A Sudden Engagement. PENNY JORDAN
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taking her first faltering steps. He must have known how inexperienced she was; after all, her small part hardly had the power to make or break the play, and yet he had attacked her with a savagery that still felt unhealed wounds. Her pride and self-worth were badly dented, and worse still, she had been forced to ask herself if she was actually going to be able to make it. Of course other members of the cast had come in for criticism too, but none quite so much as her, she was convinced of it. Perhaps he simply didn’t like my face, she thought angrily before dismissing the thought as unlikely; under all the stage make-up she had been wearing he wouldn’t have been able to see much of the real her, and she had also been wearing a wig. Common sense told her that a highly acclaimed critic would hardly denounce a member of the acting profession simply because he took an immediate dislike to their physical appearance.
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