No Place For Love. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
lord! Do I look all right, Hughie?’ Lacey begged, casting an anxious glance at her reflection in the huge, brightly lit mirror over the dressing-table and dabbing her nose with a little more powder.
‘Well,’ he mused, surveying her with sardonic amusement, ‘it’s a good job you’re not planning to walk down the street in that outfit—you could cause a traffic accident.’
‘I know,’ she sighed wryly, wriggling to adjust the clinging jersey so that it didn’t skim quite so low over the lush curves of her breasts. ‘It was bought in for Vanessa, and she hasn’t got quite as much up top as me.’
‘Well, just be careful you don’t bend over too far in it,’ he advised. ‘You’re likely to pop out.’
Lacey giggled. ‘That’d make sure we got a full house for the rest of the week, wouldn’t it?’ she remarked, checking her appearance one last time before skipping out to take her place in the wings and await her cue.
She was under no illusions that understudying the role of French au pair in a rather weak comedy being produced in a converted West London bus station was going to prove her big break. She only had the part for a few days anyway, while the actress who was supposed to be playing it recovered from a bout of flu.
It wasn’t exactly a demanding role; it mostly required her to stand around looking alluring, and adjusting her suspenders, as the household of her employers disintegrated around her. The husband had most of the laughs—when they came. But it was better than resting, and serving behind the counter in the local fast-food emporium, as she had for the previous six months.
The house sounded even thinner than usual, and it was hard work to get as far as the interval. With a sigh of relief, Lacey hurried back down the passage to her dressing-room. Hugo was still draped across the armchair, reading the evening paper.
‘I thought you had a date tonight?’ she queried, slanting him a questioning look as she slipped behind the screen to change into her costume for the second act—a frivolous pink silk wrap, trimmed with a froth of swansdown.
Hugo yawned, casually tossing aside the paper. ‘There’s no rush,’ he drawled with all the arrogance of handsome youth. ‘It does ’em good to keep ‘em waiting.’
She frowned at him in stern reproach, but with little hope of being attended to. Much as she loved her twin brother, she couldn’t help disapproving of his behaviour sometimes. But then if his girlfriends were silly enough to put up with it... ! She knew she had been lucky to have had him around to put her wise to the dangers of falling for any smooth masculine lines as she was growing up—she could certainly never say she was unaware of the pitfalls!
‘What time will you be coming home?’ she asked, checking her stockings for runs as she took them across to the tiny washroom opposite her dressing-room to rinse them through ready for tomorrow—the company wasn’t large enough to afford more than one wardrobe mistress, and she had more than enough to do.
‘I don’t know,’ she heard him call back. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’
She chuckled with laughter, leaning over the sink to splash cold water over the pulse-points of her wrists and throat—she found it always cooled her down after the heat of the stage lights. ‘If I waited up for you every time you stayed out half the night, I’d never get any sleep!’ she chided him as she walked back into her dressing-room.
‘Is that so?’
She stopped abruptly. A total stranger was standing in the middle of the room, regarding her with insolent disdain; a tall stranger, with crisp dark hair, wearing an immaculately cut grey suit which moulded his wide shoulders to perfection.
‘Who the... ?’ She glanced around in confusion. ‘Where’s Hugo?’
‘If you mean the young Adonis with his hair in a ponytail, I just passed him in the corridor,’ the stranger responded. ‘Miss Tyrell?’ He allowed his dark gaze to slide down over her body, taking in every contour on the way. ‘Yes—you’re exactly the type I expected.’
Her eyes flashed in anger, and she glared back at him, uncomfortably aware that the loose wrap was displaying rather too much of the soft shadow between her breasts. ‘Really?’ she queried, discreetly easing the swansdown lapels a little more closely together. ‘And what type is that?’
‘I believe you know exactly what type I mean, so please don’t waste my time with that pretence of injured innocence,’ he countered with caustic contempt.
She stared up at him, startled by such unwarranted hostility. She had never met this man before in her life—she was quite certain that she would have remembered if she had; that hard-boned, arrogant face, with its faintly patrician nose and firm, level mouth wouldn’t be easy to forget.
‘I... I’m sorry,’ she managed, struggling to project a facade of cool dignity. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave—the public aren’t allowed backstage in the middle of a performance.’
‘Oh, I’m not the public,’ he responded, his voice menacingly soft. ‘You could call me a sort of friend of the family. Does the name Jon Parrish mean anything to you?’
She frowned. ‘Of course. He’s Clive Fielding’s...’ Realisation dawned with a bump. ‘You’re Jon Parrish?’
‘Correct,’ he confirmed tautly. ‘Sir Clive Fielding’s stepson.’
Lacey faltered, not quite knowing how to respond. Somehow they seemed to have got off on entirely the wrong foot, but it wasn’t too late to put it right. She tried a smile, though it was a bit of a wobbly effort. ‘Well, how do you do? I... I’m very pleased to meet you...’
‘I haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries, Miss Tyrell,’ he rapped tersely. ‘And I’ll warn you now that you’ll be wasting your time trying to play off your tricks on me. My taste has never run to well-stacked blondes—and even if it did I’m a bit too awake to the time of day to be taken in by a cheap little gold-digger like you.’
The stinging insult almost took her breath away. ‘You... What?’ she protested in furious indignation. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’
Again that indifferent regard swept down over her, and she found herself wishing that she was wearing rather more than this flimsy wrap. With her curvaceous figure, she was accustomed to having men stare at her—drool over her, to be more accurate. But apparently the promise of her firm, ripe breasts, dainty waist and shapely derrière did nothing for him.
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Miss Tyrell,’ he informed her in a voice of cold derision. ‘Apparently you specialise in rich men old enough to be your father. You had Ted Gardiner in your coils, beguiling him into giving you a part in his play—until you decided my stepfather was a better prospect. If I had my way, women like you would be horsewhipped.’
She glared at him, her palm itching to slap that arrogant face. ‘Get out of here,’ she demanded heatedly. ‘Or I’ll...’
‘You’ll what?’ he countered with biting mockery. ‘Have me thrown out? I doubt it—I’m a good friend of the producer, not to mention the stepson of one of your most important backers. I’ll go when I’m good and ready.’ He leaned back casually against the edge of her dressing-table, asserting his intention to stay as long as he pleased. ‘Nice roses,’ he remarked, casting them a sardonic glance. ‘From my stepfather? Or that macho hulk who was leaving as I arrived? No, he wasn’t the type to buy flowers.’
‘They’re from your stepfather,’ she retorted, returning him a defiant glare. It was more than apparent that losing her temper with him was going to get her nowhere—a more subtle approach was needed. Deliberately she picked up the flowers, sniffing delicately at their sweet fragrance. ‘Mmm, lovely—they must have cost a fortune, out of season like this.’
Those dark eyes kindled in momentary anger. ‘You little tramp,’ he grated. ‘I’m warning you, your affair with him is over.’
She