Roberta Leigh - Not a Marrying Man

by Roberta Leigh

  'Why did you send for me?' she asked abruptly.

  'To see if your visa is up to date for the States.'

  'Yes, it is. But———'

  'Then be ready to leave the day after tomorrow.' He saw her surprise. 'Didn't you think we were serious about you taking the trip? It will do you good.'

  'It's extremely kind of you, but I can't go at such short notice. I've a mass of appointments and——'

  'Let your assistant take over. That's what she's here for.'

  'But I haven't got a ticket or a hotel.'

  'Your flight is taken care of and I've already told you to stay at my apartment.'

  'I can't,' she said at once.

  'I won't be there—if that's what's worrying you.'

  'Of course it isn't. But I don't think I should stay there even so.'

  'Why not? It's paid for by the company.' His eyes were mocking. The only thing I'd like you to do while you're over there is to have a chat with Alistair about the new lipstick. Our advertising agency in New York want to do a different campaign there and he'll put you in the picture.'

  'I'd like us to concentrate on television and forget everything else,' she said impulsively. 'It's such a visual thing to promote: a beautiful girl being kissed and no tell-tale lipstick marks.'

  That's the way we're promoting it in the States. And we're using top beauties to do it. The most beautiful actress, the most beautiful dancer—all the top professions that have glamorous females.'

  It was a good idea and she wished she had thought of it. 'We could do it on a world-wide basis too.'

  'We'd need different women for the Far East,' he said. 'That's a market we cannot afford to ignore. I'm aiming to treble our sales in Japan.'

  It was something Sara had been urging Madame Rosa to do and she was delighted Bruno felt the same. But she was reluctant to tell him in case he thought she was trying to ingratiate herself with him and she nodded and moved tentatively towards the door.

  'My aunt said you've been urging her to concentrate on Japan too,' he continued. 'We might not agree over personal matters but we're on the same wavelength when it comes to Rosalyn.'

  That's all that matters,' she said steadily.

  'Is Rosalyn your whole life?' he demanded. 'Don't you want to enjoy yourself too?'

  'I enjoy my work.'

  His smile was pitying—as if he thought she were missing something—and because she happened to think so too, and was annoyed by the realisation, Sara went out and banged the door behind her.

  Nevil was extremely put out to learn of her departure for New York. 'At least you could have given me some warning,' he grumbled. 'I might have been able to wangle a few days there myself.'

  Since this was exactly what she did not want, she diplomatically held her tongue and, being Nevil, he saw her silence as remorse.

  'I may still be able to manage a long weekend,' he went on.

  'It's silly to bother,' she said quickly. 'I'll only be there a couple of weeks.'

  'Don't you want to see me?' 'It might be better if we were apart for a bit,' she said slowly. 'We've been seeing too much of each other lately.'

  'I love you,' he expostulated. 'As far as I'm concerned I'm not seeing enough of you. What's wrong, darling?'

  He grasped her by the shoulders and she was sorry she had invited him in for coffee after he had brought her home tonight.

  'Nothing's wrong,' she said calmly. 'But I don't want you to make plans for our future when I haven't made up my mind what my future will be. And I don't want to talk about it either,' she said, seeing he was about to speak. 'That's why I am going away for a holiday. I want to think things out without you putting any pressure on me.'

  'There isn't anyone else, is there?'

  'No.'

  'Then why have you changed?'

  'I haven't changed. When you asked me to marry you I told you I wasn't sure.'

  She hesitated, debating whether to tell him her answer was more likely to be no than yes. But because he looked angry and because she was tired, she took the easy way out and said nothing.

  'Even if you turn me down I won't take no for an answer.' He rested his cheek against hers, slightly bending his tall body to do so. His moustache prickled her skin and she drew back.

  'What's the matter, Sara?'

  'Your moustache tickles me.'

  'Say the word and I'll shave it off.'

  'Don't you dare. You'll give me a guilt complex.'

  'I'd shave my head if I thought it would encourage you to marry me. Don't you know that as far as I'm concerned you're the Delilah of my life?'

  It was the most fanciful compliment he had paid her and she was so touched by it that when he pulled her close she offered no resistance. Unfortunately she could not offer him a response either and, after a moment, he became aware of it and released her.

  It was a relief when he finally left. Their evening together seemed to have dragged on interminably. Apart from business they did not have a lot in common, and even in business she did not agree with much of what he said. She pulled a face. One man—whom she basically did not even like—was spoiling her for any other. It was a good thing she was going away. Absence would help her see things in perspective. She refused to consider what she would do if it didn't.

  Two days later she was in New York, met at John Kennedy Airport by a chauffeur in a gleaming Cadillac and whisked into the city where she was deposited at the entrance of the elegant apartment house in which Bruno had his home.

  Looking around the large living-room with its silver blonde furniture, suede settees and vivid modern paintings on the pale silver walls, she thought it more of a decorator's paradise than a home in which one could relax. But then it probably suited Bruno's tastes, being a background for the frenetic way he lived, with his ever- changing love affairs and constant business activity. It was a life to appeal to a young person but likely to become tedious when maturity set in. Yet at thirty-four Bruno could no longer be considered in the first flush of youth, though he still seemed light years away from maturity in his personal life.

  But why should it matter to her what he did or how he felt ? Was she so concerned with him because she knew he was a disappointment to Madame Rosa who so obviously wanted him to settle down with a loving wife and produce a family? Unfortunately this answer did not satisfy her. The interest and antagonism Bruno aroused in her stemmed from something more frightening.

  Refusing to think about it, she unpacked her case and put her things in the capacious fitted cupboards-She had no sense of being in Bruno's home and was grateful for this. She already thought far too much about him, and to be aware of his presence last thing at night and first thing in the morning would be no help to her.

  But going into the bathroom she was instantly reminded of him, for several bottles of after-shave lotion were stacked in the cabinet together with tortoiseshell and gold hairbrushes which she could almost visualise him holding as he brushed his thick black hair.

  Bruno. How clearly the name brought him in front of her; his firm features and the unexpectedly sensual mouth; the stubborn chin and the warm brown eyes that glinted even more warmly when he was amused but could also turn to points of jet when he was angry. Quickly she placed her jars of cosmetics on the glass shelves and returned to the bedroom.

  She was by the door when the telephone rang. It was Alistair Marden, Rosalyn's American publicist, calling to welcome her to New York and saying he would pick her up in a hour and give her a tour of the New York showrooms.

  With a wry smile she replaced the receiver. Bruno's assertion that this trip was a holiday did not seem to be true, for Alistair had given the impression that he believed she was here in order to learn all she could about the way he ran the American side of the company.

  But when she was finally sitting beside him in the back of a limousine, another Cadillac but a different colour this time, she realised she had misjudged Bruno, for the older man went to great pains to tell her he had bee
n ordered not to monopolise her time.

  'I just want you to know I'm at your disposal should you require anything.'

  Thank you,' she smiled.

  'And I'll be more than delighted to take you around.'

  'Please don't bother.' She was embarrassed and could not hide it.

  'It wouldn't be a bother.' He gave her an appraising look. 'It would be a pleasure.'

  She shook her head, still reluctant to accept his offer in case it had come from Bruno. 'If I get lonely I'll call you. But for the next few days I'll be sightseeing.'

  The limousine halted halfway down Fifth Avenue and he escorted her out and pointed to the huge gilded doors ahead of them.

  She looked at them and chuckled. 'The Rosalyn trademark.'

  'We even have the same decor as the London salon. I'd like to change it, but Madame won't let me.'

  'I agree with her,' Sara replied. 'When a woman goes to a foreign country and puts herself in the hands of a foreign beautician, she's always scared something will go wrong. But if she finds herself in familiar surroundings, it gives her confidence.'

  The name Rosalyn is familiar enough,' he asserted. 'She doesn't need the nonsense of identical decor everywhere she goes.'

  'We must agree to differ,' Sara murmured, and found herself curious to know what Bruno felt on the subject.

  Alistair pushed open the ornate door and she stepped into the scented world that had been her life for the past six years. Immediately she experienced a sense of homecoming and decided again that Madame Rosa was right— as she generally was when it came to anything connected with her beloved company.

  There followed a quick tour of the premises, with Alistair introducing her to all the key personnel and several of the sales girls whom she found far more glamorous than their counterparts in Bond Street. Alistair's office was also far more glamorous than her own— and busier too—being occupied by some half dozen men and women, working either at dictaphone machines or on the telephone.

  'Are they all doing publicity?' she asked, astonished.

  'Only two are. The rest are working on The Rosalyn Hour.' He was referring to the monthly television spectacular which the company promoted and which, because of different British television laws, could not be done in the United Kingdom.

  'I'd like to see the show,' she said.

  'I'll take you along to the taping,' he offered.

  'To the what?'

  'It's all recorded on video tape beforehand,' he explained. 'That way nothing is left to chance. We have a great show planned for this month with Magda Cam introducing our new face powders. It was a real coup to get her. Normally she won't model beauty products.'

  'How much more did you have to pay her?' Sara smiled. 'That's what it usually boils down to.'

  'Not with Magda. She's just choosy.' He smiled back. 'Bruno got her to do it as a favour for him.'

  Sara kept her face blank, but her very lack of expression was her undoing, for Alistair's look was knowing. 'Don't you like Bruno ?' he asked.

  'He's very able.'

  'He's much more than that. He's brilliant. He has as much feel for the business as Madame Rosa. I'm curious to know how the two of them are managing to work together.'

  'They're not,' she corrected. 'Madame has given him complete control.'

  'You mean she's legally handed him the company?'

  'Not legally. But I'm sure it's what she'll eventually do.

  She wants to make sure he's committed himself to the business first.'

  Alistair looked surprised. 'He lives, breathes and sleeps Rosalyn.'

  'Not sleeps,' she said, thinking of the king-size double bed in the opulent bedroom.

  'You mean his reputation with women?' The man laughed. 'Believe me, they run after him more than he runs after them.'

  Then he's spared the neccessity of running.'

  That's true. He just sits there and fends them off!'

  'He's in an ideal position to do so,' she commented. 'Head of a company like this and in control of a T.V. show! What more could he offer?'

  'He'd have no problems finding women if all he had to offer was a candy bar! Bruno's got sex appeal. Genuine, one hundred per cent sex appeal.'

  Her shrug told him she did not wish to pursue the conversation and he came round the side of his desk to stand beside her.

  'Are you free to have dinner with me tonight, Sara? And I'm not asking because it's company orders.'

  'In that case I'd love to,' she smiled.

  Then go back to the apartment and have a rest or you'll be pooped. It's round about ten p.m. that you'll find jet lag catching up with you.'

  'I think it already has.' She stifled a yawn and thought regretfully of the shops along Fifth Avenue and Madison. Still, she had two weeks here; time enough to buy everything she wanted.

  The next eight days passed so swiftly Sara was not sure where they went. Her first evening with Alistair had served to introduce her to several men who, coming up to talk to him in the discreet but exorbitantly expensive restaurant to which he had taken her, had been sufficiently intrigued by her looks and personality to telephone her during the course of the next couple of days to ask to see her.

  One of them was in advertising and the other two were connected with the Rosalyn television show, which had made her wonder to begin with if their invitations were inspired by business, which seemed to occupy the minds of most successful American executives. But in this she found she did them an injustice, for neither of them discussed Rosalyn when they took her out and seemed interested only in furthering their relationship with her, the television producer going so far as to ask her to come and work in New York.

  On Saturday and Sunday she refused all invitations from her American escorts and determined to visit the museums and art galleries that abounded here. The cultural life of New York struck her as being far more exciting than London, having a robustness and vitality that was invigorating, and she wished to explore it at her leisure.

  It was exhausting but infinitely rewarding and on both evenings she returned late to her apartment, too tired to do more than curl up in front of the television set and drink milk and nibble biscuits.

  At ten o'clock on the Sunday night the telephone disturbed her from a doze and a girl's voice asked to speak to Bruno.

  'I'm afraid he isn't here,' Sara replied. 'He's in England.'

  'But the apartment's occupied.'

  'That's because I'm staying here.'

  'Who are you?'

  'Who are you?' Sara countered.

  'Ask Bruno,' came the reply, and the receiver went down with a bang.

  With a vague sense of irritation Sara guessed it to have been one of his girl-friends and would have given a great deal to know how the caller had discovered the apartment was being occupied. The question returned to her when two further female calls came, though with the third one she was rather terse, annoyed at being awakened at one-thirty in the morning. What a time to call! Did the girl sleep during the day and work night shifts somewhere ? This could have been the explanation, though Sara ruefully knew it wasn't. The girl had no doubt called at this hour because she was used to being with Bruno at such a time. It was obvious he conducted his private life according to the time he had available, and equally obvious that he worked hard and played hard without any concession to what it might do to his health in the future. But why should she care about his future? They were likely to spend it in totally different environments: she as the wife of some figure who still remained nebulous in her mind", and he as the dynamic head of a multi-million-dollar company.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'I'm surprised Bruno doesn't have an ex-directory number in his home,' Sara said to Alistair when she met him for lunch the following day.

  'He uses an answering service when he doesn't want to be disturbed. You can do the same.'

  'I will if I get any more calls.'

  She looked around the crowded restaurant, seeing as many women as men, which was so
mething one still didn't find in restaurants in London. Nor did one find the same male appreciation of a good-looking woman. In the past week she had been made very conscious of herself and, because of it, felt a stronger inner sense of her own desirability.

  'What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?' Alistair asked.

  'Shopping. And tonight I'm going to the theatre with Bob Simmons.'

  'He's shopping around too,' Alistair grinned. 'He's just got divorced from his second wife.'

  'I'm not for sale,' she assured him. 'I just find him very good at ego-polishing!'

  'Your ego doesn't need polishing. You already shine brightly enough. You're wasted making the news, Sara, a girl like you should be the news.'

  'How?' she said, giving him a sidelong glance as they rose from their table and left the restaurant.

  'As an actress or a model—or just being a beautiful girl.'

  'There's no such thing as just being a beautiful girl,' she pointed out. 'And being an actress or a model doesn't appeal to me. I'm a working girl, Alistair. Don't be fooled by my looks.'

  'I'm not.' He put his hand lightly under her elbow. There's a lot of grey matter under that golden blonde head of yours. That's what makes you so fascinating. Beautiful girls are two-a-dime in this city, but when you get brains as well, it's a deadly combination.'

  'That most men steer clear of,' she concluded.

  'I was going to say that most men can't believe they're lucky enough to find.' His grip tightened. 'You wouldn't consider staying on here, would you? I need someone to help me run the New York office.'

  'I enjoy working on my own,' she said bluntly. 'I wouldn't be good at taking orders.'

  'We'd work together,' he insisted. 'Anyway, think about it and if you change your mind, let me know.'

  She left him at the salon, then wandered along to Saks and from there to Bergdorf Goodman. But even with the high salary she earned, she found everything exorbitantly expensive and eventually found her way to some of the smaller boutiques that abounded in the side turnings. Here too things were costly, making her realise what an abundance of choice there was to be had in England. It was only when it came to cheaper clothes—gimmicky little outfits to be worn for a few months and then thrown away—that she found her senses titillated, and she was laden with parcels when she finally returned to Bruno's apartment.