Red Rose For Love. Кэрол Мортимер
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never to do in her career. She was a lone woman working in a male-dominated environment, and the last thing she needed was to earn the reputation of being a temperamental bitch.
Luckily her behaviour didn’t seem to have inhibited the men in any way; their jokes were as ribald as usual as they more or less took the local pub over. She felt a little easier when she emerged out into the afternoon sunshine, walking to Derek’s flat rather than taking a taxi. She was unrecognisable without her dramatic stage make-up, just another pretty girl enjoying the sunshine.
She was relaxed before the start of that evening’s show—always a bad sign. The adrenalin should be pumping, her senses charged and alive. It was almost as if she had burnt herself out in anger that morning, and she had no enthusiasm for the show ahead of her.
‘Present for the lovely lady.’ Derek appeared in the doorway of her dressing-room, or rather the bottom half of him did; the top half was obscured by a huge bouquet.
She stood up. ‘Derek, you shouldn’t——’
‘I didn’t.’ He held out the flowers to her.
Eve stiffened. They were roses—red roses. The card clearly said ‘Bartholomew’. Her mouth tightened, and she fought down the impulse to throw the flowers away. They were beautiful roses, just in bud, and a deep, deep red. There must be at least three dozen here, she just couldn’t destroy them. Maybe one of the stage workers would like them for his wife?
‘Is it safe to come in?’ Derek raised a hopeful eyebrow.
She laughed at his pretended fear. ‘Yes, come in,’ she invited, putting the flowers down on the table; the ones from yesterday were still lying there in their cellophane.
Derek strolled over to a chair, leaning his arms on its back. ‘Persistent, isn’t he?’ he said dryly.
Eve gave him an angry glare. ‘I suppose you looked at the card,’ she accused.
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t realise it was a secret.’
‘It isn’t,’ she sighed. ‘How long have I got?’ she changed the subject.
‘Five minutes. Are you ready?’
She spun round in the electric blue cat-suit. ‘Don’t I look ready?’ she teased.
‘You always look beautiful.’
‘Thanks,’ she accepted dryly. ‘Why the flattery, Derek?’ she asked, eyes narrowed.
‘No reason. Surely it can’t hurt to make you feel good before you go out on stage? You were looking a bit tired when we arrived,’ he added worriedly.
Strange, she didn’t feel that way any more; the adrenalin was pumping, the blood heated in her veins. ‘I’m fine now, Derek,’ she assured him.
‘Mood gone?’
‘I—Yes, mood gone,’ she said reluctantly.
He quirked an eyebrow at the roses. ‘He wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would he?’
‘Certainly not!’ Her tone was waspish. ‘I wouldn’t allow a man like that to affect me in any way.’
‘A man like that?’
‘Yes, a man like that!’ Her eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘You know the type as well as I do, Derek. They think their money can buy them anything.’
‘He was rich too, was he?’
She gave him a sharp look. ‘Who was?’
Derek shook his head and stood up. ‘This last few days your guard has really started to slip, Eve. I think maybe Bart Jordan is starting to get to you.’
‘No man “gets to me”!’ Her expression was fierce.
‘Not since the last rich man who let you down, no,’ he agreed calmly. ‘But everyone has a type they fall for again and again, and I think maybe rich men are your type.’
‘I’ll show you what I think of rich men!’ she told him explosively, picking up the roses and throwing them out into the corridor. ‘I’d do the same to Bartholomew Jordan if he was here,’ she added childishly, wondering why she was letting a man like Bartholomew Jordan bother her in this way. And he was bothering her.
She meant it when she told Derek that no man got to her—they hadn’t, not since Carl. And she wasn’t going to let Bartholomew Jordan upset the even tenor of her life. Once she got back to Norfolk she could forget his very existence. In fact she would make sure she did.
She walked out of the dressing-room, her head held high, the crumpled roses completely ignored, forgotten as she stood in the wings waiting to go on stage.
But Carl wasn’t forgotten, would never be forgotten. And just making her think of him like this was reason enough to hate Bartholomew Jordan.
She ran out on stage as the music began to play, a bright artificial smile fixed on her lips as she began to sing the first number. Her gaze was drawn reluctantly to the seat Bartholomew Jordan had occupied the night before. It was empty! Not occupied by someone else, but empty. What was the man trying to do to her? First of all he sent her roses, then he snubbed her by not turning up to watch her concert. He had to be the holder of that ticket, it was too much of a coincidence for him not to be.
Once again it was her anger towards Bartholomew Jordan that inspired her to give a brilliant performance, and the audience were very appreciative at the interval as she tried to get off the stage.
‘Fantastic!’ Derek glowed, handing her the glass of fresh orange juice that was all she liked to drink when she was performing.
Eve noticed that the roses were gone from the corridor; they were also noticeably absent from her dressing-room as she slumped down into a chair.
Derek frowned at her paleness. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked worriedly.
‘I—not really,’ she admitted dazedly, the charged tension of the last hour and a quarter seeming to have drained her of all her strength. She felt weak, lethargic, and the thought of going back on to that stage stretched like a nightmare in front of her.
‘You have to get changed.’ Derek stood up to take the red suit out of her wardrobe. ‘You only have another ten minutes before you have to go back on stage.’
She fought off feelings of dizziness. ‘I—I feel—strange, Derek.’
‘Drink some more orange juice,’ he encouraged desperately.
She gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t think that’s going to do any good.’
His expression was angrily impatient. ‘It has to. You can’t let me down now, Eve. I’ve just about sold my soul for you to do these five concerts.’
‘No one asked you to!’ Her eyes flashed, deeply blue between thick dark lashes. ‘Okay,’ she stood up, swaying slightly, pushing back the feelings of faintness, ‘you go out, I’ll get changed.’
‘I’ll help you——’
‘You damn well won’t!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve been dressing myself since I was three years old, I don’t need any help.’
‘Maybe that’s your trouble, Eve,’ he stormed over to the door. ‘You won’t accept help from anyone. No one can go through life independent of other human warmth.’
‘I can,’ she glared at him. ‘Now get out of here.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going!’ He slammed the door so hard behind him the whole room seemed to shake.
Oh dear, what had she done! Derek was the one true friend she had, and she had just thrown him out of her dressing-room.
She ran to the door, wrenching it open. ‘Derek!’ she cried after him as he walked away from her. ‘Derek, please,’ she begged.
He