Golden Fever

‘Yes?’ she prompted tensely.

‘They managed to get Rourke Somerville,’ Harvey told her excitedly. ‘A piece of luck really. Normally he wouldn’t have been free, but the film he should have been working on has been delayed several months. I think he …’

Harvey’s voice continued to drone on, but Clare was no longer listening. Rourke … Oh God, Rourke was here, on this very ship, and she was going to be working with him!

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_fc0161ef-081a-511d-a962-57ae525b9c2d)

‘CLARE!’ Harvey was frowning at her.

She blinked dazedly. ‘Yes?’

‘I was talking to you,’ his tone was petulant, ’and you haven’t heard a word I said.’

‘You were saying how lucky we were to get Rourke Somerville,’ she recalled dully.

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged eagerly. ‘If anything he’s better than Jason Faulkner.’

Clare was regaining her composure now, forcing herself to mentally collect herself together. ‘Do you think so?’ she said in a bored voice, once again the ’Ice Lady’ one perceptive newspaper had nicknamed her. The name had mainly been chosen out of pique by the reporter when she had refused his invitation to dinner, but nevertheless it was a truer description than ’Golden Lady’.

‘Of course.’ Harvey seemed not to have noticed her withdrawn attitude, that momentary slip of composure. Which was perhaps as well, because she had no intention of explaining the reason for it to him! ’If anything Rourke Somerville is a bigger box-office draw then you are.’

Clare gave a mocking smile. ‘Is that a good thing? As my manager aren’t you supposed to get me top billing?’

‘Oh, you’ll get that,’ Harvey took her seriously. ‘Somerville has no objection to your taking top billing over him. After all, his name will be under director too.’

Yes. And Rourke had had a sight longer than she had to become accustomed to the fact that they were to star in this film together, were to act as lovers. God, he must find the situation funny! If Rena hadn’t casually mentioned the change of director to her she would have walked into that meeting this afternoon totally unprepared. As it was she was going to find it difficult, if not impossible, to do.

‘Clare!’ Harvey gave her an impatient frown for her lack of attention. ‘Maybe I should call and tell them you can’t make the meeting,’ he frowned. ‘You seem to be suffering from jet-lag.’

She longed to accept the reprieve offered to her, and yet she couldn’t do it. Rourke was sure to know the real reason, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking she was frightened of meeting him again—even if it were true!

It was five years since she had last seen him, five years when she had tried not to even think about him, five years during which she had matured into a self-confident woman who wouldn’t allow a rake like him to get to her. He couldn’t touch her, not now or in the past; she had Harvey now, and would one day be his wife. Then why was she filled with such alarm just as the prospect of seeing Rourke again …?

She straightened her shoulders determinedly. ‘That won’t be necessary, Harvey,’ she said coolly. ‘I feel perfectly well enough to attend this—meeting.’ The nervous fluttering in her stomach wouldn’t be stilled. ‘I have to go now,’ she told him jerkily. ‘I don’t want to be late.’

‘Okay, darling,’ he kissed her tenderly on the mouth. ‘And if you would rather have dinner in your room tonight that’s fine by me.’

‘Thank you, Harvey,’ she said, touched by his gentleness. ‘Perhaps you would like to join me?’ she offered generously.

His handsome face became flushed with desire. ‘Clare …!’ he murmured huskily, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that told her of his passion.

Harvey desired her, she had always known that. And after accepting his ring she had allowed him more intimacies with her body, feeling his hand on her breast now, and yet so far they had never completely made love. Maybe if they had she would be able to banish rakishly attractive untidy black hair and twinkling blue eyes from her mind. Maybe from her body too …

She extricated herself from Harvey’s arms with a consoling smile. ‘I have to go. I’ll see you later.’

He was breathing raggedly, his eyes bright with suppressed desire. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he told her throatily.

Clare left with a quick, warm smile, but the smile faded as soon as she closed the door behind her. Twenty to two—she didn’t have to go to the Windsor Room quite yet, so she hurried back to her suite, shutting herself in with a feeling of relief.

Rourke Somerville! God, Rourke … She collapsed into one of the comfortable armchairs, closing her eyes to shut out the pain just hearing his name again had caused. In her mind she could see it all, all the pain, the disillusionment that she had thought forgotten, or at least buried. But it was far from being that, the memories, all of them, as vivid as if it had all happened yesterday.

She was eighteen again, newly arrived from England, having left school to come home and consider what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

Charles, her mother’s chauffeur, had met her at the airport as usual, her girlish pleasure as she climbed into the limousine still as delighted as the first time she had come home from school and been met in this way. She had been coming to Los Angeles for holidays for the past ten years, but this time it was different, this time she didn’t have to go back to England if she didn’t want to.

The house in Beverly Hills had seemed as spectacular as usual, the pink and white painted hacienda-style house at the end of the long tree-edged driveway. Her mother had lived in this house for the last fifteen years, much acclaimed by the film world, often not even at home when Clare got there, more often than not on location in some exotic part of the world working on her latest film.

But she was home today, resting after a gruelling year filming the movie that was taking the world by storm.

Laughter could be heard coming from the direction of the pool as Clare stepped out of the car, both male and female.

‘Your mother had guests for lunch,’ Charles informed her in a deadpan voice. An import from England, he had been with her mother for the last twenty years, his trust and loyalty to his employer never in any doubt.

Clare had often wondered whether he and her mother had once been lovers, for Charles’ devotion to her mother was almost dog-like, despite her often volatile temper.

Clare had never known her father; he had apparently been killed in an automobile accident just after she was born. He had been an actor too, as famous as her mother was now, and with two such talented parents she was seriously considering an acting career for herself.

‘Thank you, Charles,’ she smiled as he carried her suitcase into her bedroom, moving forward to the balcony once he had left the room. There were about a dozen people sitting around the pool, but only one person actually in the water.

Her mother was draped decorously on one of the loungers. She was already forty years of age, despite her claim of being thirty. She was wearing a black bikini, two scraps of material that were only just decent, so it was no wonder she didn’t want to get it wet. It would probably dissove in the water! Her beautiful face was partly obscured by huge, round sunglasses, but Clare knew her eyes were deeply brown beneath them, her skin clear and youthful. Her hair was a deep auburn, thick and naturally straight to just below her shoulders, although having seen photographs of her mother as a child Clare knew it was kept that rich red colour by artificial means; her hair was really a mousy brown.

She considered her mother the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, magnetically so, and she could see the men in the party were all in love with that beauty. All except the man in the pool …

She looked at him with interest, mainly because he wasn’t one of the men who paid court to her mother. He was swimming the length of the pool with long, easy strokes, black hair plastered over his forehead, worn longer than was fashionable at the moment, although he didn’t look as if fashion particularly bothered him.

As he swung out of the pool Clare gasped her recognition. Rourke Somerville! He was the man starring with her mother in her latest film, the one everyone was raving about at the moment. One of her friends at school had a poster of him on her bedroom wall, and at the time Clare had thought the picture flattered the actor; now she knew that if anything it understated.

Rourke Somerville had the physique of an athlete, was tall, extremely so, with wide powerful shoulders, a slim waist, and muscular thighs, his only clothing a pair of black swimming trunks, and by the look of his tan he didn’t always wear them! His legs were long and firmly muscled, the whole of his body covered lightly with black hair.

As if sensing her scrutiny he suddenly looked up at the balcony she stood on, and Clare quickly ducked back into the room, but not before she had taken in every devastating feature. He had towelled his hair dry on stepping out of the pool, and it now hung in damp waves about his face, as black as night. His brows were the same dark colour, jutting over the deepest blue eyes Clare had ever seen, his lashes long and thick. His nose was long and straight, arrogantly so, his mouth full-lipped, the lower lip sensually so, his jaw square and determined, giving the impression of a haughty disregard for anyone’s wishes but his own. A gold medallion hung about the wide column of his throat, suspended there by a thick, chunky gold chain; even the single piece of jewellery he wore was totally masculine.

She wanted to go down and join them, to perhaps talk to Rourke Somerville. How jealous Diana would be when she wrote and told her about it! Her friend knew everything about him, his Irish-American parentage, his upbringing in an orphanage until he was sixteen years old, the way he had worked his way up to the top of his profession, until now, at the age of thirty-four, he could pick and choose the parts he played for any fee he demanded.

In one of the infrequent letters Clare had received from her mother she had been full of praise for her co-star. And it seemed they were still friends, otherwise he wouldn’t have been invited here. She wondered what Perry, her mother’s boy-friend for the last year, would think of that.

She was in the process of putting on her bikini when the door opened. Already wearing the yellow briefs that matched the top, she had paused to study her body in the full-length mirror before putting on the bra-top. Her breasts were full and pert, the tips rosy peaks, her waist flat and slender, her hips and thighs reed-thin. Until this last year she had had puppy-fat to contend with, and added to her height she had felt like an elephant. Fortunately she had slimmed down, and might even have considered a career in modelling if it weren’t for her full breasts.

To the man now standing in the doorway she must have looked as if she were blatantly admiring herself. She snatched up the bra of her bikini, clutching it in front of her as she stared at Rourke Somerville in fascinated horror.

His gaze was frankly appraising as he came farther into the room, closing the door behind him, still wearing only the brief black trunks. ‘I thought I hadn’t imagined you,’ he murmured, his voice having a magical lilt to it that charmed without effort. ‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’ he asked huskily.

‘I—Why, nowhere.’ But she wished she could hide herself now, knowing this man had taken in every naked inch of her—and by the glint in his eyes he had liked what he saw!

He walked slowly over to where she was, unsuccessfully, trying to hide herself, plucking the bikini top out of her nervous fingers, holding her hands down at her sides as he slowly looked at her. The eyes he finally raised to hers had flickering flames lighting their deep blue depths. ‘I’ve certainly never met you before,’ he said throatily.

Clare licked her lips, not realising how provocative the movement was. ‘You haven’t?’ she delayed, her embarrassment fading, and a languorous warmth starting to invade her lower limbs under his avid gaze, her eyes the colour of rich, molten gold.

Rourke Somerville smiled, his teeth very white against his tanned skin. ‘I would have remembered you,’ he murmured, releasing her hands to run his fingertips lightly over the flatness of her stomach, a devil entering his eyes as his hands came to rest at the top of her bikini briefs. He laughed softly in his throat as he heard her catch her breath, those sensuous hands moving up towards her breasts now, his gaze fixed firmly on her flushed face, smiling as he watched her reaction to his caresses.