Merlyn's Magic. Carole Mortimer

expression softened indulgently. It didn't take too much intelligence to know that in all of his thirty-six years Christopher Drake, for all that his intensity as a lover was as renowned as his ability as a director, had never been in love. She wasn't too familiar with the true emotion herself, but she had known enough of the untrue kind to appreciate that to have loved and lost must be infinitely more painful than never having known the emotion at all.

      But Christopher saw this situation one-dimensional, could only see Brandon Carmichael as the man who stood in the way of his making his film and not as the man who had loved his wife so much her death had all but destroyed him. Time certainly hadn't lessened the man's pain.

      ‘What did you have in mind by way of convincing him?’ Merlyn arched auburn brows mockingly.

      ‘Well, I did invite him down to London to see you at the theatre, but—–'

      ‘He refused,’ she guessed dryly. ‘I really don't think seeing me play Kate would endear me to him!’ she derided, her title role in The Taming of the Shrew nothing at all like the vivacious but warmly beautiful Suzie Forrester. If Brandon Carmichael had seen her as Kate he would definitely have refused to let her take his wife's role in the film of her life!

      He had turned her down anyway.

      But being reminded of the latest role she had played during her year at the theatre, she was also forced to realise that she had turned down the offer of another contract so that she could start work on To Live a Little …, that she only had another week to go before her replacement took over. Originally, she had planned to take a month off before work began on the film, now it looked as if she were about to join the more than lengthy queue of the unemployed, and for someone who had rarely been out of work the last five years, that was going to be difficult to adjust to. But she had effectively closed one door and now another was being slammed in her face.

      ‘This is as important to you as it is to me.’ Christopher was shrewd enough to realise this as he watched the changing expressions on her face.

      ‘I want the part,’ she nodded. ‘And not just because I'm out of work without it,’ she added ruefully. ‘It really is something that appeals to me.'

      ‘It appeals to me too,’ Christopher grated. ‘We could pick up a few Oscars with it.'

      The fact that their reasons were so different didn't surprise Merlyn, and she knew that Christopher's more mercenary attitude would in no way detract from his ability to make a fantastic film. But she had spent so much time during the last few weeks in learning the script and doing the research she felt necessary to get an all-round picture of Suzie Forrester, that she felt an affinity with the other woman, almost as if she had known her as a friend, even though they had never met. She would feel as if she were losing that friend if she didn't play Suzie.

      ‘I had in mind,’ Christopher paused, watching her closely, ‘your going to see Carmichael.'

      ‘Why?’ Merlyn frowned, getting ready to punch him on his arrogant nose if he so much as hinted again that she sleep with the other man. Although she didn't think he would, not after the way she had already reacted to the idea; Christopher certainly wasn't a stupid man.

      ‘To talk to him, of course,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Once he's met you he's going to realise we aren't all “ghoulish bastards”, that some of us are even quite decent.'

      Merlyn looked sceptical. ‘According to the book written by his sister-in-law, he never liked or approved of his wife's career, and he's shunned everything to do with that world since her death. A visit from a woman who, in his mind, intends to capitalise on her death, isn't likely to endear me to him!'

      ‘Do we have any other choice?'

      She knew that Christopher did, that he could shelve the film and just keep coming up with other Suzies until Brandon Carmichael accepted one out of desperation. On the other hand, she had no real choice, and Christopher knew that.

      He turned to the waiter and nodded for their bill. ‘Let's go back to my place and discuss this further,’ he suggested, silkily soft, sure enough of his own attraction not to doubt her acquiescence.

      Merlyn smiled as she answered him.

      ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen …’ Merlyn thought irritably. Only she was a woman, and it wasn't the ‘midday sun’ she had ventured out in but torrential rain. Nevertheless, the maxim seemed to apply.

      Christopher had encouraged her to take this trip with a glowing description of the beauty of the Lake District, assuring her that even if her visit to Brandon Carmichael proved unsuccessful then at least she would have had an enjoyable break from the hectic pace her life had been lived at the last year while she had been appearing on stage.

      Since leaving Manchester Airport in her hire-car over an hour ago, the rain hadn't stopped falling, and she was beginning to realise why it was called the ‘Lake’ District; lakes seemed to be forming everywhere, especially on the roads, several drivers having pulled off the road altogether as the driving conditions became more and more difficult.

      The wettest English summer for years, the weathermen had cheerfully informed them. As if anyone needed telling that—summer this year having consisted of one week in early April!

      Merlyn knew why she was feeling so irritable, and it had nothing to do with the weather. When she had decided on this month off between jobs it had seemed like a good idea but, after years of working constantly, the inactivity had gotten to her after only three days. The flat only took one day to clean thoroughly, another day to restock her freezer, and then another day to sit about with absolutely nothing to do. She ruefully acknowledged that Christopher had seen her restlessness and taken advantage of it.

      That wasn't quite true, she accepted. She had still wanted the part of Suzie, and it had taken hardly any encouragement on Christopher's part to persuade her to make this trip to see Brandon Carmichael.

      Anne Benton had been all for it, too. Although the two women had never met, Anne busy with the hotel she and her husband ran, Merlyn had spoken to her on the telephone, feeling an instant rapport with the warm-voiced woman. She had jumped at the chance of being a guest at the hotel when Anne suggested it, her brother-in-law living only a few miles away.

      But Merlyn hadn't expected the delay in her flight because of fog, or the torrential rain that had greeted her when she went outside to get in her hire-car. It had been so bad when she first set out, the windscreen wipers proving ineffective, that she had contemplated staying in Manchester overnight and continuing her journey in the morning when, she hoped, the weather would have cleared somewhat. A telephone call to Anne had assured her that they had only a light drizzle falling up there, and so she had decided to make the drive after all. Unfortunately, the heavy rain had followed her all the way up!

      Lake Windermere, as she drove past, was no more than fog-enshrouded greyness, the small town of Windermere itself deserted, the day-boats that were usually for hire, from the signs Merlyn saw up, had long-since closed down for the day. Who would have believed it could be August!

      Anne's instructions for the location of the hotel had been explicit, but she hadn't allowed for the fact that Merlyn was used to driving in London, and that when told to take the first turning on the right she did exactly that, regardless of the fact that what had begun as a road soon tapered off as someone's driveway!

      After twice getting soaked when she had to run to the house to ask for fresh instructions, the second time splattering the owner of the house with mud from his own driveway when she got stuck turning around and he had to push her out, she was near to deciding that the Lake District didn't like her and she didn't like it!

      And then she saw it, The Forresters, the wooden sign beside the wrought-iron gates clearly discernible through the rain. She decided then and there to mention to Anne that her hotel would look infinitely more welcoming if the gates were left standing open, getting wet a third time when she ran out into the rain to correct the omission.

      All of eight feet high, the gates groaned and creaked as she swung them back, the sneeze she gave as she hurriedly