by Liz Fielding
It should have been a relief to know what to expect. Once she had seen that newspaper clipping Luke’s motive for making Melanie a part of “Holiday Bay” was all too obvious. But it was difficult to know how much had been planned and how much simply chance.
Whether the opportunity had presented itself when Devlin had taken over Harries, or whether he had taken over Harries to get at Claudia. No. That was too ridiculous for words. No one would carry a grudge to that length, that expense. It had to be chance.
But when the sponsorship question had arisen and he discovered that Claudia was involved with Pavilion Radio, the opportunity to put the two girls together in the same cast must have been irresistible. And to achieve that, he had to be sure that the station stayed on the air. He couldn’t allow it to go under. She felt like laughing.
Oh, Claudia. Bless you and your big mouth.
Another thought whirled and took hold. The whole thing might even have been Melanie’s idea. Sweet, innocent little Melanie, that most unlikely lover for Luke Devlin, was after all, an actress. Could it be that she was playing the role of her life?
The door beside her opened, letting out the respectable fug of warmth she had managed to build up and the freezing night air in. She gave a little shiver as she turned her head and found herself staring into Luke’s dark eyes.
‘I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up,’ he said, folding his long legs until he was down on the same level as her.
‘Stand you up?’ Easy to loathe him when he was out of sight. When he was so close conflicting emotions crowded in. But Fizz reined in the giddy thought that he had been watching for her arrival. More likely he had seen her headlights through the window and recognised her car, wondered why she was taking so long to leave it.
There weren’t many like it, certainly none among the mixture of solid saloon models and the more exuberant four-wheel drive vehicles of the younger guests parked along the drive. And when she hadn’t immediately appeared at his front door he had come to find her. He couldn’t wait to get on with the show.
She shivered. ‘I doubt that you’ve ever been stood up in your entire life, Luke Devlin.’
‘Could that be a compliment?’ He regarded her face gravely, then his face creased in a smile that might have reached his eyes, or might not, it was difficult to tell. The small light that had come on when he opened her car door threw his features into deep shadow. ‘No. Not a compliment,’ he said, after a moment. ‘But the night is young. And now you’ve arrived things can only get better.’
She refused to dwell on what he might consider better. Instead she allowed him to help her from the car and offer her a steadying arm as she stumbled on the gravel driveway in her ridiculously high heels.
He ushered her into the warmth of the hall, his hand at her back. The house had seemed welcoming enough on her last visit, but now the bare black and white marble squares of the hall floor had been softened by a jewel-bright Persian rug, there were flowers everywhere and the hearth was ablaze with a huge log fire, the firelight glinting warmly on the polished balusters of the great oak staircase.
‘The house looks wonderful. No one would ever guess you had just moved in.’
‘I’m glad you approve. It was on your advice that I took it.’
Aware that his hand was still nestling in the small of her back, she moved quickly across to the fire and held out fingers thoroughly chilled even in the short walk from the car.
‘I think we might get the snow after all,’ she said, turning to Luke.
‘Do you?’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Well, since I’m assured that the roof is sound, perhaps you’d care to risk taking off your cloak?’
She pulled at the ties and he lifted the heavy floor length black velvet cloak from her shoulders and his look brought a blush racing to her cheeks.
‘I’m glad you’ve given up power dressing, Fizz. The role of hard business woman didn’t suit you at all.’
She made a small movement, awkward to be the object of such open admiration, and the simple lines of the long black crepe dress shimmered over her body. It wasn’t the kind of dress she would normally wear, but for this party she had needed more than a dress, she had needed a costume that would send out all the right signals.
That she was sure of herself, smart, in control of her business and her emotions. That she was the one who dealt in the adult world of figures, black and red, profit and loss, and had long ago abandoned the ephemeral fire and air of the theatre for the sham she knew it to be.
Before Luke Devlin had arrived in town it had been true.
As she caught a glimpse of herself in the heavy mirror over the fireplace, saw her sleek chestnut hair glowing in the warmth of the flames, the long gold drops, like falling leaves at her ears and throat, she knew she looked the part. Only the close observer would have noticed the uncertainty that marked her eyes.
Luke, handed on her cloak to a girl who bore it away, and resting his hands lightly on her naked shoulders stood behind her, staring at their twin reflection.
‘Allow me to tell you that you look quite stunning, Miss Beaumont.’
His hands, feather-light against her chilly shoulders, sent heat fusing through her body, flaring into her cheeks. But Luke Devlin was the kind of man who would exploit the slightest sign of weakness and despite the fact that she found him as compelling as iron filings to a magnet, she didn’t intend becoming a sideshow in his affair with Melanie.
No Beaumont had ever played a supporting role and she wasn’t about to start.
She had worked it all out when she was choosing the dress, breaking everything down to the parts they were playing. Melanie Brett was the innocent ingénue certain to have her heart broken by an older, cynical man of the world.
That was easy. She had been there, done that, got the scars to prove it.
Luke Devlin was a rich, heartless man who thought he could manipulate everyone and in the moral world of the drama he would certainly get his comeuppance sooner or later. In life, nothing was ever that simple.
And the role she had assigned herself was that of a young career woman who had her life planned down to the last detail and was far too wise to get drawn into some dark game by a man who had turned her on like a light switch the moment they had met.
So long as she remembered that the brighter the light, the quicker it burned out, she would be safe. So long as she played her part, stuck to her lines, everything would be fine.
Fizz turned and gave him a cool, appraising look. His hair, dark and thick, curled onto the collar of a dinner jacket that stretched across an acre of shoulder, his shirt was plain, the black silk tie a perfect bow.
‘You look pretty stunning, yourself, Luke,’ she told him. ‘But you could do with a haircut.’ A dangerous glint kindled in his eye but before he could retaliate, Melanie erupted into the hall in a delicate silver tissue creation that stopped about a yard short of her knees and the look softened.
‘Fizz! You’ve arrived. What on earth are you doing keeping her out here, Luke?’
‘Taking her cloak, paying her compliments, everything that you would expect.’
Melanie threw him a glance that was pure exasperation. ‘Keeping her to yourself, you mean.’ She looped her slender arm possessively through Fizz’s and drew her into the main reception hall. ‘Come on through and meet everyone while Luke gets you a drink.’ He raised an enquiring brow in her direction.
‘A fruit juice, please,’ she murmured, before being claimed by a number of locals who wanted to talk about the Harries takeover, how it was affecting business in the town, whether it was affecting the radio station. She merely smiled and took grateful refuge behind her father’s name, directing all enquiries to him.
‘Where is your father?’ Luke asked, as he handed her a drink.
‘On his way. I’m afraid Claudia is still in London.’ She took a sip of freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice fizzed up with soda. The man had taste, she had to admit. ‘She’ll be
sorry to miss your party,’ she couldn’t resist adding. It was the truth, after all. Claudia loved parties. They gave her the opportunity to play the role she was born to, leading lady. But one leading lady at a party was enough.
‘It doesn’t matter. You’re here.’
‘I was coerced.’ Now that the pressure was off and she understood the game being played, Fizz discovered she was actually beginning to enjoy herself.
‘You wouldn’t have come if I’d given you a choice.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Fizz gave him a sideways glance before taking another sip of her drink. ‘I don’t usually enjoy parties.’
‘Then I shall have to make it my duty to ensure you enjoy this one.’
‘There’s no need to go to any bother,’ she assured him.
He took no notice. ‘First I think we should dance.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got two left feet.’
He bent and taking her skirt, twitched it above her ankles. He regarded a pair of narrow feet encased in strappy high-heeled sandals for a moment, then looked up. ‘Have you got a doctor’s note to that effect?’ he asked.
Shaken out of her poised sophisticated by this casual hijacking of her dress, she discovered herself staring into his eyes. They were laughing, inviting her to laugh too. And she did, out loud so that several people turned to look in her direction and smiled too.
Having won the round on points, he took the glass she had been holding before her almost like a shield to keep him at bay and placed it on a nearby table. Then, taking her hand between both of his, he looked down at her said, ‘I should very much like to dance with you, Fizz. I won’t tread on your toes, I promise.’
She wasn’t worried about her toes. Her toes could look after themselves. But she was terrified by the surge of longing that swept over her; she wanted to be held in his arms, to mould herself to him, to wind her arms about his neck. She should have remembered that iron filings stood no chance when there was a magnet about.
‘I can’t promise the same for yours,’ she said, a touch huskily, as without another words, she surrendered.
He led her across the hall to a large room from which all the furniture had been removed for the party. It was now home to a small band of musicians who somehow managed to play pop music without endangering the eardrums of the dancers. They were playing something lively, a dance with actions that all the youngsters knew and for a moment they stood and watched. Safe for the moment, she wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or sorry.
‘They’re good,’ she said, leaning closer so that he could hear. ‘The band. They’re not local. Who are they?’
‘Friends of Melanie’s. Most of these people are.’
She turned in surprise. ‘But I thought she’d only just arrived in England?’
‘London is apparently full of Australians. And they all seem to know Melanie,’ he said, somewhat dryly.
But Melanie wasn’t with her Australian friends. She was with Andy, her face flushed and excited as she stood with her hand upon his arm, whispering in his ear as they waited for the music to begin again.
Fizz saw a frown temporarily pucker Luke’s brow, but then the band moved into a slower number and turning back to Fizz he smiled down at her, his hand at her waist drawing her into his body as he moved with her to the haunting strains of a dreamy song that was being played endlessly on all the music programmes.
For a moment she held herself rigid, distant, her breathing constricted with panic. But Luke made no move to pull her closer, to dominate her. On the contrary, his touch was so light that it was with no sense of danger that she gradually began to relax into his arms.
Her own body seemed to mould to his as they moved in perfect rhythm and her cool, sophisticated role model assured her that laying her head against the lapel of his jacket was the most natural thing in the world. Not that it would have mattered if it had screamed warnings of doom. It felt right. Perfect. And he hadn’t trodden on her toes once.
Yet the flutter of a thousand butterflies stampeding through her veins at the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear warned her that she was treading a dangerously narrow line between the role she was playing and a reckless disregard for her own peace of mind.
He was the wrong man, it was the wrong place and as the banked down fires of desire threatened to burst into flame she knew she was in imminent danger of making a fool of herself.
But not yet, because as soon as the dance finished he released her and excused himself without ceremony, moving in to break up a serious clinch between Melanie and Andy that hadn’t stopped when the music faded.
Thanking providence for small mercies, Fizz took the chance to escape to the relative safety of the drawing room where she was immediately button-holed by a local councillor who wanted to know if Claudia had been invited to the party. She told herself that she was grateful for this rude imposition of reality.
But when, a few minutes later, she caught a glimpse of Luke through the open doorway crossing the hall with Melanie in tow, her young face defiant, her pale lips almost petulant as she was forced to listen to what Luke was saying, she turned away as a pain like acid shot through her.
She had no right to feel jealous. She knew the situation. She had known it twenty minutes after she had met the man. But it had been too late by then. He’d already thrown the switch.
Almost as a punishment, she forced herself to look at the scene being played out in the hall. Luke had put his arm around Melanie and was leading her towards the stairs but she pulled away from him and flounced up them, not looking back.
Agitated, she turned away, unable to bear it. As she did so her eyes met Andy’s, his jealous reaction a mirror image of her own. She gave a rueful little shrug.
‘I’d keep your distance if I were you, Andy. He seems to be the possessive type.’
‘Possessive? The only thing he was interested in possessing a few minutes ago was you,’ Andy replied, tersely.
To her shame, Fizz found herself blushing. ‘We were just dancing, Andy. That’s all.’
‘Just dancing.’ His smile was deeply sceptical. ‘“...the vertical expression of a horizontal desire...” to quote the inimitable Mr Shaw. He knew a lot about human nature.’
Andy hadn’t bothered to lower his voice and several people turned to look. Horrified that they might have been overheard, even more horrified that what he said was no less than the truth, she pushed him into a corner. ‘For heaven’s sake, Andy, she is his...’ She couldn’t say the word. It stuck in her throat, a great big lump that wouldn’t budge. ‘...responsibility,’ she hedged.
Andy gave a look of utter disgust. ‘For heaven’s sake, Fizz, I know you’ve been in the deep freeze ever since the Ice Age, but I’ve never thought of you as a killjoy.’
‘I am not -’ But her protest was cut short.
‘No? Well, let me tell you that right now you sound like some Victorian pedagogue. Melanie’s nearly twenty.’ He glared in the direction of the hall. ‘There’s no need for him to take his responsibilities so damn seriously.’
‘He seems to be aware that you have something of reputation, Andy,’ she said, in a low urgent voice. ‘And Melanie isn’t any girl you can bed without a second thought. Just ... watch yourself.’
Andy looked at her, his chin as stubborn as a board and her heart sank. ‘This is different.’
‘Very different,’ she agreed. ‘Please, Andy? It’s important.’
‘What is? Why are you so interested anyway?’ Then his face cleared. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re after the big guy’s money for the station and you’re afraid I’ll queer your pitch. I always wondered what it would take to defrost you. Well, I guess you’ve just answered that question.’
Fizz blenched. It was a long time since Andy had made a ritual pass at her. It was an almost automatic reaction to every girl he met and an awful lot of them fell for his charm. He gave them a good time while he was interested, but it was never for long. She had declined a dalliance, as she
had declined a dozen others over the years, politely but firmly and thought nothing more of it. It must have hurt his pride a great deal more than he had let on at the time, but that was no excuse for such insolence.
‘I think you’d better go outside and take a few deep breaths, Andy,’ she said, sharply. ‘It might clear your head and remind you just who you’re speaking to.’ He looked as shocked as if she had slapped him.
Satisfied that she had made her point, she swivelled on her high heels and walked away. She was in the hall before she remembered Luke.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LUKE propped his foot on the fender and his arm resting on the great beam that formed the mantle, he stared down into the pulsing heat of red caves burned into the big logs by the flames. The fire had died down, was simply glowing, smouldering hotly on a thick bed of embers.
Thoughtfully, he put out his foot and gave one of the logs a prod. It fell apart, sending sparks flying up the chimney and into the night.
Fizz Beaumont was like that, he was convinced of it. He had seen her eyes when, kindled by anger she had dropped her guard in a moment of passion.
Beneath that touch-me-not quality, the cool, apparently detached exterior, she was smouldering like the log. And the man who took the trouble to stir the embers and release the spark would be rewarded with the collapse of her defences and ultimately achieve melt down.
But what would stir her? Would surrender be a slow process, a brick by brick dismantling of the barriers? Or if he stormed them could it be that the collapse would be as sudden and complete as that of the log?
To understand what would bring the defences down, he would first have to know why she had erected them. Prompted, his investigator had uncovered a mystery, a silence so thick on the subject of an ill-fated film that Fizz was to have co-starred in with Patrick March, that there had to be something.
Somehow he would have to discover what Patrick March had done to her. Or what she had done to him. Perhaps, if he was very careful, she would tell him.
His body stirred at the memory of the way she had come into his arms. That had taken care. Care not to take before she was ready to give, so that the initial stiffness, a determination almost to hold him at bay, had gradually yielded and she had melted against him and laid her head against his chest.