No Place For Love

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 blinked at him in shock, controlling with difficulty her boiling anger at his unwarranted assumption. ‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension,’ she informed him coldly. ‘I’m not having an affair with Clive. He’s simply a friend.’

He laughed in chilling scorn. ‘You really can’t expect me to believe that,’ he sneered. ‘It may be less than flattering to your ego, but you’re just the latest in a very long line—mostly blonde, and mostly as... opulently endowed as you. His taste in mistresses is quite tiresomely predictable.’

She slid him a glittering glance from beneath her lashes. It was evident that he had come here without speaking to Clive first. Well, he deserved to be taught a sharp lesson about jumping to conclusions about people; three years in drama school had taught her plenty about improvising characterisations.

Strolling across the room, she disposed herself gracefully in the shabby armchair, crossing her slender legs and letting the wrap slip a little to display a few tempting inches of creamy thigh. Smiling with just a hint of coyness, she shook back her hair, lifting one hand to rub the nape of her neck, knowing how the movement would cause her firm, round breasts to rise beneath the soft silk of her wrap. She was pleased to note that he couldn’t help looking, though his dark eyes conveyed only mocking contempt.

‘You’re not a very dutiful stepson,’ she pouted, a husky laugh in her voice.

‘I have no particular reason to be—my stepfather has never done anything much to earn my respect. But you had better believe, Miss Tyrell, that I have no intention of allowing him be dragged into a scandal over a cheap little tart like you.’

She had to force herself to ignore that barb. ‘Why don’t you call me Lacey?’ she purred, her violet eyes peeping at him from beneath the silky fringe of her lashes. ‘Everyone does.’

‘I wouldn’t care to be that familiar, Miss Tyrell,’ he grated with deliberate emphasis. ‘Oh, and by the way, if you have any ideas about selling your sordid little kiss-and-tell story to the gutter Press, you can think again.’

She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow. ‘But I’m sure they’d be very interested,’ she demurred provocatively. ‘It’s just the sort of juicy little titbit they love. If I play my cards right, I could make a great deal of money.’

She had the satisfaction of knowing that she had driven him to the very edge of losing his temper; it was costing him a visible effort to regain his control. ‘It would be very dangerous for you to cross me, Miss Tyrell,’ he warned, his voice soft and sinister. ‘I have a great deal of power—rather more, in fact, than most politicians. You might discover that any money you make wouldn’t go very far if you were never to find another job—not even cleaning floors.’

Lacey felt a small chill scud down her spine; she was quite sure that he could—and would—carry out such a threat. She knew, from the things that Clive had said, that even he was slightly in awe of his stepson. She couldn’t quite remember what line of business he was in, but she knew he was highly successful at it. Now she had met him, she wasn’t at all surprised—he was completely ruthless.

He was watching her in silence, those hard eyes glinting. But she’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her! She was quite enjoying playing out her role—by the time she had finished with him, he was going to owe her the biggest apology of all time!

‘Tell me,’ she queried, deliberately goading him, ‘what does your mother think about Clive’s...er—mistresses?’

But he had himself well in hand again now. ‘My mother gave up allowing herself to be concerned a very long time ago,’ he responded with cool restraint. ‘They came to an agreement to lead virtually separate lives. So long as he was discreet, she didn’t mind what he did—naturally a divorce could have been harmful to his career.’

‘How very civilised,’ she approved bitingly.

‘Perhaps. However, I will not have her subjected to public humiliation—she has been unwell recently, and I don’t want her to have to cope with that sort of strain.’ There was an unmistakable thread of steel in his voice. ‘I believe I have made myself clear, Miss Tyrell—and rest assured, these are no idle threats.’

‘Oh, no?’ It was time to call an end to this little game! Rising to her feet, she regarded him with frosty dignity. ‘Well, let me tell you something, Mr Super-Powerful Jon Parrish. If you had bothered to speak to Clive before you came round here throwing your weight around, he would have told you what I told you—we are not, repeat not, having an affair. We are simply friends—though I doubt if your smutty little mind can conceive of such a thing. Nor do I have any intention of speaking to the Press. Now will you kindly get out of my dressing-room? You’re polluting the atmosphere.’

He had listened to her speech with an air of sardonic amusement, and as she finished, he slowly clapped his hands in mocking applause. ‘Well done, Miss Tyrell,’ he taunted. ‘A magnificent performance—almost worthy of an Oscar.’

She stared at him in angry frustration. He hadn’t believed a word she had said! And then he stood up and came towards her, those dark eyes glinting with unmistakable menace. She stepped back in alarm, but in the small room there was nowhere to go.

With an abrupt movement he caught both her wrists, shackling them in steely fingers, and jerked her against him. ‘Maybe I can understand what my stepfather sees in you after all,’ he grated softly. ‘When your eyes flash like that, they add a certain spirit to your whole face.’

Before she had realised what he was going to do, he had tangled one hand in her hair, dragging her head sharply back, and as she gasped in shocked protest his mouth descended on hers in a kiss that was almost savage in its intensity.

She struggled to be free, but beneath that air of aloof urbanity he had portrayed was the hard-muscled strength of any primitive male, angry and aroused. And to her shame, she felt herself responding, succumbing helplessly to his fierce demand, melting in a honeyed tide of purely feminine submissiveness.