The Devils Price. Carole Mortimer

at his shortened version of her name.

      ‘Not a lot, couldn’t you hear that for yourself?’ she sighed shakily.

      ‘You weren’t your usual effervescent self—–’

      ‘I was awful,’ she put in flatly. ‘And everyone knows it.’ Including the man with the contemptuous green eyes!

      ‘Hey, you’re a professional,’ Rod comforted. ‘You don’t give bad performances, just ones that weren’t as good as they could have been. Besides, half those people out there wouldn’t know talent if they heard it.’

      Her vividly painted red mouth quirked into a smile. ‘I think I may have just been insulted,’ she mocked.

      Rod made an impatient movement. ‘You haven’t had a break in years,’ he defended, frowning as he realised the truth of that.

      Five years. Oh she had had the odd day or few days when she was ‘resting’, but they hadn’t been made through choice. When she stopped this mad merry-go-round of shows she had too much time to think, to dwell on the man she loved and who now hated her with a vengeance. The fact that she had meant him to hate her didn’t help the feeling of desolation when she knew that he did.

      ‘My life is one bit holiday,’ she dismissed briskly. ‘I was in Germany last month, Las Vegas the month before that. I’m always in one glamourous locale or another.’

      ‘Working,’ Rod put in firmly.

      ‘It’s what I do best,’ she shrugged.

      ‘It’s what you do, period,’ he frowned. ‘Maybe I should have insisted you take a break—–’

      ‘You happen to be my agent, Rod,’ she scorned. ‘Not my manager!’

      ‘You need managing—–’

      ‘Rod, I have only forty minutes before my next show, I’d like to shower, change, possibly have some dinner,’ she told him pointedly.

      ‘You’re going back on?’

      ‘Of course,’ she dismissed. ‘The gruffness will have gone by then. Besides, I’m a professional,’ she reminded dryly.

      Rod pulled a face. ‘You certainly are. Okay,’ he sighed. ‘But if you change your mind about taking a break just let me know and we’ll arrange it.’

      ‘I won’t,’ she told him abruptly, knowing that she would fall apart if she ever sat back and thought about the next thirty to forty years without Zack. She lived her life day by day, never thought of tomorrow; it was the only way she could go on.

      She ordered a sandwich to be sent to her dressing-room, securing her hair out of the way of the shower as she moved to stand beneath it’s soothing spray. Would Zack have left by the time she went out for her late-night show? Why was he there at all? Curiosity, perhaps. Maybe he wanted to see if she had changed at all. Had she? No, she didn’t think so. Her gleaming red hair had always been this length, the image of beauty she could attain with the expert application of make-up showed her that her face had changed little either. Maybe she was a little thinner, but that only threw into prominence the classical lines of her bone-structure, made her wrists and hands seem delicately beautiful, the figure-hugging gowns she wore on stage showing she didn’t possess an ounce of excess weight. No, on the outside she was still very much the same, it was on the inside that she felt nothing, not allowing pain or pleasure to colour her controlled existence, not daring to in case she fell apart.

      ‘Leave it on the table,’ she instructed the waiter as she heard him bring in her sandwich, wrapping a towel about her as she heard the door close behind him, intent on fastening it at her breasts as she re-entered the room.

      ‘Leave what on the table?’

      Her head went back sharply at the sound of that voice, looking straight into Zack’s scornful green eyes. She felt all the colour drain from her face.

      ‘The days when I would bring you a gift after one of your shows are long gone,’ he drawled hardly, his gaze raking over her critically.

      She seemed to have stopped breathing, as affected by the deep timbre of his voice as she always had been, pain tightening her chest as she saw the contempt for her in his face. He looked impressive in the black evening suit and white silk shirt, his skin tanned a deep brown, as if he had recently been on holiday. Maybe he had taken his yacht ‘Joanne’ to the Greek islands as he liked to do in the spring. Maybe he had even renamed the yacht for his daughter …

      She ignored the taunt he had made about bringing her gifts; she had returned every one of those expensive baubles when she walked out of his life. ‘I thought you were the waiter with my dinner,’ she explained stiffly. ‘Would you mind waiting while I go and dress?’ She picked up the black gown she was to wear for her second show. ‘I won’t be long.’

      ‘Why not dress in here?’ He lowered his long length into an armchair, taking out a lighter to put the flame to the cigarette he had just taken from his gold case.

      ‘I thought you had given up smoking,’ Cynara said without thinking, blushing as he looked at her coldly, dark brows raised at her audacity.

      ‘I started again,’ he said abruptly. ‘I said why not dress in here, we always used to talk while you changed between shows.’

      The blush deepened in her cheeks. ‘We used to do a lot of things we no longer do,’ she mumbled.

      ‘I want to talk to you,’ Zack bit out hardly. ‘And I don’t intend waiting.’

      Anger flared briefly in her eyes, and then it faded. Zack had a right to be angry with her, he had asked her to be his wife and she had refused him in the most humiliating way possible. She had hurt him very badly, and it was obvious, even though he had been reconciled with Joanne, that he hadn’t forgiven her for it.

      ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ she told him calmly, having no intention of dressing in front of him. ‘Or not talk to me at all.’

      His mouth tightened ominously as he met the stubborn challenge in her eyes. ‘Go and dress,’ he finally instructed. ‘But I don’t intend waiting longer than five minutes,’ he warned.

      It took her almost that amount of time to stop trembling long enough to zip up her dress. Even though she knew Zack owned the hotel, was actually staying here at the moment, had been conscious of his stare all during her show, she hadn’t imagined he would come to her dressing-room like this; the last time they had spoken he had made it plain they had nothing more to say to each other.

      But she knew the coldly controlled man he had become wouldn’t allow her a second over the five minutes he had allowed her, quickly reapplying her make-up and brushing her hair. The sparkle that had always been present in her eyes in the past was noticeably absent, but that couldn’t be helped.

      ‘The waiter delivered your dinner,’ Zack told her coldly once she rejoined him, looking disgustedly at the chicken sandwich. ‘I won’t take it off your fee if you order dinner over five pounds,’ he drawled scornfully.

      She shrugged. ‘The sandwich will do just fine.’

      ‘If you say so.’ He gave a dismissive grimace. ‘I believe you had lunch with my son Michael today.’ His eyes narrowed questioningly.

      She sighed, wondering what Michael had told his father about the meeting; nothing good if his angry exit from the coffee-shop were anything to go by. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say that,’ she drawled. ‘I had already finished my meal when he joined me, and he left before he had time to eat his.’

      ‘Just what exactly did you tell my son about us, Cynara?’ Zack rasped.

      Her eyes widened at his accusing tone. ‘I didn’t tell him anything—–’

      ‘You can’t tell me he already knew about our affair,’ Zack sat forward tensely.

      ‘Your father—–’

      ‘Would