Stranger in the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  Macey was in shorts and T-shirt. He was reading a volume of plays and on the low table beside him was a glass of freshly pressed grapefruit juice.

  'Slept well?' His voice was casual, his smile as cool as though nothing had happened. Clare marvelled at his ability to snap back into that untroubled frame of mind.

  She nodded. 'I think I'll have a swim.' She had put on her white bikini automatically, her mind occupied with the realisation that swimming would give her something to do during the first awkward moments of seeing Macey again.

  He made no comment. His glance drifted back to his book and she walked along to the pool, frowning. A faint pique arose in her mind. Macey was too damned cool. Clare found it maddening that she should feel so nervous while he looked as though he hadn't a care in the world.

  She dived into the water, her body curving in flight like a swallow. As she surfaced she shot a look towards Macey. His dark head was bent over that book and he seemed unaware of her.

  She swam around for a while, then climbed out and wandered back towards him. As she sank into the chair beside him he did look up, smiling casually.

  'Want some coffee?'

  'Thank you,' said Clare, giving him a tone as light as his own. Macey got up and walked away. She stared at the cloudless sky. She was being ridiculous. Macey was helping her to get over a difficult moment. He was reestablishing their old, casual relationship. She should be grateful to him, instead of feeling irritated. She determined to match his calm manner when he came back.

  When he did carry out the coffee, Clare gave him a brilliant smile. 'Marvellous! I'm dying for some coffee.'

  'Good,' he said drily, his blue eyes sardonic.

  She looked away. No need for her ever to tell Macey what was going on inside her head. He could read her like a book.

  He sank down beside her and they drank their coffee while the sun rose higher and the blue sky burnt blindly overhead. Clare smoothed oil into her tanned skin and Macey watched her through half-lowered lids.

  'You look like a sun goddess,' he said, smiling.

  'Thank you,' Clare returned, her green eyes lowered.

  She was very conscious of the colour stealing into her face. Macey had often commented on her looks before and she had laughed at him, throwing back a light remark. Now she couldn't look at him and her own shyness amazed her.

  For the rest of that day they did nothing but laze by the pool, taking the occasional swim, reading magazines and French newspapers, eating a light salad in the middle of the day and drinking coffee at intervals. It was a day much like the other days they had spent here, yet it was very different.

  'Why don't we have dinner in Nice?' Macey suggested as they moved into the house later.

  The sun was low on the horizon. It fell across the blue sea in a golden, glittering pathway. Clare gave Macey a quick glance, shrugging. 'Why don't we?'

  'Not much enthusiasm, darling?'

  He sounded dry and Clare retorted: 'Too much sun to rouse any enthusiasm for anything.'

  He laughed, throwing a quick inspection over her. 'It suits you.'

  'How kind,' she bit back, and met the amused blue eyes with a feeling that she was behaving like a spoilt child.

  In her own room she looked at herself in the mirror and wondered what had got into her. She had never been so prickly with Macey in the past. Today she had felt jumpy, tense and on edge the whole day. Why?

  Wandering into her shower, she stood under the water, her body turning to let the cooling jets wash over her sunheated skin.

  The sting of it brought her senses to life and made her mind feel clear and sharp. The languor which the southern sun had induced left her and she stepped out of the shower a few moments later, swathed in a towel, feeling very awake and alive.

  She padded across the room and glanced along the rack of dresses. Her eye was caught by one and she reached for it and held it out, frowning. On a mischievous impulse she laid it on the bed, deciding she would wear it. She knew Macey liked it. She had first worn it on an evening they spent together at a film premiere. They had sat in a small party which had included a famous producer whose round, gooseberry eyes had barely left Clare all evening. By the time Macey drove her home she had received a number of whispered, pressing invitations from the man which she had smilingly refused. Macey's usual response to watching men make passes at her was amusement, but on that evening he had been biting in his comments. 'You asked for it.' His eye had swept over her. 'That dress!' He hadn't said much more about the dress, but he hadn't needed to—his eye had said it for him. The famous producer hadn't been the only one to find the dress an incitement.

  She took her time getting ready, her pulses jumping nervously every time she heard a movement in the villa. Giving herself a last thorough glance in the mirror, she walked out to join Macey.

  He was in the sitting-room, pouring himself a drink, and glanced over his shoulder to ask if she wanted anything.

  His dark head stayed in that position for a held second as he stared, his blue eyes shooting over her while he absorbed the impact of the clever little black and gold dress.

  It was little more than a sheath for her seductive body, curving round her breasts and clinging to the warm, provocative line of waist, hip and thigh, leaving her long, smooth legs exposed.

  Clare suddenly wished she hadn't put it on. It had been a reckless impulse.

  She watched Macey's face tighten, his blue eyes narrow. They came back to her face and nervously she said: 'I'll have a Martini, thank you.'

  He swung round, nodding. She stared at the powerful line of his body, the wide shoulders and long back. He was wearing a white dinner jacket which fitted perfectly. His black hair brushed the collar, each separate strand vital. Her fingers tingled with a desire to touch one and Clare found herself amazed by that sudden impulse.

  He turned to walk across and put her glass into her hand and the cool brush of his fingers sent a wave of heat through her, alarming her even more. She avoided his eyes, sipping her drink, the ice which floated in it touching her dry lips.

  The dusk outside was alive with huge, powdery winged moths attracted by the light. They tapped against the closed french windows, fluttering feverishly.

  Clare knew exactly how they felt. She had the same sensation inside her chest.

  She and Macey weren't saying a word. She was very conscious of that. They had always talked so freely and easily, laughing together, and now they didn't seem to have a thing to say.

  She flickered a quick, secret look at him. He wasn't aware of her, his profile abstracted, his eyes on the glass in his hand. Clare stared at the strong, male profile with which she was so familiar but which she felt she was seeing for the first time. Macey's intelligent forehead, heavy-lidded blue eyes, the powerful structure of cheek and jaw, the straight nose and firm mouth—she had seen them all a thousand times and never absorbed them with the intensity she did now.

  Suddenly his eyes shot sideways before she could look away. Heat flared in her throat, then she burst out into over-rapid speech. 'Where are we eating? Not bouillabaisse again, I hope? I don't think I feel up to coping with all those fishermen tonight.'

  Macey's brows shot upwards and a sardonic glimmer brightened his blue eyes. 'No? You look as if you could cope with anything in that dress.'

  She burnt instantly, her face flaming. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'You know what it's supposed to mean,' Macey drawled. 'Don't underestimate me, Clare. Walk near the edge if you like, but don't pretend you don't know what you're doing.'

  One of his two-edged lines, she thought. Macey being clever again. She lowered her lashes. 'Don't you like my dress?'

  'If I told you what that dress did to me you'd probably scream the place down,' Macey bit out. 'Why do women gamble when they're never prepared to risk it?' He finished his drink, turning away before she could absorb that or react. 'Shall we go?'

  Macey was fully aware of the reckless impulse which had made her p
ut on a dress she knew would provoke him. Clare bit her lip as she followed him, feeling very silly. To his departing back she flung: 'I wish you wouldn't walk in and out of my mind as though it was a railway station!'

  He laughed under his breath. 'Perhaps it's just as well I do,' he murmured, and she wondered what he meant by that.

  As the car slid out of the gates she leaned back and watched the moon softly float up out of the sea. A light mist wreathed it, the silvery radiance spreading downwards and melting across the water.

  She had her car window open. A breeze blew lightly in her hair, twisting the golden curls like a caressing finger.

  'Where are we going?' she asked Macey dreamily.

  His blue eyes thoughtfully surveyed her. 'In that dress, we've very little choice. If I took you into anything but a five-star hotel you'd get eaten alive.'

  Clare laughed. 'What makes a five-star hotel different?'

  'The men have usually learnt not to grab what they fancy,' Macey drawled. 'I don't say the place won't be crawling with men who'll fancy you on sight, but that would apply wherever I took you. It can get very wearing.'

  She opened her eyes. 'What can?'

  Macey stared ahead, his profile uninformative. 'Watching men watching you.'

  Clare had nothing to say in answer to that. She had never considered what it did to Macey to stand around and watch her with other men.

  They were driving down the mountain road. Macey's long hands moved lightly on the wheel, spinning the car with deft precision as they took the bends. Clare always felt nervous on that road. The sheer space on one side of her made her heart crowd into her mouth. She gave the towering, rocky mountain above them a nervous look, not looking downwards.

  'Calm down,' said Macey without so much as glancing at her. 'I'm a very safe driver. Any risks I take, I take knowingly and I've always calculated the odds to a hair.'

  'That's comforting,' Clare said edgily. 'I'll remember that when I wake up in hospital.'

  He laughed. 'You won't be doing that. How many years have I been driving you around? When did I ever have an accident?'

  'There's a first time for everything.'

  'So there is,' agreed Macey on a drawl that suddenly made the hair rise on the back of her neck.

  He had been dropping remarks like that to her for years, the razor-sharp ambiguous comments she had ignored without a qualm, and now she couldn't ignore them any more. Now every time one came she felt her nerves quiver vividly.

  She felt feverish, the atmosphere between them screwing up her nerves to a point where she wanted to run for cover. Her hands trembled in her lap and Macey's blue eyes flickered obliquely towards them, observing her reaction with a cool awareness that made her want to scream.

  He knew what was happening to her. He was watching her from behind that strong face with the acute observation which made his plays so uncanny.

  Clare hated realising that. She was so new to all this —she needed time and space in which to learn to cope with what was growing inside her. The years of emotional withdrawal had ended; she had to recognise that. She was becoming deeply aware of Macey. She had to recognise that, too. But she could not stand having him watch her while she adjusted to her own new emotions. Macey's cool, ironic speculation was far too dangerous. Clare wasn't ready to risk anything. She was afraid of moving out of her self-imposed isolation too rapidly. She might make yet another disastrous mistake. She wanted to go slow, to emerge tentatively, not to rush headlong into an affair with anyone.

  They reached the hotel and parked. Clare realised as they walked into the restaurant that, despite Macey's remarks about having no choice, he had already booked a table before they left. They were greeted with flattering smiles by the maitre d'hotel and guided to their table, followed by glances from the other clients as they were recognised. Clare was used to being recognised. It did not bother her. She took the seat opposite Macey and consulted her menu, grateful for the cover it afforded her.

  'I spoke to Phil on the phone this evening,' he said suddenly, as the waiter took their order and bowed himself away.

  Clare was able to look calmly interested as they moved on to this comfortingly familiar ground. 'What did he have to say?'

  'He's provisionally scheduled the play for April and I promised to send him the MS at once. He was very interested to hear I'd got Rowena.'

  'I'm sure he was,' she returned tartly, and got a grin.

  'Well, the news that you were going to play the leading role wasn't so much a surprise to him. I'd already hinted.'

  'Before I read it?' Her green eyes were sharp and Macey looked into them with amusement.

  'Wicked of me, wasn't it?'

  'Typical,' she muttered. 'Have you any ideas on who you'll get to direct?'

  He didn't answer, smiling, and she sat forward in surprise. 'You aren't thinking of doing it yourself?'

  'Why not?'

  Macey was a brilliant director. He had directed several of his own plays in the past, but Clare pondered the wisdom of him directing Rowena in his own play. 'You're far too deeply involved with this one—you and Rowena could come to blows.'

  He shrugged. 'I shall be tact itself.'

  'You'll need to be!'

  'I'm leaning over backwards to keep her happy. She tried to push me around when she wanted your part for Ray, but I think we've settled on an armed truce. Rowena knows now that I'm not the push-over she thought I might be. I think I can manage her now.'

  'This I've got to see,' Clare murmured drily.

  'Rowena's the sort of female who only backs down when she meets someone she can't bully,' Macey observed.

  'Not a kind judgment,' said Clare, watching his cool face.

  'Genius is often unlikeable.'

  'You ought to know,' she mocked, and got a quick, amused look.

  'Thank you, darling, for the vote of confidence.'

  It was the sort of teasing, casual exchange of professional Smalltalk they were used to and it made Clare feel much easier.

  They talked about the play over their meal, their voices low and confidential, aware of all the attentive ears around them. 'I'll ring Harry tomorrow and get him to book me for the play on a provisional footing,' Clare told Macey.

  His blue eyes teased. 'You mean, unless something more interesting comes up?'

  'I mean unless Phil backs out for some reason,' she countered, laughing. 'I shan't back out myself.'

  Flickering candlelight on their table made Macey's features even more unreadable. He smiled at her suddenly, catching her eye, and a strange little tremor ran down her spine.

  Towards the end of their meal the whole room was flung into excited confusion as a new party arrived. Clare looked round idly, hearing the excited whispering, and Macey groaned.

  'Wouldn't you know it? Is nowhere safe from her?'

  Contrary to all appearances the hubbub and confusion at the door was not the arrival of the Queen of Sheba, merely Rowena making sure that everyone within half a mile knew that she was present. She swept through the restaurant, accompanied by the bowing maitre d'hotel, ignoring the stares and adoring looks she was getting on all sides, her bell voice rounding on a peremptory demand that her table be changed. 'Not there, my dear man. I can't sit skulking in corners,' she declared, glancing around the room to find somewhere she preferred.

  Her eye fell on Macey and she bore down on him, her hands outstretched majestically, proclaiming in piercing accents: 'Macey, dear boy! Well, this is a delightful surprise.'

  Macey rose, taking her hands and kissing them in a graceful homage. Rowena smiled on his bent head, satisfaction in her face, then ran her blue eyes over Clare, inspecting the black and gold dress closely.

  'Clare, my dear, how nice to see you again. Very chic, but aren't you thin? Macey must see you eat more.'

  Delightful, Clare thought, looking sweetly at her. A pat on the head and a stab in the back all in one breath.

  Rowena's party had halted behind her like sheep behind a
sheepdog. Ted Kilby grinned at Clare and winked. Ray gave her a brief, tight little smile which obviously hurt.

  'You must join us,' Rowena informed them, convinced that they could want nothing else.

  Macey smiled. 'How kind!'

  'Waiter!' Rowena trumpeted, looking around as though expecting to find him under her feet.

  He emerged, bowing, from the throng behind her, and she nodded to him. 'We shall be five, not three. Now, where shall we sit?'

  Unhappily the man tried to explain that there wasn't a table free apart from the one she had already rejected. Rowena gave him a honeyed smile. 'You'll manage, I'm sure,' she said.

  He did. They were all soon seated at a table from which the unhappy occupants had been evicted while Rowena beamed at them. Clare had to bite her inner lip as the departing guests practically thanked Rowena for her kindness in having them shunted off into a corner.

  Rowena's bland assumption that her wishes were all that mattered in the world left Clare breathless. The way in which the world apparently rushed to agree with her was quite maddening.

  Rowena had no compunction about making it clear that Macey was the only member of the party in whom she was interested. She held his attention by the sheer blinding spell of those blue eyes, never allowing him to escape her for a moment. She must have been a real head-turner when she was young, Clare thought; that devastating arrogance must have knocked men down and flattened them. She had had a few tales whispered in her ear about Rowena's youthful escapades. The patrician beauty of her profile had conquered any number of men. Rowena had never allowed romance to interrupt her headlong rise to fame, but she had had her moments.

  Catching Ted Kilby's eye, Clare smiled at him, wondering exactly how he felt about his wife. There was no way of guessing from his face. He wasn't an actor, but he knew how to guard his mind.

  As the evening wore on, people began dancing on the tiny polished floor in the centre of the room, the low throb of the music discreet and unintrusive. Rowena looked at Ray, who was watching the dancers and tapping her fingers on her knee.

  'Macey, my dear, Ray wants to dance,' she boomed.

  Clare felt something twist inside her and she averted her eyes too late from Ray's tense profile. 'No, I…' Ray began huskily, but Macey was already standing up. He extended his hand without a word.