Fast And Loose

Her focus blurred. Enchantment was not a feature on her agenda; she had come here to work—with Keir Robards.

Although at first she had raged against what had seemed the inscrutable, star-crossed perversity of fate, over the past fortnight she had gradually come to realise that, by throwing them together, fate had performed a favour, insomuch as it had presented her with two opportunities. The first was to be a smash hit in the play, for, in all honesty, Keir’s directing abilities by far exceeded those of Bill Shapiro, and the second was to get even.

Darcy tweaked at the neck of the putty-coloured silk top which she wore with matching trousers. No, not even—full retribution could never be exacted—but she would make it plain that while Keir might have trampled mercilessly over her father he could not trample over her—and she would take some revenge in the process.

She was not malicious by nature, but she did not see why he should escape from his sins scot-free, not now that fate had so emphatically intervened and when her relationship with Keir Robards was beginning to seem more and more like unfinished business. She might have thought about him spasmodically, yet it had not been so spasmodic and she had never forgotten him. How could she have done when he had had such a dramatic effect on her life—in different ways?

Darcy nibbled pensively at a fingernail. She must not do anything which might damage her reputation or mar the play—that would be counterproductive—but whenever a chance arose to rile, unsettle or alarm the man she would take it. For the next couple of months she intended to make Keir Robards’ life hell—subtly.

Her thought-train jumped tracks. What were the activities on which he wanted to keep ‘a handle’? Darcy wondered. She had been wondering about this and his reference to having ‘something going’ which he was reluctant to leave. Could Keir have been unwilling to be separated from a lover who shared his Washington home, and, as the separation while they were in New York would not be too lengthy, was that why he had eventually agreed? It seemed feasible. Who was his live-in lover?

Abruptly Darcy swung from the window. She had better things to do than speculate over Keir’s personal affairs, which did not interest her anyway. Her unpacking awaited, after which she would ring her new boss—oh, how the prospect of being bossed by him rankled—and advise him of her arrival.

She was in an impressive city and staying at a spectacular hotel, Darcy reflected as she hung up her clothes. An architectural marvel of bronze girders and tinted glass, the De Robillard was, so Maurice, who had fixed the accommodation, had informed her, the most prestigious hotel in town.

Her eyes travelled across the chic taupe and white quilted emperor-size bed, the vast walls of wardrobes, the mirrored bar with its mind-boggling selection of on-the-house drinks. It also had to be one of the most spacious.

After she had walked what seemed like miles, putting everything away, Darcy lifted the onyx telephone and dialled Keir’s number.

‘It’s Darcy,’ she said when he answered. ‘I’ve arrived and I’m installed.’

‘Installed where?’

‘At the De Robillard.’

There was a moment of silence. ‘How’s the jet lag?’ he enquired.

‘Non-existent.’

‘Then how about bringing over your script and we can make a start?’

‘Now?’ she said in surprise.

‘Now.’

Darcy dithered. Last night, anticipation of needing to be up before dawn in order to catch her flight—and an itchy awareness of seeing Keir again—had meant that her sleep had been fitful. Which, in turn, meant that, while she felt wide awake at this moment, she could slump without warning. So should she backtrack, plead incipient weariness and hope to annoy—or did she show him that she was a professional? Demonstrating her professionalism won.

‘You want me to come to a rehearsal hall?’ she asked.

‘I want you to come to my home. The journey won’t take long in a cab.’

Darcy reached for her caramel-coloured suede jacket. Forget the refreshing soak in the Jacuzzi that you had planned, she thought. Forget a stop at the hotel’s marble-pillared coffee-shop. Forget a stroll outside to view the White House.

‘What’s the address?’ she enquired.

When she met Keir this time she would be cool and composed, Darcy told herself as the cab sped along the busy city roads. A fortnight ago, being faced with him out of the blue had thrown her and, like the teenager she had once been, she had racketed around from blushes to squeaks to gabbles. But forewarned was forearmed and now, whatever Keir might say or do, she refused to be fazed. As for him attracting her…

Once more Darcy chewed at her fingernail. Because there was no man currently in her life, she supposed that she was what was described as sex-starved, and thus susceptible. However, by reacting to Keir, her hormones had acted the traitor. From now on they would be kept under strict control, but if they should react to him again she would ignore them.

At the driver’s comment that they were entering Georgetown, Darcy peered eagerly out of the window. According to an article in the airline magazine which she had read on the plane, this was one of the District of Columbia’s most fashionable neighbourhoods. It boasted late eighteenth- and nineteenth-century homes, where high-society hostesses entertained luminaries from the diplomatic and political worlds, interesting shops and myriad fine restaurants.

Refined and yet vibrant with vitality, Georgetown was a desirable residential urban village, something like an American version of Hampstead, Darcy decided.

The address that Keir had provided turned out to be a gracious turn-of-the-century brick villa on a quiet, leafy street. She walked up the short drive, mounted a flight of stone steps to a white-glossed front door, and pressed the bell. Hastily finger-combing her hair, Darcy adopted an expression which was intended to portray both maturity and sang-froid.

‘Hi,’ Keir said as the front door swung open.

In close-fitting jeans and a navy open-necked shirt which revealed a smattering of dark blond hair in the V at his throat, he looked all male, all lean physique, all powerful. Seeing him again hit her like a blow somewhere between the solar plexus and the upper thigh.

Darcy snatched in a breath. She was not going to be fazed? Her hormones would be controlled or, at least, ignored? Wrong on each count. The idea had been a huge folly. Her brow furrowed. Yet to be attracted to a man whom she classed as an enemy was a skewed notion which indicated a troublesome schizophrenia.

‘Hello,’ she said, the word emerging irritatingly like a gasp.

Keir smiled the kind of smile which once she would have drowned in. ‘Come in. Let me take your jacket,’ he said, and hitched it up amid a row of his which hung on brass hooks.

‘Has Jed Horwood arrived yet?’ she whispered furtively as he ushered her through a hall with stained-glass windows and a grandfather clock, and into an airy living-room.

‘No, he——’

‘Good, because I want to ask you something before he does. Last week I rented out videos of several of his films and now, frankly, acting with His Machoness is beginning to seem more and more a dubious pleasure,’ she said, arrowing in on a third worry which had helped to keep her awake the previous night.

‘I know you promised to get the best out of him, but, after seeing how wooden he is, I doubt if he has any best. Not only that but the celluloid Jed Horwood is so brash and smug.’ Darcy pulled a face. ‘Seriously awful.

‘I realise that he might be different in the flesh, but if not it could be a dampener. His character and mine are supposed to feel an irresistible urge for each other and, while I’m perfectly capable of acting this out——’ the declaration was defiant ‘—it would help if Jed Horwood weren’t a jerk. So,’ she demanded, reaching the end of her hurried spiel, ‘please would you tell me what the real man is like?’

‘In a word——’ Keir pursed his lips ‘—obnoxious.’

‘I knew it!’ Darcy wailed. ‘In that case it’s going to take——’

He cut her off. ‘We’ll talk about Jed in a minute. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Oh—please.’

‘Cream?’ he enquired, gesturing to her to come with him through an archway and into the kitchen.

‘Just a dash.’

As he lifted a bubbling percolator Darcy put her thoughts about Jed Horwood on hold and gazed around. Fitted in limed oak and equipped with state-of-the-art appliances, the kitchen was streamlined yet cosy.

Her eyes strayed back to the pale-carpeted living-room, to a cauliflower-check sofa, to a wall unit which held television and stereo, to green and white curtains which floated at the sash windows. Although elegant, like its owner, the decor was a little spartan for her taste, but the room was light, well-shaped and possessed potential.

‘I like your house,’ she said.

‘Thanks. The place was virtually falling apart when I bought it a few years ago and since then I’ve spent a lot of time abroad, so I’m still in the process of getting things how I want them.’

‘Abroad where?’ she asked.

‘South America, the Caribbean, and I was in India for three months earlier this year.’