Loveplay. Diana Palmer
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and work with me instead of against me?”
She sighed wearily. “Yes.”
“Then, let’s start from your first line on page thirty-six,” he said, leaning back.
She ran through it again, remembering the way he’d coached her earlier, and he nodded as he listened, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed as he took in even her body movements.
“Much better,” he said when she finished. “Much better. You understand now, don’t you, that I want as much emotion as you can drag up. I want the audience to cry buckets when you give that monologue about not giving up the baby.”
“I understand.” She pulled her coat back on, lifting her long hair out of the way. “You never used to like so much emotion in the monologue.”
“I’m older.”
“So am I,” she said quietly. She picked up her own script and tucked it under her arm along with her purse. “You do a lot of plays about pregnancy these days,” she observed. “And yet you’ve never married. Don’t you want—”
“It’s late,” he said shortly, checking his watch, “and I have a late date. I’ll drop you off by your apartment.”
“No!” she said quickly, for some reason not wanting him to see where she lived. “I’ll get a cab.”
He scowled, but he didn’t pursue it. “Suit yourself, darling.”
If he’d known how that careless endearment hurt, she thought miserably, he’d probably have used it ten times as much. Once he’d used it and meant it, so long ago.
He hailed a cab and put her into it, turning away immediately, and she forced herself not to watch him walk away. Minutes later she was back at her apartment and in her bed. She fell asleep the minute her head touched the pillow.
* * *
Bett slept badly, and dragged into rehearsal a half hour early with a cup of black coffee clutched in one slender hand. David Hadison was sprawled in one of the metal chairs, glaring at his script, when she slid gracefully into one nearby.
He looked up, saw who it was, and grinned. “Just running over a little problem spot,” he confessed.
“Is that what you’re doing?” she queried with pursed lips. “I thought you were cursing the dia- log.”
He sighed. “Well, actually, I was. It isn’t a very meaty part, darling. You have the only good lines.”
“Want to trade?” she asked with a slow grin. “I’ll let you borrow that big brown maternity dress I wear for the role.”
He chuckled delightedly. “Cul wouldn’t like it. I’m much too tall.”
“How sad.” She sipped her coffee slowly. “I’d offer you some, but you don’t look like a coffee drinker.”
“I’m a Coca-Cola man,” he agreed. He put down the script, folded his arms, and stared blatantly at her. “Has anyone ever told you…” he began predictably.
Before he could finish, she stood up, threw her scarf royally over one shoulder, and fixed him with her best sharp scowl. “My good man, have the decency not to stare, if you please,” she intoned with the crisp British accent she’d perfected. “We do not like our subjects making free with their eyes on our person.”
He roared, clapping. “You do it with panache, darling,” he said. “Elizabeth to the ruff.”
She curtsied deeply. “We are pleased that you think so.”
“How many times have you played her?” he asked as she sat back down.
“At least ten,” she confessed. “Once in a nude play—I talked the director into letting me wear a corset.”
He shook his head, studying her exquisite facial features—the dark eyes that were oddly gray, the flaming hair. “I’ve never seen such a resemblance, and I’ve been in the theater for ten years. You must be marvelous.”
“I enjoy it, but it gets a bit tedious after a while,” she confessed. “Although, she was a character. I doubt a woman’s ever lived who was her equal, in statesmanship or just pure grit.”
“You started out in Atlanta, didn’t you?” he asked. “I saw you play in this very production about six years ago, just one time. You were magnificent.”
“What were you doing in Atlanta?” she asked, curious.
“Trying to get a job in summer stock.” He shrugged. “I didn’t. I wound up in New York instead. It was a good thing, too.”
“You’re very good,” she said genuinely, sipping her coffee as she studied him. “But aren’t you Shakespearean, primarily?”
“By jove, yes, madam,” he said with his own British accent and laughed. “I’ve done all of Shakespeare’s plays at one time or another. But I’m trying to branch out.”
“If the two of you can spare the time,” a harsh voice rumbled behind them, “I’d like to start.”
They got to their feet in a rush, noticing that the rest of the company was already assembled on stage, and Cul was nothing if not impatient. He glared at them as they joined the rest, and his mood didn’t improve all morning. He snapped at Bett more and more, until by the end of the day she was practically in tears.
“Come on, darling,” David said, taking her arm as she wrapped up against the chill to go out the stage door. “I’ll buy you a nice cup of coffee.”
“How about a sweet roll to go with it?” she asked with a wan smile.
“Whatever you like.” He checked his pocket. “Well, almost.”
She smiled gently. “Starving in garrets isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, is it?”
“How would you know?” he teased. “You’re on top.”
“Is that what I am? You really ought to come home with me.”
“Can I?” he asked, all eyes. “I’ll make the coffee.”
She relented. It would be nice to have company, and she didn’t really mind if David saw her deplorable apartment. He probably had one just like it. “Okay,” she agreed, and went out with him, oblivious to the glittering green gaze that followed them.
It was a nippy evening, although it wouldn’t be long until spring. Bett huddled into her tweed coat and led David up the long staircase to her apartment. The baby was crying, but the man who sang off-key was apparently resting his throat for the moment.
Bett opened the door and let David in with her. “Well, as they say, it ain’t much, but it’s home.”
“My God, you weren’t kidding, were you?” he burst out, staring around him. “What happened?”
“I had a very inefficient business manager,” she confessed. “He talked me into a bad investment, and also neglected to tell me about my taxes. I’ve got quite a bill with Uncle Sam.” She shrugged. “They were very nice about it, in fact. I guess they get used to dumb people like me.”
“I wouldn’t call you dumb, not the way you act,” he said kindly. He moved to the cabinet. “Is this the coffeepot?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. Isn’t it the pits? But it works, all the same.”
“Old-fashioned,” he murmured, filling the basket with a filter and then dumping in a generous amount of coffee out of the can. “Boiling it on the stove.”
“Well, coffee is coffee.
He sighed. “I guess so.” He finished, turned on the burner, and sat down at the kitchen table across from her. “How did you wind up on the stage?”
“My