by Penny Jordan
‘Oh, but surely,’ Luisa began, glancing at Ben, ‘as…’
‘I didn’t give Sarah the part,’ Ben interrupted easily. ‘Guy did that.’
‘Yes, mainly because my colouring was so right,’ Sarah informed her.
‘We had no idea that Ben was married until he told us about you,’ Luisa admitted. ‘He stayed with us for several months and I thought at the time that there was something troubling him, some problem…’
‘He was probably worrying about how much filming would have to be done on location and how much it was going to cost,’ Sarah told her dryly, knowing quite well that whatever Ben had been worried about, it couldn’t have been her.
Luisa was regarding her oddly, her eyes going to Ben’s shuttered face and then back again. ‘Oh, but I meant when he was…’
‘Sarah, if you’re ready, I think it’s time we were making a move,’ Ben interrupted lazily. ‘Filming starts at six tomorrow—one of the battle scenes—and apart from the fact that the light will be better, even with modern techniques, chain mail still weighs heavy. There’s a limit to the time one can expect the cast to wear it in this heat!’
* * *
The drive back to the site was accomplished without incident. Sarah’s head had started to ache during the meal and she had put it down to the fact that she wasn’t used to dining so late, plus the richness of the food and wine, and she had been glad that Ben had left her in peace.
The storm still had not broken, and the night was oppressive as she slid from the car, leaving Ben to lock it as she walked towards the trailer. He caught up with her just as she drew level with the pool area and it was obvious from the activity round the bar that some people were not too concerned with getting up early in the morning.
‘Hey, boss, come and have a drink with us,’ someone called out, but Ben shook his head, cupping Sarah’s elbow, his refusal giving rise to several witticisms that brought a film of colour to Sarah’s face.
They entered the trailer in silence, and Ben went straight to the living area and opened a cupboard, producing a bottle and a glass. Sarah frowned as she watched him pour some of the fiery spirit into the tumbler, wondering a little that he should want it after what they had eaten and drunk with their hosts.
‘I think I’ll go to bed, if you don’t mind,’ she heard herself saying, recognising the edge of tension in her voice.
‘How polite we are!’ Ben jeered as he picked up the glass. ‘Pity you didn’t ask me if I’d any objections before you took Dale for your lover.’
In the bathroom Sarah showered quickly, dreading the moment when she would have to emerge from its sanctuary dressed only in her nightdress and thin robe, but when she did Ben never raised his head from the paperwork spread out over the table. He had switched off all the lights apart from a powerful lamp which threw into relief the angled planes of his face, distorting them slightly so that Sarah could almost deceive herself that she saw vulnerability and pain etched against the darkness of his skin. He had always tanned easily. She remembered when they were filming Shakespeare there had been a particularly hot spell and he had been lazily amused by the contrast in the colour and texture of their bodies. When he had made love to her it had been almost as though his skin transferred the heat and molten power of the sun to hers, burning her more tender flesh with the contact. How magical that night had seemed! He had taken her out to dinner and throughout the meal all she could think of was how she had felt when he held her against him that day during the filming. He had glanced up and caught her eyes on the exposed vee of flesh at his throat, and with a sudden imprecation he had grasped her hand, reaction shivering across her skin as he muttered her name huskily.
After that she had only toyed with her meal. He had driven her back to her lodgings, turning to her in the darkness of his car, kissing her with a hunger that swept aside all her fears and reservations. She had played Mary Fitton for so long that her body had become pliantly responsive to his, responding instantly to the stroke of his thumb over the tautness of her breast. When he bent his head to its burgeoning arousal she had had a momentary detached image of its darkness against the paleness of her skin before the dark floodtide of desire closed swirlingly over her. She couldn’t remember what Ben had said when he finally released her, only the brief drive to his flat, the silence thick with his unspoken intent. In his bedroom she had trembled eagerly against him when he touched her, wanting his total possession of her with a need that pushed aside the barriers of prudence and inexperience.
Afterwards he had been full of remorse, or so it had seemed, teasing her a little over her panic that others might guess they had been lovers, demanding to know if she was ashamed of their relationship, but she hadn’t been able to explain her dread of the knowing eyes of the rest of the cast, the laughter and comments that would follow, not realising until later, when she saw the first rushes, that she had already, betrayed herself and that her love for Ben was there for all to see in the incandescence of their love scenes.
Of course, she hadn’t realised then why he wanted their affair to become public knowledge; hadn’t known a thing about his bet with Dale. That had come after he had been forced to take the almost unbelievable step of marrying her. ‘Oh, Ben’s like that in pursuit of his goal,’ Dale had told her carelessly when she refused to accept that he would go so far simply to win a wager. ‘Single-minded isn’t the word. Besides, making you fall in love with him has a double advantage. One, he gets to win the bet, and two, it comes across so obviously on film, and gives his performance the edge over mine. You don’t know him like I do, Sarah,’ he had told her. ‘We went through drama school together. I’ve seen him in action before.’ And because she had doubted all along that Ben could actually love her, and because she knew Dale had no axe to grind, Sarah had been forced to accept that he was right.
* * *
She slept fitfully, missing the open window she always insisted on at home, but knowing that the heat outside would quickly negate the cooling effect of the air-conditioning if she did open one. Her headache grew progressively worse, nausea adding to her misery. There was a medicine cabinet in the bathroom, with luck with some aspirin in it, and she swung her feet out of the bed, surprised to discover that she was shivering with cold, despite the clammy stickiness of her skin. When she opened the door, the brief staccato noise of the typewriter startled her. It was gone two in the morning; what was Ben doing typing, and why?
Whatever he was doing was totally engrossing; his head turned to one side away from her as he studied something beside him, her presence unnoticed as she crept into the bathroom. Without sleep to fog her brain she was unpleasantly aware that her ‘symptoms’ could easily be those of sunstroke, and she could only pray that it was only a mild dose and that she would be fully recovered by morning. Just as soon as she had seen Wardrobe she must get herself a hat!
Unwilling to draw Ben’s attention to herself, she resisted the desire to switch on the bathroom light and instead felt her way towards the medicine cupboard, her eyes adjusting themselves to the lack of light enough for her to get it open. There were several bottles inside, any of which might contain what she wanted. Giving an exasperated sigh as much at her own folly as anything else, she reached for one, intending to hold it up to the light of the window, but somehow it slipped from her fingers, crashing down into the basin below, showering her with fragments of glass as it splintered, and leaving her transfixed with shock.
She heard Ben curse fluently, the trailer illuminated with light as he moved, switching lights on, thrusting open the bathroom door to stare at her in mingled anger and scorn.
‘I had a headache… I saw you were working and didn’t want to disturb you…’ Heavens, she sounded like a terrified child, Sarah thought mentally, suddenly intensely conscious of the fact that his silk shirt was open almost to the waist, exposing tanned flesh, darkened by a fine covering of hair. Instantly she was aware of her body’s response; the provocative firming of her breasts, imp
erfectly concealed by her thin cotton nightdress, and she made to take a step forward, desperate to escape the close confines of the small room, dominated by Ben’s masculinity and her reaction to it, even the air so thick with tension that she could barely breathe.
‘Sarah, no!’ The whiplash command cut through her thoughts. She paused, heard Ben swear, and the next moment he was crunching through the broken glass to swing her into his arms.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Do you want to cut your feet to ribbons?’
She had completely forgotten the broken glass and shuddered violently as she looked down at it.
‘You’re cold!’
To her surprise there was concern in his voice. Still holding her in his arms, he carried her through into the living area, barely half a dozen strides in all, but more than enough to make her uncomfortably aware of the suppleness and strength of sinews and bone covered by skin that gleamed like oiled silk. Before he put her down Ben steadied himself against the door, the movement catching her off guard and making her clutch at his shirt, the skin beneath it vibrantly warm and slightly damp with the perspiration she could see clinging to the pores of his face. Was it really so warm? She shivered convulsively as he put her down, unaware of the material of her nightdress tightening across her breasts until she realised that Ben was looking at her, his body slightly tensed. From being cold Sarah suddenly felt as though she were consumed by a burning heat. It seared her skin, drying out her mouth, her breathing suddenly forced and uneven. She touched her tongue to her dry lips, wanting to break the silence that stretched between them taut as fine wire and yet at the same time strangely unwilling to break the spell it wove.
Like someone in a dream she saw Ben’s hand come up, slowly, as though he were moving through water, his thumb brushing the erect peak of her nipple, his eyes darkening to onyx as he bent over her, tugging at the ribbons securing the bodice of her nightdress, his fingers unbelievably gentle as they cupped the swollen flesh he had exposed.
He made a brief sound, swiftly checked as Sarah’s gaze flew to his face, familiar and yet oddly unfamiliar as he looked down at her, an expression in his eyes that made her catch her breath quiveringly, panting slightly as he bent his head and slowly touched his lips to the place where his thumb had lingered.
Pain and pleasure seared through her together as Sarah closed her eyes, not knowing which of them had made the faint sound of satisfaction, oblivious to everything but a compelling desire to weave her fingers into the fine black silk of Ben’s hair and hold him against her breast. She moved towards him, jarring her arm against the table, and the impact filled the small space with alien sounds. Ben’s brilliant unfocused gaze left her body, his features hardening as they swept her face and she was thrust from him.
‘Go back to bed, Sarah,’ he told her hardily. ‘I’m in no mood tonight to play stand-in for Dale.’
It shattered her mood instantaneously, and it wasn’t until she was on her feet that she remembered the shattered glass in the bathroom, and the aspirin she still hadn’t got. Well, Ben could clear up the broken glass, she told herself, childishly, and as for the aspirin—after what had just happened she doubted if a whole bottleful would be sufficient to make her sleep. Her body trembled with nervous tension, every nerve ending still raw with the ache Ben’s touch had evoked, and she knew shamingly that if he were to come to her now she would be dangerously close to begging him to make love to her. However, she wasn’t entirely a fool—not nowadays—and she didn’t waste time delving into the reasons behind Ben’s actions. They had been pure reflex, an entirely impersonal reaction of any male who suddenly became aware that he was holding a half-naked female in his arms.
* * *
She supposed it was only to be expected that she should wake up heavy-eyed, with her head throbbing and her stomach still queasy, Sarah decided as she crawled out of bed, reaching for her robe. A glance at her watch showed that it was just after eight. Fortunately her wardrobe call wasn’t until ten, and at least she would have the trailer to herself.
There was no sign of any broken glass in the bathroom. Ben had made some attempt to tidy away his papers in the living area, although one had drifted down on to the floor. She bent to pick it up automatically, glancing at the typewritten page, her brows drawing together in a frown as she read it. It was obviously a page of typescript, but just as obviously it had nothing to do with their present film. Perhaps Ben was already looking for his next film, that wouldn’t be entirely unheard-of, but there were several mistakes in the typing, and what she was holding was a carbon copy rather than an original, the typescript looking as though it could belong to Ben’s rather battered manual machine. Telling herself that she was becoming dangerously obsessive about him, Sarah placed the paper on the table and set about making herself a cup of coffee. The thought of food made her feel faintly ill, and she noticed as she glanced through the window that the sky was unpleasantly sullen, the sun shining brassily down on the hard-baked earth.
By nine-thirty she had re-read her lines and was ready for her wardrobe appointment. Afterwards she would seek out Lois or one of the other girls and find out where she could best get transport to take her into town. Today she must get a hat. She was nearly sure that her headache and nausea were the result of too much exposure to the sun, and today, if anything, it was even hotter.
The wardrobe mistress, Linda Dawes, was a slim blonde girl with a businesslike manner, who measured Sarah quickly and then complimented her on the factuality of her data sheet. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of actresses, and actors come to that, who tell us they’re inches thinner than they actually are, and we’re supposed to make their costumes! I must be lucky this time out, both you and Eva Martell who’s playing Eleanor measure out exactly right. She’s got an appointment this morning too, which means I’ll probably be able to finish early enough to have a dip in the pool. Stifling outside, isn’t it?’
Sarah agreed. ‘And I’ve got to find something to drive into town later. I have to get a hat,’ she explained. ‘Unless you’ve got something?’
Linda shook her head. ‘Sorry, I haven’t, but I can lend you my car. It’s not exactly in the first flush of youth.’ She looked doubtfully at Sarah, but she was too grateful for the offer to reject it.
‘It’s an old Mini, I’ll give you the keys later. It’s parked in the compound and you can’t miss it. It’s bright yellow.’
As she worked Sarah discovered that Linda was English like herself, but that she had worked in Hollywood for several years. ‘There’s so much more scope over there,’ she told Sarah. ‘We’ve designed these costumes to complement your colouring,’ she explained, as she produced several silky tunics in rich greens and blues. ‘Nothing too subtle—they simply didn’t have the means of dyeing them, although we can go to town a bit more later in the film—once you’re married to William of Sicily. Messina was an international port and it’s feasible that silks and fabrics from the East would find their way there. In particular I thought you ought to wear something gauzy and provocative for your meeting with de Courcy, when he comes to tell you that Richard has managed to secure your dowry. You loved him as a girl, now you’re a widow—a woman—and you want him to be aware of the fact. You married as you had to—a man of fifty, impotent and gross, and now you feel you’ve earned the right to love, and you do still love him, and since you are a queen and he is merely a knight you have to show him that love.’
‘By dressing in Eastern silks?’ Sarah teased, but she could tell that Linda was completely absorbed in her job.
‘What do you think of the script?’ Linda asked her, her mouth half full of pins as she slipped the first of the costumes over Sarah’s head.
‘It’s fantastic. I only wish there was a chance of meeting the author. I thought he might be here—on site—you know they sometimes are.’
‘Umm.’ Linda frowned, studying the fall of the fabric. ‘You know it’s rumoured that…’ She broke of
f as the trailer door opened and a tall elegant woman in her late forties entered, apologising as she saw Sarah. ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m a little early.’
‘We’re nearly through,’ Linda assured her. ‘Like you, Sarah was strictly accurate with her measurements—thank God. Do you two know one another, Eva?’ she asked the older woman.
‘Only slightly,’ Eva Martell replied, smiling at Sarah. ‘We worked together briefly on Shakespeare, I don’t know if you remember?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Sarah confirmed warmly. The older woman had had a small part, sandwiched in between other work in America, but Sarah could still remember how kind she had been to a raw young girl fresh out of drama school.
‘And now you and Ben are back together. I’m glad. He went through a bad time after you left him, and of course Dale’s gloating didn’t help, but they say that’s Dale all over. He’s always been jealous of Ben. Of course he’s a first-rate actor, but he doesn’t have Ben’s talent for diversification. Even when they were at drama school together it was obvious that Ben would never simply be content to act.’
It was plain to Sarah that nothing she could say could correct the older woman’s erroneous impressions, and she wondered a little cynically what Eva’s response would be were she to tell her the true facts surrounding her relationship with and marriage to Ben, Dale jealous of Ben! Why, it was ridiculous. Dale had known right from the start that all she felt for him was brotherly affection, an affection which she knew he returned—witness the way he had allowed her to use him to protect her pride, letting Ben think they were lovers.
‘Hey, don’t forget these,’ Linda called after her as she finished dressing and walked towards the trailer door. ‘My car keys,’ she explained when Sarah looked blank. ‘You wanted to go into town?’
Thanking her for reminding her, Sarah said goodbye to Eva and left the trailer.
If anything the heat had intensified. The short walk from Linda’s trailer to Ben’s was enough to make her feel sick and shaky, her head tender to the harsh brilliance of the sun. Once inside, she gulped thankfully at the cool air, nauseated by the thought of lunch and settling instead for some fresh orange juice she found in the fridge. She must come to some arrangement with Ben over the cost of her keep. The fridge and freezer were well stocked and she suspected he probably ordered food weekly from the stores. She would check at the shop later in the day when she replaced the juice she had drunk—and she had better get some aspirins. She was glad there was no one to see the way her face flamed painfully as she remembered the way Ben had watched and touched her, almost as though he hadn’t been able to stop himself. She was being stupid, she chided herself, allowing her imagination to colour reality with her own desires. Never at any time, apart from the night they had made love, had Ben given any indication of not being wholly in control of his reactions, and even that night had been a sham; a deliberate intent to seduce her. For making love to her she could forgive him, but for allowing her to believe that he had done so in love, she could not. Quickly rinsing her glass, she found her handbag, checked that she had money and traveller’s cheques, and before the weight of her thoughts became too much for her, left the trailer.