A Sudden Engagement

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THEIR play was going to close. Somehow Kirsty knew it; she could taste the bitter flavour of defeat, had sensed from the audience response that all was not going well. Her meagre savings were almost exhausted and unless she found an office job to tide her over she would have to go tail between her legs back to her parents.

If only Chelsea and Slade weren’t away in Italy! Much as she loved her parents, her mother was inclined to fuss, and indeed had never wanted her to become an actress. Her aunt, though, understood. An actress; Kirsty grimaced wryly, slipping out of the theatre without bothering to join the others in the green room. If it hadn’t been for Drew Chalmers’ biting criticism of her in her last play she might still have been appearing in it; might indeed have gone with it to New York with the rest of the cast.

As the icy cold wind, unseasonal in September, funnelled down the collar of her suede coat she shivered and tried to huddle deeper into it. The coat had been a present from her aunt and her new husband the previous Christmas, and a very welcome one. The soft cream suede suited her dark curls and faintly olive-tinged skin and the expensive cut flattered her curvy shape; slightly less curvy of late. The salary she was being paid by the small theatre group she was now working for barely covered her rent and the basics; and just for a moment she allowed herself to think weakeningly of her mother’s delicious cooking; of the meal that had always been waiting for her when she lived at home.

She was the one who had wanted to leave, she reminded herself. If her mother had had her way she would still be living in Melchester, still going out with the boy next door, marriage ultimately on the cards when he finished university, but much as she liked him she hadn’t wanted that.

For as long as she could remember she had wanted to act, had dreamed of acting, but always the very great parts, she acknowledged ruefully, and she had firmly believed that she could succeed in her chosen career. Her drama school teachers had encouraged her, and she had been over the moon when she had got her very first role; a small part, admittedly, but in a very prestigious work by an up-and-coming playwright. Now she could acknowledge that she had never felt truly at home in the role—that of a street-wise teenager, cynical and worldly. It had called for a depth of experience she now realised she lacked, and although she had done her best, and had been reasonably satisfied with the result, the sardonic and powerful critic who had reviewed the first night had been scathing in his denunciation of her interpretation of the role. ‘Small-town and small-time’, had been the most least offensive of his comments, and after reading his harsh denunciation of her Kirsty hadn’t been surprised to learn that she was no longer needed on the cast.

Since then she had spent six long months looking for work before she had got her present part; a very small walk-on one in fringe theatre, and strangely enough she now felt that she had gained the experience needed to play her lost part far better.

Quite why Drew Chalmers had made her the object of his acid attack she didn’t know; she would have thought herself far too lowly to merit such attention. One of the cast had suggested it might have something to do with the fact that he and the playwright Nigel Evans were acknowledged rivals. God, how she had hated him! Still hated him, she acknowledged honestly. But for Drew Chalmers she would now be appearing on Broadway, gaining the experience she needed if other theatrical doors were not to be barred to her. Chelsea had sympathised, but sympathy only went so far, and Kirsty knew anyway that her aunt did not have her passionate love for the stage, for all that she had originally trained for it. What hurt the most was that she knew that he had been right; she had not been up to the part, and his condemnation of her as a ‘small-town girl incapable of convincing any audience that she was anything other than exactly that, and second rate small town into the bargain’ still rankled.

It was almost a mile from the small dilapidated theatre the group had hired to Kirsty’s lodgings, and as she waited to cross the main road she noticed the long, sleekly expensive car hurtling past her. Its occupants would be going to dine and dance at the exclusive hotel on the edge of the town, made famous by its superlative golf course, no doubt. A small smile twisted her pretty mouth, as a sudden impulse took root in her mind. Why not? She needed something to cheer herself up, and there was still that birthday cheque she had received from Chelsea and Slade which she had been carefully hoarding for a rainy day. Why not go mad and splurge the lot? Caution and impulse warred and suddenly impulse won. She deserved a treat, Kirsty told herself firmly. She would go back to her lodgings, change, then take a taxi to the hotel and treat herself to a first-class meal and a night in the most luxurious accommodation the town could provide!

By the time she had reached her lodgings, a terraced house set in a miserable terrace of similar houses, bleak and unwelcoming on this unpleasant September evening, caution had prevailed to the extent that she had promised herself that if a phone call to the hotel elicited the response that no rooms were available she would forget the whole idea. However, she was in luck, or out of it, dependent upon one’s view, and the receptionist assured her cheerfully that yes, indeed, they had a room and that of course it was possible to book it for a single night.

Mrs Larch, her landlady, looked pained and curious when Kirsty told her she was going out to dinner and wouldn’t be returning that night.

‘Boy-friend, is it?’ she enquired, eyeing Kirsty assessingly. ‘Like I told you when I gave you a room, I don’t hold with those sort of carryings on. Always been a decent house, this has, and always will be.…’

In spite of her landlady’s avid curiosity, Kirsty managed to escape to her room without giving anything away.

Her mother would throw a fit if she could see her room, she reflected ruefully as she opened the door. The wallpaper was shabby and faded, the room heated by a miserly two-bar electric fire. The bed was narrow and lumpy; an old-fashioned wardrobe far too large and dark for the small room. No cooking was allowed in the rooms, but despite that Kirsty had managed to smuggle in a toaster, which together with her electric kettle meant that at least she could always have a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. But she was going to do better than toast and coffee tonight—much better! Now, what was she going to wear?

She opened the wardrobe and surveyed its contents thoughtfully. Thanks to her aunt she had several attractive outfits. One of them in particular caught her eye—a soft cream silk dress. Her mother had protested that at barely twenty she was far too young to wear anything so sophisticated when she had seen it, but she had fallen in love with it, and had refused to be placated with anything else.

She was lucky enough to find the bathroom unoccupied and the water almost warm—tonight she would lie for hours and hours in her very own bathroom, she promised herself, simply soaking in lovely hot, perfumed water. The silk slid softly over her newly washed and perfumed skin, the front dipping almost to the waist, revealing the swelling curves of her breasts, the cleverly draped neckline making the plunge alluring rather than obvious. The deep vee was repeated at the back before the dress teased and tantalised with full-length, close-fitting sleeves and a skirt that moved against her skin in silken ripples, caressing her body from hip to knee.

It was a dress that to another woman was instantly recognisable as very sexy, but to a man, conditioned to equate ‘sexy’ with ‘little black numbers’, it was quite plain, until it was seen on, preferably on a woman who knew how to walk properly, as Kirsty now did.

Her dark hair curled naturally and normally she left it down on her shoulders, but tonight she swept it upwards into a softly flattering style, adding the pearl and diamond earrings and the matching necklace that had been a bridesmaid present to her on the occasion of Chelsea and Slade’s wedding.

Kirsty smiled impishly as she thought of her aunt—nearer her own age than her mother’s and a close and valued friend. She wished they weren’t quite so far away, but her small godson’s arrival had left his mother a little tired and her doting husband had swept mother and baby off to Italy for peace and quiet before ‘the whole family descend on us for Christmas’, as he had put it succinctly to Kirsty before they left.

Kirsty liked Slade. Her aunt needed a man strong enough to curb her wilful streak and compassionate enough to understand her more vulnerable side, and in Slade she had found one. She and Chelsea were very alike, Kirsty admitted. She too had that same impulsive wilfulness that could flare up out of nowhere, and sometimes change the whole pattern of planned events. Like the time Chelsea and Slade had first met, and Chelsea had mistakenly thought that Kirsty was in love with him, and had decided to rescue her. A grin curved her mouth, bringing warmth to the sparkling brown depths of her eyes. Her skin, naturally matt and smooth, needed no foundation, but her training had taught her the importance of good make-up, so she applied blusher, and added mascara and the merest hint of coffee eyeshadow to add a mysterious allure to the slightly Oriental slant of her eyes, darkening her lips with a pretty gloss before slipping on slim-heeled leather shoes and picking up her red coat.

The taxi arrived on time, and Kirsty had to repress another grin as she saw the betraying movement of the lace curtains at the front window as she was driven away.

No doubt the rest of the cast would be in the pub now discussing the débâcle of the latest performance; even if they decided to go on she knew she could not. Playing a punk teenager, disenchanted with life, delivering lines in heavily interspersed with four-letter words and possessing very little other merit, had lost its appeal. Putting to use the secretarial skills her parents had insisted she learn would almost be a relief, and there would be other parts, she promised herself as the town centre was left behind and they began to drive from the more exclusive suburbs.

Winton was a small seaside town, close enough to Bournemouth to consider itself ‘select’ but yet somehow lacking the flair and panache which would have made it so. It was a town of retired schoolteachers and ex-soldiers, and surely the worst possible place on earth to launch a play dealing with the raw reality of life in Toxteth and the effect of environment on upbringing, which was the theme of the play, and one which Kirsty thought was very worthwhile, but somehow Bernard Wray’s interpretation of it lacked impact. Kirsty wasn’t too happy with his reliance on violence both in language and in actions to get across his message, but then she hadn’t written the play and he had, and the others seemed quite happy. She was too romantic, Kirsty acknowledged as the taxi took the coast road. All through her schooldays she had dreamed of the great Shakespearean roles, the Restoration comedies, the wit and laughter that lingered in these and the Noël Coward plays like the sharp, clean scent of lavender. Who amongst the modern playwrights could rival those giants?

Lost in her thoughts, Kirsty suddenly realised that her taxi was turning into the approach to the hotel.

Built in the full flush of Edwardian splendour, it had a shrub-lined drive, and the early September dusk hid from her the lawned gardens and golf course which the hotel boasted. A uniformed commissionnaire opened the taxi door for her, and suddenly throwing herself into her new role, Kirsty tipped the driver recklessly, bestowing on him a smile that transformed her gamin features and made him stare at her in stunned appreciation.

The hotel foyer was thickly carpeted; several business-suited men wandered about, mingling with the older guests who were obviously hotel residents. Kirsty gave her name to the smiling receptionist, who indicated the way to the dining room and its intimate bar, where several couples were already enjoying pre-dinner drinks. The Edwardian ambience of the hotel was underlined by the bar and dining room, referred to by the receptionist as the ‘Palm Court Suite’.

Clever lighting emphasised the skilled and effective trompe l’æuil work on the walls and ceiling—if she hadn’t known better Kirsty could almost have been persuaded that beyond the delicate trelliswork on the walls actually lay that perfect blue sea and matching sky, so persuasive was the illusion of a Mediterranean shore depicted on the walls. The theme was carried through with attractive white ‘terrace-style’ furniture, and as she ordered a pre-dinner cocktail from the mouthwateringly tempting selection Kirsty started to study her fellow diners.

Studying human nature was a fascinating pursuit, and as always the actress in her was searching eagerly for mannerisms and expressions to add to her repertoire.

When her cocktail arrived it tasted delicious, worth every penny of the exorbitant price she had seen listed beside it; a pale banana-yellow frothy delight that reminded her of a grown-up version of her favourite milk shakes. It was also extremely potent, and by the time the head waiter appeared discreetly at her side to tell her that her table was ready Kirsty was beginning to feel distinctly lightheaded.

She had been skipping lunches recently; a reminder not to drink when she was doing so, she told herself as she studied her menu avidly.

Selfconsciousness had never been one of her faults; no one aspiring to be a successful actress could be, and consequently she felt no embarrassment at dining alone, oblivious to the appreciative looks she was getting from the male occupants of other tables as she pored over her menu, totally absorbed in the difficult task of making the right choice.

At last she decided on a seafood platter followed by tournedos Rossini, always one of her favourites. Her waiter’s smiling approval of her choice amused her, and she allowed herself to be persuaded into glancing over the wine list and selecting a modest half bottle of a sharp white Burgundy, shaking her head over the red he suggested, explaining that she found it too rich.

‘No… honestly, I couldn’t manage another mouthful,’ Kirsty pronounced with regret, waving aside the proffered second helping of Californian strawberries.

Once they realised that she was on her own, the waiters had vied with one another to serve her, and she had entered into the rivalry in a lighthearted way. Despite their evening suits and formal expressions, most of them were only boys, similar in age and outlook to her own friends, and Kirsty had never been tonguetied or embarrassed in the presence of the opposite sex. Curiously enough, despite this, neither had she ever fully experienced passion or desire. Until she left home for drama school her only boy-friend had been the son of close friends of her parents; a traditional boy-and-girl relationship, more that of brother and sister than anything else, although they had exchanged the usual shy kisses and fumbling embraces. Since then Kirsty had had plenty of dates with her fellow drama students and their friends, but there had been no one to make her heart beat faster, or lose her head over.

She wanted to make a success of her career before she even thought about falling in love, she had decided long ago, and once she did fall in love it would be with someone who would be as much a friend as a lover.

Accepting the waiter’s suggestion that she drink her coffee in the lounge, Kirsty found herself a seat by the door that led on to the foyer. That way she could observe everything going on around her and yet still remain relatively tucked away herself. Her depression seemed to have lifted, and her normal ebullience restored. Even so, some things still rankled. Like Drew Chalmers’ criticisms of her, for instance; criticisms which had blighted her career just as she was 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.