Back in the Headlines

His thoughts were halted by the tinny fanfare of a piano and the slightly slurred voice of the compère who had been introducing a succession of failing acts all evening.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen! Tonight, I am proud to present a singing legend. A woman who has had number one hits in thirteen different countries. Who, with her girl-band The Lollipops, has known the kind of fame that most of us only ever dream of. She’s consorted with royalty and politicians—but tonight she’s exclusively ours. So I ask you to give it up for the beautiful and talented Miss...Roxanne...Carmichael!’

The applause in the half-empty club was sporadic and Titus mimed a brief clapping as he watched the woman appear from the wings, his body automatically tensing as she took centre stage.

Roxanne Carmichael.

His eyes narrowed. Was that really her?

He’d heard a lot about her. Read a lot about her. He’d seen her staring back at him from old magazine covers, with her cat-like eyes and a sleek body which had advertised everything from diamonds to raincoats. She stood for everything he despised, with her loud, flashy beauty and a long list of lovers which appalled him—because he had the sexual double standards of many of his class. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he encountered her in the flesh for the first time—but it certainly wasn’t this deep, tightening clench inside him, which felt uncomfortably like the beginning of lust. And he couldn’t for the life of him work out why.

Maybe it was because she looked nothing like the provocative creature whose girl-band had stormed the international charts all those years ago. Back then, she’d sported deliberately ripped stockings worn with a too-short school uniform and was always seen sucking provocatively on a lollipop, which had helped give the band their name. As their success had grown the sticky lollipops had been jettisoned along with the jail-bait clothes—but the image projected to the public had still been that of sexy bad girls. The kind of woman you wouldn’t want to take home to meet your mother. And Roxanne Carmichael had certainly lived up to her reputation as a wild child.

He let his gaze flicker over her body. The passing of the years hadn’t added any extra weight to her frame. In fact, apart from the luscious curve of her breasts—were they real? he wondered—she looked almost painfully slender. Her cheekbones were emphasised by deep shadows beneath them and her jaw was sharply defined. Without the glossy exterior provided by extreme wealth, her mane of hair was no longer teased into a myriad shades from honey through to bronze, but now hung in a natural dark-blonde curtain over her shoulders.

But her eyes were still that incredible shade of blue and her lips still looked as if they were capable of inciting a man to commit sin. Despite the faded jeans and the sequined shirt, she carried herself with a natural grace, Titus conceded—but she looked tired. And jaded. Like a woman who had seen too much, too often. I’ll bet she has, he thought grimly as she picked up the microphone and held it close to her scarlet lips.

‘Hi, everyone.’ Her lashes fluttered as her gaze darted around the room. ‘My name is Roxy Carmichael and tonight I’m here to entertain you.’

‘You can entertain me any time you like, Roxy!’ yelled an unsteady male voice from the back of the dark club and somebody laughed.

There was a pause—Titus thought she looked as if she was about to change her mind. For one brief moment, she looked almost vulnerable. As if someone had got her up on stage by mistake and she was unsure what to do next. And then she opened her mouth and began to sing and, in spite of everything, he felt a thrill of excitement as that first note broke free. He sat back in his seat, listening as the soaring sound poured from her slender throat, and he felt another unwanted stir of his senses. So her reputation was founded on real talent and not just hype, he recognised—his eyes fixed with reluctant admiration to the sway of her hips, which moved in perfect time to the music.

The set passed in a blur. She sang of love and loss. She slung her head back as if in silent ecstasy and once again Titus felt that familiar tightening at his groin. Her low voice faltered as the last song ended on a breathless little sigh, and he had to snap out of the spell she seemed to have cast on him. To stop imagining those amazing lips making sweet music all over his body and to remember who she really was. A marriage-busting, money-grabbing little bitch. What must it be like to be as ruthless as Roxy Carmichael? he wondered. To be so desperate to cling onto the wealth she’d lost that she would steal another woman’s husband in order to do so?

She ended the set abruptly—her half-closed eyes fluttering open after the last song as if she had just awoken from a dream and was surprised to find herself in the small and stuffy club. Still blinking, she obeyed the half-hearted applause by launching into one soulful encore—but the memorable tune sounded bizarre in the small and tacky setting of the Kit-Kat Club. And just as quickly she was gone, with a swish of the sparkly shirt and a glimpse of faded denim clinging to her bottom.

The pianist staggered off in the direction of the bar, the dusty velvet curtain came down and Titus rose to his feet and slipped on his coat, feeling oddly dirty. He could feel the sleazy fug of the place on his skin as he left the building, relieved to be able to suck in a breath of cold, crisp air as he walked round to the door at the back of the club.

His knock brought a heavy, middle-aged woman to the door, her hooded eyes flicking over him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so,’ said Titus softly. ‘I’m here to see Roxy Carmichael.’

‘Is she expecting you?’

He shook his head. ‘Not exactly.’

The woman’s jowly face frowned with sharp scrutiny. ‘Are you from the press?’

Titus curved his lips into a sardonic smile. Had centuries of privileged lineage resulted in him looking like a journalist? he wondered acidly. He shook his head. ‘Most emphatically, no. I am not from the press.’

‘Well, she says she’s not taking any callers,’ said the woman flatly.

‘Are you sure?’ Titus withdrew a slim leather wallet from his pocket and slickly peeled off a note, before sliding it into her unresisting hand. ‘Why don’t you ask her again...nicely?’

The woman seemed to hesitate for a moment before snatching the note and stuffing it in the pocket of her dress. ‘I can’t promise you anything,’ she said ungraciously, jerking her head to indicate that he should follow her.

Stepping inside and shutting the stage door behind him, Titus was quickly enveloped in the gloom of the backstage area. He knew that he could have waited. Gone to see Roxanne Carmichael in the morning and delivered his crushing blow to her in the cold light of day and on his own territory. But his blood was fired up and he wanted to finish this off tonight. Besides, he was a man who never liked waiting—and now that he had control of the family estate it meant he never had to.

The woman in the floral dress had come to a halt and was now rapping on a dressing-room door.

‘Who is it?’ called a breathy voice he instantly recognised as that of Roxy Carmichael and something about its sensual undertones made his skin prickle with undeniable desire. But he stood hidden in the shadows as the door was pushed open and light streamed out from a shabby dressing room.

‘It’s Margaret,’ said the woman, her hand moving around in her pocket as if she was checking the note he’d just given her was still there.

From her position at the mirror where she had been wiping the last of the gunky stage make-up from her face, Roxanne swivelled round in the chair, trying not to look dispirited. But it wasn’t easy. It hadn’t been the greatest evening in the world. There was nothing worse than playing in a half-empty club to an audience which was full of drink. The Kit-Kat Club seemed to be on the decline and she knew that her singing spot had failed to revitalise audience figures. Hadn’t the management told her so just that very morning—in a grim message underpinned with the unspoken warning that lack of success would not be tolerated?

She told herself that it wasn’t personal—that the music industry had always been this way. She just happened to have been very fortunate at the start of her career and she shouldn’t forget that. But she was tired. Bone-tired. With an aching kind of emptiness which wouldn’t shift and a horrible tickle at the back of her throat which wouldn’t seem to go away.

Stifling a yawn, she looked at the woman in the floral dress who was standing in the doorway with an expectant look on her face and she forced a smile. ‘Yes, what is it, Margaret?’

‘There’s a gentleman here who says he wants to see you.’

A gentleman? Roxanne deposited the damp piece of cotton wool on the battered dressing table and gave a wry smile. Once, there had been thousands of people who had clamoured at stage doors to see her. Men who wanted to go to bed with her, and young girls who had looked up to her for no reason she’d ever been able to work out. Squads of security people had been employed to keep those crowds at bay—but not any more. These days, visitors were few and far between and those that did make it past the stage door were greeted with suspicion. She found herself wondering if her father had turned up out of the blue—with yet another ridiculous scheme for making her ‘comeback’. Her mouth tightened. As if she would ever consider letting him be a part of it—no matter how much her career could do with a lift. She thought about the dwindling audiences and the ever-more seedy venues and her heart twisted painfully in her chest. Because sooner or later she was going to have to take a tough, hard look at her future and ask herself how much longer she was going to tolerate being kicked back.

‘Did he give his name?’ she asked. ‘Is he from the press?’

Margaret shrugged. ‘He says he’s not. And he doesn’t look like a journalist. He looks...well...’ she lowered her voice ‘...handsome.’

Roxanne suppressed a shudder. There was possibly only one thing worse than some journalist wanting to do a ‘Where Are They Now?’ feature—and that was a man who might have decided that she was still attractive enough to pursue. She gave a cynical shake of her head. ‘I’m not interested in pretty boys, Margaret.’

‘And rich,’ murmured the older woman, like a bounty hunter.

At this, Roxy stilled—because some fantasies were too deeply ingrained to get rid of, no matter how crazy they might seem. Was it possible that her dream could still come true? That some wealthy impresario had been sitting in the audience listening to her singing and decided that he wanted to take a chance on her? Someone who had recognised that she still had a talent which burned brightly and which it was a crying shame to waste. And if that were the case, then surely it wouldn’t hurt her to turn on the charm, would it?

Smoothing down her hair, she injected a note of warmth into her voice. ‘Then why don’t you send him in?’ she said.

Titus had heard every word of the brief interchange and, although it shouldn’t have surprised him, still it made his mouth harden. What had he expected—that she’d be proud enough to turn away some unknown caller who had turned up at the end of her set? Of course not. Just the mention of money had made her voice quiver with eagerness. Some women would sell themselves for money, he reminded himself, and this was one of them. Swallowing down the sour taste of disgust, he stepped forward.

‘You can go in—’ Margaret began, but Titus had already brushed past her and walked into the tiny dressing room.

Still seated, Roxy widened her eyes as a tall figure entered the cramped confines of the room. A hundred conflicting messages buzzed around in her head as he quietly shut the door behind him and for a moment she felt positively weak. She was aware of an immense power, which seemed to spark off him like electricity—and of something else, too. Something she’d almost forgotten about until she met his icy stare for the first time.

Desire.

She swallowed. A desire which was the last thing she wanted, or needed. It began to scorch like wildfire around her veins and suddenly the cramped room felt claustrophobic. She wanted to get out—far away from the way he was making her feel. She wanted to run a million miles from that bright grey gaze which was boring through her and making her heart perform an erratic dance. ‘I don’t remember telling you to close the door,’ she said sharply.

Titus looked down at her—a hard smile on his lips as he registered the automatic darkening of her eyes in a response to him which was entirely predictable. He knew what he had—and what he had was something which made women fall at his feet like ninepins. He didn’t exploit it, but sometimes he used it. ‘Maybe you don’t want the whole club hearing what I have to say,’ he countered softly.

Roxy was about to tell him that she didn’t tolerate silken threats coming from complete strangers, but suddenly she was finding it difficult to speak. She didn’t know if it was his looks or his manner, or that cool, privileged accent which marked him out as aristocratic. But whatever it was, it was potent enough to make the words freeze in her throat. She let her gaze linger on him and somehow she couldn’t seem to drag it away again.

He must have been about six feet two—although his posture made him seem taller. Clad in a dark cashmere coat designed to keep out the worst of the bitter winter night, she’d never seen anyone with quite so much presence. And that was a pretty big admission considering she’d spent her life working in an industry where charisma was the common currency...

His body would have made most women take a second look, and so would the expensive clothes which sat so comfortably on it. But women were usually more interested in faces—and his was the most arresting face she had ever seen. High cheekbones looked as if they had been chiselled by a master sculptor—their hard lines contrasting with the sensual contours of his unsmiling lips. His dark hair was the rich, tawny colour of burnt copper. Like a lion’s mane, she found herself thinking. But his King-of-the-jungle likeness didn’t stop at his hair. He carried himself with the effortless grace of a powerful predator—as if everything he surveyed through those cold eyes were his.

Roxy didn’t react to his unsmiling scrutiny—at least, not outwardly. Her heart might have started fluttering with instinctive response to his outrageously alpha qualities, but he would never know that. She was good at keeping her feelings hidden. No, scrub that—she was an expert. She’d dealt with enough men in the past to know that they were all the same. That inevitably they had only one thing on their mind—and once they’d got it, you were history. So she certainly wasn’t about to start panicking because some expensive-looking posh boy had walked in here, threatening to throw his weight around.

Deliberately, she turned her back on him and stared into the mirror as she wiped the scarlet lipstick from her lips with a blob of cotton wool. Because in that moment she knew that this man was no impresario. ‘Isn’t it polite to introduce yourself before you march into a woman’s dressing room?’