Merlyn's Magic

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

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘HE says he doesn't want you to be his wife, Merlyn,’ the man seated across the restaurant table told her with barely concealed anger.

She had known when Christopher Drake took time away from the film he had almost finished directing to take her out for lunch that something had gone wrong with their plan to work together in six weeks’ time. Christopher was already way behind deadline, a fact that was reputedly making him harder to work with—and for, according to the cast and crew. He was a veritable demon, and as both producer and director, who demanded nothing less than perfection one hundred per cent of the time from those who worked for him, he must have been hell to be with these last few weeks of production.

Merlyn knew a lot of people considered her insane to feel this way, but she was actually looking forward to working with him. She had no doubt that he would live up to his reputation, but she had taken on difficult directors before and lived to tell the tale, and she had liked Christopher's looks from the first. He was tall and slim, the latter maintained by his barely leashed energy, with over-long blond hair that he constantly pushed off his forehead in impatient movements. It was an endearing habit, and Merlyn found herself resisting the impulse to smooth back those wayward locks herself.

But if what he said was true, then she wasn't going to get the chance to know him better, the prospect of working with him apparently in jeopardy. And knowing who ‘he’ was, she knew why.

‘Don't feel bad about it, Merlyn.’ Christopher scowled, obviously not pleased with the development at all. ‘You're the fourth he's turned down in almost a year.'

Tact and diplomacy didn't appear to be part of Christopher Drake's personality either, but after years of living and working with people in a profession full of affectations and insincerity, it was a refreshing change to meet someone so bluntly honest.

‘Who was my competition?’ she asked in an amused voice.

‘Not competition,’ Christopher dismissed disgustedly. ‘Just your predecessors. None of them got any further than this stage either.'

‘This stage?’ she prompted, toying with the scampi on her plate.

‘The film studio bought the screen rights to the book from the author but, unfortunately, she made the stipulation in the contract that her brother-in-law had to approve of the actress chosen to play the part of his wife.’ Christopher's disparaging tone told her exactly what he thought of that clause.

Merlyn shrugged, the long swathe of her shimmering red hair rippling halfway down her spine to her waist. ‘That seems only fair.'

Christopher's slender fingers tightened about his wineglass. ‘Not when he doesn't want the film made!’ Blue eyes glowered his displeasure. ‘Anne Benton forgot to mention that little fact when she signed the contract.'

Merlyn had read the book Anne Benton had written about her sister's short but eventful life, had been touched by the affectionate admiration the younger sister had for the elder. The book was poignantly tender, a fitting tribute to a warm and beautiful woman who had died too young. It must also be a heart-breaking reminder to Suzie Forrester's husband of his tragic loss.

‘That's that, then,’ she sighed, sitting back, her disappointment reflecting in the deep green of her slightly uptilting eyes. She had never met Suzie Forrester, but she had been attracted to portraying her as soon as she read the script, even more so since reading the book.

‘Not necessarily,’ Christopher said slowly.

She looked at him sharply. ‘If Brandon Carmichael doesn't want me in the part—–'

‘How does he know what he wants?’ the man opposite her dismissed impatiently. ‘He's never seen you! He didn't see any of your predecessors either, he just turned them down flat. Now if he could just meet you, and we could convince him—–'

‘Don't you mean I could convince him?’ Merlyn cut in hardly, easily able to guess the way his mind was working; he was far from the first completely ruthless man she had met in this profession. And she doubted he would be the last, either.

‘Why not?’ Christopher wasn't in the least abashed at the admission.

Merlyn gave him a pitying look. ‘Brandon Carmichael hardly sounds the type to be swayed by a pretty face!'

‘You aren't merely pretty, you're beautiful,’ Christopher stated, as a man used to dealing in nameless beautiful faces rather than personalities. ‘You're also a damned good actress,’ he added, just as practically. ‘Besides, there's only six weeks left until production starts, and I'm beginning to feel like Selznick looking for his Scarlett!'

Merlyn didn't like to disillusion him, was sure he believed that every film he made was a masterpiece, but she knew that however poignantly moving the film on Suzie Forrester was going to be, it was only Christopher's conceit that allowed him to in any way compare it to the legendary Gone With the Wind. He was hardly the enthralled producer David O. Selznick, and she certainly wasn't Vivian Leigh!

Christopher scowled at her sceptical expression. ‘For God's sake, I'm not asking you to sleep with the man, just convince him that we aren't all “ghoulish bastards”!'

She ignored the reference he had made to her using bedroom tactics to get Brandon Carmichael to agree to her playing the part of his wife in the film, knowing Christopher Drake was quite capable of asking that of her if he thought it would get the result he wanted. She was equally as sure what her answer to him would be! ‘Is that a direct quote?’ she asked ruefully.

Those deep blue eyes narrowed angrily. ‘That's one of the more repeatable remarks he's made about the film being shot,’ he confirmed harshly. ‘The man is so damned arrogant—–'

‘He did lose his wife, Christopher—–'

‘Two years ago,’ he put in in a disgruntled voice. ‘God knows she was a beautiful woman, but—–'

‘You knew her?’ Merlyn asked with interest.

Christopher shrugged. ‘I worked with her a couple of times. Any man would be upset at losing her, but it was years ago now.'

Merlyn's expression softened indulgently. It didn't take too much intelligence to know that in all of his thirty-six years Christopher Drake, for all that his intensity as a lover was as renowned as his ability as a director, had never been in love. She wasn't too familiar with the true emotion herself, but she had known enough of the untrue kind to appreciate that to have loved and lost must be infinitely more painful than never having known the emotion at all.

But Christopher saw this situation one-dimensional, could only see Brandon Carmichael as the man who stood in the way of his making his film and not as the man who had loved his wife so much her death had all but destroyed him. Time certainly hadn't lessened the man's pain.

‘What did you have in mind by way of convincing him?’ Merlyn arched auburn brows mockingly.

‘Well, I did invite him down to London to see you at the theatre, but—–'

‘He refused,’ she guessed dryly. ‘I really don't think seeing me play Kate would endear me to him!’ she derided, her title role in The Taming of the Shrew nothing at all like the vivacious but warmly beautiful Suzie Forrester. If Brandon Carmichael had seen her as Kate he would definitely have refused to let her take his wife's role in the film of her life!

He had turned her down anyway.

But being reminded of the latest role she had played during her year at the theatre, she was also forced to realise that she had turned down the offer of another contract so that she could start work on To Live a Little …, that she only had another week to go before her replacement took over. Originally, she had planned to take a month off before work began on the film, now it looked as if she were about to join the more than lengthy queue of the unemployed, and for someone who had rarely been out of work the last five years, that was going to be difficult to adjust to. But she had effectively closed one door and now another was being slammed in her face.

‘This is as important to you as it is to me.’ Christopher was shrewd enough to realise this as he watched the changing expressions on her face.

‘I want the part,’ she nodded. ‘And not just because I'm out of work without it,’ she added ruefully. ‘It really is something that appeals to me.'

‘It appeals to me too,’ Christopher grated. ‘We could pick up a few Oscars with it.'

The fact that their reasons were so different didn't surprise Merlyn, and she knew that Christopher's more mercenary attitude would in no way detract from his ability to make a fantastic film. But she had spent so much time during the last few weeks in learning the script and doing the research she felt necessary to get an all-round picture of Suzie Forrester, that she felt an affinity with the other woman, almost as if she had known her as a friend, even though they had never met. She would feel as if she were losing that friend if she didn't play Suzie.

‘I had in mind,’ Christopher paused, watching her closely, ‘your going to see Carmichael.'

‘Why?’ Merlyn frowned, getting ready to punch him on his arrogant nose if he so much as hinted again that she sleep with the other man. Although she didn't think he would, not after the way she had already reacted to the idea; Christopher certainly wasn't a stupid man.

‘To talk to him, of course,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Once he's met you he's going to realise we aren't all “ghoulish bastards”, that some of us are even quite decent.'

Merlyn looked sceptical. ‘According to the book written by his sister-in-law, he never liked or approved of his wife's career, and he's shunned everything to do with that world since her death. A visit from a woman who, in his mind, intends to capitalise on her death, isn't likely to endear me to him!'

‘Do we have any other choice?'

She knew that Christopher did, that he could shelve the film and just keep coming up with other Suzies until Brandon Carmichael accepted one out of desperation. On the other hand, she had no real choice, and Christopher knew that.

He turned to the waiter and nodded for their bill. ‘Let's go back to my place and discuss this further,’ he suggested, silkily soft, sure enough of his own attraction not to doubt her acquiescence.

Merlyn smiled as she answered him.

‘Mad dogs and Englishmen …’ Merlyn thought irritably. Only she was a woman, and it wasn't the ‘midday sun’ she had ventured out in but torrential rain. Nevertheless, the maxim seemed to apply.

Christopher had encouraged her to take this trip with a glowing description of the beauty of the Lake District, assuring her that even if her visit to Brandon Carmichael proved unsuccessful then at least she would have had an enjoyable break from the hectic pace her life had been lived at the last year while she had been appearing on stage.

Since leaving Manchester Airport in her hire-car over an hour ago, the rain hadn't stopped falling, and she was beginning to realise why it was called the ‘Lake’ District; lakes seemed to be forming everywhere, especially on the roads, several drivers having pulled off the road altogether as the driving conditions became more and more difficult.

The wettest English summer for years, the weathermen had cheerfully informed them. As if anyone needed telling that—summer this year having consisted of one week in early April!

Merlyn knew why she was feeling so irritable, and it had nothing to do with the weather. When she had decided on this month off between jobs it had seemed like a good idea but, after years of working constantly, the inactivity had gotten to her after only three days. The flat only took one day to clean thoroughly, another day to restock her freezer, and then another day to sit about with absolutely nothing to do. She ruefully acknowledged that Christopher had seen her restlessness and taken advantage of it.

That wasn't quite true, she accepted. She had still wanted the part of Suzie, and it had taken hardly any encouragement on Christopher's part to persuade her to make this trip to see Brandon Carmichael.

Anne Benton had been all for it, too. Although the two women had never met, Anne busy with the hotel she and her husband ran, Merlyn had spoken to her on the telephone, feeling an instant rapport with the warm-voiced woman. She had jumped at the chance of being a guest at the hotel when Anne suggested it, her brother-in-law living only a few miles away.

But Merlyn hadn't expected the delay in her flight because of fog, or the torrential rain that had greeted her when she went outside to get in her hire-car. It had been so bad when she first set out, the windscreen wipers proving ineffective, that she had contemplated staying in Manchester overnight and continuing her journey in the morning when, she hoped, the weather would have cleared somewhat. A telephone call to Anne had assured her that they had only a light drizzle falling up there, and so she had decided to make the drive after all. Unfortunately, the heavy rain had followed her all the way up!

Lake Windermere, as she drove past, was no more than fog-enshrouded greyness, the small town of Windermere itself deserted, the day-boats that were usually for hire, from the signs Merlyn saw up, had long-since closed down for the day. Who would have believed it could be August!

Anne's instructions for the location of the hotel had been explicit, but she hadn't allowed for the fact that Merlyn was used to driving in London, and that when told to take the first turning on the right she did exactly that, regardless of the fact that what had begun as a road soon tapered off as someone's driveway!

After twice getting soaked when she had to run to the house to ask for fresh instructions, the second time splattering the owner of the house with mud from his own driveway when she got stuck turning around and he had to push her out, she was near to deciding that the Lake District didn't like her and she didn't like it!

And then she saw it, The Forresters, the wooden sign beside the wrought-iron gates clearly discernible through the rain. She decided then and there to mention to Anne that her hotel would look infinitely more welcoming if the gates were left standing open, getting wet a third time when she ran out into the rain to correct the omission.

All of eight feet high, the gates groaned and creaked as she swung them back, the sneeze she gave as she hurriedly climbed back inside the car boding ill for the next few days. Maybe a nice long soak in the bath would rid her of the chill that was even now making her teeth rattle.

She drove through the gateway, slowing down after doing so, looking reluctantly in her driving-mirror. The rain seemed to be coming down heavier than ever, and the thought of going out into it again didn't appeal to her one bit but, on the other hand, a little voice at the back of her head kept saying something about the ‘country code’ and ‘always shutting gates after you'. A town girl born and bred, she must have read it somewhere, because in all of her twenty-six years the only time she had spent in the countryside had been when she was working in some provincial theatre, and then she hadn't had time to explore her surroundings. But that voice kept nagging, and besides, she couldn't get any wetter than she already was.

Water dripped down her neck and into her eyes as she turned back to the car, but for the first time she had a clear view of the hotel that stood at the end of the driveway. It only needed Edward Rochester to come thundering up behind her and the whole scene could have stepped straight out of Jane Eyre!

The shiver Merlyn gave as she once again climbed into the car wasn't completely one of damp and cold, and she chided herself for her imagination. It had been that imagination that had influenced her into seeking success in a career that her two doctor parents and lawyer brother had been scandalised about. Her mother still explained the insanity by telling people her daughter had received a concussion as a child!

Her poor mother had never recovered from the shock of finding herself pregnant again at thirty-seven, after deciding at the birth of her son eight years earlier that she wanted no more children, and had taken the necessary steps to ensure that. The interruption to the career she had entered only three years earlier, while she gave birth to Merlyn, had been a brief one—Merlyn, and Richard to a degree, cared for by a full-time nanny.

Nanny Sylvia had been kind, but she hadn't been their own mother, and the experience had left Merlyn with a desire to fill her own house with children if she married, and it wouldn't be the sort of house her parents had either, elegant but lacking warmth; she wanted a real home. Not that she was any closer to finding the man she wanted to share that with. After seeing Christopher for only a week, she knew he wasn't that man; she had known that after only a few minutes in his company. A wife and family would definitely not fit in with his lifestyle.

Still, he was fun to be with, and he really did want her to play Suzie Forrester. All she had to do was convince Brandon Carmichael into agreeing to it. All? Hah!

‘Hotel and country club’ Anne had described The Forest, and although there wasn't much sign of the country club at the moment the hotel looked to be very comfortable. Anne and Suzie had come from a wealthy family, and this had obviously once been the family home.

The service could use a little improving, though, the front door remaining firmly closed, no one outside to open her car door for her or to take in the luggage either, as there would have been at a London hotel. Well, she didn't mind opening her own door—she had done it enough already today for one more time not to count!—but someone would have to take in the large suitcase and vanity case she had in the boot of the car; she refused to get soaked again while she grappled with them.

She pressed on the car horn, looking expectantly at the huge oak doors at the side of her. The doors remained closed. Obviously they weren't expecting any guests in this downpour, but even so—! She hooted again, keeping her hand pressed down on it. It was an act guaranteed to make her unpopular, but she was feeling too cold and miserable to care.

Her hand faltered slightly as one of the doors swung open. She heard the crash as it hit the wall with force even with the doors and windows to her car closed and the sound of the rain falling. She had long since ceased pressing on the horn.

Her eyes widened with apprehension as a giant of a man filled the doorway, and she had the fleeting impression of immense power—and anger—before he strode out into the rain as if it were no more than a light drizzle falling. Merlyn caught only a glimpse of overlong black hair, an equally unkempt black beard, and the fiercest silver eyes she had ever seen, before he disappeared behind her car. She turned anxiously in her seat to see where he had gone, almost falling out on to the driveway as her door was suddenly wrenched open.

‘Have you ever heard of just ringing the doorbell like other people do?’ the man exploded. ‘I happened to be on the telephone when you arrived. What do you—–?'

Merlyn barely registered what he was saying, let alone the fact that he had broken off the tirade so suddenly. Their gazes were locked, green merging into silver, and where once there had been a damp chill to her body there was now a quivering heat that she had never known before. She couldn't even see the man's face properly beneath the beard and the overlong hair being whipped about his features by the fierce wind. She had always preferred slender elegance in a man to the muscles she could see beneath the thick black sweater and fitted cords he wore, and yet as she gazed—drowned!—in those silvery depths, she knew this man could have carried her into the house and up to his bedroom without a word of protest from her.

As she gazed into his eyes, Merlyn knew that she wanted him. Now!

The man seemed to shake off the spell that had been weaving about them, anger darkening his eyes. ‘What the hell do you think you're doing?’ he rasped harshly.

She still wanted him. Unless she was becoming feverish already from the numerous soakings she had received today! His next words seemed to say she had to be.

‘If you prefer to just sit there looking like a drowned cat than answer me then you can damn well do so!’ He slammed the car door back in her face.

‘No—please!’ He had reached the front door by the time Merlyn had managed to open her door and scramble out of the car to talk to him. He stood on the step looking back at her, oblivious of the rain streaming on his hair, over his face and body. Maybe if you lived with this weather long enough it did that to you! ‘I—Could you take my luggage inside—please?’ she added hopefully, feeling as if she had walked on to the set of Fawlty Towers and encountered John Cleese in his classic role as Basil Fawlty!

A dark scowl settled over those curiously light-coloured eyes. ‘Do I look like a porter?’ he scorned.

Merlyn chewed on her bottom lip. He was like no other porter she had ever met, possessed too much arrogance and authority for the—Oh no, this wasn't Anne's husband, James, was it? If it was she had committed a double gaffe, that of assuming he was one of his own porters, and of finding herself attracted to a married man, her own hostess's husband.

‘Well?’ He arched mockingly arrogant brows at her lack of response to his question.

Merlyn moistened her lips. ‘Er—I'm sorry if I made a mistake about your position here. I—–'

‘I would say that's the second mistake you've made in the last few minutes,’ he derided, his teeth gleaming very white against the darkness of his beard as he grinned at her discomfort.

Merlyn was so bemused by the unexpectedness of that grin that for a moment she was too mesmerised by the change it made in his appearance—his eyes a warm grey, deep grooves etched into the leanness of his cheeks—to realise exactly what he had said. But once she did realise, her gaze became wary. Had she shown so clearly the impact he had had on her? If she had she would never be able to look Anne Benton in the eye when they were introduced.

‘Oh?’ she queried with a casualness she was far from feeling.

‘You're looking for The Forest hotel, right?’ he drawled, arms folded confidently across the power of his chest, his stance challenging.

She frowned. ‘Yes …'

‘Well, you didn't find it,’ he seemed to take great pleasure in informing her.

‘Oh, but—–’ The sky seemed to open up at that moment, blinding Merlyn in its deluge so that she gave a start of surprise as lean fingers closed about her arm.

‘For God's sake,’ the man at her side exclaimed, ‘let's get inside where it's at least dry!'

It was ‘at least’ the most beautifully furnished house Merlyn had ever seen, the whole of the downstairs area that was visible from the entrance hall decorated in subtle greens, greys, and off-white. Huge cut-glass chandeliers adorned the high ceilings and the delicately ornate staircase in front of her was like something out of a fairy-story—or a film-set, Hollywood-style, that is; things weren't done as grandly in England. What was clearly apparent was that it wasn't a hotel but a family home!