A Passionate Deceit. Kate Proctor
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way women subject him to every bit of adulation as they do the male stars in his films.’
‘My heart bleeds for the poor man,’ retorted Tessa waspishly.
‘Tess, that’s not fair! He’s a director, not a film star, and he plainly loathes the way those women slaver over him. Not that I’m saying that’s quite what you did when he came into the lounge, but he didn’t take too kindly to your being so obviously bowled over by him.’
‘I wasn’t in the least bowled over by him!’ exclaimed Tessa indignantly. ‘He’s simply the first real celebrity I’ve ever met and I was a bit—well, overawed,’ she added lamely. ‘I—oh, what’s the use?’ She opened the door of her room, grabbed her cousin by the arm and pulled her inside.
‘Tess, I want to go and have a shower,’ protested Babs.
‘Just sit down—there’s something I want to show you,’ muttered Tessa, opening one of the dressing-table drawers and taking out a file. ‘You’re going to hate me for this,’ she muttered, handing her cousin the file.
Babs sat down on the bed, her face expressionless as she glanced through the couple of pages of notes, then turned to the pocket at the back of the file and removed a wodge of press cuttings.
‘Who put you up to this, Tess?’ she asked quietly.
‘I was talking to Ray Linton a couple of months ago——asking him for a job, actually. He mentioned the names of some celebrities and said that if I could come up with a profile on someone of that calibre he’d be prepared to look at my work. Sandro Lambert was one of those names, so when you mentioned helping you out here…’ She shook her head miserably as her words petered out. ‘It was despicable of me even to think of using you in such a way.’
‘You know the sort of paper Ray Linton edits!’ exclaimed Babs harshly. ‘Profile, my eye! All he’s interested in is muck—the more the better!’
‘Babs, you know I wouldn’t dream of writing anything like that,’ protested Tessa hoarsely.
‘Yes, I do,’ sighed Babs, tossing aside the file. ‘Which is why I’m certain that, even if you succeed in writing up some surreptitious article on Sandro, you haven’t a chance in hell of having it printed.’
‘Why?’ demanded Tessa hotly. ‘Because my allpowerful stepfather will make sure I don’t?’
‘Grow up, Tessa,’ sighed Babs, rising. ‘You never had any real interest in becoming a journalist until you discovered Charles was so against it. For as long as anyone can remember, all you ever wanted was to be a nurse. I know how hard it was on you having to give it up and how difficult it must be having to think in terms of a different career—but are you really certain that journalism is that career?’ She walked over to Tessa and gave her an affectionate hug. ‘I’m off to pack and have a shower,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you for supper…Oh, yes, and I’ll let you have that book I was telling you about—I’ve finished it.’
Tessa flopped down on to the bed once the door had closed behind Babs, gazing dejectedly around the beautiful, wood-panelled room that had earlier so enchanted her. The thought of her own duplicity had racked her with guilt, she admitted to herself, but, even having confessed, she didn’t feel any better. Babs was right—right about everything! Her only ambition had been to become a nurse, and she had sailed through her written exams and had high hopes of doing the same in her practical training until the antiseptics she was coming into increasing contact with had triggered off an allergic reaction in her hands. And Babs was right about her having ogled Sandro Lambert! It was round about the time that her unfortunate tendency towards allergy had manifested itself that so too had her equally unfortunate tendency towards being attracted to completely the wrong sort of man. After the first two—lame, but dauntingly tenacious ducks—it was those dangerously attractive and often virtually unattainable men on whom she had invariably set her sights. Men like Sandro Lambert, she thought with a sudden prickle of apprehension…well, not exactly like him, she corrected herself as it occurred to her that she had never in her life met a man with the presence, the almost palpable animal magnetism that this man possessed.
She gave an exasperated shake of her head. There was only one word to describe a woman who could feel as strongly attracted as she had towards a man who hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge her existence, let alone exchange a civil word with her—and that word was stupid! Yet nothing she had done warranted the way he had behaved, so why on earth should she feel any guilt? If Sandro Lambert was to be her stepping-stone into journalism, she intended stepping without a qualm!
‘It’s still open,’ she called out at the sound of a knock on the door. ‘I’ve been doing some thinking,’ she announced as the door opened.
‘Is that so?’
The words, and the appearance of Sandro Lambert in the doorway, brought a shriek of horror from her.
‘I thought you were Babs!’ she accused, leaping from the bed.
‘I can’t think why,’ he murmured, a look of amusement flitting over his otherwise coolly expressionless face. ‘There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,’ he continued. ‘I’m in the Donegal suite at the end of the corridor—I use the sitting-room as my office.’
‘I’d be useless as a secretary, if that’s what you want to discuss,’ she called after him as he turned to leave. What on earth was she saying? she asked herself incredulously the instant the words were out—what more could she have possibly asked for, as far as her proposed article was concerned, than to observe him at work from virtually by his side?
‘How refreshingly modest of you,’ he drawled, ‘especially when you haven’t the slightest idea what would be required of you.’
She bit back a groan of frustration as the door closed behind him, then hesitated for only the briefest of moments before dragging it open and racing down the corridor after him.
‘It’s just that I don’t know anything about film work,’ she excused herself breathlessly when she had caught up with him.
‘A point we had already established,’ he observed drily, unlocking the door to the suite and holding it open for her with a mocking bow.
She entered the small hallway and on through the doorway before her into the sitting-room, her eyes discounting the clutter littering just about every available surface. It was a beautiful, high-ceilinged room, its exquisite furnishings matching the same high standards she had noticed throughout the hotel.
‘It’s a lovely place,’ she blurted out, the breathlessness in her words betraying her stifling lack of ease. ‘The hotel, I mean…and its surroundings.’
‘Ireland is a very beautiful country,’ he murmured, flashing her a slightly startled look before clearing the debris from one of the chairs and motioning her to be seated. ‘Do you know the country?’
‘No, this is my first visit,’ replied Tessa, her mental state approaching that of a nervous pupil about to be interrogated by the headmaster as she sat down.
‘Tell me, Tessa,’ he murmured, removing a bundle of papers from the armchair opposite hers before sitting down on it, ‘what do you do?’
‘Do?’ she echoed, suddenly distracted by the memory of pictures she had seen of Leona Carlotti, the extraordinarily beautiful Italian actress who was his mother, and wondering why she hadn’t spotted the obvious family resemblance until this very moment.
‘Yes—do,’ he snapped, then made a visible effort to curb his impatience. ‘Babs mentioned your having stepped in to help her out at the last minute—so I take it you’re not in the costume design business?’
‘No—I was made redundant just after Christmas,’ she said, her own reason warning her only a fraction after his angrily tensing jaw had that she hadn’t actually answered his question.
‘But you can do shorthand and typing,’ he stated in