by Diana Palmer
THE SETTING: New York
THE CAST:
Bett Cambridge, aspiring actress. She had devoted her entire professional life to escaping her backwoods past and was now a Broadway star. The one blot on her resume—an ill-fated affair with America's most promising playwright.
Edward “Cul” McCullough, hot new author. He left Bett behind when his career took off, but now they were working together again. Yet Cul was still afraid of commitment, and even as Bett's sensuality washed away his inhibitions, he still tried to deny their love.
THE ACTION: A love story, fraught with complications, but destined for fulfillment.
LovePlay
Diana Palmer
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
One
The silence was eerie. Overhead, a single light burned in compliance with union rules. On the bare, quiet stage Bett Cambridge stood with a script in her slender hands and peered out into the darkened theater. The auditors were out there, she knew, but she couldn’t see them. She’d been picked, one of three girls out of an open call. She’d read for those unknown auditors once before, material from the same play she was reading for again on the callback. The fear was worse this time. They had to be interested, or why would they have asked her to come back?
She knew the play well, she knew the role she was trying for. It was as familiar as her own name, because it had been so much a part of its author. She shouldn’t have come here. What if he showed up? But she needed the part so badly, and, after all, it was a revival of the old play. Wasn’t he in Hollywood, working on a screenplay? The slender hands holding the script trembled just a little. It would be all right.
Anyway, it wasn’t as if there was still anything between them. Edward McCullough was well and truly out of her league these days, what with his celebrated reputation as a playwright. Cul wouldn’t care. He’d put Bett Cambridge right out of his mind years ago, and he was keeping her out of it his indifference told her so. Fleeting glimpses and infrequent conversations at parties were all the contact they had now. The past was dead and buried for both of them. So why should he mind her trying out for the revival of his hit play?
Her fingers clutched the script tightly as she let herself drift into the motivations of the part she was auditioning for. She would be playing a young girl, poor and alone and just under three months’ pregnant. She’d dressed for the part the same as she had last time. She’d deliberately worn a shapeless corduroy jumper and let her long red-gold hair tangle around her shoulders. Now she slumped a little to simulate weariness. She thought of the sadness the poor and deserted girl would feel, and the sense of hopelessness. And then she began to read from Edward McCullough’s Girl in a Dark Room.
“You’d have thought he was a gentleman, my Tom,” she said in a clear tone that carried through the theater. She tossed back her hair and laughed. “You’d have thought he’d never have left me in the lurch. Good, kind Tom, who used to walk me home from the sewing plant every afternoon so’s I wouldn’t get mugged. My Tom.” She chewed on her lower lip and closed her eyes, feeling the agony. “Oh, God, what’s to become of this baby inside me now? How can I have it? How can I raise it? I got nobody, Lord! Not a mama to help me fetch and carry, not a papa to scold me. I got nobody on the face of this earth who gives a damn if I live or die!” She put her face in her hands and moved restlessly under the glare of the overhead light. She lifted her head again and sighed, holding out her hands in a gesture of futility. “I can’t let somebody cut it out. I can’t kill it. But I can’t have it, neither, Lord. Oh, show me what to do!” she pleaded half hoarsely, staring up into the darkness. She closed her eyes and felt tears, real tears, start out of her eyes. “Oh, God, please, if you love me, show me what to do!”
She took a deep, slow breath, coming out of the trance she’d put herself in. The dark auditorium came back into focus. There was a long silence, then a muttered conversation. Bett stared out into the darkness, waiting for the customary “Thank you” that would tell her it was all over, and she hadn’t got the part. Please, she prayed silently, let me get the part.
A man rose from his dim seat and moved out into the aisle. A tall man, powerfully built, with blond hair that shone like new gold in sunlight. A man from out of Bett’s past, out of a nightmare. She hadn’t expected this. For God’s sake, what was he doing here?
Edward McCullough came up onto the stage, looking as cynical as he always did when she rubbed him the wrong way. He hadn’t changed very much from the days when he’d been a struggling actor and writing had only been some vague dream in his life. Now he was one of the country’s foremost playwrights, and looked it, in his white cashmere sweater and expensive tailored brown slacks. Older, and perhaps more worn. But he had something to show for it.
His chin lifted as he stopped just in front of Bett, and she lifted her own chin defiantly. Let him do his worst. She’d find another part—New York was a big city. She’d—
“Here we go again,” he murmured, staring down into her rebellious dark eyes in her faintly freckled face. “Elisabet Cambridge, how you’ve changed since Atlanta.”
She coolly lifted an eyebrow. She didn’t smile—the girl who’d once loved him would have. Uninhibitedly, she’d have thrown herself wildly into his arms and invited him to take whatever he wanted. But Bett was older. And the only thing he possessed that she might have wanted now was a part in his play. Nothing more. Her eyes told him that, and more.
He laughed mockingly. “You haven’t forgiven me, have you?” he asked. “What makes you think I’ll give you this part, Bett?”
“Why should I tell you?” she asked. “I’ll talk to the director about it.”
“I am the director,” Cul replied, his eyes gleaming at her obvious surprise. “Now, again,” he continued softly, dangerously, “suppose you tell me what makes you think I’ll give you this part?”
“Because I’m right for it,” she said with quiet dignity. “Because I’ve played it so many times that I could do it blindfolded.”
He looked down her slender body, letting his eyes rest contemplatively at her waist. “That may be so. But why should I give you the part, Bett?”
Bett swallowed. He wasn’t going to make her back down. He knew, as she did, that she was perfect for the role. She didn’t even have to put on a Southern accent; she already had one, left over from her childhood in Atlanta.
“Come on,” he said curtly, “give me a reason.”
“Because I’m in hock up to my ears,” she said, her eyes glinting.
One eyebrow rose. “Not from what I’ve heard about you. You’ve had one successful run after another for the past two years. You were nominated for a Tony last year.”
“And I enjoyed every penny,” she agreed miserably. “Until my business manager talked me into investing heavily in what was supposed to be a riskless venture. I lost everything. All my savings are gone. Now I’m in debt, way over my head.”
“So,” he said heavily.
She shrugged. “Easy come, easy go?”
The phrase was one they’d exchanged all those years ago in Altanta when they were doing summer stock, and it brought back more memories than she’d expected it to. Her eyes lifted to his and he searched them coldly.
“Don’t offer me the past, Elisabet,” he said levelly. “I want no part of it, or you. Having a lovesick teenager hanging on my sleeve is something I can do without these days.”
It took every ounce of willpower she had not to slap him. But she needed the part desperately, and he knew it. The mocking smile told
her so.
He let her stew for a full minute before he said, carelessly, “You have the part, if you want it. Ted and James think you play the role magnificently, complete with accent.”
“What do you think? You wrote it.”
His slitted green eyes ran over her like hands. “You’ll be adequate,” he said flatly, and turned away.
* * *
“Adequate,” Bett fumed when she went back to the apartment she shared with Janet Simms, a successful model. “Adequate! He never believed in me, never! He said I’d fall flat on my face six years ago. But I didn’t,” she added hotly. “I didn’t! I came to New York, and I worked hard, and I’ve made a name for myself! I have a leather coat and an uptown apartment and a great future according to the reviewers….”
“And you owe the government your arms, legs and a year’s salary,” Janet reminded her, and sighed. “You crazy idiot, why did you have to try out for Cul’s play?”
“Because I needed a job, and that was the only role going that I wanted to play,” she said curtly. She sat down near the window, her face pensive. “Besides,” she added, staring down into her lap. “Besides…”
“It was a glowing opportunity to get your knife into Edward McCullough?” Janet suggested. “At point-blank range?”
Bett shook her head wearily. “No. It’s just that I couldn’t resist the part. It has such feeling, such dra- matic beauty…” She tangled her hands in her red-gold hair. “They hadn’t announced the director. How could I have possibly known that Cul would turn up at the audition, for God’s sake?”
“He’s the playwright, too, why shouldn’t he? Didn’t you say he always has casting approval written into his contracts?”
“Yes,” Bett said miserably. She stared at her feet, hating the size of them. She was tall and tended to be too slender, but at least she carried it gracefully.
“What are you going to do about the taxes?” Janet asked.
Bett shrugged. “I don’t know.” She looked up. “I’ve only thirty days to get up the estimated amount, from what my accountant told me. I’ll have to cut corners like mad. And that means I can’t stay here.” She sighed miserably. In the past few days, her secure life had come tumbling around her ears. She was going to miss Janet terribly, but she couldn’t possibly pay even half of the rent for the Park Avenue apartment. “I guess I’ll work everything out somehow.”
“Of course you will,” Janet said bracingly. “After all, you talked the director of that nude play about Elizabeth the First into letting you wear a corset.”
“Remind me to tell you all about that someday.” Bett chuckled. “I always seem to get picked for Elizabeth.”
“You look exactly like paintings of her,” Janet said. “Except that your hairline isn’t as far back, and your skin isn’t as white. But the eyes, and the facial features, even the color of your hair is so like hers…” She grinned. “And she was a virgin, too.”
“Don’t say that out loud, somebody might hear you!” Bett exclaimed, laughing. “I’m supposed to be three months’ pregnant in the play!”
“A biological first—pregnancy without fertilization. Just think, it will make all the medical journals,” Janet teased.
“Want to go apartment hunting with me?” Bett asked as she got her coat and headed for the door.
“I guess I’d better. I do know the turf better than you do. Just let me get a coat.”
Bett wished she hadn’t had to sell her pretty leather one. With a sigh, she examined her threadworn coat, an old tweed one that she kept for sentimental reasons. Cul had taken her walking through Piedmont Park one late spring day, and she’d worn that coat….
Her eyes clouded. She slipped on the tweed without any real enthusiasm and followed Janet out the door.
The apartment they found was a shocking change from her former quarters. It was in Queens, on the top floor of a tenement building, and the noise from her neighbors was nonstop.
“I can’t leave you here,” Janet said firmly. “I can’t. Come with me, we’ll find something else.”
“No. It’s perfect,” Bett said, glancing around at the white dinette set with the peeling paint, the counter with its broken Formica top and the living room with its swaybacked sofa and matching chair with torn fabric.
“The health department would condemn it even after it was cleaned up,” Janet protested.
“Just right for a struggling actress,” Bett said with a forced smile. “After all, I started out in a place like this. First I’ll take care of the rent, and then we’ll go out and stock this place with a few groceries.”
“We can get you some curtains, too,” Janet added thoughtfully. “And maybe a throw cover for that awful sofa, and a couple of bushy plants—”
“We can not,” Bett interrupted her. “I don’t have the luxury of living up to my celebrity status anymore. Remember, I’m going to be on a tight budget for a long time.”
Janet only moaned, muttering something about the fickleness of fate.
Two
It was like old times for Bett, who’d lived like this in her younger days. She still knew where to go for bargains and what to buy. And the fact that it was New York and not Atlanta didn’t make a bit of difference. Poverty had many addresses.
“I don’t understand why you won’t just let me pay the rent until you get out of the hole,” Jane said later as she helped Bett move the few things she had to have into her new home.
“Because I’ll be working for minimum wage through all six weeks of rehearsals,” she told her friend. “And then we’ll have a tryout in Philadelphia before we open on Broadway. I don’t know when I’ll be able to make a decent living. And I don’t want to owe anybody, Janet. Not even you,” she added with a quiet smile. She sat down on the lumpy sofa with a sigh. “Once I start earning, and pay back what I owe the IRS, I’ll come home.”
“Okay. I guess you know best.” Janet watched her friend stack dishes on the counter. “But it’s going to be lonely without you.”
“You can come over for supper tomorrow night. I’ll make spaghetti.”
“That sounds nice. You can come for supper the night after, and move back in.”
Bett laughed softly. “I’ll miss you, too. But it will all work out.”
“Sure.”
“Really!”
Janet smiled. “Okay. I’ll try to adopt an optimistic attitude. Now, tell me what you want me to help with. I don’t have anything to do for the rest of the day, fortunately for you.”
“You’re not kidding. I never realized I had so much stuff to move!”
It took the rest of the day to get only half the things in their proper place. By the time Janet left, Bett was too tired to do anything except go to bed.
Her dreams were restless and unnerving and full of Cul. She woke up before dawn to the sound of a screaming child in the apartment above and couldn’t close her eyes again. She got up and made coffee, and stared out the window at the wall across the way. The only view was straight up, and it was too chilly to lean that far out the window.
She sipped her coffee, remembering how it had been six years ago. She had been a struggling young actress then, and Cul had written his first play. It was being performed by the local summer stock theater where the two of them had been performing for several weeks. Up until that time, she and Edward McCullough had been moderately friendly—it was impossible to work in such a small group of people without getting to know each of them. But Bett had been much more involved emotionally than Cul, from the very beginning. She remembered looking at him when he was introduced as the group’s newest player, and wanting him with a wild fever. Considering her puritanical upbringing in Atlanta, and her virginal status, it was surprising to find a man having that effect on her.
Because he bothered her so much physically, she’d begun needling him. It was a habit that took hold early, and had a lasting effect. Cul took it with unexpected good humor. And then they began rehearsals on his new play.
<
br /> Bett, because of her unusual coloring and talent, had been given the female lead. Cul would have been perfect for the male lead, but had refused it, giving the part instead to Charles Tanner, an actor of large proportions and moderate talent.
The female part was that of a liberated young woman out on her own and enjoying liaisons. The male part was frankly reticent and condemning. The play contrasted the conservative viewpoint with the liberated one, and did such a splendid job of it that Cul was approached by a theatrical backer. Shortly thereafter he left for New York. But not before he’d done some devastating damage to Bett’s emotions.
She’d always told herself that she had followed him to New York because of his cold observation that she’d never be star material with all her hang-ups. But sometimes she wondered if it wasn’t because she’d loved him so much.
Her eyes closed and she could see them together that first evening, when he’d been coaching her in the part.
“You just can’t let go, can you, Bett?” he’d accused coldly after a half-dozen failed attempts at dialogue. He’d slammed the script down on the coffee table in his small apartment and reached for her. “Well, baby, let’s see if this kind of coaching isn’t what you need the most…!” And he’d kissed her.
Six years later, she could still feel the wild impact of his mouth on hers. Months of watching him, hoping, praying for just a few seconds in his arms, and it had happened just that suddenly.
She remembered going stiff from the burst of pleasure, mingled with apprehension, at the intimacy of his hold. Cul was eight years her senior and obviously experienced, and she hadn’t known what he’d expected from her. The expression on his face when he lifted his head had been a revelation.
“Is that the best you can do?” he’d asked wonderingly.
She’d flushed and tried to get away, but he’d held her securely against his long, lean body. There was steel in his fingers, in the wiry arms that held her.
“Not yet,” he’d murmured, studying her. “You’ve always reminded me of Elizabeth the First. Do you remember what they called her, Bett?”
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