Fast And Loose

So she must extricate herself in a manner which would maintain some entente even if it was a tad less than cordiale—though how she was going to manage this she did not yet know.

She rose to her feet. ‘Let’s,’ she agreed.

As they set off across the lobby towards the Brierly’s renowned and rosetted French restaurant Darcy was conscious of Keir prowling beside her. She was tall and, in her heels, sometimes taller than her escorts, which could be a handicap, but, at six feet four and well-built, he was very much the superior male.

She cast him a sidelong glance. While she half despised herself, his strong presence gave her a curiously protected feeling.

‘I wonder whether Maurice has arranged for you to be fed with oysters, followed by asparagus sprinkled with rhino horn?’ Keir remarked. ‘All washed down by champagne.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I got the impression he expects you to be poleaxed by my fatal charm and he might’ve asked the restaurant to dish up an aphrodisiac or two to help things along.’

‘If he has he’s wasted his time,’ Darcy said pertly.

Keir raised his brows. ‘Whatever you eat or drink, you’re not going to wrestle me to the ground, drag me beneath the table and have your wicked way with me?’

‘And break the first rule in the Brierly’s etiquette manual, which is “Do not cause a public scene”? Aw, come on.’

He gave the hint of a smile. ‘Then how about taking me up to the privacy of my room, perching on my knee, slipping your fingers between the buttons of my shirt and——?’

‘No!’ Darcy squeaked as images from the past danced like a chorus line of humiliating ghosts before her. She gulped in a breath. ‘Out of the question,’ she said, biting on every last syllable.

‘Pity,’ he remarked, and briefly placed a hand between her shoulder blades, where it felt as if it scorched a hole in her jacket. ‘After you.’

In the restaurant the maitre d’ ticked off the booking, which had been made in Maurice’s name, and led them to a quiet corner. As they threaded their way between pink-damask-clothed tables, Darcy was aware of a hush in the general buzz of conversation and several discreet glances.

It seemed that either one or perhaps both of them had been recognised, or, regardless of his identity, the interest of the diners had been drawn by Keir’s loose-limbed grace. It would be the latter, she decided astringently. His power to incite admiration had always been potent.

‘I’m not sure about working with Jed Horwood,’ Darcy declared after menus had been read, their choices given, and they were eating cold starters of lobster with mango and curry sauce. She had been searching for an excuse to leave the play, and here she had found one which contained an obliging degree of truth.

‘I know he breaks box-office records with his blast-’em-to-hell pictures, but——’ she wrinkled her nose at the thought of the American macho-man who, after forging a movie career armed with a Beretta, a forty-four-inch chest and a mumble, had declared the desire to ‘stretch’ himself and appear on stage ‘—I wonder whether his talents will transfer.

‘So,’ Darcy carried on breezily, ‘as there’s been a change in director this would seem to be the ideal time for a change of leading lady. I hate to relinquish the role but I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s far better if Jed is partnered by someone who’s one hundred per cent enthusiastic about him.’

‘You can’t pull out,’ Keir stated.

Her hackles rose. Her temper began to spark. He might have been brought in as director and have a special deal but that did not endow him with the divine right to dictate what she could or could not do!

‘Can’t?’ she demanded, her nostrils flaring and her chin tilted belligerently.

‘Can’t,’ he repeated. ‘You may have walked out on me once but you’re not going to do it again.’

She frowned. His voice sounded flinty, as though he had been annoyed about her walking out the first time. This seemed strange, for she had felt certain that he would have been relieved, if not downright ecstatic. Though perhaps Keir had objected to her leaving his room of her own accord, rather than him ordering her out. Yes, giving her the old heave-ho—Never darken my doorstep again, you idiotic and presumptuous child!— could have appealed to a deep-seated male need to be the master of every situation.

Darcy glowered. Whatever, she did not appreciate yet another reminder of the bedroom incident.

‘You think so?’ she challenged.

‘I know so,’ he replied. ‘You’ve signed a contract which commits you to play the role, remember?’

‘Yes, but as there’s been a change of director——’

‘Makes no difference. Your name on the dotted line means you agreed to do the job regardless of who directs or of any changes in the cast.’ He interrogated her with a look. ‘You weren’t aware of that?’

‘No,’ Darcy admitted, cursing herself for her ignorance.

She had been so delighted to be given the role that she had barely skimmed the pages before signing and Maurice had failed to warn her of any clauses which might prove obstructive.

‘I’ve read through everyone’s contract,’ Keir continued, ‘because, frankly, I’m not licking my lips over Jed and you, either. He could pull out in a pinch, but for you it’d be impossible.’ He sampled the red burgundy wine which he had chosen. ‘Unless, of course, you want to be sued.’

‘You mean go through a harrowing court case, be ordered to pay damages, end up broke and destitute?’ she enquired acidly. ‘I don’t.’

‘I figured not,’ he said.

‘How was the lobster?’ enquired the waiter, appearing to remove their plates.

Keir smiled. ‘Delicious, thank you.’

‘Nice,’ Darcy muttered, her mind flying every which way.

Just as she had been trapped into dining here with him this evening, so she was trapped into doing the play. She had no option but to work with the director who had had such a crippling effect on her father and never shown one iota of remorse.

Hurt gnawed inside her. One of nature’s extroverts, Rupert—he had liked her to call him by his given name—had always brimmed with joie de vivre, but after with-drawing from the production he had grown increasingly morose and distracted, until that dreadful day when——

‘Lamb cutlets with rosemary for the young lady,’ announced the waiter, removing a silver dome with practised flair and setting her plate down in front of her.

Darcy came back to the present. ‘Thank you.’

Another dome was expertly flourished. ‘And fillet steak, rare, for you, sir.’

As a selection of garden-fresh vegetables was served Darcy’s thoughts played hopscotch. Keir had reckoned that he was not licking his lips over either Jed or her? How dared he?

‘And what’s wrong with me?’ she demanded, her green eyes glittering. ‘Just as you always do a good job of directing, so I always do a good job—no, a great job,’ she adjusted mutinously, ‘of acting.’

Keir looked across at her, then looked up to speak to the waiter. ‘Would it be possible for you to bring a sharp knife?’ he requested. ‘As you can see, my companion is in an inflammatory mood and I have the feeling she’d very much like to cut off my——’

‘I don’t want to cut off anything,’ she gabbled, at speed.

When she had known him before he had sometimes shocked her—and secretly excited her—with his direct approach to matters physical and sexual, and now she was fearful of what he might say. They were dining at the genteel Brierly Hotel, after all.

‘That’s a relief,’ he murmured, and the waiter chuckled. ‘Of course,’ Keir went on, speaking to the man in a tone of male-bonded confidentiality, ‘she’s crazy about me really.’

‘I am not!’ Darcy yelped, then, recognising that he was baiting her and she was falling for it, she shone a plastic smile. ‘I think he’s cute——’

‘Cute?’ Keir winced.

‘But not that cute,’ she finished, with crushing relish.