Fast And Loose

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Copyright

“We’re supposed to be easy with each other,” Keir said.

“We’re supposed to have been lovers,” he continued.

Darcy gulped. “Urn—yes.”

“So some practicing wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Um—no,” she acknowledged.

Changing back into her character, she pushed at him, they struggled, and he gave her a punishing kiss.

Darcy parted her lips. Then it became a real kiss. A deep kiss.

When it ended, Keir drew back to frown. Was he going to ask what she had been doing and accuse her of breaking the rules?

“Enough passion?” she inquired.

ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance novel accepted in 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, England, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

Fast And Loose

Elizabeth Oldfield

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

DARCY frowned at the young man who sat on the other side of the low mahogany table. ‘I was stood in the lobby waiting for you for almost half an hour,’ she told him.

‘Sorry. Had trouble finding a taxi,’ Maurice Cantwell declared, fingering the apricot and white spotted bowtie which he wore with a pale apricot sharkskin suit. ‘Though you could’ve waited in here.’

‘But if I’d sat immobile where people can take their time and look someone might’ve recognised me,’ she protested.

‘So? Other actresses like to be recognised. Other actresses …’ His words dried as he looked beyond her to the entrance of the oak-panelled bar. ‘Hi, there!’ he called, waving an eager hand. ‘We’re over here.’

As her agent put down his cocktail and leapt to his feet in readiness to greet someone whom he had clearly expected Darcy’s lips compressed. She had thought his invitation to dinner at the Brierly Hotel was odd, but— dumbo!—she ought to have guessed that it might not necessarily be just the two of them.

Maurice had his fingers thrust into endless pies, and now it seemed that he might be attempting to swing one of the deals which he habitually indulged in and that she had been asked along as feminine decoration and some form of inducement. While the refined and dignified Brierly had been chosen as the venue in order to impress.

Darcy gritted her teeth. Sitting with her back to the door, she was unable to see who was approaching, but she refused to spend the evening making small talk with some impresario for Maurice’s benefit. She refused to be exploited.

Her agent took a step past her to welcome the new arrival. ‘Great to have a chance to meet you at last,’ he said in what, for him, were surprisingly sincere, reverential tones. ‘I’m a big admirer of both your acting and directing skills, though it’s a long time now since you’ve acted.’

‘As I get older I find I prefer to tell others what to do, rather than be told myself,’ replied a man in a smoky American drawl laced with an ironic inflexion.

Darcy froze. She was sure—almost—that she recognised the voice. Whipping her head round, she looked up. Her green eyes flew wide open. Her jaw dropped. Her mind seemed to implode. Towering above her was a tall figure—a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and utterly virile figure. The expected dinner guest was a man whom she had last seen seven years ago and whom she had never wanted to see again—Keir Robards!

She gawked at him. Like her agent’s dress style, his was also different from that of the hotel’s other, conservatively suited male customers, but whereas Maurice had gone for overkill he had opted for understatement. He wore cowboy boots, faded denims and an ancient black blazer thrown over a dark blue poplin shirt. His appearance was casual yet somehow he contrived to look smarter than every other man in the bar.

‘You two know each other,’ Maurice announced, with the gleeful air of a television host who—surprise, surprise—was bringing together a pair of old, dear, but long-lost friends.

Realising that she was still gawking, Darcy closed her mouth. She wanted to murder Maurice.

‘We did,’ she said, tautly placing their relationship in the past—where she intended it to remain.

‘Good evening, Darcy,’ Keir Robards said, and held down a large, tanned hand.

His handclasp came accompanied by a smile—a slow, crooked smile which, once upon a time, would have had her crumbling into a pathetically adoring heap. But no longer. Darcy nodded, withdrew her hand, sat back and crossed long, black-stockinged legs. Seven years on she was made of sterner stuff.

Nevertheless, the pressure of his fingers and the feel of his skin against hers had had an annoyingly sensitising effect. It made her aware of the way some physical contact, however mundane, could start the adrenalin spurting. It had also created a tension.

‘What are you doing here?’ she enquired, attempting to appear nonchalant and unconcerned but hearing herself sound dyspeptic.

Although Keir Robards had been consigned to history and she had not thought about him for…oh, ages, as she had waited in the lobby memories had relentlessly surfaced—of the last time she had visited the hotel, which had been the time of their final encounter, when she had made a monumental fool of herself.

Then, with her cheeks a feverish raspberry and her nerves twanging like crazed harp strings, she had dashed from his bedroom, hurled herself between the closing doors of a most obligingly placed lift and, on reaching ground level, had galloped across the lobby and out into the night.

Darcy sipped from her glass of sparkling water. The memory still made her squirm. And now, after intruding so discomfitingly into her consciousness earlier, for Keir Robards to appear in person was a bizarre coincidence—one which tempted her to make another hasty exit. But was he involved in a deal with Maurice? His elegant calm made a stark contrast to her agent’s ponytailed flamboyance, yet she supposed it was possible.

‘I’m staying at the hotel. I’ve been in London on business,’ he told her, ‘just for a couple of days. I fly back to the States tomorrow.’

‘Busy guy,’ Maurice murmured approvingly. ‘Sit down, sit down. Take my seat,’ he insisted when Keir looked around to draw up a chair. ‘You must have a drink,’ he said, and, after establishing his guest’s preference, he rapidly organised a gin and tonic. ‘I was on the point of telling Darcy about the new situation.’

Keir shot her a look. ‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what?’ Darcy asked in bewilderment. She frowned up at Maurice. ‘Would you kindly tell me what it is you’re talking about?’

‘The play,’ he said.

In a month’s time she was due to fly to the States to start rehearsing the female lead in a new, hard-hitting emotional drama which, after two weeks of previews in Washington, would premiere with much fanfare on Broadway. Darcy felt a trickle of alarm. She had thought everything was cut and dried, but there had, it seemed, been changes. Yet how could this have anything to do with Keir Robards?

‘There’s bad news—and good news,’ Maurice went on.

‘What’s the bad news?’ she enquired, thinking that it was always better to confront that first.

‘Bill Shapiro’s been forced to withdraw.’

‘Oh, no!’ Darcy exclaimed in dismay. ‘Why?’

‘He’s had a quadruple heart bypass which means he’ll be out of the scene for three months min. Poor Bill,’ the young man said, more automatically than sympathetically. ‘But the good news is…’ he paused to beam down at the American ‘…Keir’s come to the rescue.’

Darcy’s tension tightened as if turned by a ratchet. Her heart kicked behind her ribs. ‘You’ve—you’ve taken over as director?’ she faltered, struggling desperately up from the cocooning depths of her maroon velvet armchair.

Keir nodded. ‘I have.’

She perched, ramrod-stiff, on the edge of the chair. ‘But——’ she started to bleat.

‘I knew you’d be thrilled,’ Maurice declared, and gave a loud guffaw of satisfaction which boomeranged around the bar. In a lesser establishment it would have raised eyebrows and swivelled heads but the Brierly’s clientele were too well-bred to react.

‘“Thrilled” appears to be something of an exaggeration,’ Keir murmured, watching her, then looked up as a bell-boy in a grey brass-buttoned uniform appeared between the tables, holding aloft a board on which was written ‘Telephone for Mr Robards’. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, rising, and, with a word to the youth, he strode out to take his call at one of the telephones that were discreetly sited on the far side of the lobby.

‘We were both happy with Bill Shapiro directing,’ Maurice said hastily. ‘Though, let’s face it, as the play is your dream ticket to stardom we’d have been happy to go along with most any director unless he was a real doggo. Robards isn’t a doggo; he’s the crème de la crème.’

Darcy frowned down into the cut-crystal tumbler of sparkling mineral water which she suddenly realised she was holding in her fingers. Holding tight. Very tight. Stardom did not bother her—what mattered was her wonderfully challenging role. The observation that there were few meaty parts for actresses might have been a cliché, yet, as cliches often did, it contained much truth, and she had been savouring the prospect of getting to grips. But now…

‘I don’t want to work with him,’ she said.

Maurice affected a look of frog-eyed surprise. ‘Why ever not?’

Darcy had two reasons. Valid reasons. What she had come to think of as the bedroom incident was the first, though no one knew about that—praise be—but the second reason, and by far the more important, lived in the public domain—at least a part of it did. A line cut between her brows. However, the real source of her hostility, the crucial, damning factor, remained a secret, locked away at the back of her mind. It was a secret which, after much agonising, she had learned to live with.

Darcy sat back. ‘You know why not,’ she said impatiently.

‘You can’t be bothered about that episode between Robards and Rupert all those years ago?’ the young man protested as though—gee whizz!—the thought had only just occurred to him. He dropped down into the empty chair. ‘Come on, kiddo, artistic differences happen. They’re an occupational hazard and nothing to get uptight about.’

Her chin lifted. ‘My father feeling forced to withdraw from a production for the first and only time in an illustrious forty-year career just happened?’ Darcy enquired, a glacial edge to her voice. ‘Keir Robards was an innocent bystander?’

‘Look, Rupert was in his sixties, and taking instruction from a guy of under thirty who at that point had only directed on a couple of occasions could’ve seemed infra dig and been a bit of a strain. It’s under-standable. Human nature.’

She glared. ‘Which is supposed to mean that it was my father who was at fault?’ she demanded.

Maurice sighed. While some pride and filial support was to be applauded, in his opinion Darcy took the role of devoted daughter far too seriously. She also possessed a faulty perspective.

OK, Sir Rupert Weston had been an endearing old codger and an upper-echelon actor, but it was a well-known fact that the guy had been no saint. Anything but. And yet, he philosophised, it was also human nature for kids to dote uncritically on their fathers.

‘All it means is that you and Robards are a very different combination from him and your pa,’ Maurice replied, as if soothing a foot-stamping and sadly misguided three-year-old. He stood up. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked, smiling at his guest, who had returned.

Keir nodded. ‘And with you?’ he enquired, his eyes flicking down to where Darcy sat solemn-faced.

‘Wonderful,’ Maurice claimed. ‘There’s no doubt Darcy would’ve zapped the critics under Bill Shapiro’s direction——’ she received a flattering smile ‘—but with you calling the shots she’s destined to take the Big Apple by storm. You’re sharp, energetic, imaginative.’ Now it was Keir’s turn to be shone a flattering smile. ‘A guy with a firm concept of what he wants and who isn’t afraid to go for it.’

Keir lifted a brow. ‘You reckon?’

‘And how,’ Maurice enthused, deaf to the pithiness of the comment. ‘Didn’t have a chance to break the news to her before because this has been one hectic week,’ he continued. ‘On Monday a client who’s always causing me pain——’

As her agent rattled off into a non-stop and unstoppable account of his week’s trials and tribulations Darcy sneaked a look at the man who had sat down opposite her again. Despite the intervening years, he was much as she remembered him. The odd strand of silver now gleamed amid the thick, straight dark blond hair which brushed his collar, and the vertical creases on either side of his mouth were etched deeper, but his eyes remained a clear cobalt-blue beneath brows which were uncompromisingly straight. His jawline was still granitecut and his nose aquiline.

As an actor Keir Robards had collected female fans with insolent ease and yet, while she, too, had considered him a sight to make any girl’s knees turn to water, his good looks had not been the appeal. What she had found magnetic was his intelligence, his style and a sense of inner steel which had made him seem…dangerous. Darcy felt a sharp pang of distress. He had been dangerous, as she knew to her cost.

That steely quality remained and with the years had come a sureness. The younger Keir Robards had been quietly confident but the mature Keir Robards was a man of authority, a man of stature, a man with whom one did not mess.

As she gazed at him from beneath her lashes two emotions travelled through her—emotions which contradicted each other yet were intertwined. She felt a strong hostility—and an equally strong attraction. A shadow crossed her face. How could that be? It made no sense. She loathed and despised Keir Robards. End of story. Finishing his recital, Maurice grabbed his glass from the table and drained it in one gulp. ‘I must be off,’ he declared.

Darcy’s head snapped up and she looked at him in astonishment. ‘Off?’ she repeated. ‘You mean you’re not having dinner?’

‘Nah. You don’t need me around. Much better if I vamoose and leave you two beautiful people to talk things over together in a cosy tête-à-tête. Don’t you agree, Keir?’

His guest had been watching their interplay and he gave a dry smile. ‘That’s what you arranged.’

‘Besides,’ Maurice went on, when Darcy started to protest, ‘I have another appointment fixed for this evening.’

As he beckoned to the waiter and paid for the drinks Darcy’s green eyes began to burn. She had been set up! Guessing she would not wish even to meet Keir Robards, let alone work with him, Maurice had prepared a trap.

Firstly, he had delayed advising her of the change in director, which he had apparently known about for days. Secondly, he had contacted the American and fixed for him to have dinner with her. Thirdly, this evening he had been late—on purpose, she thought angrily—which meant that he must have chickened out of dropping his bombshell when they were alone and when she could have properly voiced her dissent. When she could have laid it on the line that she was—as in definitely, no ifs nor buts, come hell or high water—pulling out of the play.

And now his intentions were clear; he expected her to be beguiled by the magnetic Mr Robards and swap her dissent for slavering acquiescence. A thought occurred. Had Maurice known how besotted she had been seven years ago? No. She had not started acting in earnest and been his client then. But he would be alert to Keir’s heartthrob status so it made no difference.

‘I’m sure you can cancel your appointment,’ Darcy said, shooting her agent a fierce, slit-eyed look which warned him that she had realised the game he was playing and was unamused.

He shook his head, pony-tail swinging. ‘’Fraid not.’

‘But Maurice——’ she began, switching from ferocity to a somewhat frantic appeal.

‘I understand the food is excellent here and I’ve arranged to foot the bill, so enjoy,’ he instructed, and after bestowing ‘mwah-mwah’ kisses to both her cheeks the young man made his farewells and hurried away.

‘Louse,’ she muttered.

‘Are you referring to Maurice or to me?’ Keir enquired from across the table.

She looked at him. She had not realised that she had spoken out loud. ‘Maurice,’ she said, though thinking that he qualified for the description too. ‘He’s not to be trusted. He’s always been a tricksy individual and he always will be.’

‘Then why keep him on as your agent?’

Darcy had wondered about that herself. She had also mulled over the irony of someone who was not very good at show business and certainly not as ambitious as one was meant to be being represented by a pushy wheeler-dealer like Maurice.

‘Because he has an impeccable instinct for identifying good parts,’ she replied, which was true—most of the time.

Keir’s blue eyes held hers in a level look. ‘You also keep him on because his father used to be your father’s agent.’

Darcy stiffened. She did not want to talk about her father—not with him. No, thank you. It was a no-go area, sacred ground where Keir, as the infidel, had no right to trespass. Where he was banned. But hadn’t his comment been a condemnation?

‘So I’m carrying on a family tradition. There’s nothing wrong with that,’ she said defensively.

‘But there is something wrong with Maurice keeping stumm about Bill Shapiro and not telling you of this evening’s arrangements,’ he remarked, and lifted his glass to his lips.

As he sampled his gin and tonic his eyes took a journey over her. Starting at the top of her burnished sable-brown head, they toured her face—the high cheekbones, almond-shaped green eyes, full, crushed-strawberry mouth—fell to linger for a moment on the pout of her breasts, swept lower over her body to her hips and went down the length of her legs until the low table masked any further view.

He lifted his gaze. ‘You’ve grown up,’ he said.

Darcy bridled. His look had been a leisurely and detailed inspection. She felt as if he had removed every stitch of her clothing, piece by lazily tossed-aside piece, and surveyed her naked. Stark naked.

‘People do,’ she retorted. ‘I was eighteen when we last met, whereas now I’m——’

‘A sophisticated twenty-five,’ he said.

Because Maurice had told her on the telephone to ‘dress in your best’ Darcy was wearing a slim-skirted black linen suit with a spaghetti-strapped coffee-coloured lace camisole. She had also made up her face with unusual care—bronze eyeshadow, sooty mascara, the works—and had shampooed her hair which swung in silky sable-brown curls around her shoulders.

She knew she was looking good and, although she told herself that she did not give a fig about whatever Keir Robards might say, it was impossible to prevent a glow of feminine pleasure.

‘Thanks,’ she said curtly.

Keir’s eyes fell again. ‘Who still has the most tempting curves,’ he added.

Sophisticated or not, Darcy flushed scarlet. His comment held a wealth of meaning, for when she had visited his room at the Brierly all those years ago the dress she had worn had been daringly low-cut and, as she had hoped and intended, Keir had been fascinated by the honeyed swell of her breasts.

Darcy fought an urge to yank her jacket across her chest and fasten each and every button. All of a sudden her camisole seemed woefully revealing, and from the continued dip of his gaze he appeared to be fascinated by her lace-covered bosom now.

‘Couldn’t the play be postponed until Mr Shapiro is well again?’ she enquired, in a determined and rather desperate switch of subject.

Calmly raising his eyes to hers, Keir shook his head. ‘It’d mean too much upheaval for too many people, you must realise that. And if the theatre slots went it might take a year before they could be replaced.’ He dragged a hand through the spikes of tawny hair which persisted in falling across his brow, raking them back. ‘You haven’t worked with either Bill Shapiro before or with me, so what makes you prefer him?’

She shot him a startled look. Didn’t he know? He had to. He must. It was neon-lit to her. But of course Keir might consider the events of the past to be of little consequence.

While his regarding her piece of lunacy as insignificant would be an enormous relief—perhaps his reference to her curves had been random and the bedroom incident had faded from his mind?—that he could be indifferent to what had happened with her father—to her father—made her burn with raw resentment. How callous. How cruel. Yet she supposed it was possible. One person’s catastrophe could be another person’s hiccup, and everything had happened a long time ago.

Darcy took a sip of sparkling water. His question had sounded rational and reasonable so she would answer in a similar manner; but what did she say?

‘I prefer Mr Shapiro,’ she began, ‘because, well, for a while now I’ve had it fixed in my head that he’d be directing, and I’ve become used to the idea. And I liked it. And when we spoke on the phone he seemed a pleasant individual. And…’ Aware of waffling, Darcy heard her voice fade away.

‘And you’ve never lusted after him,’ Keir completed.

To her fury, she felt her cheeks start to burn again. He had not forgotten what had been the most embarrassing incident in her entire life. Damn it. Damn him. But he need not think that she would be covered in girlish confusion this time.

Darcy had once acted the role of Cleopatra at stage school and now she eyed him with icy and regal disdain. ‘I’ve never lusted after you,’ she declared.

A smile played around the corners of his mouth. ‘No kidding?’

‘I had a crush, that was all. A mild, innocent schoolgirl crush, which lasted for an extremely short time.’

‘And your innocence lasted for an extremely short time after that because you became a hot item with the young Lothario Gideon McCall.’

At his mention of the actor whom she had once dated, Darcy frowned. The distaste in Keir’s tone indicated that he could be recalling how, on the expiry of their romance, Gideon had spoken about it to the Press. Her frown deepened. If Keir did not approve of Gideon’s lurid and elaborately fabricated kiss-and-tell which had been pounced on by the tabloid newspapers, neither did she; though it had served one useful purpose.

‘Gideon was a humanoid calamity, but regrettably when I was younger——’ she shone a cheesy smile ‘—I did not have such great taste in men.’

‘Ouch,’ Keir murmured.

‘However, now I’m far more discerning.’

He lifted a brow. ‘Heaven be praised for maturity. So why are you reluctant to work with me?’ Keir asked, returning to his earlier enquiry.

Having stalwartly denied her first reason, Darcy was left with the second. But by the time the so-called ‘artistic differences’ with her father had occurred she had been avoiding Keir Robards like the plague so he had not been aware of her feelings, her conclusions, nor of the blame which she had later apportioned.