you were through for the night. Why don't I take you out for a drink?”

  “Now, see here,” Conroy protested, moving a step closer to Brenna and taking her arm. “Brenna and I were about to leave.”

  “I heard,” Donovan said shortly. “Something about tucking her into bed, wasn't it?” He smiled mirthlessly. “Forget it, Conroy. In fact, it might be a good idea if you forget about Miss Sloan entirely. She won't have time for you anymore.”

  “She'll be too busy with you, I suppose,” Conroy said sarcastically.

  “Right.” Donovan nodded, his eyes amused. “You might say, I intend to fully occupy Miss Sloan from now on.”

  Even Conroy wasn't too dense to catch the double-entendre in Donovan's statement. An ugly sneer twisted his face as he glanced at Brenna's scarlet cheeks. “That's up to the lady, isn't it? Brenna doesn't seem too eager to take you up on your offer.” His hand caressed her arm. “How about it, beautiful?”

  Brenna gritted her teeth in exasperation. She was tempted to use Conroy as a bulwark against the domineering tactics of Michael Donovan. Yet she knew if she offered any encouragement to Blake, he would make himself more obnoxious than ever.

  “Oh, go away, Blake!” she said wearily, running her fingers through her hair.

  Donovan chuckled. Reaching out, he took Conroy's hand from Brenna's arm and pulled her closer to his side. She shot him a glance of acute dislike that he ignored urbanely. “Yes, do go away, Blake,” he repeated mildly.

  Conroy gave a smothered curse, and his look at Brenna was positively lethal. He stalked off, every line of his body expressing his outrage.

  “That's the best acting he's done tonight,” Donovan said idly.

  “You were watching?” Brenna asked, surprised.

  Donovan nodded. “I wanted to talk to Charles,” he said. “And I wanted to see you perform again. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  Brenna looked at him skeptically. “You came to see me?” she questioned doubtfully. “That's rather hard to believe.”

  “I'm a busy man, Miss Sloan,” he said curtly. “I don't have time to play games. Now, how about that drink?”

  She shook her head wearily. “It's been a long day, Mr. Donovan, and I'm tired.” She met his eyes steadily, and for a brief moment lost the thread of what she wanted to say as she was caught up by the sheer magnetism of the man. She took a deep breath and forced herself to look away. “You see, I'm afraid I don't believe you,” she said defiantly. “I think you do enjoy playing games. We both know you gave Blake Conroy a completely wrong impression for some reason of your own. You couldn't possibly be interested in me. I'm not your type.”

  Donovan cocked one eyebrow, his blue eyes narrowed. “Please go on, Miss Sloan,” he drawled softly. “I'd be delighted to discover what you judge to be my type of woman.”

  She shrugged. “Everyone knows that your little playmates are always sophisticated women of the world. I'm sure a ‘Juliet type’ like me would bore you to tears in no time,” she said sarcastically.

  Donovan smiled sensually, and, reaching out, ran his hand caressingly along the curve of her cheek. She gasped at the sensation that brought her body to tingling life. A gleam of triumph lit his eyes, as though her reaction gave him a tigerish pleasure.

  “Perhaps I'm bored with my usual women,” he suggested silkily. “It was you who said Juliet was a sexy lady. Perhaps I would find it interesting to explore that premise more thoroughly.”

  She stepped back hurriedly, and he let her go, his hand leaving her face reluctantly. Even when he was no longer touching her she could still feel the tug of his overpowering virility. She was tempted to move closer to him, so that she might again feel that tingling aliveness she had never known before.

  She forced her voice to coolness. “I don't find that very likely. I think you came here tonight to soothe Charles' feelings for rejecting his protégée, but when you saw me again, you couldn't resist the opportunity to try to get a little of your own back for the insults I tossed at you this afternoon.”

  There was a flicker of anger behind the blue eyes, and his mouth tightened fractionally. “So young to be so cynical,” he said dryly. “Is it only me, or do you hate all men?”

  “I don't hate men,” Brenna said quietly. “I just don't find them fair or trustworthy where women are concerned.”

&nb
sp; “Interesting,” Donovan said briefly, his eyes keen. She had the odd impression that those calculating eyes had observed, analyzed, and stored up for future use every facet of her physical and mental faculties.

  “In this case, you're wrong,” he said casually, reaching into a back pocket to draw out a folded, wrinkled manuscript. He held it out to her. “I came to give you this.”

  She took the script curiously. Printed in large letters on the title page was Forgotten Moment. She looked up, startled.

  “I want you for the role of Mary Durney,” Donovan said quietly. “Charles said you were a quick study.”

  Brenna nodded dazedly, looking down at the script.

  “You'll have to be,” Donovan said grimly. “I want you ready for filming in three days.”

  She looked at him. “I don't understand,” she said in confusion. “The trade papers said production started on Forgotten Moment two months ago. Mary Durney was being played by some Broadway actress.”

  “She's not working out. I'm replacing her,” Donovan said.

  Brenna shivered at the ruthlessness in his voice. “Just like that?” she asked faintly.

  “Just like that,” he said implacably. He went on, “Mary Durney is a supporting role, but I think you'll find her worthwhile. Played right, she could steal the film.”

  “Why me?” Brenna asked bluntly.

  “Because you're right for her,” Donovan said simply. “When Charles asked me to audition you for Angie, he said you had a quality that grabbed a person by the throat and didn't let go.”

  “You make me sound like a boa constrictor,” Brenna said wryly.

  “I have a hunch you can be just as lethal to a man,” he said lightly, before his tone became coolly businesslike again. “He was right: You have a quality I want. But not for Angie. For Mary Durney.”

  “For such a devoted mother, you're being shockingly neglectful, Brenna,” Blake Conroy said nastily. She had been so involved with Michael Donovan's astounding proposal that she hadn't noticed Conroy's approach. Conroy sauntered over to her, holding a tousled and drowsy Randy, who looked as if he had been snatched up from a deep sleep. He probably had, Brenna thought furiously. She brought Randy to almost all the rehearsals. He played or slept in his playpen in the wings. The cast had adopted him; Conroy was the one person who never had time for Randy. He was obviously hoping to use the baby now in some ploy to get back at her for her rejection this evening. She snatched Randy from him, cuddling the warm, sturdy body protectively.

  Conroy surveyed her with sly satisfaction before turning to Donovan, who had gone strangely still. “Touching isn't it?” he drawled caustically. “I thought you'd better realize what you're letting yourself in for before committing yourself. It's a package deal with Brenna, you know. She's quite boringly obsessed with that kid of hers.” With a mocking salute, he strolled away, eminently well satisfied with himself.

  Michael Donovan's face was expressionless as he asked slowly. “The child is yours?”

  “My name's on his birth certificate,” Brenna said flippantly. She felt strangely vulnerable before those penetrating eyes. She hugged Randy closer, until he gave a sleepy little grunt.

  “And who else's name is on that birth certificate, Brenna?” Donovan asked softly, his blue eyes gleaming fiercely. “Who is the father?”

  She could see that, for some reason, he was in a white hot rage. She wondered briefly if he objected to his actresses having family commitments.

  “There's no other name on Randy's birth certificate,” she said coolly. “It's not required when the child's parents aren't married.”

  “How old is he?” Donovan asked hoarsely.

  “Two,” Brenna answered.

  “My God, you started young, didn't you?” he asked bitterly. “You must have been barely eighteen when you gave birth to him.”

  Brenna lifted her head defiantly. “Perhaps you should have given me the role of Angie after all,” she said sweetly. “You can see we have a lot in common.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Donovan said tightly, the flame in the electric blue eyes scorching her.

  “Perhaps you would like to retract your offer,” Brenna said scornfully. “It might not be very good publicity to have an unwed mother in your precious picture.”

  “To hell with the publicity,” Donovan said roughly. “No one tells me who to cast in my pictures. You're going to be Mary Durney, Brenna.”

  His arrogant declaration only aggravated the antagonism that his very presence generated in her.

  “If I choose to be,” she said firmly.

  His mocking glance ran over her faded jeans and simple white tailored shirt.

  “Oh, you'll choose to be,” he said coolly. “I gather your lover isn't offering you and the baby support. You'd be a fool to turn down financial security for you and your child.”

  Brenna's face flushed at this humiliating reference to her obvious poverty. “Money isn't everything, Mr. Donovan,” she said tersely. “Randy is a very happy, contented child. We don't need your money.”

  “Don't you, Brenna?” he asked lazily. “Think about it. My private number is on the script. Read it tonight, and let me know.” He turned to go, and then wheeled back, his gaze sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. “One thing, Brenna,” he said tautly. “If your baby's father is still hanging around, get rid of him. Once you're working for me, I don't want him near you!”

  He walked quickly away, leaving her to stare after him, her lips parted in amazement.

  three

  THREE HOURS LATER BRENNA THREW THE script down in frustration, realizing that Donovan was right again. She must play this role, no matter how she felt about the arrogant Michael Donovan.

  Why couldn't Mary Durney have been a sickly sweet character or a self-pitying martyr, so that she could have tossed the role back into Donovan's face, Brenna wondered gloomily. Mary Durney was innocent but no prim miss. She had humor, strength, and warmth. Brenna was convinced that she could make Mary Durney live, and she desperately wanted the chance to do just that. Damn Michael Donovan!

  She reached for the phone on the table, and flipped the script back to the title page on which Donovan had scrawled his number in bold black numerals. Not allowing herself to think, she rapidly dialed the number. What if it was almost two in the morning? she thought maliciously. He had told her to call him when she had read it, hadn't he? The idea of rousing Donovan from a sound sleep gave her a degree of satisfaction that surprised her. She had never been a spiteful girl. What was it about this man that made her want to strike out at him in any way she could?

  The phone was answered on the second ring, and Donovan sounded disappointingly wide awake. When she had identified herself, he said impatiently, “I didn't expect it to be anyone else, Brenna.”

  “Well.” She drew a deep breath. “I want to do it,” she said rapidly.

  There was a long silence on the other end and then a low chuckle. “I assume you mean the part,” he drawled mockingly.

  Color flooded her face at the innuendo, and she silently cursed both her inept tongue and the taunting redheaded devil on the other end of the line.

  “You know I mean the part,” she said angrily.

  “Yes, unfortunately I do,” he said lightly. She could almost see the amused grin on his face. Then his voice became cool and businesslike. “I trust you can be ready to leave by two this afternoon. You can fly up with me in the Lear jet. We're filming at Twin Pines, you know.”

  She hadn't known. It hadn't occurred to her that she would have to leave Los Angeles. It should have, of course. Nearly all of Donovan's pictures were shot at Twin Pines now, when not on location. Her mind moved frantically. She'd have to notify the clerical agency, and Randy's nursery school, and Vivian, of course. She knew Charles would be glad to replace her in the play.

  “I can leave today,” she said slowly. “But you needn't bother yourself about arrangements. I prefer to drive.”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Donovan
said impatiently. “I want you there this evening.”

  “Then I'll start early,” she said stubbornly. There was no way she was going to see more of Michael Donovan than was absolutely necessary. He had a most unsettling effect on her. “Traveling with a baby can be very cumbersome, Mr. Donovan. I prefer to travel by car.”

  “You're taking the child?” he asked, his tone flat.

  “Of course,” Brenna said coolly. “Do you have any objections?”

  “None at all,” he said absently. “I should have expected it, I suppose. I'll work something out.”

  Brenna wondered what he had to work out. “Then I'll see you this evening,” she said firmly. “Good night, Mr. Donovan.” She replaced the phone without giving him a chance to object, and leaned back against the cushions of the couch, her head in a whirl. She wondered dazedly how she was going to get everything done, and still leave in the early morning to keep her promise to be at Twin Pines by early evening.

  Well, first things first. She must get a few hours' sleep if she was to drive all day. She turned out the light and walked briskly into the bedroom. She set the alarm for six, shrugged out of her navy robe, and settled down to try to sleep.

  The alarm came too soon. Brenna felt as tired as when she went to sleep. She took a cold shower, standing under the spray until she at least felt alive again. She brushed her hair and dressed hurriedly in rust-colored high waisted pants and a buttercup-yellow shirt that made her hair gleam in a glossy contrast. No time for makeup, she decided. She made herself a cup of instant coffee, added milk and sugar and carried it to the bedroom to sip as she packed. There was more to pack for Randy than for herself. Her own wardrobe was meager to say the least, but a two-year-old had to have a minimun of at least three changes a day. In the middle of her packing Randy awoke and she had to stop and dress him. After depositing him in his playpen in the living room, she hurried back to resume her packing, ignoring his loud protests. Randy always got up in the morning with a voracious appetite and wanted to eat first thing. She knew she couldn't put off his breakfast for very long, but she wanted to finish packing this suitcase before she stopped again. She had just put the last items in and closed the lid, when the doorbell rang. Who in the world could be at the door at seven in the morning, she wondered.