HE KISSED her as he had kissed Melissa, as he had once, presumably, kissed a great many other women. A kiss of pure seduction, searing—utterly impossible to resist. The heat of his body dispersed the damp, dispersed coherent thought. Her mind might insist it was insanity, her body wasn’t listening, and when he eventually broke the contact between them she felt mindless, shaken, as though all emotion had been sucked out of her.
‘How was the technique?’ he asked silkily.
And she couldn’t answer, could only stand there, staring at him. Staring into eyes that could make her heart race, at tousled hair plastered down with artificial blood and mud, at a mouth that had proved the promise real.
‘Nothing to say?’ he taunted.
She shook her head. Shocked, entirely incapable of movement, bereft of feeling, emotion, she choked stupidly, ‘You’ve lost your wig.’
‘Have I?’ With a mirthless smile, he turned and walked out.
Practised emotions, practised expressions. Who was the real Oliver Darke? Or wasn’t there one? Was it impossible to separate the screen image from the man? A man who created illusion? And she had asked for everything she got. She’d been goading him, needling him ever since they met. Why? For this one reason? Because she had for once in her life wanted to feel what her sister often boasted about? The glamour of the acting profession, the excitement, the famous stars? The warmth, the laughter, the passion? No! Dear God, no! Surely she wasn’t so shallow? She had her own life, her own friends, her own career; surely, surely she hadn’t, even in the deepest recesses of her mind, wanted to be like Athena. Or how Athena had become since being married to Chris. Once she had been loving, sometimes selfish, but kind, happy. Now she was mercurial, temperamental, thoughtless and childish—pretty. Paris was twenty-nine years old! Not a child! And she had never wanted the supposed glamour that her sister so loved. Never. If she had, she would have stayed with Rupert, no matter what it might have cost her!
Disturbed, still dazed, she wandered outside, and, as though the elements wanted to show everyone how it was really done, like a silver screen, a soft, wet curtain of light, the rain moved away, up into the hills. A patch of blue appeared, a weak sun to throw a gentle glow over the little village that was divided by the small, winding road that led, eventually, to Oporto. She didn’t know how long she stood there, just staring ahead—ten minutes, half an hour—but when she turned she saw that only one trailer remained. The tea-wagon. With a little shudder, head down, she trudged up the field towards her car.
‘Get a move on, Paris,’ Henry shouted from the driver’s cab of the long camper. ‘I’ll follow you out.’
Lifting one hand in acknowledgement, not even pausing to wonder what on earth he was doing driving the tea-wagon, she hurried to her car, climbed into its comforting anonymity and drove out on to the road that would take them back to Espinho and the comfort of the hotel for the night. A different road to the one they had come in on, the road that ran beside the swollen river. Her mind more on what had happened in the hut than what was going on around her, she was almost past the little farmstead before she actually registered what she had seen. Slamming on her brakes, she stared with horror at the flood water that was slowly consuming the land around it, at the old lady who was struggling to rescue her possessions. Shoving the gear lever into neutral and dragging on the brake, she got out, hurried back, shouted across to her.
‘Paris!’ Henry yelled. ‘What on earth are you doing? Don’t leave your car there!’
Swinging around, she shouted, ‘We can’t leave her! She needs help!’
‘We can’t leave her?’ he queried sarcastically.
‘All right! I can’t leave her!’
She heard him mutter something rude and thereafter ignored him. Hurrying down the incline, wading into the rapidly rising water where the river had broken its banks, she grabbed the pile of bedding the old lady was holding, turned, and saw Oliver wading towards her. Shocked, because she hadn’t known he was with Henry, reluctant to face him, she avoided eye-contact and thrust the bundle in his general direction. ‘Shove everything in the trailer,’ she ordered peremptorily. Not waiting to see if he did what he was told, she hurried back to the open door of the farmhouse.
Slipping and sliding in the mud, her boots clogged, her raincoat flapping, she saw the chickens for the first time, shouted a query to the old woman, and then began trying to round them up. And, because she was the only one of them who spoke the language, shouts kept going up for her as she dashed back and forth, interpreting and issuing her own orders.
Grabbing a chair that had been piled on top of an old bench, she turned and nearly damaged Oliver. Nerves still stretched tight, not really knowing what to do or say, she snapped stupidly, ‘There are still chickens loose!’
‘I dare say there are, but if you bothered to actually look at me instead of round me, through me, or whatever else it is you’re doing, you would see that I already have my hands full!’
With a little sniff, she trudged past him with her chair and pushed it into the open door of the trailer. Oliver leaned past her and dumped his own armful beside it. ‘And where, might I ask, are we to take all this stuff when we’ve loaded it?’
‘The next village,’ she muttered, still without actually looking at him. ‘She has friends there.’
‘Right.’ Turning on his heel, he stalked back to the farmhouse just as Henry arrived trying to juggle a blanket-wrapped bundle, two cooking-pots and a large pot-plant. It was beginning to get dark.
‘Oliver!’ Henry shouted after him. ‘For goodness’ sake don’t run like that! If you fall and break a leg…And be careful of your face!’
Oliver ignored him.
‘Idiot,’ he muttered. Swinging back to Paris, he castigated, ‘Why the hell can’t she put some damned lights on? I can’t see what the hell I’m doing!’
‘What damned lights?’ she snapped. ‘They don’t have any.’
He threw her a look of astonishment. ‘Good God.’
‘Quite. Unless you’d like a candle, of course!’ Relieving him of the plant, she wedged it between the chair and the bundle Oliver had rescued.
‘And why is she here on her own? An old lady like that! It’s scandalous!’
‘She isn’t normally on her own. Her son and daughterin-law are in Espinho. Not due back until tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Oh.’
‘And you’ve become very bossy!’ he complained as he turned to wade back to get something else.
She hadn’t become bossy! She was always bossy! No, she wasn’t. Normally she was unobtrusive, or so she thought, faded into the wallpaper. Pitched in, helped out…With a long sigh, she trudged off to look for livestock.
‘Paris!’
Turning, seeing Oliver trying to restrain the owner, she grabbed a passing chicken and shouted, ‘What?’
‘She wants to take her bloody bed!’
‘Then help her!’
‘Don’t be daft! It won’t go through the door!’
‘Then dismantle it!’
‘We don’t have time! For God’s sake, Paris, just look where the river is!’
‘I’m looking!’ Releasing the chicken, she hurried over, then explained in short, pithy, terms, ‘It’s probably her most prized possession! She’s no doubt scrimped and saved for years to buy it! She can’t just claim on the bloody insurance if it gets lost! They don’t have insurance! What they lose stays lost! They can’t afford to replace things like we can! Now move!’ Speaking quickly to the old lady, reassuring her, she asked her to explain how it dismantled. A wide, relieved smile was thrown at her and she practically shoved Oliver in through her front door. Serve him right. Knock some of the pomposity out of him! Water was just touching her calves.
By the time they’d finished, the precious bed safely stowed, the old lady having a final check round, Paris leaned against the side of the camper, Henry beside her.
‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.
He gave her a tired smile. ‘Not your place to thank me. I might have been a bit slow off the mark, but not reluctant, Paris.’ Turning to stare at the rapidly spreading water, he mused, ‘Seems a funny place to build your home. Right on the riverbank.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed inadequately.
With another tired smile, he patted her shoulder and levered himself upright. ‘I’d better go and look for the lost chicken. Can’t have the egg ratio down, can we?’
‘No,’ she smiled.
Ambling off, he left Paris to her contemplation of the scene before her. A scene that now included Oliver’s back. He was perched on the wall in front of her, examining one hand. The jeans he’d changed into were soaked to above the knee, his grey sweatshirt wet and muddy, the blond hair tousled. A strong back, the shoulders wide, a nice place to rest a weary head. With a grim little smile she wrenched her gaze away to absently watch a mangy-looking dog walk slowly down the road towards them. It looked as dejected as she felt. And yet, at the end of the day, it was only fantasy, wasn’t it? This undefined yearning, this need. So why, if she knew that, didn’t it go away? Why couldn’t she laugh about it? Because it was funny, wasn’t it? Lusting after one of the most well-known actors of the day. No, she thought with a long sigh, it wasn’t funny at all. She’d waited all her adult life to feel the way she had felt when he’d kissed her—-and it had, to be a film star. A hero of the silverscreen. She could still almost feel the touch of his mouth on hers, the feel of his hands on her shoulders, and she shivered.
The dog reached her, sat, looked hopeful, scratched.
‘Not more bloody livestock,’ Oliver complained tartly. ‘Damned thing’s probably got fleas!’
Flinging her head up in a reflex action, she stared at him. He’d swivelled round on the wall and was now facing her. Hastily averting her gaze, she agreed tonelessly. ‘Probably.’
He sighed, the dog gave him a look that could only be described as dismissive, got to his feet and wandered off. ‘Probably seen one of my films,’ he observed mournfully.
‘Yes.’ She tried for a smile, and couldn’t quite manage it. She knew he was watching her, could feel his eyes on her, and refused to look up.
‘Not amused, I see.’
‘No.’
His sigh was deeper, longer. ‘It was only a damned kiss!’
‘Yes.’ Only a damned kiss.
‘You want me to apologise, is that it?’
‘No,’ she denied woodenly.
‘Then stop bloody sulking!’
Looking up to glare at him, she insisted, ‘I am not sulking! And I did not ask for it,’ she retorted in remembered anger. ‘Did not want anything. And I don’t know why you thought I did!’
‘Because women do,’ he said, somewhat bleakly. ‘Why should you be any different?’
‘Because I am! It was practically an assau——’
‘Oliver!’ Henry roared as he hurried up. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get off that damp wall! You’ll catch your death!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped. ‘You don’t catch your death from sitting on a damp wall!’
‘Piles, then.’
‘Oh, charming! That’ll look well in the world’s Press, won’t it? Famous actor goes down with piles!’ Getting to his feet, he stormed off.
‘What’s up with him?’ Henry demanded in astonishment. ‘What have you been saying?’
‘Nothing, and do put that chicken down! You look extremely silly!’
Glancing down at the chicken, he dropped it into the makeshift pen as though it were a hot potato. ‘And that’s another thing! What are we supposed to do with them? They can’t go in the camper!’
‘Why not?’ she asked irritably.
‘Why not? Why not? Use your brain, Paris! We’ll be knee-deep in chicken sh…manure,’ he hastily substituted, ‘before we’ve gone half a mile!’
With a reluctant grunt of laughter, she stared at him helplessly. ‘Oh, Henry, what a day.’ Straightening, she went to have a word with the old lady. Moments later, both men came to see what the argument was about.
‘She wants to put them in the boot of the car!’ Paris exclaimed.
‘Oh, what a good idea,’ Oliver drawled approvingly.
Rounding on him, she shouted, ‘Don’t be so stupid! What the hell are the hire company going to say when they see the boot covered in chicken…mess?’
‘They won’t look,’ he said impatiently, ‘and even if they do, just put on your innocent expression and tell them it must have been like that when you hired it! If you can boss us all about, I’m sure as hell sure you can do the same with a car-hire company! They’re not nearly so important! Now, can we for God’s sake get this show on the road?’ Turning away, he went to grab a chicken.
Henry snorted, got glared at, and meekly went to help.
Wrenching open the boot, determined not to see the funny side of it, Paris muttered, ‘And if they die of suffocation, or carbon monoxide poisoning, I’m not paying the compensation!’ Staring at the men’s innocent expressions, and the old lady’s blank one, she gave a reluctant smile. They looked like the Three Stooges. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, ‘just get on with it. And find me a newspaper!’
Henry meekly found her an old dog-eared script which she tore apart and carefully lined the boot with, then oversaw the placing of the chickens.
‘You never know,’ Oliver whispered close to her ear, ‘they might lay you some nice little eggies for your tea.’
‘Shut up, Oliver! Just shut up!’ Swinging round to glare, she found him much too close, and took a hasty step backwards.
‘And I don’t know why you’re glaring, I’m the one who’s been abused. Shouted at, derided, my fragile ego bruised. You’ve dragged me into a wooden hut, forced your opinions down my throat, thrust me into misadventure. I’ve been thoroughly soaked, had chickens shoved at me—it isn’t at all what I’m used to, you know. I’m a film star.’
She tried to maintain her glare, felt her lips twitch, and looked quickly down, reached out to close the boot.
‘And just as a point of interest,’ he asked lazily, ‘has anyone ever tried to strangle you?’
She nodded, a little glint of mischief in her eyes. ‘Frequently.’
‘And have obviously never succeeded.’
‘No.’ Giving him a sideways look, she murmured irrepressibly, ‘I’m fast on my feet.’
Laughter flickered in the back of his eyes, warmth softened his face, then he chuckled and turned away to hold the passenger door open for the old lady.
Climbing quickly behind the wheel, she caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror. She was grinning like an idiot. Fool, Paris. You don’t like actors, remember?
Turning to automatically check that the road was clear, she caught Oliver’s eye as he climbed up into the trailer beside Henry, and gave a helpless laugh, because it was so absurd. And if his adored fans could see him now, they would adore him even more. Sobering, she thrust the car into drive, smiled reassuringly at her passenger, and set off on the two-mile journey to the next village.
While the old lady went to explain to her friends, Paris went to check on the chickens, and the men to unload the belongings. Half an hour later, their mission of mercy accomplished, they were ready to resume their journey, and all that remained was for Paris to give a message to the old lady’s son on their way through Espinho.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Oliver declared unexpectedly. ‘In fact, I’ll do the driving; we can’t have our intrepid heroine drive alone in the dark.’
Giving him a look of astonishment, but too tired to argue, she merely nodded and climbed into the passenger seat. She felt wet, uncomfortable, weary, and being squashed up with Oliver in the narrow confines of the car seemed—nice. They waved to the abandoned Henry and set off. They found the address the old lady had given her without too much trouble, and, when Paris was back in the car, clutching a little bottle of something or other that the son had pressed on her, they drove back across the railway line and along to the hotel. The hotel that had been closed for refurbishment, the hotel that had opened up the dining-room with reduced staff, allowed them to use one floor, because it had been an offer too good to refuse. Not everyone was prejudiced against film crews.
The trailers were all lined up on the beach ready to be driven to Santander and the ferry to England if George gave the word after he’d reviewed the day’s rushes; flights would be booked, suitcases packed, and she would go back to her troubled life, put Oliver behind her, and, hopefully, her muddled feelings. And it all seemed a rather flat end to it all. Undoing her seatbelt, she gave a soft little sigh and reached for the door-catch.
‘I’ll apologise if you will,’ he said softly.
Surprised, she swung round to face him. There was a faint humorous quirk to his sensuous mouth, laughter deep in his eyes. Fighting off the urge to retreat, get out now, escape, she stared rather worriedly at him, then sighed and shook her head. ‘No,’ she denied quietly, ‘I think it’s the other way about.’
‘Only think?’ he teased.
‘No,’ she admitted with a comically wry little grimace, ‘know. I’ve been behaving like an idiot, deliberately obstructive.’
‘Why?’ he asked gently.
‘Oh,’ she prevaricated, ‘I don’t know.’ And it was absurd, but she felt so embarrassed, awkward, gauche, as though she had never been intimate with a man before, never been kissed, never mind one that had not been meant.
‘You put a label on me, didn’t you?’ he asked, his voice still gentle, understanding. ‘And then never bothered to look past the glue.’
‘No…Yes,’ she admitted reluctantly. She hadn’t wanted to look past the glue. She’d deliberately made him two-dimensional, and of course he wasn’t. She had also thought herself secure enough, capable enough, to cope with most things that life threw at her—until the disturbing reaction to his appearance in her life, to the way he’d kissed Melissa, and then herself. And it was all so silly, this yearning after a film star. Utterly absurd to give credence to the feelings he generated in her—generated in millions of other women, too, no doubt. So why on earth couldn’t she separate fact from fiction? She wasn’t a fool—or hadn’t been, until now.
‘Not going to tell me why?’
She shook her head.
‘All right,’ he agreed gently. ‘Change of subject?’
Still wary, but grateful that he seemed to understand, she nodded. ‘Please.’ And then decided that she really did need to know why, clarify…‘Do women behave like that? Expect—want—pursue you for what they can get?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
‘That woman in the paper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. But I wasn’t…I mean, I didn’t…’ Cross with herself for being so inarticulate, she added firmly, ‘That wasn’t what I was doing!’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Then what were you doing?’ he teased, then laughed when she looked confused. ‘OK, unfair question.’ Settling himself, the faint smile still in the back of his eyes, he commented, ‘You were pretty quick off the mark just now. I didn’t even notice the farm, let alone the flooding.’
And that was it? She didn’t even know if he believed her. Rather mortifying to think that he might not. But if she pursued it, it would give it an importance it mustn’t have.
‘Done that sort of thing before, have you?’ he continued easily. ‘Rescuing elderly ladies?’
‘No, although I dare say I over-reacted, as usual,’ she murmured with a wry little smile of her own. ‘I imagine she would have coped perfectly well without my intervention.’
‘Not with the bed she wouldn’t!’
Diverted, she gave a weak chuckle. ‘Poor you.’
‘Not poor me,’ he corrected. ‘It might have taught me something about values. Taught us all. And we think ourselves deprived if the television goes on the blink. It’s a whole different world, Paris, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. And yet I don’t imagine she feels herself hard done by. This is her life, the way she’s always lived.’
‘A piece of land, a loving family, enough to eat? A simple life—or so it looks to others. I imagine it’s unbelievably hard.’
‘Yes, and yet I think these country people are the most cheerful I’ve ever met. Friendly, kind, humorous.’
‘Generous? What’s in the bottle?’
‘I don’t know—some sort of local brew, I imagine.’ Unscrewing the top, she sniffed, then experimentally sipped. ‘Wine?’ she guessed.
Taking the bottle, he touched the neck with his tongue. ‘Brandy?’
‘Typhoid?’ she quipped.
He choked, then laughed. ‘Well, if it is, don’t for God’s sake tell Henry!’
‘I won’t. Whatever else I may be, I’m not a snitch.’
‘No, I never supposed you were.’
Turning her face towards him, she sighed, and managed a smile. He smiled back, and her silly heart turned over. Even looking like a sludge-bucket, he was devastating. Mud across one cheekbone, his hair damp, dishevelled, hands grimy, and now that he was being friendly, self-mocking, he was extraordinarily difficult to dislike. And yet, oddly enough, whenever she’d seen him at the cinema, she’d liked him as an actor, admired him, but she hadn’t felt this ridiculous awareness. It wasn’t adoration because he was famous; it wasn’t even a form of excitement, awe; it was something more, something she didn’t entirely understand.
‘Why the sigh?’ he asked kindly. ‘Tired?’
‘Mmm,’ she agreed, ‘a bit.’ It was an acceptable excuse, and partially true. Wrenching her gaze from his, she stared at the lighted hotel in front of them, felt tension begin to filter back.
‘You work for George’s brother, don’t you?’
‘Yes, he runs the translation agency.’
‘Are they alike?’
‘Only in looks. George shouts, William wheedles.’
‘And wheedled you out here? When you didn’t want to come?’ he tacked on softly.
Giving him a little glance from the corner of her eyes, she grinned. ‘That obvious, huh? I wanted to go to Japan. Should have been going to Japan.’
‘You don’t like Portugal?’
‘I love Portugal, and normally would have been delighted to come. I like the language, the people, the scenery, especially here on the green coast. It’s truly lovely when the weather’s good, but…’
‘You wanted to practise your Japanese?’
‘Mmm, and see the country. I’ve never been there, you see.’
‘A good enough reason, probably better weather, too.’
‘Yes, but George was calling in favours, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘and his brother, William, was obviously no more proof against his persuasions than the rest of us—because we all knew,’ he added quietly, ‘that, unlike Melissa, he isn’t flavour of the month. That his last two films were flops…’
‘And if he doesn’t succeed with this one?’
He made a cutting motion at his throat. ‘It’s a sad fact of life that when you’re down, nothing goes right. Past glories, achievements, count for nothing.’
‘And there’s nothing worse than being a has-been,’ she stated softly. Better never to have achieved at all, Paris sometimes thought. People could be very scathing about failure. About success, too. You could fight, achieve, be fêted, adored, and when you were up there, those same people who had put you there tried to knock you down, and when they succeeded, as they so often did, they were merciless in their scorn. ‘That’s why this production is so important to him?’
‘Mmm, and if the television company like it, as please God they will, he has the option to do six more.’
‘They’ll like it,’ she encouraged positively. And they probably would, because Oliver Darke was in it—and he was a very good actor.
‘I hope so, for George’s sake. What made you become an interpreter?’ he asked curiously.
With one of her comical little grimaces, she explained drily, ‘It was the only thing I was good at.’
‘School?’
‘Useless.’
‘Fibber.’ He grinned. ‘You couldn’t have been that useless if you manage to translate goodness knows how many languages.’
‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘And you? Why did you become an actor?’
‘The same.’
‘The only thing you were good at?’
‘Mm.’
‘Liar,’ she reproved softly. ‘Henry told me you have a law degree, that you’re one of those wretched people who excel at whatever they turn their hand to.’
‘Henry seems to have said altogether far too much. Which isn’t like him at all,’ he mused softly to himself.
‘And if he could see you now, he would tell you to go and get out of those wet clothes. You’re a very valuable property.’
‘And you aren’t? To anyone?’
With another little shrug, she admitted, ‘Not at the moment.’
‘No parents?’
‘No. They died a long time ago. Ten years,’ she said softly. ‘They were quite elderly when they had us. A late family. When Mum died, I don’t think Dad wanted to go on without her; he died barely a year later.’
‘Wretched for you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Us?’ he queried gently.
‘I have a sister.’
‘No lover? Man in your life?’
She shook her head. Not wanting to talk about herself any more, her life, she asked, ‘Why does Henry always wear black?’
He grinned. ‘Someone once told him he looked like a pall-bearer. It amused him, so he now dresses accordingly.’
Rather a glib explanation, but probably true. ‘We’d better go in,’ she urged as he absently peeled his wet jeans away from his thigh. ‘Hot properties mustn’t be allowed to get chilled, although, now that filming’s finished, I imagine you’ll be off to warmer climes, or something/ she murmured, her prejudices not entirely dissipated.
‘I wish!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have another film I need to finish; the studio reluctantly released me for a couple of weeks in order to help George out.’
‘Oh.’
He smiled. A smile that was teasingly malicious. ‘You thought I was playing the big star, didn’t you? Being magnanimous. Nipping in for the glory bits, get the recognition. No, no, don’t deny it, and don’t explain; your real reason for the dislike might be worse. Think of my ego!’
With an acknowledging smile, she removed the bottle from his hand, carefully screwed the top back on, and reached for the door-handle.
‘Retreating in good order, Paris?’
And something in his tone made her nervous. Nothing readily identifiable, just—something. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured without turning. And, if George was happy with the day’s takes, tomorrow he would be gone, and then maybe, just maybe, she could get her life back together. And, deciding that words, any words, might dispel the nervousness she was feeling, she looked back to ask, ‘Were you really getting into the mood when I disturbed you in the hut this morning?’
‘Of course. I was practising a sightless gaze,’ he said straight-faced, just the tiniest twitch to his lips to give the game away. ‘And in the caravan I was trying to get into the mood of the part!’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ she apologised belatedly.
Moving into a more comfortable position, his eyes on her downcast face, he queried gently, ‘Don’t like actors, Paris? Not allowed, you know. We thrive on adoration. And, instead of chatting here to you, I should be busily giving everyone in the town my autograph…’
‘I don’t think they know who you are,’ she said solemnly, and he grinned, the grin that set a million hearts swooning. Or was it?
‘Still determined to put me down?’ he queried humorously.
‘Sorry,’ she apologised again, quite unrepentantly.
He touched an admonishing finger to her cheek. ‘It’s just a job, you know. Like any other.’
‘Sure.’ With a little shiver, she moved her head away, and his smile died; the light of laughter in his eyes flickered and went out.
Her own eyes suddenly wide, wary, her heartbeat accelerating uncomfortably, she warned huskily, ‘Oliver…’
Removing his elbow from the back of the seat, his movement slow, pre-ordained almost, he slid his hand to her nape, urged her forward and, ignoring her resistance, gently touched his mouth to hers, until the breath jerked in her throat. ‘I can’t get it out of my mind,’ he murmured against her lips, ‘the feel of it, the warmth.’ And then proceeded to increase that warmth, part her mouth with eager insistence, gather her close, and the kiss deepened, became urgent.
‘No,’ she groaned. Trying to push him away in the narrow confines of the car, her palm slid from his damp shoulder to his warm neck, felt the little pulse throbbing there, and she shuddered. ‘Oliver, you said—didn’t believe…’
‘Shh,’ he murmured throatily as he continued to taste the sweetness of her, sending long shivers down her back, curling painful heat into her stomach, and, as his other hand splayed across her spine, urging her yet closer, she felt her resistance slipping and fought to retain her sanity. Pure seduction, her mind whispered hazily, but the excitement of it, the hunger of it, was crumbling her defences.
The throbbing pulse in his neck seemed to echo her own heartbeat, the feel of his hair tickling her fingertips, a sensuous delight, and, just as she felt her body begin to melt into his, he broke free. ‘Not wise,’ he said, and his voice was thick, husky, his breathing ever so slightly uneven. ‘Pure vanity, because I wanted you to know…’ With a little shake of his head, a smile that was almost rueful, he added softly, ‘From me. The person, not the actor. My own technique, because you sometimes have trouble differentiating between the two, don’t you?’ His arms slowly leaving her, his beautiful brown eyes still intent, serious, he finally found a warmer smile, and Paris did not know if it was real or false. ‘Although I’m mighty glad to see that it also leaves you speechless.’ Turning away, he quickly removed the keys from the ignition and reached for his own handle.
‘Oliver,’ she managed huskily, and then didn’t know what to say, only knew that she needed to make it clear that she wasn’t a player.
He turned, searched her face, then smiled gently. ‘No discussion, no analysis, let’s just ride the rainbow, hmm? Come on, let’s get out of these wet clothes.’
Ride the rainbow? What did that mean? Wait and see if there was gold at the end? Or only an empty crock? Still staring blankly after him, mesmerised almost, worried and bewildered, she got out and walked rather dazedly into Reception. Speechless? Oh, yes. And confused, and aching. And had that been just another job? Because he thought that was what she’d expected? Wanted? And if you were pretty, you could expect things like that. But she wasn’t pretty—and she didn’t. So why had he done it? From me, he’d said, the man, not the actor, but in her experience, limited admittedly, there seemed little difference between the two. Acting seemed to take over your life to the exclusion of all else. It had affected Chris that way, made her sister hard. And Rupert, whom she’d once loved—no, not loved; if she had, she would probably have stayed with him, even though he’d changed so much. Celebrity status, the pursuit of stardom, had altered his values. Everything had to suffer for his art, including herself. But she hadn’t wanted to suffer, had refused to do so, because she had wanted more from life than to be someone’s ego-booster, someone’s prompt. A shoulder when they were down, ignored when they were up. No, she wanted more from life than that. Wanted to be a person in her own right, not an extension of someone else’s. And if Rupert’s kisses had made her feel a tenth of what Oliver’s had done… And Oliver hadn’t been entirely unaffected, had he? His voice had been thicker…and he’d said…
Don’t be dumb, Paris. With a long, troubled sigh, she looked up, focused ahead, and felt a clawing pain inside. Oliver was standing at the desk, Melissa beside him, and, even as she watched, the young actress reached up, one small hand on Oliver’s shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his mouth. Oliver laughed, hooked her against him, kissing her back.
She felt diminished, stupid, because she had thought he didn’t even like the young starlet…With a twisted smile, because she knew that actors didn’t have to like someone to go around kissing them, she quickly averted her eyes, managed a vague smile for one of the receptionists, then grimaced ruefully at her look of horror for the state she was in, and thankfully handed over her filthy mac and boots to be cleaned. Collecting her key, and the letter that had been tucked in her pigeonhole, she walked across the foyer, and it wasn’t until she was halfway up the stairs that she fully understood why he had kissed her, what he had been trying to achieve. What Rupert had been so good at achieving. He had charmed away her sulks, left another adoring fan in his magnificent wake. And that was, probably, what he had been doing. Actors acted all the time, didn’t they? Didn’t they? And if she hadn’t seen him with Melissa, might she not have been tempted into believing that his kisses had been meant?