Kissed By a Stranger. Valerie Parv
couldn’t handle the publicity that comes with my job. Being called by my surname was the last straw.’
‘So now you’re wedded to your career?’
His choice of words rankled. ‘Just because you walked out on a successful career it doesn’t mean we all have to.’
A muscle worked along his jaw and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. ‘Thank you for the reminder.’
Desolation assailed her. She was allowing annoyance at being excluded from this part of his life to rule her tongue. It was so unlike her that she blanched and rested a hand on his arm. The muscles rippled under her fingers and she swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
His sigh gusted between them. ‘No, I’m the one who’s overreacting. You’re entitled to your opinion.’
But it was a further reminder that he didn’t share it, she thought uncomfortably. Would he change his mind about seeing her tonight? How would she feel if so?
‘What time shall I pick you up?’ he asked, forestalling her concern.
As she named a time her heart did a curious somersault. It turned into a full-blown circus when he leaned across to open her door from the inside. Then he cupped her face and turned her to align her mouth with his, kissing her gently, but with lingering promise. As he drew his lips away he slid a thumb caressingly down the side of her face. ‘Until tonight.’
‘Tonight,’ she echoed, her voice husky. Suddenly what was in his past seemed to matter a lot less than what might be in their future.
It was an effort to keep her back turned and walk into the studio. Watching him drive away would have been too much of a give-away for both of them.
Because of the telethon, the studio was crowded. The usually quiet set where she prepared her segments was flooded with light and activity. The red on-air light flashed over the door, warning her to enter on tiptoe. She waved a silent greeting to the floor crew as she made her way behind the heavy backdrop curtains and up the stairs to her dressing room.
This room was also occupied by telethon performers, who apologised cheerfully as she backed out again.
The only remaining refuge was the make-up room, so she spent the afternoon there, making notes and plans for the evening. Half an hour before airtime, Richard Nero dropped into a chair alongside her.
‘It’s bedlam around here today,’ he complained.
‘At least you didn’t lose your dressing room.’ Why had he been spared? she wondered. Unless management was sending her a message about the anchor position. She searched Richard’s face for clues, but he was always so insufferably smug that his expression told her nothing new.
She indicated the evening’s running sheet. ‘What’s this segment marked “to be confirmed”?’
He avoided her eyes. ‘It’s a late-breaking story I’m working on.’
‘What about?’
One of the make-up people shrouded Richard in a cape and he shrugged, indicating his helplessness. Her anger rose. How long would it take for him to answer her? But he closed his eyes and the make-up artist went to work, ending any further conversation.
Two could play this game. She sat back and closed her eyes, willing her taut body to relax as a make-up artist began to apply the heavy television make-up. Whatever Richard had in mind was bound to enhance his image in the eyes of the powers-that-be. She only hoped it wouldn’t have the opposite effect on her image.
Do you really care? The question seeped into her mind and she gave a start, earning a reproving mutter from the make-up artist.
‘sorry,’ she murmured, and tried again to relax. Luke had planted the question in her mind, she knew. He was the one avoiding the limelight, implying that enjoying her fame was some sort of character flaw.
She didn’t agree, did she? If so, she was in the wrong business. Damn him for sowing such doubts in her mind.
Except that damning him wasn’t as easy as it should have been. Instead of the expected censure, she felt anticipation at the prospect of seeing him after the show. What then? Maybe she’d invite him home for coffee after dinner. She lived at Mermaid Beach, a few minutes’ drive from the studio. It was a glorious evening. They could meander out onto the terrace overlooking the phosphorescent ocean.
How long was it since she’d invited a man to her home? Since she’d started appearing on television regularly it was more a case of keeping them from following her home. Luke was different. ‘I want a place in your life, not on your show,’ he’d said, sounding as if he meant it.
Her eyes widened. He was the first man—the first person—in years to appreciate her for herself, not for what she did.
‘Sarah, please!’
The make-up woman’s cry of frustration jolted Sarah back to reality. She’d opened her eyes as the eyeshadow was being applied. She schooled herself to behave, and the job was finished moments later. As she climbed out of the chair she flashed an apologetic smile at the make-up artist. ‘Things on my mind today.’
Understatement of the week, she thought as she made her way to the studio.
Richard was already on the set—in the right-hand seat she normally occupied. His grin dared her to complain. Somehow Luke was in her mind again, giving her his rare sense of perspective—rare in this business, anyway.
She smiled and took the left-hand chair, enjoying Richard’s look of surprise. Maybe he’d hoped to provoke a row on the set to make her look bad. It wasn’t going to work.
Well, not today. Today she had a guardian angel looking over her shoulder, counselling her. She had a suspicion his name was Luke Ansfield.
It was just as well. Since they rarely worked on-camera together, Richard made the most of every opportunity to upstage her. He stepped on her lines, read the autocue out of order, forcing her to improvise, and ad-libbed jokes which brought the camera back to him, as designed.
After forty-five minutes of this, Sarah was ready to scream. It took all the professionalism she possessed to keep smiling and treating Richard as her on-screen buddy. Only thinking of her date with Luke kept her on an even keel.
Richard seemed disappointed by the failure of his efforts to provoke her. During a commercial break before the final segment, he said, ‘You should enjoy the last story, Sarah. In fact, you should have written it.’
Before she could ask what he meant, the floor manager counted them out of the break. As Richard’s opening remarks scrolled up the autocue, a leaden sensation invaded Sarah. Oh, no, he couldn’t do this to her.
But he had.
She could do nothing but sit there in agony as Richard publicly identified Luke as Sarah’s rescuer. Footage of the car accident was followed by a newsreel clip of Luke on the racing circuit four years before.
Against her will, she sat forward. The first view was from the driver’s set of Luke’s car as he hurtled around the Suzuka track at the Japanese Grand Prix. Then the camera caught Luke himself, his compelling eyes the only part of his face visible beneath a balaclava and helmet, as he battled Schumacher, Berger and Mansell for lap upon lap.
‘Ansfield, the ultimate competitor, manages to pass the competition and take the Japanese Grand Prix,’ the commentator gasped.
Sarah released a pent-up breath. Several times Luke had appeared to be inches from death as he hurtled around the tight curves with more than seven hundred horsepower beneath him. Her vision blurred as he was shown climbing from the car to be decked in wreaths.
Dazedly she registered that they were showing a close-up of Luke while Richard read from the autocue. ‘Today a mystery surrounds this road warrior, who now lives in seclusion at his home on the Gold Coast Hinterland. Why did he quit when he had the world at his feet? We’ll