by Maxine Barry
Annis’s eyes narrowed. ‘After what happened the other night, what on earth makes you think I want to go back to your flat?’ she snapped.
Reeve smiled grimly. ‘What’s the matter? Lost your nerve?’
Annis’s eyes narrowed. The orange flecks shone like little embers of temper. ‘Don’t flatter yourself! Better men than you have tried to make me nervous. And failed.’
‘So, you prefer greasy fish and fattening chips to fresh crayfish?’ he mocked. The sun was bathing his dark curls with a golden lining, and something about the way he stood there made her feel suddenly weak at the knees. Annis felt herself breathing hard, perched on the edge of rage and desire. What was it about this man that could tie her up in knots? It couldn’t be his looks alone. Annis had met men whose good looks could peel the paper off the walls. And she could hardly accuse him of using excess amounts of charm on her! So what . . .
‘Look, don’t bust a gasket,’ Reeve said drolly. ‘If you don’t want to eat, you don’t . . .’
‘Oh all right!’ Annis sighed, then broke out into a sprint as they saw a double-decker pull in, and Reeve shouted that that was their bus. They just made it, and lurched their way on to one of the downstairs seats.
‘Good grief, I’m out of shape,’ Annis panted. ‘I’d better start doing dance classes again.’ Reeve, she noticed wryly, was breathing normally. The sight of his calm, unruffled composure, when she knew her own face must be pink with exertion, did nothing much to improve her temper. Nor did his flat. It was in a leafy little cul-de-sac with a pleasant view over a group of horse chestnut trees, and a pocket-handkerchief-sized park. It had all the hallmarks of being professionally decorated, and she thought with a pang of her own tiny bedsit.
She sighed and followed him into his kitchen, decorated in pale lemon and powder blue. She watched him walk to the fridge that was as tall as he was and extract crayfish, already marinating in a glass dish and ready to eat. His hands were deft and knowing as he assembled different lettuces and mixed a vinegar-and-lemon dressing. Next, he chopped cold bacon, cress, watercress and walnuts into a basin, adding neatly-cut tomatoes and cucumber before carrying it to the table.
By the time he’d warmed crusty rolls in the oven, set the table, and opened a bottle of expensive-looking white wine, her stomach was rumbling, and she was forced to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he was at least domesticated. Some men couldn’t look after themselves if their lives depended on it, her ex-husband having been just such a man. But she couldn’t imagine Reeve Morgan going about in a dirty shirt because he didn’t have a little woman waiting at home to do his laundry. No—he’d just go out and hire a housekeeper. A pretty one, too, no doubt.
She sat down, reaching for one of the stiff, green linen napkins Reeve had put out. She accepted her glass of wine and took a tentative sip. Properly cooled, dry, tangy and delicious. She thought of the others, drinking lukewarm café tea, and felt a tiny tinge of guilt.
‘To the murder mystery weekend,’ Reeve said, raising his glass. Annis clinked her own glass to his.
‘May nobody guess whodunit.’
‘You would hope that,’ Reeve teased. ‘You being the killer!’
Annis couldn’t help but smile. ‘You know, sometimes you can be . . . all right,’ she said, grudgingly.
Reeve shot a stunned look at her, then burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. She looked so disgruntled. In his mirth, he nearly choked on his wine. Finally, eyes streaming, he managed to shake his head. ‘I’ll bet that was positively painful!’
Annis smiled, again grudgingly. ‘OK, OK,’ she held her hand up. ‘No need to make a meal out of it.’
Reeve coughed and leaned back in his chair. He was wearing a simple white T-shirt that strained across his well-formed biceps and contoured, hard chest. The sight of all that lounging male indolence made her want to stroke him, like she would a cat.
‘Truce?’ he asked quietly.
Annis dragged her mind away from thoughts of stroking him, and managed a shrug. ‘Sure, why not?’ she said, with something less than grace. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to have to put up with each other for too long. Only a month or two. Even I can put up with you for that length of time.’
Reeve’s lips twisted. ‘Gee, thanks,’ he drawled. But the thought of how soon the murder mystery weekend would come and go made him feel oddly depressed.
He watched her eat with pleasure. She seemed to enjoy the food so much that he found a tender feeling beginning to glow, just below the region of his heart. Which was patently ridiculous.
‘So, what have you got lined up after this murder mystery gig?’ he asked, absently brushing crumbs off his thighs, unaware that Annis was following the brushing motion of his hands with a mouth gone suddenly dry. He was wearing tight-fitting jeans along with the T-shirt, and she could almost imagine the firm, warm feeling of his flesh . . .
She blinked mid-chew, realising that he was gazing at her with a slightly quizzical look in his eyes. ‘Huh? Oh . . . um . . .’ She swallowed her food hastily. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve got one or two commercials lined up. Voice-overs mostly. But my hands might get famous.’
Reeve looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. ‘Oh. A hand cream commercial?’
Annis nodded and regarded her hands thoughtfully. Reeve did too, and understood at once how she had got the role. Her hands were long, pale, and quite exquisitely shaped. He had a sudden vivid picture of them on his chest, the long slender fingers running through his dark chest hairs, her fingertips moving slowly down over the rest of his body . . .
‘What about you?’ Annis asked, and Reeve dragged his mind away from her hands to concentrate on her face. Her eyes really were a tawny blaze of colour, he thought, wondering how it was that no director had yet realised their potential. In a close-up, the camera swinging in towards her face, those eyes looking straight at you out of your television screen . . . it would be enough to curl the toes of the entire male population of Great Britain.
‘Oh, well, I’ve got an audition for that new soap,’ he said, and Annis felt herself chill by several degrees.
‘Isn’t that the soap that’s being directed by Gale Evers?’ she asked. When a woman grabbed a hot top job like directing a glitzy new soap, it was news. What was also news was that Reeve Morgan and Gale Evers were rumoured to be . . . if not an item exactly . . . then more than just passing buddies.
Reeve, unaware of the sudden danger, nodded. ‘That’s right. The part I’m reading for is a cockney villain, in love with a character who’s blind. She’s a good, salt-of-the-earth type, who’s having nothing to do with him. But I don’t suppose that’ll last for long,’ he finished, grinning.
Annis managed a tight smile. ‘No, I suppose not. Just so long as the ratings say it’s a popular shoreline.’
She pushed her plate away, her appetite suddenly gone. She knew she shouldn’t begrudge another actor who was moving up the ladder, except that she did, dammit! She supposed she was old-fashioned, but she didn’t like the idea of a man using a woman to get ahead in life. It stuck in her throat.
Like his damned crayfish was doing. She picked up her glass of wine and walked with it through to the living room, leaving him without so much as a word. Reeve watched her go, his face a picture of surprise.
Dammit, now what had he said? She was like mercury—as changeable as a barometer in the Caribbean during the hurricane season. He stacked the dishes in the sink and wandered back into the living room with his own glass. She was standing at the window, looking out over the towering horse chestnut trees, her face pensive. He could see the tension in her shoulder blades.
He watched her, unsure what to say next. It was a new sensation to him—usually when he was around women, he knew exactly what to say and do.
‘We should be getting back,’ he murmured at last, noticing the way her hair swung just to the top of her arms as she turned and glanced at him. Her face, he noticed with something approaching real despair, was tight a
nd pinched. ‘Annis, what’s the matter?’ he asked, his voice a mixture of frustrated exasperation and mocking anger. ‘You’ve got more prickles than a hedgehog.’
Annis shrugged. ‘There’s nothing the matter,’ she said loftily. And patently insincerely. ‘Besides, why should it bother you if there were?’
Reeve grunted. ‘True,’ he said sharply. And yet, it did matter. And he had the nasty feeling that what she thought was going to matter to him more and more as time went on.
‘I just hope you don’t do anything stupid at the audition for the soap, that’s all’ Annis said flatly. ‘But then, men like you don’t make mistakes, do they? I’m sure you’ll be perfect.’ And she was sure too.
Reeve blinked, surprised by the unfairness of her attack. Then he understood. ‘You think Gale will give me the part just because we’re supposed to be sleeping together, don’t you?’ he asked bitterly.
Annis’s tawny eyes darkened and she shook her head. ‘It’s none of my business,’ she said, her voice unusually meek. For, suddenly, she realised that it wasn’t her business. What Reeve Morgan did with his life was nothing to do with her. But it should be, a forlorn little voice piped up from somewhere deep inside her. Annis paled, as she was forced to listen to what she was telling herself. Oh dammit, no! The last thing she needed to do was fall in love with Reeve Morgan.
‘No, you’re quite right,’ Reeve said heavily. ‘It isn’t anyone’s business but our own.’
In truth, he and Gale were not lovers. Gale was, in fact, gay—but she didn’t mind that others thought they were involved. He’d have to tell her to make it clear, from now on, that they were just friends.
And when Reeve listened to what he was telling himself, he wondered how it was possible for a woman to become the most important thing in his life, practically overnight.
He stared at Annis’s pinched and unhappy face and shook his head.
Face it, Reeve, he thought grimly. You’re in trouble.
Annis turned away. ‘We’d better go,’ she said flatly.
It was hard to say which of them felt the more miserable as they made their way back to rehearsals.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frederica dumped her packages on to the bed and sighed. She couldn’t believe she’d just blown two months’ allowance on a single outfit. She went to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, and further indulged herself by adding the expensive bath oil her father had bought for her birthday. When she was finished she smelt of freesias and utterly feminine. Back in her room, a glance at her watch told her it was still way too early to get ready, so she pulled out her books.
As well as the Final Degree Show, every Fine Art student had to submit an Extended Essay in Hilary Term of their last year, but after an hour she gave it up—studying was just too difficult when your concentration had gone out of the window. All she could think about was that tonight she was going out with him. It still seemed too incredible to be real.
She got her hairbrush and sat down in front of a small mirror, thinking about her first date with the sophisticated, wealthy, devastating male called Lorcan Greene. What on earth did she think she was doing? Just why had she accepted his dinner invitation? Come to that, why had he given it? When she thought of all the women he must have known, worldly-wise, beautiful and sophisticated, she felt distinctly gauche by comparison.
She met her dark brown eyes in the mirror and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. With the summer under way, her freckles were making their presence known, and with her hair loose like this, she looked about fourteen. Perhaps she should just plait it into two pigtails and have done with it.
But there was no point in trying to belittle this evening in her own mind, she knew. For the plain and simple fact was . . . she was excited. On tenterhooks. Wildly, massively, happy at the thought of seeing him again.
She turned on her stool and lifted her hair off the back of her neck, piling it up on her head, then let it cascade over her shoulders and down her back. Better or worse?
She thought of Lorcan—that elegant height he carried off so easily. That cool, blonde, handsomeness that was so much a part of him. That aura of power and knowledge. A man like that deserved a woman who was prepared to make the effort for him. And then she felt angry. Damn it, why should she primp and preen in front of a mirror? He was only a man after all. But she so wanted to look good!
Grimly, she reached for the expensive cosmetic case her mother had given her, and which she seldom used. First she put on a moisturising cream, then a very fine coating of powder. Next she added the barest touch of glittering golden eyeshadow, and a clever mascara that was guaranteed not to clot, rub off, or be sticky. And when she looked at the result, she had to admit it was quite startling. Her deep, velvety-black eyes had always been one of her most striking features, but highlighted with gold, and framed by such thick dark lashes, they looked positively amazing. Pleased with her experiments so far, she added a dark bronze lipstick, took most of it off again, then added lip gloss. The result was to highlight her deep cupid’s bow, and give her mouth a moist, mysterious look. Frederica stared at her freckles. Should she conceal them after all? She shook her head crossly. Enough was enough!
Hair. She forced her mind back to the auburn tresses. Up or down? She settled for a softer chignon, that let little tendrils and wisps curl over her forehead, cheeks and neck. Then she walked over to a carrier bag and extracted a length of black velvet ribbon, which she wound artfully around her hair, tying it in a bow on the back of her neck, and letting the long, V-cut ends trail to a point just at the nape of her neck. Black strappy sandals that criss-crossed her ankles and fastened with a buckle at the back were teamed with a flimsy black skirt. It was surprisingly full, and floated to just below her knees. Tiny gold bells had been cunningly added to the scalloped hem. They tinkled musically whenever she moved. The blouse was black silk, and completed the outfit perfectly.
Finally, with the time nearing seven-thirty, Frederica walked to her tiny wardrobe and opened the door, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. Gone was the paint-besmirched, pony-tailed Fine Art student. In her place was a Romany princess, with mysterious dark eyes and a provocative mouth.
‘What the hell am I doing?’ she heard her own voice, breathless and shaken, echo around the room. ‘I can’t go out to dinner with Lorcan Greene dressed like this!’
But she didn’t have time to change. And something inside her didn’t want to. The woman in the mirror was the kind of woman Lorcan Greene would take to dinner. And isn’t that what she’d wanted to be, from the very first moment she’d set eyes on him? She turned away, reaching for a bottle of Chanel’s ‘Allure’, yet another gift from her ever-hopeful mother. She dabbed it behind her ears and on her wrists, then left her room, her heart thumping. She passed several students on the way out, men and women she’d known for the past year, and every single one of them watched her go out of sight, a stunned look in their eyes. She heard one boy, a medical student, say to his slack-jawed friend, ‘Now that’s what I call a hot date.’ And they both laughed.
But, instead of cheering her up and bolstering her self-confidence, their words echoed ominously in her head as she walked towards the Lodge. What if Lorcan Greene, too, took one look at her and immediately thought that she was ‘hot’?
In theory, she was a modern woman in charge of her life and destiny. But inside, she felt cold and just a little frightened. In fact, she almost turned back. But then he stepped through the open Lodge gates, saw her, and stopped dead. He was dressed in a black evening suit, with a deep wine-red tie. The evening sun was colouring his wheat-gold hair a fairer shade, and as she approached, the greeny-hazel eyes seemed to fix her in a state of unreality.
She found herself walking towards him helplessly, like a metal filing drawn to a magnet. The birdsong around her seemed softer, the air thicker, the beat of her heart more insistent. Lorcan watched her approach, hardly able to believe his eyes. Always before, he’d seen Frederica
Delacroix at the Ruskin, in her persona of artist. The ‘fake-buster’ in him saw her as a potential con-artist. But now he was seeing the woman. And what he saw took his breath away.
‘Hello,’ she said nervously. ‘I’m not late, am I?’
Lorcan shook his head, and held out his hand. ‘The car’s just outside,’ he said simply and led her to a fantastically glamorous, silver-coloured Aston Martin. She felt absurdly privileged as he opened the door for her, a solicitous hand cupped under her elbow, before shutting the door carefully behind her. As he got in lithely beside her, she was suddenly aware of the smallness of the sports car, how near to the ground it was, how powerful it sounded. As he put the car into gear, his hand brushed against her leg, and a powerful current of shivering electricity shot up her thigh, lodging itself somewhere deep inside her, making her face flame.
‘I thought we’d go to The Trout Inn at Wolvercote,’ he named a local pubcum-restaurant, well-thought-of and well frequented in Oxford circles. She nodded, but the fact was, she hadn’t even given their possible destination a single thought. She wound down a window, aware that her face was still flaming, and didn’t give a thought, either, to the effects of the wind streaming into the car on her much-worried-over hairstyle.
Lorcan found it difficult to concentrate on driving, with the breeze wafting tiny plumes of Titian hair about her face like that. Luckily the drive was short, and soon they were angling over the hump-backed bridge that preceded the Inn.
He’d booked an outdoor table, and as they were led to it, the sound of the weir on the river filled the air with the pagan roar of rushing water. They sat at the table, tucked away in a little bower of fragrant honeysuckle and pastel-pink clematis. ‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ the waiter murmured discreetly.
‘Thank you,’ Lorcan said casually. ‘Scotch and water for me and . . .’ he looked at Frederica, whose mind went promptly blank. He saw the brief look of consternation cross her face and added smoothly, ‘A glass of Pinot Grigio for Miss Delacroix.’
