‘PARIS!’
Halting, she stiffened and slowly turned to see Oliver bounding up the stairs behind her.
‘I forgot to ask you something.’
‘What? Did I mind being practised on?’
‘Sorry?’ he queried in confusion.
She gave him an arctic smile. ‘And, although I am very well aware that the acting profession acts, I do not like being used.’
Turning away, she continued her ascent. She could almost hear him thinking about it, what she had said, and then his footsteps sounded again and she was brought to an abrupt halt. He moved in front of her, blocked her progress, stared at her, and said quietly, ‘Would you like to run that by me again?’
‘No.’
Leaning his elbow on the banister, he propped his chin in his hand and continued to watch her. ‘Are we referring to the kiss?’
She kept her expression blank, stared back.
‘Practise? I don’t need to practise!’ he murmured with dry humour.
‘How very nice for you.’
‘You saw me kiss Melissa.’ A statement, not a question.
And when she remained silent, the same quizzical expression on his face, he asked softly, ‘Jealous?’
Her mouth tight, she tried to step past him, only to be thwarted by him stepping in front of her. ‘Let me past.’
‘No.’ And odd little smile playing about his mouth, he murmured, ‘Some time in the future, Melissa and I might have to work together again. The kiss was—expedient.’ Hooking her against him, much as he had hooked the starlet, he kissed her very quickly, very impersonally, on the mouth. ‘Like that. Not,’ he added even more softly, ‘like this.’ He bent again, parted her surprised mouth with gentle insistence, touched his tongue fleetingly to hers, and stepped back. With a slightly mocking smile, he turned away, ran lightly up the remaining stairs and disappeared along the corridor that led to his room.
Feeling stupid, her fingers unconsciously touching her mouth, suddenly realising that she would be in full view of anyone above or below, she scurried up to her own room, thankfully closed the door. And she still didn’t know why he had kissed her! Because he’d felt like it, presumably! Sinking down on to the edge of the bed, aware she was still clutching the note the receptionist had given her, and assuming it was from George with the next day’s schedule, she absently opened it, and was astonished to see that it was a telephone message from her sister. Frowning, she slowly reread it. Why on earth would Athena want to come out here? A stop-over, the note said. Stop over to where? Oh, heavens, surely not more trouble. And she didn’t want Athena out here. That sounded awful, and, although she loved her, was generally pleased to see her, she liked to keep her own working life separate.
Lying back on the bed, the note still in her hand, she stared up at the ceiling. Jealousy, Paris? No, she didn’t honestly think it was that, it was just that Athena was so disruptive! And she’d come here to temporarily escape her troubles, not bring them with her. Athena tended to deal in half-truths, innuendo—teasing, she called it, but it was a teasing that was often misconstrued. Paris wasn’t jealous of her sister’s beauty, her lifestyle, yet Athena always managed to make people believe that she was, and she had learnt over the years that denial only made things worse. ‘Teasing’ was a very difficult weapon to counter, and, although she was secure enough in her own abilities not to be hurt, she did get a bit peeved by it. And she had never really understood why ‘glamour’ was so envied by others. She didn’t envy it. Oh, well, she thought, trying to be philosophical, Athena would no doubt reveal all when she arrived in the morning for her ‘stop-over’.
Getting to her feet, she went to shower and wash and dry her hair. Wrestling with the wardrobe door, which kept getting stuck, owing no doubt to the fact that the varnish had been half stripped from it during the refurbishment process which the film crew had interrupted, she dressed in a navy wool dress, draped a silk scarf at her throat, stared thoughtfully at herself in the long mirror, and removed it. Gilding the lily, she thought with a rather sad smile—and no amount of gilding would make this lily look anything but ordinary. Elegant, but ordinary.
Pushing her feet into high-heeled navy shoes, collecting her bag, desperately trying to put into perspective the feel of a warm mouth parting her own—because it had been a teasing kiss, she told herself firmly, a kiss that meant nothing, because kisses were an actor’s stock in trade—she forced herself to consider Athena’s forthcoming visit, anticipate the problems so that she might deal with them. And if Melissa’s kiss had been expedient, why had he said their own hadn’t been wise? Because she might get ideas? Oh, will you stop thinking about it! Wrenching open the bedroom door, she hurried downstairs.
Most of the crew were already in the restaurant when she pushed inside, and they smiled or waved, inviting her to sit with them, but she elected to sit at her little table in the corner where she could watch the sea crashing against the rocky promontory. And have a good long think.
‘Don’t forget the party in the bar this evening,’ George called across. ‘Last night of filming; it’s traditional!’
‘Last night?’ she queried. ‘We’ve finished?’
He nodded, smiled.
Oh. And that meant—she wouldn’t see him any more, wouldn’t see Oliver. So the kiss had probably been in the nature of a parting gift—and he’d mentioned rainbows, because they were ephemeral, never meant to last. Feeling a little bit lost, she stared from the window. Wished, in a way, that it were already tomorrow, that all this were behind her, and then she saw him come in, saw him glance round, and she stiffened, prayed he wouldn’t come over to sit with her, then breathed a sigh of relief when he sat with George. It didn’t stop her discreetly watching him, though, and it was becoming obsessive, wasn’t it, this need to keep watching him? Trying to analyse his behaviour? Her own? The ridiculous awareness that made her tremble. He was freshly showered and shaved, dressed in a dark cream opennecked knit shirt and dark trousers, and he looked vibrant, alive, despite the sleepy eyes, his skin glowing with health. A star, entirely out of her reach, as all stars were. Unless you had a spaceship, which she didn’t. Nor the wherewithal to buy one. She would have one drink in the bar, she decided, and then go to bed, think about herself for a change. Sounded so easy when it was said.
Dawdling over her meal, she watched them leave one by one, heard them go into the bar. Coffee-cup nursed in her palms, she gave a faint sigh, and tomorrow she would find out for sure what sort of mess Athena had left her in this time. And, if Athena came early enough, before the crew left, pin a smile on her face as she watched her sister flirt with them. And she would. Flirting came as naturally as breathing to her sister. Don’t get peevish, Paris, it’s not nice.
‘You’re looking very pensive,’ Oliver observed.
With a little start, she looked up, felt colour wash into her face and looked hastily away. ‘Oh, hello, I didn’t see you,’ she murmured with an attempt at offhandedness which didn’t quite come off.
‘No,’ he agreed with a faint smile. ‘It makes a nice change. Or it would have made a nice change,’ he qualified with a grin, ‘if I hadn’t wanted you to see me.’ Grabbing a chair from the table behind him, he turned it round and sat opposite her.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about!’ she muttered crossly.
‘I know you haven’t, that’s what makes it so nice. Famous star?’ he prompted teasingly. ‘Never mind,’ he comforted when she continued to look lost. ‘Just one of those statements that don’t bear explaining.’ Propping his elbows on the table, chin in his palms, he grinned. ‘Due to—er—being distracted earlier, I didn’t get the chance to ask you.’ Adopting his best little-boy-lost look, he added, ‘I need a favour.’
‘Favour?’ she asked cautiously. ‘What sort of favour?’
‘An interpreting favour.’ Reaching across the table, he picked up one of her hands and gave her a winning smile. ‘There’s someone I need to talk with, a business venture…Have you ever been in that restaurant down the road? The one with the green awning?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, still cautiously, and, unbearably conscious of the feel of his warm fingers holding hers, she carefully withdrew her hand, made the excuse of needing to stir her coffee.
His own hand, left with nothing to do, idly picked up the salt pot, revolved it in his long fingers. ‘The owner has a yearning to open a restaurant in London. I have a restaurant in London, which isn’t doing terribly well,’ he added ruefully. ‘And so, if we can come to a satisfactory agreement…Unfortunately, his English isn’t very good, and, as you know, my Portuguese is nonexistent …’
‘And you both need to be sure of exactly what the other is saying?’
‘Yes. So will you? Please?’
‘When?’
‘Now? It won’t take very long—half an hour or so.’
And if she refused? It would look petty, wouldn’t it? And, not wanting him to query any denial she might make, because he would query it, and any excuse would sound like just that, an excuse, she gave a reluctant nod. She could be entirely businesslike about this, couldn’t she? It was, after all, business. ‘All right.’
‘Thank you. And knowing from past experience that end-of-filming parties tend to go on longer than is wise, I thought it best to see him now, instead of in the morning.’ He smiled again, inviting her to share his joke.
She didn’t want to share jokes, so she gave what she hoped was a cool smile. ‘Because everyone will be hung over? You make it sound like an orgy.’
‘No, just people telling each other how great they were, how good the film is going to be, drinking too much.’
‘Now who’s sounding cynical?’
He gave a comical little shrug. ‘It’s a cynical business.’ His head on one side, he asked softly, ‘Still feeling used?’
‘No,’ she denied stiffly.
‘Good. I’ll pay—for the interpreting,’ he added quickly, an irrepressible laugh escaping him.
Opening her mouth to tell him that he didn’t need to, feeling a fool, wishing she knew how to cope with him, she closed it again as she remembered the state of her finances, remembered she was being businesslike, and he laughed. ‘That’s it, Paris, never give anything for nothing.’
‘Is that your philosophy?’
‘Sure.’
She didn’t somehow think it was, any more than it was usually her own, but needs must when the Devil drives. And was this why he was being so nice to her? Because he needed a favour? Hating herself for being such a pessimist, she quickly finished her coffee. ‘I’ll go up and get my coat.’
‘Good girl.’ Standing, he returned his chair to its rightful place. ‘I’ll wait for you in the foyer.’
The meeting didn’t take long, just a preliminary discussion, and then an agreement to meet in London at the beginning of December. They all smiled, shook hands, and walked out into the cold, starry night.
‘Want to walk for a bit? Look in the shops?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ll go on back, I think.’
He caught her hand, turned her to face him. ‘Don’t be a spoil-sport. I want you to help me choose something.’
‘Why?’ she asked bluntly.
He grinned. ‘Because you have such excellent taste.’ Without giving her another chance to refuse, he tucked their linked hands into his pocket. ‘Shops are still open, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, they usually close about eight.’ Not sure how to extricate herself without looking a fool, she allowed herself to be led towards the railway crossing. Was this another little game? She couldn’t think of any other reason why he might want her company, and the feel of his warm fingers on hers was bittersweet. Nice, comforting, she admitted, and she tried very hard to be amused, philosophical, and couldn’t. She was horrified to discover that, even knowing that it meant nothing to him, she didn’t want this little interlude to end. Wanted to curl her fingers with his, not leave them lying lax. And he would feel the tension in her, wouldn’t he? And then he would wonder. Trying to rationalise it to herself, for her own peace of mind, she wondered if it was simply caused by confusion. For two weeks they’d been sniping at each other, and now, suddenly, he was being nice. A different Oliver. Someone boyish and charming…
When he nudged her to capture her wandering attention, she gave a little start, stared round her in surprise, almost as though unsure where on earth she was, what she was doing.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘Mmm?’ Forcing herself to concentrate, she stared into the window in front of them and the bright array of scarves displayed. Expensive scarves, she registered. Pure silk.
‘Think my mum would like one?’
‘Mum?’ she echoed stupidly.
He turned his head, gave her an underbrowed glance. ‘You said that as though you didn’t think I could possibly have a mother.’
‘Did I? Sorry.’ With a faint smile, she turned to stare back into the window. ‘It’s just that it sounded soordinary. Oliver Darke with a mum.’
‘I am ordinary.’
‘Nonsense. What’s she like? Dark? Fair?’
‘Fair—to greying,’ he grinned.
‘That one.’ She pointed. ‘Pink.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Not that bright greeny thing?’
‘No. Don’t you like pink?’
‘No.’
Diverted from her silent brooding, she asked curiously, ‘Why?’
‘Too bland.’
‘That’s no answer. What’s she like? Elegant? Dumpy? What?’
‘Dumpy?’ he exclaimed. ‘Good God, no!’ Pursing his lips, he stared thoughtfully at nothing. ‘Elegant,’ he finally pronounced.
Like her son. ‘And does she wear bright colours?’
He looked confused, then shook his head. ‘She wears black—sometimes. Grey…’
‘Then definitely the pink. Believe me,’ she insisted. ‘That particular shade of green is very difficult to wear. And it’s not entirely pink,’ she encouraged, ‘it has shadings of grey.’
‘But I don’t like pink.’
With an unwilling laugh, and feeling helplessly exasperated, she tried to tug him inside. ‘You won’t have to wear it.’
Halting her, holding her back, he peered down into her face. ‘Did my kissing you upset you so very much? Is that’s what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong!’ she exclaimed quickly. ‘And of course it didn’t upset me. It was just a kiss, for goodness’ sake! I have been kissed before, you know!’ But not like that. Never like that.
‘Yes, I imagine you have,’ he agreed quietly.
Fool, Paris, fool! Pull yourself together. You can’t be affected by him, you don’t like actors, remember? It was utterly absurd, this awareness, and just because he was being nice to her…With an abrupt little movement, she led the way into the shop, leaving him no choice but to follow.
He bought the pink scarf for his mother, and, not entirely to be thwarted in his choice, bought the bright green one for his sister. ‘She’s dark,’ he explained, as though that were answer enough.
Making a supreme effort, she asked brightly, ‘You only have the one sister?’
‘Yes, and two delightful nephews. And a brother-inlaw, of course, and a dad, who, like you, is entirely unimpressed by my lofty status.’
She smiled, because that was what he expected, tried not to be delighted by this brief glimpse of the man behind the mask. She would treat him as a friend, she decided as they began to walk back to the hotel, putting nonsensical thoughts out of her head. A laudable intention that he immediately thwarted.
In a patch of shadow, he gently halted her and stared down into her face. ‘You don’t need to get any shopping?’
Wary again, worried, she shook her head. ‘No, I bought some things for my friends the other day.’
‘And do you always question things, Paris?’ he asked, his voice still incredibly gentle. ‘Doesn’t spontaneity ever feature in your life?’
‘Yes, of course it does.’ He wasn’t touching her, preventing her from moving, but the will-power needed to walk seemed to have gone, and that same sliding, blurring sensation was affecting her again, making her heart race, her throat dry.
‘But not with me? Because I’m an actor, is that it? And little Paris Colby doesn’t like actors? Or is it,’ he continued softly, ‘that you know as well as I that all our arguments, our inability to keep a civil tongue in our heads, is another name for awareness? Chemistry?’
‘No. I mean, it isn’t…’ Her voice barely audible, she continued to stare up at him, noted the way the distant street-lamp haloed his hair, deepened the planes and angles of his face.
‘Isn’t it? Not an unwillingness to admit it? Recognise it for what it is?’
‘Oliver…’
‘Shh.’ Putting his finger across her mouth, a finger that was gentle, yet seemed to burn, he continued, ‘You, because of my profession, and me, because I’m always reluctant to say something that might be misconstrued, or later need to be retracted?’
‘Then why are you…?’
‘Saying it now? Because I think I was wrong about you; because I like you, admire you. And because…’
‘You’re afraid to trust people? Because of who you are?’
‘Not afraid,’ he denied. ‘Reluctant, and if I’ve been less than generous, I’m sorry.’ He smiled, removed his finger, and briefly replaced it with his mouth. ‘Come on, you’re shivering.’
Yes, but not from cold.
‘I’ve become too cynical, too suspicious,’ he murmured as he wrapped a casual arm round her shoulders, urged her into motion. ‘Forgotten how to relax.’ With an odd sigh, he hugged her briefly to his side.
And she was the one who’d been chosen to remind him? Was she supposed to be honoured? There was a light on in one of the trailers, she saw—probably the technicians holding a card school. Desperate for anything to distract her mind, because she didn’t really know what he meant, what he was saying, she stared frantically at all that they passed. Noticed what cars were in the car park, saw that the glass doors into the foyer needed cleaning, and if he was saying what he seemed to be saying, then what? She didn’t want to get involved with another actor.
Obediently climbing the stairs at his urging, she registered the individual voices sounding from the bar, smiled absently at the raucous laughter.
‘Ready for the fray?’ Oliver asked. ‘You are coming, you know.’
‘Am I?’ Staring up at him, searching his face, such an impossibly handsome face that made anything she might think, feel, seem impossible, yet needing to clarify something, anything, she opened her mouth and closed it helplessly when he smiled, shook his head.
‘Not now. And don’t look so worried,’ he reproved humorously. ‘We’ll talk later. Party first, because it’s traditional! And you must never go to a party with a feeling of reluctance.’
‘Mustn’t I?’
‘No. Anticipation, as in all things, my dear Paris, is the key to enjoyment.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. And I haven’t spent the last half-hour or so dragging you round the shops to no point!’ Ignoring her puzzled look, he tugged her towards the doorway.
Giving in to the inevitable, she allowed herself to be ushered inside. Henry was holding forth, laughingly telling everyone of their adventures.
‘…and she may look like a stick insect, but believe me, that is one bossy, determined lady!’
There was the sound of laughter, and she glanced at Oliver, gave him a wry smile. It hadn’t been said maliciously, only in fun, but being compared to a stick insect…‘At the agency where I work,’ she said softly, ‘I’m affectionately known as Hattie, as in hat rack—at least, I hope it’s affectionately.’
‘I’d bet on it,’ he returned just as softly. Capturing her hand, he squeezed it and then led her forward.
A genuinely kind gesture, she wondered, or a last bit of insurance that she would remain a fan for life? That she would always, ever after, say he was a kind man? Don’t be cynical, Paris. No. But he was an actor. And actors—acted.
He released her hand, pushed her forward, and the noise and laughter suddenly stopped, cut off in mid-flow. Astonished, she stared at the group, and the group stared back. Hovering in acute embarrassment, not knowing what on earth was going on, she stared at them all in turn, and then George stepped forward, grasped her hand and pulled her into the centre of the now-silent crew. He picked up a gaily wrapped package from the bar, and solemnly handed it to her.
‘To say thank you,’ he explained. ‘It’s from all of us, for your help, your kindness…’
Bewildered, feeling awkward and unsure, she stared round her at the expectant, smiling faces. ‘But I didn’t do anything!’
There was a general laugh of disbelief.
‘But I didn’t!’ she insisted.
‘You came when you didn’t want to—oh, yes, I know all about Japan. You soothed Melissa…’
Not daring to glance at Oliver, she hung her head, stared at the pink bow on the present.
‘You kept all the locals happy…’
‘No…’
‘Yes. We had absolutely no trouble with anyone—spectators, officials…’
‘But that wasn’t because of me,’ she protested.
‘Yes it was! Despite the weather, my bad temper, Melissa’s awkwardness…’
‘Oliver’s bloodymindedness,’ Oliver put in with a grin.
‘…for the first time that I can remember,’ George continued determinedly, ‘we had an interpreter who soothed, gentled, didn’t put the locals’ backs up by being patronising, officious, charmed the mayor, the local police-force, owners of fields which turned into a quagmire…’
‘Oh, stop,’ she pleaded, her cheeks hot. ‘I only did what you paid me to do.’
‘Yes?’ he queried, one eyebrow cocked. ‘Did we pay you to hump props? Untangle cables? Act as unofficial seamstress when Melissa complained that her dress didn’t fit? Washer-upper…’
‘But only because I wasn’t doing anything else at the time!’
There was a roar of laughter that she didn’t in the least understand, and she looked helplessly into the sea of faces that surrounded her.
‘The last interpreter I worked with,’ George explained, ‘didn’t have much to do on occasion either, but no way would she dirty her hands with the washing-up!’
‘You don’t dirty hands with washing-up!’ someone retorted humorously. ‘You get them clean!’
More laughter.
‘She had her job description, and, by God, was she sticking to it!’ George insisted. ‘She put up the backs of everyone! We had spectators wandering all over the set—which it wasn’t her job to clear! It was a nightmare! If we’d had her,’ he continued more softly, ‘I doubt this film would ever have been finished. And I suspect you know how important it was to me, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘So, we’d like you to accept this little gift by way of thanks.’
Choked, her eyes prickling, and not knowing what on earth to say, she gave a tremulous smile and began to unwrap the little parcel. It was perfume. Expensive perfume, in the most gorgeous crystal bottle. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. Glancing up, her blue eyes misty, she gave another wobbly smile. ‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’
‘We didn’t know what to get, and we were a bit limited because we had to find a shop where the assistant spoke English,’ George grinned. ‘A shop very quickly,’ he added, ‘while Oliver kept you out of the way. Which meant either the perfumaria or the camping shop, and we didn’t think you’d want a tent!’
‘No,’ she denied helplessly. So that was why he’d dragged her round the town, as he put it. Not for her company. But then why had he said all those other things? Realising that they were still all waiting, she managed a smile. ‘Thank you. Thank you all. Very much.’
‘Right, what’s everyone drinking?’
Perched on a high stool at the bar, nursing her glass of white wine, her eyes on the bottle of perfume, only vaguely aware of the noise and laughter around her, she felt a fraud. She hadn’t done anything special, in fact most of the time she’d been as irritable as everyone else.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Oliver reproved from beside her.
Glancing up, she gave a faint smile, sadder than it need have been. ‘I didn’t really deserve a present.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘I wasn’t very nice to you.’
‘My back’s broad,’ he grinned.
‘Yes.’ And it had been kind of him to keep her occupied… But why was he being so nice to her now? Because he was nice to everyone? Although, he hadn’t been especially nice a few days ago. Because he was working, and now he wasn’t? And why on earth couldn’t she just accept it in the spirit it was no doubt meant? Because she was used to the acting profession being lighthearted and shallow? Yet that couldn’t be true of all of them, any more than it was true that all models were brainless bimbos or accountants wore glasses. And did it even matter if he was being shallow? But he had said that they would talk…Desperately pushing it from her mind, she stared round her. ‘What happened to Henry?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Gone to bed with a hot toddy. He doesn’t like parties. Got lots of exciting work lined up when you get back?’
‘Not to my knowledge; no doubt William will inform me differently,’ she smiled. Hoped William would inform her differently; with all these debts to pay off, she needed as much work as she could get. And if Athena, as she suspected, came out with yet more troubles for her to solve…Her unconscious sigh sounded almost despairing.
‘Problems?’ he asked softly as he leaned on the bar beside her.
His dark brown eyes were kind, interested. Or was it an expression he used in his profession? Able to turn it off and on…Oh, stop it, Paris!
‘No,’ she denied, ‘I expect I’m just tired, and a little overwhelmed by everyone’s kindness.’ Especially yours. And a little apprehensive about the reason for my sister’s visit.
‘That makes it sound as though you aren’t used to people being kind.’
‘No, yes, oh, I don’t know.’ She smiled, more naturally this time. ‘And you? Back to your filming?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Don’t you enjoy it?’
‘Enjoy it?’ he queried thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I suppose I do—the working part, anyway. I don’t entirely enjoy the—trappings,’ he added with a rather cynical twist to his mouth.
Didn’t he? Entirely the opposite view of her brother-in-law and his entourage. They seemed to enjoy the trappings more than the work! ‘And where is the lovely Melissa?’ she asked before she could stop herself. ‘Doesn’t she attend these bashes?’
‘Afraid I might kiss her again?’ he teased, and then laughed. ‘The lovely Melissa,’ he explained drily, ‘has already gone. Whisked away the moment she got back to the hotel.’
‘Not quite the mom——’
‘Paris,’ he warned softly. ‘I shall begin to think you are jealous.’
‘Hmph.’ He was probably intending to see her back in England. He probably…‘What happens if George needs to do some more takes?’ she asked determinedly.
He gave her a sly grin. ‘How’s your acting?’
Startled into a little grunt of laughter, she shook her head.
‘No? Not even a love-scene?’ Raising and lowering his eyebrows in comical suggestion, totally unaware of the little seed of yearning he unleashed, he reluctantly, or apparently reluctantly, moved aside to make room for one of the cameramen who wanted to chat with her about Spain, where he would be going next, and so it went on, and her intention of only having one drink was forgotten. Time was marching on, wasn’t it? Time for her to meet someone, fall in love, marry and have children… Don’t be so maudlin! Defiantly determined to enjoy herself, drinking all that she was given without a thought for any possible hangover, several hours later she was rather hazily astonished at how much she was succeeding. It was rather nice to be the centre of attention for a change, even if they were members of the dreaded profession. She might also have been very surprised to learn that it wasn’t because she was the only female present that everyone made a fuss of her, but because she was genuinely liked, was excellent company, that she had a fund of hilarious anecdotes about her work as a translator and was a very good raconteur. She was also an excellent mimic, and rather naughtily gave impressions, not only of George’s brother, which had the tubby director in stitches, but of Melissa, whom she had off to a ‘T’. She glanced rather slyly at Oliver to see how he was taking it, and found that he was laughing as much as everyone else. But looking at him had been a mistake, because it reminded her of her of what he had said, of her own amorous yearnings, and she suddenly found that she wanted to slide her arms round that strong neck, fit her body against his, feel his warmth, his…With a little shudder she finished her drink too quickly, felt momentarily ill, and within seconds Oliver was by her side.
‘Time to go,’ he said softly.
‘I’m all right…’
‘No, you aren’t,’ he said gently. ‘Come on.’
‘You aren’t responsible…’ she began, hazily registered his determination, and squinted down at her watch. ‘It’s gone two!’ she exclaimed in surprise.
‘Yes.’
With a rather bewildered air she glanced round, saw that only the stalwarts were left. George, Oliver, a couple of the lighting experts, and herself. She had no memory of the others leaving, and that was a bit worrying.
When Oliver gently grasped her arm to help her down, she thought about shaking him off, glanced at him, and gave in. Her earlier euphoria had definitely changed to a vague feeling of distress. The room also seemed to have taken on a slight list.
Actually remembering to pick up her bag and the precious bottle of perfume, and, with Oliver helping her, she began the slow walk to the exit.
‘I can manage, you know,’ she said with marvellous dignity.
‘Mmm,’ he agreed with some amusement as he scooped up their coats and his own parcels from the chair by the door.
‘There’s really no need for you to accompany me.’
He quirked an eyebrow at her.
‘Anyone would think I was drunk.’
‘Anyone would be right,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, funny lady; independence is all very well, but I’d hate to be responsible for you falling down the stairwell!’
‘I’ve never fallen down a stairwell in my life!’
He laughed.
Strangely, the corridor to her room seemed to have lengthened, taken on distorted proportions, and when her key transformed itself into an unwieldy object that wouldn’t fit the keyhole she was rather glad of his assistance. And all would have been well if Oliver hadn’t needed to come in to leave her coat, if she hadn’t forgotten to unplug her hairdryer, the flex of which still trailed across the carpet, because then she wouldn’t have caught her foot in it. Oliver wouldn’t have needed to try and save her, and they wouldn’t both have sprawled on to the wide, soft, very, very welcome bed.
Her nose almost touching his, her eyes definitely unfocused at such close quarters, she stared at his lashes. They looked very long, and thick. ‘Thank you,’ she said solemnly.
‘You’re welcome. And now I must go.’
‘Yes.’
He didn’t move an inch. ‘I will swing my feet to the floor, stand, make my way to my own room…’ There was a little pause while he stared rather searchingly at her, and the alcoholic haze fled on silent wings. Excitement took its place.
He smiled, that delightful Oliver smile, and the most delicious pain slid down to her stomach.
‘Did you have your teeth fixed?’ she asked foolishly.
He blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘Expensive dental work?’
‘Dental work?’
‘Mmm.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh. Plastic surgery?’
With a funny little shake of his head, amusement lurking in his beautiful eyes, he denied, ‘No. No, I definitely didn’t have plastic surgery. I would have remembered.’
‘Yes, something like that you would definitely have remembered.’
‘Yes. So I couldn’t have had it, could I?’
‘No.’
They smiled at each other.
‘I’m sorry I kissed you in the car,’ he apologised solemnly.
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about it all evening. Shouldn’t have done it.’
‘No.’
‘Then.’
‘Sorry?’ she queried.
‘Then,’ he repeated. ‘Should have done it later.’
‘You did,’ she pointed out dreamily. ‘On the stairs. In the street.’
‘So I did.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ His eyes a great deal clearer than her own, a half-smile on his mouth, he said softly, ‘Because I wanted to.’
‘Yes. The way I do right now.’ Rolling forward a fraction, he touched his mouth to hers. Just touched, soft as a butterfly wing, and heat spiralled through her, a sliding, spreading feeling of—desire.
His tongue touched fleetingly against her lower lip, and she groaned, moved one arm across him, touched his strong back, wanted to immerse herself in the scent of him, the texture, touch that soft skin, inhale the fresh smell of his hair. Forever.
One strong hand reached for her hip, urged it closer, halted, and he drew back to stare down to see what was digging into his stomach. Removing her bag, and the perfume that she still held clutched to her chest, he reached behind him to put them on the floor, smiled, drew her more firmly into his embrace, and the kiss deepened, became magical, and as his thighs touched hers, her throat dried, and a tremor of excitement, need, shook her. A small part of her—the sober, sensible part of her—said, No, don’t be a fool, but the rest of her, the soft, compliant, needful part of her, said, Yes, yes, yes. Please.
Moving her hand up to his nape, a movement that was dreamlike, special, she trailed her fingers through hair that felt like silk, and as he continued to kiss her, softly, almost experimentally, learning her secrets, her thoughts, a tiny part of her mind asked, Is this a role he’s playing? A part he’s played before? And if she said ‘cut’ would he stop, blink, roll away? But she wasn’t really listening to her mind, and she didn’t want to say ‘cut’. Tomorrow there would be regret, possibly shame, embarrassment, but not now. Now she wanted it all. As, it appeared, did he. Because he’d had too much to drink and had forgotten who she was?
‘Paris?’ he whispered against her mouth, a tiny breath of sound, audible only to her. A whisper laced with laughter.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m not entirely sober.’
‘No.’
‘And, stupid as it might sound, I feel extraordinarily aroused, and I want to make love to you.’
‘Yes. Why might it sound stupid?’
‘Because you don’t like me.’
Oh, Oliver, I do, I do, I do.
Moving her fingers to his face, she traced his eyebrows, his classical nose, the side of his mouth where it still rested against hers. ‘I changed my mind,’ she murmured. ‘I like you fine.’
She felt him smile and touched one foot to his calf, began to rub it up and down. ‘But I’m only little Paris Colby, and tomorrow you will be sorry.’
‘Never. I like little Paris Colby. She has a sexy mouth.’
Did she? That was nice. She didn’t know how her dress had become rucked up above her thighs, only knew that it was, knew that one warm palm rested there, and, fair being fair, she undid the buttons on his shirt, slid her own hand inside to his warm back. He shivered.
‘Your hand’s cold.’
‘Sorry,’ she apologised huskily. ‘Want me to move it?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed thickly, ‘but it might be wiser to leave it where it is.’ Gathering her closer, he began to kiss her again, not gently now, not softly, but with warmth and passion and need, and, as he kissed her, he moved her over on to her back, tangled his fingers in her hair, rested his body against hers, stared down into her blue eyes and, as if he only then fully realised what he was doing, he paused, sighed, allowed his body to slump, yet one hand still remained clenched rather tightly in her hair.
Quivering, still keyed up, she stared worriedly into his eyes. ‘What?’ she whispered huskily.
‘Nothing,’ he denied.
‘Oliver!’ she protested.
Sounding almost regretful, he repeated softly, ‘Nothing.’
‘It must be something…’
‘No. I told you. Just leave it, Paris, there’s a good girl.’
‘But you can’t just turn it off and on like a tap…’ she began confusedly, and then remembered that he could. That was exactly what he could do. ‘You forgot who I was, didn’t you?’ she asked quietly.
‘What?’ Giving her a puzzled frown, he shook his head. ‘No, I forgot who I was. And I sometimes yearn…’ He began to move, and she held him still. Didn’t want his warmth removed from her just yet. She knew she was being stupid, but alcohol had clouded her reason. Dulled sense, enhanced sensation.
One hand still crumpling his sleeve, the other at his back, she whispered, ‘What do you yearn?’ His breathing was still slightly laboured, his muscles tensed, as though he held himself on a tight rein—and the still swollen warmth against her groin was impossible to ignore. ‘Is it Melissa?’
‘Melissa?’
‘Yes. Is it because she went back?’ Edging the material of his shirt higher, she flattened her hand against his warm back, slid it round to rub his nipple with unconscious provocation, until he groaned, grasped her fingers, stilled the movement.
‘Dear God, Paris…’
‘Is it Melissa? Because you’re involved with her?’
‘No, I told you.’
‘I want you,’ she whispered, her eyes wide with unconscious entreaty, and didn’t care that she was being blatant. Her body was so warm, needing, his thighs were hard, his body arousing…And he must want her, too, his body said so. ‘You’ll be leaving tomorrow,’ she murmured sadly. ‘I won’t see you any more.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Yes.’ Her breathing accelerated, her heart a triple hammer that echoed in her ears, her temples; she moved her hips a fraction, deliberately enticed, and his eyes were darker, his body warmer, his mouth more…With a groan, she arched her neck, closed her eyes.