Golden Fever. Carole Mortimer

the sleep from his head. ‘What’s the matter? Shouldn’t you be on your way to the meeting?’

      Her mouth twisted. ‘The meeting Jason called—only it wasn’t Jason, was it?’ Her tone was brittle.

      ‘Oh lord!’ He put a hand to his temple. ‘With the rush of the last few days I forgot to tell you——’

      ‘Tell me now, Harvey,’ she encouraged sharply.

      ‘Faulkner had an accident a week or so ago, a fall from a horse, I think. He broke his leg.’

      ‘So he’s completely out of the picture?’ Clare said with dread.

      ‘Afraid so,’ her fianc$eA nodded.

      ‘But I—Who’s replacing him?’ she demanded abruptly.

      ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he frowned. ‘No, I don’t suppose I did. Well, it obviously had to be someone who could act as well as direct——’

      ‘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

      ‘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 Harvey seemed not to have noticed her withdrawn attitude, that momentary slip of composure.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