Loveplay. Diana Palmer

that entitle me to one tiny change?”

      David was tall and dark, and inclined to moods, but he was a splendid actor. Cul sighed and gave in, but only on one short walk across the stage. That seemed to satisfy David, though, because he didn’t put up any more argument. He spent the rest of the long, arduous rehearsal grinning at Bett.

      She carried her script home and studied it until her eyes blurred, practicing loudly despite the wails of the baby upstairs and the off-key singing of the man below. There was so little time to learn the dialogue. Most of it was hers, not David’s, and she was meticulous over her lines. It was probably one of the reasons that Cul had given her the part.

      The next morning she had most of it memorized, but the blocking tripped her up. She had to change a movement from center stage to stage left, around a table instead of in front of it, and it threw her rhythm off. She fumbled her lines, and Cul gave her a hard stare.

      “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I blew it.”

      David grinned at her. “No problem. We all blow it from time to time. Even Cul used to, in the old days when he was one of the flock, didn’t you, Cul?”

      Cul only stared at him. “Let’s take a ten minute break, kids,” he said heavily, “and we’ll get back to it. Bett, come here.”

      When he said it like that, it meant trouble. She followed him offstage without hesitant steps, remembering other conferences. She felt small in her jeans and sweatshirt as she followed his long strides backstage.

      He fixed two cups of coffee and handed her one. “Now,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

      “The blocking,” she muttered. “You moved me in front of the table and it doesn’t feel comfortable.”

      “If you go behind it, you’ll upstage David.”

      “Yes, I know. I’m not complaining, it’s just going to take me a day to get used to it, all right?” she asked defensively.

      He sipped his coffee and glanced at her curiously, letting his eyes wander over her slimness, the long waves of her hair. “Do you play Elizabeth much these days?” he asked unexpectedly.

      She smiled into her coffee. “Constantly,” she muttered. “I’m typed, I suppose.”

      “In every way?” he probed.

      She sipped the hot black liquid. “I didn’t expect that you’d direct this revival,” she said, sidestepping the question. “I thought you were in Hollywood working on a screenplay.”

      “I was. I asked if I could go to my apartment to work on it, and they said, sure.” He chuckled. “I didn’t mention that my apartment was in New York.”

      “William Faulkner once pulled that same trick, if I remember,” she returned.

      “A writer after my own heart. He was one of the greats.” He leaned back against the wall with a sigh. “Why did you audition for my play, Bett?” he asked bluntly.

      She looked up at him contemplatively, studying the new lines in his face, the dark tan that made his green eyes glitter like rain-washed leaves. “I needed the money.”

      “No,” he replied. “That isn’t what I meant. There are other plays in town.”

      She sighed and smiled wistfully. “There wasn’t a role I had a better chance of getting,” she admitted. “I know this one like the back of my hand. I didn’t have time to wait for callbacks. I have thirty days to make a start on a very large tax bill. I can do it, but I have to live while I’m earning the rest of what I owe.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really think you’d be here, and I had this wild idea that I might get the part if I seemed polished enough.” She glanced at him. “I played the role during that summer in Atlanta.”

      “Yes, I remember,” he said curtly. He drank down the rest of his coffee. “Let’s get back to it.”

      She would like to have pursued that line, to ask him why he’d broken it off so cruelly. But it was something that had happened a long time ago, and had no bearing on the present. She was an actress in need of money, and Cul was just the director. All too soon his part in the play would be over, and the stage manager, Dick Hamilton, would be in full charge of it all. Just a few weeks more to see Cul every day and agonize over the past. She started back toward the stage. Well, she’d live through it. She’d lived through six years without Cul, and this surely wasn’t going to be that bad.

      By the third day, the play was set, the blocking was done, and they were working without scripts. That was hard going on one or two of the players, but Bett didn’t even notice. She had her lines down pat. It was just a matter of getting the right interpretation into them. Cul seemed to find fault with every sentence she uttered, despite the fact that she was doing it from memory, from coaching he’d given her during the short summer run in Atlanta.

      By the end of the rehearsal late that night, she felt dragged out and exhausted. She’d gotten out of the habit of long hours, being between plays, and it was rough adjusting to a day that ran from ten in the morning until after eight or nine o’clock at night. Her nerves were raw from Cul’s criticism, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed.

      But Cul stopped her at the stage door. “Not yet, you don’t,” he said coolly. “Let’s talk.”

      She felt like crying. She was so tired! “Cul…” she began defensively, her eyes wistfully following the last of the cast as they filed out the door and it closed behind them.

      “You wanted this part,” he reminded her with a frankly cruel smile.

      She glared at him through the glitter of tears. “Stupid me,” she ground out. “I should have let them put me in jail instead!”

      “Save the emotion for your part. You’re going to need it.” He turned away, leaving her to follow, and picked up his script from one of the prop tables. He threw himself down into a chair and crossed his long, powerful legs. He ran his hand restlessly through his already disheveled hair. “All right,” he said gruffly. “It starts breaking down here, on page thirty-six, where you’re explaining your pregnancy to David.”

      “Cul, I’m doing it the way you wanted it done in Atlanta,” she began.

      His green eyes flashed angrily. “This isn’t Atlanta. And I’ve told you for the last time that I won’t have old ashes dredged up!”

      “God forbid!” she agreed with a wild toss of her red-gold hair, her eyes flashing darkly. “I’m a little more choosy these days myself!”

      He slammed the script onto the floor and stood up, towering over her. “You haven’t changed,” he said under his breath. “Not one bit. You’re still the same undisciplined, impulsive, maddening little brat you used to be. But while you’re starring in my damned play, you’ll follow my direction, is that clear?”

      Her pride felt as if he’d ripped it open. By her sides, her slender, graceful hands clenched until they hurt. “Yes, sir,” she said in a hushed whisper.

      His eyes studied her face quietly. “You’ve got more than your share of pride, haven’t you? And much more than your share of temper. You always were passionate.”

      He couldn’t have chosen a better way to hurt, and this time she couldn’t stop it from showing. Her eyes closed and tears ran helplessly down her cheeks, although she didn’t make a sound.

      “Bett…” he ground out.

      She turned away, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m very tired, Cul,” she said with the last fragments of pride she could find. “Please, let’s get on with it.”

      He hesitated for a long moment before he picked up the script and sat back down. When she took off her coat and turned, her face was composed, but very pale. He didn’t miss that. His eyes narrowed as if it bothered him.

      “I’m sorry,” she said unexpectedly. “I should