Fast And Loose. Elizabeth Oldfield
considered him a sight to make any girl’s knees turn to water, his good looks had not been the appeal. What she had found magnetic was his intelligence, his style and a sense of inner steel which had made him seem…dangerous. Darcy felt a sharp pang of distress. He had been dangerous, as she knew to her cost.
That steely quality remained and with the years had come a sureness. The younger Keir Robards had been quietly confident but the mature Keir Robards was a man of authority, a man of stature, a man with whom one did not mess.
As she gazed at him from beneath her lashes two emotions travelled through her—emotions which contradicted each other yet were intertwined. She felt a strong hostility—and an equally strong attraction. A shadow crossed her face. How could that be? It made no sense. She loathed and despised Keir Robards. End of story. Finishing his recital, Maurice grabbed his glass from the table and drained it in one gulp. ‘I must be off,’ he declared.
Darcy’s head snapped up and she looked at him in astonishment. ‘Off?’ she repeated. ‘You mean you’re not having dinner?’
‘Nah. You don’t need me around. Much better if I vamoose and leave you two beautiful people to talk things over together in a cosy tête-à-tête. Don’t you agree, Keir?’
His guest had been watching their interplay and he gave a dry smile. ‘That’s what you arranged.’
‘Besides,’ Maurice went on, when Darcy started to protest, ‘I have another appointment fixed for this evening.’
As he beckoned to the waiter and paid for the drinks Darcy’s green eyes began to burn. She had been set up! Guessing she would not wish even to meet Keir Robards, let alone work with him, Maurice had prepared a trap.
Firstly, he had delayed advising her of the change in director, which he had apparently known about for days. Secondly, he had contacted the American and fixed for him to have dinner with her. Thirdly, this evening he had been late—on purpose, she thought angrily—which meant that he must have chickened out of dropping his bombshell when they were alone and when she could have properly voiced her dissent. When she could have laid it on the line that she was—as in definitely, no ifs nor buts, come hell or high water—pulling out of the play.
And now his intentions were clear; he expected her to be beguiled by the magnetic Mr Robards and swap her dissent for slavering acquiescence. A thought occurred. Had Maurice known how besotted she had been seven years ago? No. She had not started acting in earnest and been his client then. But he would be alert to Keir’s heartthrob status so it made no difference.
‘I’m sure you can cancel your appointment,’ Darcy said, shooting her agent a fierce, slit-eyed look which warned him that she had realised the game he was playing and was unamused.
He shook his head, pony-tail swinging. ‘’Fraid not.’
‘But Maurice——’ she began, switching from ferocity to a somewhat frantic appeal.
‘I understand the food is excellent here and I’ve arranged to foot the bill, so enjoy,’ he instructed, and after bestowing ‘mwah-mwah’ kisses to both her cheeks the young man made his farewells and hurried away.
‘Louse,’ she muttered.
‘Are you referring to Maurice or to me?’ Keir enquired from across the table.
She looked at him. She had not realised that she had spoken out loud. ‘Maurice,’ she said, though thinking that he qualified for the description too. ‘He’s not to be trusted. He’s always been a tricksy individual and he always will be.’
‘Then why keep him on as your agent?’
Darcy had wondered about that herself. She had also mulled over the irony of someone who was not very good at show business and certainly not as ambitious as one was meant to be being represented by a pushy wheeler-dealer like Maurice.
‘Because he has an impeccable instinct for identifying good parts,’ she replied, which was true—most of the time.
Keir’s blue eyes held hers in a level look. ‘You also keep him on because his father used to be your father’s agent.’
Darcy stiffened. She did not want to talk about her father—not with him. No, thank you. It was a no-go area, sacred ground where Keir, as the infidel, had no right to trespass. Where he was banned. But hadn’t his comment been a condemnation?
‘So I’m carrying on a family tradition. There’s nothing wrong with that,’ she said defensively.
‘But there is something wrong with Maurice keeping stumm about Bill Shapiro and not telling you of this evening’s arrangements,’ he remarked, and lifted his glass to his lips.
As he sampled his gin and tonic his eyes took a journey over her. Starting at the top of her burnished sable-brown head, they toured her face—the high cheekbones, almond-shaped green eyes, full, crushed-strawberry mouth—fell to linger for a moment on the pout of her breasts, swept lower over her body to her hips and went down the length of her legs until the low table masked any further view.
He lifted his gaze. ‘You’ve grown up,’ he said.
Darcy bridled. His look had been a leisurely and detailed inspection. She felt as if he had removed every stitch of her clothing, piece by lazily tossed-aside piece, and surveyed her naked. Stark naked.
‘People do,’ she retorted. ‘I was eighteen when we last met, whereas now I’m——’
‘A sophisticated twenty-five,’ he said.
Because Maurice had told her on the telephone to ‘dress in your best’ Darcy was wearing a slim-skirted black linen suit with a spaghetti-strapped coffee-coloured lace camisole. She had also made up her face with unusual care—bronze eyeshadow, sooty mascara, the works—and had shampooed her hair which swung in silky sable-brown curls around her shoulders.
She knew she was looking good and, although she told herself that she did not give a fig about whatever Keir Robards might say, it was impossible to prevent a glow of feminine pleasure.
‘Thanks,’ she said curtly.
Keir’s eyes fell again. ‘Who still has the most tempting curves,’ he added.
Sophisticated or not, Darcy flushed scarlet. His comment held a wealth of meaning, for when she had visited his room at the Brierly all those years ago the dress she had worn had been daringly low-cut and, as she had hoped and intended, Keir had been fascinated by the honeyed swell of her breasts.
Darcy fought an urge to yank her jacket across her chest and fasten each and every button. All of a sudden her camisole seemed woefully revealing, and from the continued dip of his gaze he appeared to be fascinated by her lace-covered bosom now.
‘Couldn’t the play be postponed until Mr Shapiro is well again?’ she enquired, in a determined and rather desperate switch of subject.
Calmly raising his eyes to hers, Keir shook his head. ‘It’d mean too much upheaval for too many people, you must realise that. And if the theatre slots went it might take a year before they could be replaced.’ He dragged a hand through the spikes of tawny hair which persisted in falling across his brow, raking them back. ‘You haven’t worked with either Bill Shapiro before or with me, so what makes you prefer him?’
She shot him a startled look. Didn’t he know? He had to. He must. It was neon-lit to her. But of course Keir might consider the events of the past to be of little consequence.
While his regarding her piece of lunacy as insignificant would be an enormous relief—perhaps his reference to her curves had been random and the bedroom incident had faded from his mind?—that he could be indifferent to what had happened with her father—to her father—made her burn with raw resentment. How callous. How cruel. Yet she supposed it was possible. One person’s catastrophe could be another person’s hiccup, and everything had happened a long time ago.
Darcy took a sip of sparkling water. His question had sounded rational