A Sudden Engagement & the Sicilian's Surprise Wife Page 2

  Deep down in her heart of hearts Kirsty knew that she had been miscast, but it hurt to admit that there could be roles for which she lacked the experience, so she concentrated on Drew Chalmers’ malicious unfairness in picking specifically on her.

  The receptionists changed shifts. The new girl, an attractive blonde, was soon busy dealing with a sudden influx of people, when Kirsty saw a tall, dark-haired man cross the foyer and stand easily at the back of the small crowd.

  Whether it was the impatient glance he gave the expensive gold watch strapped to a sinewy wrist, or the air of dark authority with which he surveyed his surroundings, Kirsty didn’t know, but, trained to recognise such things, she couldn’t mistake the alacrity with which the receptionist dealt with the small queue in order to assist him, turning to him with an appreciative smile and a warm ‘Good evening.’

  For all that he was casually dressed in narrow dark pants and an obviously expensive cashmere sweater in a warm mulberry shade which enhanced a tan Kirsty suspected had never come from any sunbed, when he spoke it was with a crispness that spoke more of the boardroom than a hotel foyer.

  ‘Drew Chalmers,’ Kirsty heard him say in stunned disbelief. ‘I’m in Room 107.’

  Drew Chalmers here! It was almost as though she had conjured him up out of her thoughts. She studied him covertly. This was Drew Chalmers, the man who had ruined her career? She had visualised him as much older than his apparent thirty years; much less obviously male as well. He didn’t look a bit as she had imagined him. She had pictured someone smaller, dapper almost, not this six foot odd of lean masculinity with a shock of thick dark hair and a way of moving that reminded her of a lazy cat. Her coffee completely forgotten, she sat transfixed, listening unashamedly as he explained that he was expecting a friend to arrive.

  ‘I have to go out for several minutes,’ Kirsty heard him explain. ‘But if Miss Travers arrives, please give her my key and ask her to let herself into my suite. Oh, and have the dining room send up a bottle of champagne, will you, we’ll order dinner later.’

  Miss Travers! That could only be Beverley Travers, the newly divorced wife of an American oil millionaire, and according to the gossip columns Drew Chalmers’ constant companion.

  When she had first heard him announce himself Kirsty had been curious to know what on earth he could be doing in this remote seaside town. Her upper lip curled faintly disdainfully. Now she knew. How very trite and predictable! If she ever contemplated having an affair with one anyone she would expect him to show far more originally than simply to book them into a quiet country hotel, no matter how luxurious. She spent a few minutes daydreaming about a country cottage tucked away from the rest of the world and the sort of lover she was rather ashamed of fantasising over. Surely she had gone beyond the stage of dreaming of that sort of encounter? Of being swept off her feet and made love to with a thoroughness that would sweep aside all the barriers of modesty and caution instilled into her by her nature and upbringing.

  Looking at Drew Chalmers, Kirsty studied his back resentfully. There he was; oblivious to her presence, to the effect he had had upon her life. How would he feel if it had been his life that had been blighted; his bright hopes destroyed, his future left uncertain and unhappy? A thought suddenly struck her, and her eyes widened in appreciation, a determined evident in them.

  She looked again at the broad shoulders. Beverley Travers was a very possessive woman, or so she had read, and there had been murmurs in the Press that Drew Chalmers intended to marry her, but, scared by one divorce, she was apparently in no hurry to take on a second husband. An idea had begun to take shape in Kirsty’s mind, egged on by the cocktail and wine she had consumed. What if…? But no.… What was it he had said about her? That no way could she ever persuade any thinking person that she had the ability to perform credibly as an actress? Well, she would show him, she decided, suddenly coming to a decision. She would show him just how convincing she could be! He would eat those words before the evening was over. All at once a fierce determination filled her, blotting out all the inner voices of caution warning her against what she was contemplating doing, but Kirsty refused to listen to it.

  She saw Drew Chalmers leaving the hotel, and got up herself, hurrying quickly to her room. 107, he had said to the receptionist. That was the number of his room, and all she had to do was find it, and conceal herself somewhere in it—either the balcony or the bathroom, if it was the same design as her room, she decided, her thoughts racing ahead as she quickly improved upon her original idea. Drew Chalmers was plainly expecting his mistress; Kirsty intended to turn that romantic scene into something that potentially had all the elements of a Restoration comedy (or a Whitehall farce!), but only she would be able to appreciate the humour of the situation, when she emerged from Drew’s bathroom clad in the silk nightdress Chelsea had brought back for her from the South of France during the summer, and proceeded to enact the part of the dizzy ingénue, caught out in her lover’s bedroom. Then they would see who couldn’t act convincingly, she thought with a satisfied smile. Of course she would be forced to admit to the truth ultimately, but not before she had had the satisfaction of proving his judgment of her wrong.

  Carried away by a deliciously heady sense of anticipated retribution endorsed by cocktails and wine, she refused to admit to any flaws in her plan, any doubts that it might not work, and totally ignored the tiny voice trying to remind her that impetuosity had ever been one of her faults.

  It would just serve him right, she decided rebelliously as she opened her own bedroom door. And she hoped it took him all weekend to make Beverley Travers forgive him. He was an arrogant brute; unfeeling too. He must have known she was barely out of drama school.… Her thoughts raced busily on, totally absorbed in her plans.

  Conscious of the fact that Beverley Travers could arrive at any minute, she quickly peeled off everything but her bra and briefs and then donned the silk nightdress, pulling over it a thick, fleecy dressing-gown that was really a relic from her schooldays, and which was not likely to raise any eyebrows if she was spotted in the corridor.

  As luck would have it, the stairs leading to the floor above where Drew Chalmers’ room was situated was deserted. It was too early for anyone to be retiring and too late for people to be coming down for dinner. Kirsty found the room without too much difficulty, biting her lip in sudden vexation as she realised she had no means of getting into it.

  Furious with herself and on the verge of abandoning her plan, she was shocked into stiff immobility when she felt someone touch her arm.

  Dreading coming face to face with Drew Chalmers, she glanced round, then sagged with relief when she realised it was only the chambermaid.

  ‘You ‘ave forgotten the key?’ The girl was foreign—Spanish, Kirsty guessed, and obviously sympathetic, from her smile. ‘See, I have one. I will let you in.’

  Truly the gods were favouring her tonight, Kirsty marvelled as she thanked the girl and stepped into the darkened room.

  Only it wasn’t a room. It was a suite, and she was just gazing open-mouthed round the luxury of a sitting room furnished in chintz and excellent reproduction furniture, when she heard sounds outside. There was barely time for her to slide into the first door—the bedroom, she deduced from the shadowy shape of the bed—before she heard a key in the lock and the sound of the light switch being flicked.

  Someone was moving around outside. Kirsty strained her ears, catching the tinkle of ice and other small sounds, before the light was extinguished and the door firmly closed. Then she remembered hearing Drew Chalmers ordering champagne. Tentatively opening the door, she saw that she had guessed correctly. The dim outline of an ice bucket on the low table glinted faintly in the moonlight seeping through the uncurtained window. She let out her breath in relief. Next time she would be prepared. She would have to be! She only hoped that Beverley Travers didn’t take it into her head to wait for Drew Chalmers in his bedroom rather than the sitting room. She wanted Drew Chalmers himself t
o be there when she announced her presence. She wanted him to witness exactly how convincing she could be as an actress!

  She passed the time waiting for Beverley Travers’ arrival in silent study of her shadow-shrouded surroundings. The bedroom and its fittings were typically impersonal; hardly seductive, she would have thought, her body tensing as she heard the sound of a key in the lock, and the light being switched on. She held her breath, praying that Beverley Travers—it could only be her this time, surely?—wouldn’t come into the bedroom, and it seemed that luck was with her.

  How long would Drew Chalmers be? Not long, she imagined. He had told the receptionist that he wouldn’t be. Kirsty could hear Beverley Travers moving around outside, the chink of a bottle against glasses, and then she froze with tension as she heard the outer door open, and Drew Chalmers’ cool, faintly cynical voice drawling softly, ‘Sorry about that, I wanted to get an evening paper.’

  ‘You’re a workaholic!’ Beverley Travers’ voice was warmly seductive. Keyed up and sensitive to everything happening in the other room, Kirsty could imagine the seductive quality of the smile she could sense in the other woman’s voice, the way her eyes would linger on Drew Chalmers’ arrogant male face.

  ‘Not while you’re around.’

  She heard Beverley Travers laugh, and then say, ‘And champagne—you’re spoiling me!’

  ‘Only because you’re worth it.’

  The words held an undertone of insincerity, as though they had been said before, and Beverley Travers obviously caught it too, because she demanded sharply, ‘Am I? Are you sure I’m not just another pleasant little diversion, Drew? Because that isn’t what I want from you.’

  That must surely be her cue, Kirsty thought, smoothing damp palms against her dress. Her appearance now would make a definite impact.

  And yet, strangely, she felt curiously reluctant to move; in fact she almost wished she had never decided to come up here in the first place. Scared? an inner voice mocked her. She admitted that she was, and then quickly smothered her fear. No actress worthy of the name never felt any tremor of nervousness waiting in the wings, but the time for waiting was over, now she had to go on stage and prove to Mr High and Mighty Chalmers exactly what calibre of actress she was, before her courage deserted her completely.

  Taking a deep breath, she moved towards the door, and then thinking quickly, rumpled the severe neatness of the bedclothes, closing her mind against the intimacies her action suggested. What she was doing was in no way underhand, she told herself stubbornly. After all, Beverley Travers must surely know that she wasn’t the only woman in Drew Chalmers’ life. He featured regularly enough in the gossip columns for even the blindest fool to be aware that he liked variety. Dismissing from her mind the thought of her mother’s disapproval, Kirsty reminded herself that she was simply playing a part; showing Drew Chalmers that when it came to acting she could be convincing. Concentrating completely on her role, she pushed open the door and stood there framed in the light, her lips parting on an astonished ‘Oh!’ as her eyes rounded in a mixture of dismay and surprise.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘DREW!’ Now Beverley Travers’ voice was neither soft nor warm. It held bitter incredulity, icy disdain in the pale blue eyes sweeping over Kirsty’s disordered hair and rumpled clothes. ‘Drew, who is this?’

  ‘Oh, Drew, I’m so sorry,’ Kirsty murmured huskily, cutting across the other woman’s acid question, one hand stretched pleadingly towards Drew Chalmers as he stared at her with thunderous disbelief in eyes that were the colour of grey flint.

  ‘What the.…’

  ‘Oh, Drew, please don’t be angry!’ Kirsty had the stage now, and allowed her mouth to droop pathetically, tears filling her eyes, as she glanced pleadingly up at the grim mouth, now pulled into a tight hard line. A shiver of premonition iced its way down her spine as she realised that instead of looking disconcerted and embarrassed he was regarding her with a clinical intensity that warned her that she hadn’t caught him as much off his guard as she had expected.

  Beverley Travers, however, was reacting exactly as Kirsty had anticipated, her face flushed with anger as she looked from Drew Chalmers’ impassive face to Kirsty’s tear-stained and pleading one.

  ‘I don’t pretend to know exactly what’s going on here, Drew,’ she said tightly, picking up her handbag and glaring at Kirsty, ‘but next time you invite someone to share a rendezvous with you can I suggest that you check with your diary to make sure you haven’t double booked. Oh, and by the way.…’ she paused in the doorway, her eyes slating Kirsty, before they turned, bitter and icy, to Drew Chalmers, relaxed and apparently totally unmoved by what was happening. ‘As they say in the movies, don’t call me. As for you…’ her mouth tightened as she glanced contemptuously at Kirsty, ‘I presume you’re some casual pick-up Drew made on the way down here. You look the type. Really, Drew,’ she added coldly as she prepared to sweep out of the suite, ‘you ought to be more careful, especially in these permissive times—these little tarts pick up the most obnoxious social diseases, you know.’

  Kirsty winced beneath the venom of her words, unaware of the shocked disbelief in her own eyes as they widened slightly in acknowledgement of the thrust. Events had taken a turn she hadn’t expected.

  The silence following Beverley Travers’ furious exit, and her bitter slamming of the door, was a tangible, nerve-aching void, and it took every ounce of courage Kirsty possessed for her to shake her hair nonchalantly over her shoulder and force a blithe smile as she headed for the door.

  ‘Just a moment.’

  She hadn’t expected him to simply let her go, of course. Nor had she wanted him to do so. The whole purpose of the exercise was to prove to him that his judgment of her had been wrong, but even so Kirsty had a craven desire to turn tail and flee.

  ‘Who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re playing at? Blackmail? If so.…’

  He was advancing on her with purposeful menace, and for one appalling moment Kirsty’s mind went completely blank. The clever little speech she had practised until she was word-perfect eluded her completely and she was left scrabbling humiliatingly for words.

  ‘No… no, it was nothing like that,’ she managed jerkily, and something in her voice must have convinced him, because he stopped advancing on her and instead lounged back against one of the chairs, his expression intent and searching as he demanded tersely,

  ‘Then what was it like? Some kind of sick joke? Some.…’

  To her relief she managed to pull herself together for long enough to get her handbag open and remove the small newspaper clipping she always carried around with her.

  ‘Remember this?’ she demanded, gathering enough composure to sound almost as terse as he had done himself.

  He read the article in silence, handing it back to her.

  ‘That actress,’ she said unsteadily ‘the one you said would make an excellent typist—that was her first role, my first role,’ she threw at him with bitter passion. ‘And I lost it, because of that review, because of you.…’

  He listened to her in complete and unmoving silence, unnerving her with his cool scrutiny, his apparent ability to remain unaffected by what had happened.

  ‘And so?’

  ‘And so I decided to prove to you just how convincing an actress I could be,’ she told him triumphantly. ‘Certainly convincing enough for your mistress!’

  ‘By relying on circumstances rather than ability,’ he told her cruelly. ‘Effective, but by no means convincing.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied her, slowly assessing the tumbled curls and gamine features. ‘I still stand by what I said—you weren’t right for that part, and you didn’t have the ability to make yourself right for it.’

  His calm words astounded Kirsty. She had expected him to be furious with her, to rant and rave while she remained cool and aloof, and yet somehow he seemed to have turned the tables on her, by reminding her that she had used circumstances rather than ability to convince Beverley Tra
vers that they were lovers. Impotent anger prompted her to demand rashly, ‘Do you get some sort of kick out of destroying people, out of ruining their lives…?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The emotionless words silenced her. ‘I’m a critic, doing my job, not some sort of a crank on an ego trip. I leave that to the acting profession,’ he jibed mockingly. ‘Thank God they don’t all have your vengeful tendencies! You’ve been reading too much Shakespeare.’ His expression changed suddenly, thick dark lashes veiling his eyes from Kirsty, as he frowned, apparently deep in thought. Now was her chance to leave, Kirsty decided, inching towards the door. She had almost reached it when he moved, reaching it before her to lean against it, his expression cruelly mocking and infinitely dangerous as he asked softly, ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘To my room.’ She had intended to sound calmly serene, but even to her own ears her voice had a distinct wobble.

  ‘After depriving me of the company of my—er—mistress, was the rather antiquated term you used, I believe? Oh no, my dear,’ he drawled with a soft menace that drove the colour from Kirsty’s face. ‘In view of what you’ve just done, I think it’s only fair that you make some sort of reparation, don’t you?’

  He looked so calm and controlled, standing there, flint-grey eyes surveying her mockingly, hands in the pockets of the immaculately cut dark trousers, a leashed power about him that warned her that this was no idle threat, despite the enormity of his words. She licked her lips nervously, trying to meet his ironic gaze with a look equally cool and failing miserably, her protesting, ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ sounding more fearful than firm.

  ‘No? You’re lying—but,’ he told her in an exceedingly dry tone, ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right—you are a better actress than I supposed. Come on,’ he told her in a hard voice. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You’ve deprived me of a bed partner for the night, to put the matter in its crudest terms, and that being the case I think it only fair that you take her place.’