No Place For Love. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘ROSES?’ Hugo, sprawled in the threadbare armchair in his sister’s dressing-room, glanced up as Fred, the ageing major-domo who guarded the stage door as if it were the entrance to some sacred temple, appeared in the doorway with a huge cellophane-wrapped bouquet. ‘Red ones, too. Who’s your secret admirer, sis?’

      Lacey laughed merrily, taking the bouquet and making Fred blush by reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘No, it’s just Clive—to wish me luck,’ she responded, glancing at the card. ‘Bless him—how thoughtful.’

      Hugo snorted in derision. ‘Just Clive, indeed! I’ll tell you what, if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself splashed all over the Sunday papers—“Government minister in affair with actress.” A married government minister at that. And a blonde actress, practically young enough to be his granddaughter. They’d just love it.’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ Lacey chided, her soft violet-blue eyes dancing as she smiled down at her handsome twin. ‘I’m not having an affair with him.’

      ‘I know that, and you know that,’ Hugo countered sagely. ‘But you can bet your sweet life the papers could make it look as though you were.’

      ‘Well, I’m not going to stop being friends with him just because some nasty reporters have got smutty minds,’ she declared forcefully. ‘He’s a very nice, very sweet man—I feel sorry for him. His wife hates living in London, and he has to be here while Parliament’s sitting. He gets lonely.’

      ‘Lonely my foot! He’s nothing but a dirty old man. You certainly do pick ’em!’

      ‘If you’re talking about Ted Gardiner, you know that wasn’t my fault,’ Lacey protested, moving aside some of the clutter of make-up on the dressing-table to make room to lay down the bouquet. ‘He seemed so nice—how was I supposed to know he was lying when he said he wasn’t married?’

      ‘That’s your trouble,’ her brother insisted. ‘You think everyone’s nice. If I weren’t around to watch out for you, I don’t know where you’d be.’

      ‘Yes, and your idea of taking care of me nearly lost me this part!’ she retorted indignantly. ‘You can’t speak to a producer like that.’

      ‘I can when he’s pestering my sister.’

      ‘He wasn’t pestering me—he just took me out to dinner a few times. And he was a perfect gentleman.’

      ‘Except that he was married,’ Hugo pointed out with a touch of asperity. ‘And don’t pretend that you don’t know what he was leading up to—even you’re not that naive.’

      Lacey conceded a wry smile. ‘No—well, I suppose you’re right. But it isn’t the same thing at all with Clive. For one thing, he’s almost sixty! And besides, if you annoy him, he might stop backing the play, and it isn’t easy to find “angels” to put up the money these days.’

      Hugo yawned, stretching lazily. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

      ‘Oh, there’s no harm in him,’ she averred, running her hairbrush through the bright golden curls that tumbled around her shoulders. ‘Besides, if he isn’t worried about the papers getting hold of it, why should I be?’

      ‘Because, my sweet, trusting little sister, you would be forever typecast thereafter as a career-wrecking, marriage-wrecking bimbo.’

      Lacey gurgled with laughter. ‘Well, I’m typecast already,’ she pointed out without rancour, striking a pose in her stage costume—a low-cut, skin-tight red jersey and a black leather mini-skirt short enough to reveal an interesting inch of black stocking-top whenever she moved. ‘Blonde hair and big boobs equals dumb—period. I could have a fantastic career if I didn’t mind taking my clothes off in public.’

      Hugo flashed her a wicked grin. ‘Lucky one of us doesn’t mind, then, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘Someone has to pay the rent.’

      ‘I pay my share,’ she countered indignantly. ‘You don’t have to be a Sauvage if you don’t want to. Anyway, I thought you’d give it up once you’d got your degree.’

      He shrugged wide, well-muscled shoulders, tanned to a deep, healthy bronze and shown off to striking effect by the sleeveless black T-shirt he was wearing. ‘Why should I?’ he queried laconically. ‘It’s great, getting paid to have hundreds of girls screaming for my body.’

      ‘Prancing around on stage wearing nothing but a couple of bits of leather and a few chains?’ she chided, shaking her head. ‘I do wish you’d get a proper job.’

      ‘Oh,