Golden Fever. Carole Mortimer

Clare, his mouth curved into an intimate smile, as if they shared a secret.

      She blushed scarlet, knowing that because of her behaviour with him earlier he had a right to look at her in that—knowing way.

      ‘If that’s her name, yes,’ he answered her mother but continued to look at her, his gaze on her mouth almost a caress.

      ‘Well, it is,’ her mother’s voice was sharp. ‘And she isn’t a guest.’

      His eyes narrowed, his expression wary now. ‘She isn’t?’ he asked slowly.

      ‘Of course not. This is my daughter,’ he was informed almost angrily.

      Her mother had all of his attention now; all the lazy sensuality disappeared as he looked from one to the other of them, apparently trying to see some sign of likeness between them. Clare knew he would find none. She took after her father, Drew Anderson, both of them being tall and fair. Even her features were nothing like her mother’s, her mother having an almost elfin beauty, while her own features were more regular and rounded.

      Now he frowned. ‘This is ‘‘little Clare’’?’ he derided.

      Her mother flushed. ‘Yes.’

      His mouth twisted. ‘She’s hardly little, Carlene.’

      Her mother’s laugh sounded forced. ‘She is rather tall——’

      ‘I wasn’t talking about her height,’ Rourke drawled, his gaze frankly admiring on Clare’s curves.

      ‘Really, Rourke,’ her mother’s voice was brittlely light now, ’you can’t flirt with my daughter!’

      His mouth tightened grimly, his eyes becoming hard. ‘No, I can’t,’ he agreed tautly, extricating himself from her hand. ‘I have to go now, Carlene——’

      ‘Oh, not yet, Rourke,’ she pouted provocatively. ‘Stay to dinner, everyone else is.’

      ‘It isn’t possible,’ he refused smoothly. ‘I have another appointment this evening.’

      Clare’s eyes widened; she knew this statement to be untrue. He had invited her to spend the evening with him, so he certainly didn’t have another appointment. He looked at her in challenge, as if daring her to dispute his claim, but she remained silent.

      ‘Oh, Rourke,’ her mother chided disappointedly.

      ‘Oh, Carlene!’ he taunted.

      ‘Tomorrow, then?’ her mother insisted.

      ‘We’ll see.’ He was noncommittal. ‘Miss Walters,’ he nodded in Clare’s direction, already turning to go and change when she corrected him.

      ‘Anderson,’ she said huskily.

      Blue eyes swung back in her direction. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he drawled.

      She drew herself up to her full height, still only on a level with his nose. ‘My name is Anderson, Mr Somerville,’ she told him coolly. ‘Clare Anderson.’

      ‘I see,’ he mocked. ‘I’ll remember that for future reference.’

      ‘I doubt we’ll meet again,’ she snapped, unable to stop herself. Heavens, he was so arrogant! How dared he treat her mother so casually!

      His eyes narrowed as he sensed her resentment. ‘Oh, I think we will, Clare. In fact, I’m sure of it.’

      She felt relieved when he at last moved towards the house to change, and turned gratefully as someone called her name.

      ‘Gene!’ she smiled recognition of the tall sun-bronzed boy standing in front of her. He hadn’t changed at all, was still as good-looking as ever, his blond hair sun-bleached, his eyes a deep attractive brown, wearing only a pair of cut-off denims, his body lean and suntanned.

      ‘Hello, beautiful!’ He didn’t stand on ceremony, but picked her up to swing her round, kissing her soundly on the mouth.

      After being with Gene for ten minutes it was as if she had never been away; the two of them were once again enjoying each other’s company. Perry smiled at them indulgently; a man in his mid-forties, very handsome, with prematurely iron-grey hair, liking the fact that his son and the daughter of the woman he loved liked each other.

      ‘Rourke’s leaving, darling,’ her mother called Perry over to them.

      Clare couldn’t resist looking at Rourke Somerville once more, to find him looking at her too, a lazily amused smile curving his lips. She hurriedly looked away again, but not before she had noticed everything about him, his hair a riot of black curls, a deep blue silk shirt fitting snugly across his chest and flat stomach, tucked into the low waistband of his white trousers. He held a pair of sunglasses in his hand as he talked to her mother and Perry, even such a simple movement looking sensual on this man.

      With a mocking nod in her direction he was gone—and with him went all the fun and gaiety of the party, or so it seemed to Clare.

      The next few days were spent mainly in Gene’s company, their days being spent at Malibu Beach, where Gene spent most of his time on his surf board, although the waves hardly seemed high enough to accommodate him. But he enjoyed it, and Clare found it relaxing to be in his company. Their evenings were spent going to one party after another, renewing old acquaintances for Clare, and often making new ones. It was at one of these parties that she met Rourke for the second time.

      She hadn’t completely forgotten him, but she had pushed the thought of him to the back of her mind. He hadn’t been to the house any more, and her mother never mentioned him, so it was hard to find out anything about him. Not that she was altogether sure she wanted to find out anything about such a dangerous man; just remembering the way he had looked at her sending shivers of apprehension down her spine. And his words that they would meet again had sounded almost like a threat to her sensitive ears.

      It was almost a week later that Gene and she were at yet another party, the only thing making this one different from the others being that Rourke Somerville had arrived shortly after eleven o’clock, a beautiful blonde on his arm, a woman that Clare instantly recognised as Livia Marriott, an actress known for her more ’revealing’ roles. The last film she had made had been banned in many parts of the world, and it seemed she was no less daring in her private life, the black dress she almost had on having no back at all and hardly any front.

      Rourke was dressed almost as casually, his white trousers skin-tight, his black shirt almost completely unbuttoned, the hair visible on his chest thick and dark.

      Clare tried not to notice him and his affectionate partner, but it was impossible not to. When they danced together they almost made love, and when they didn’t dance Livia Marriott draped herself so sensuously over Rourke that they might as well have been making love then too.

      She looked away, shocked by their behaviour, although no one else seemed to be taking the least bit of notice. Some of the other women in the room even looked jealous of the full-breasted actress—probably wishing themselves in her place, Clare thought disgustedly.

      ‘Why the frown?’

      Once again Rourke had caught her unawares, leaning casually against the wall as she sat in a corner waiting for Gene to return from dancing with one of their friends.

      She blushed. ‘I didn’t see you, Mr Somerville,’ she said stiltedly.

      He moved to sit on the side of her armchair, much too close for comfort, smelling of some spicy, masculine cologne. ‘So the frown wasn’t for me?’ he asked throatily.

      Clare moved uncomfortably, sure that he must be able to see straight down the low neckline of her cream halter-necked dress. And the frown had been for him, for his blatant behaviour with the young actress. ‘I didn’t say that, Mr Somerville,’ she told him stiffly, her years at the convent preventing her telling a deliberate lie.

      ‘Oh?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘What did I do this time?’

      ‘This