Red Rose For Love
Damn Carl! She hadn’t thought of him for months—well, weeks—well, actually it was days, but who was counting? Bartholomew Jordan had brought back the memories of Carl, one more reason why she hated him. Just another rich man who thought his money could buy him everything, including love!
She could finally remove the detested make-up, and felt cleaner and fresher once that was done. She studied her reflection in the mirror. Derek was right, she did look about sixteen without the make-up; she also, to her mind, looked more attractive.
At the end of the week she could go back to Norfolk and be just the nonentity Eve Meredith, could go back to her houseboat and live a normal life again. Derek had promised her a holiday after this week of concerts, and she could hardly wait to get back to Norfolk. Maybe she wasn’t really cut out for stardom, although this was a hell of a time to discover it, and Derek felt sure that she could make it right to the top. Still, much as she valued him as a friend, she still knew that fifteen per cent of nothing was nothing.
She turned over in the bed. Heavens, she was an ungrateful bitch tonight! Everything was sure to look brighter in the morning.
It did. She felt revitalised by her long sleep, her usual energy back in evidence. The reviews were good but guarded, speculating as to whether her dazzling performance could be maintained throughout the week.
‘I’ll show them!’ she told Derek, throwing the newspapers down in disgust.
He smiled. ‘That’s my girl!’
Rehearsals went perfectly, any minor adjustments that needed to be made being quickly ironed out. After a couple of hours of this she was ready to go back to the apartment and rest. She was delicately made, very slender, and she would need all the energy she could muster for the gruelling evening ahead of her. Maybe the critics were right after all, maybe she didn’t have the stamina for this sort of life.
When she arrived back at the flat it was to find the biggest bouquet of red roses she had ever seen in her life lying on the doorstep; both Judy and Derek were out. She recoiled just at the sight of them, her expression darkening as she read the card that went with them. It was signed simply ‘Bart’.
The roses went straight into the dustbin, the card along with them. God, that man was really pushing his luck! Bart, indeed! Only his so-called ‘friends’ called him that!
She was so steamed up she must have paced the apartment for half an hour or more, sleep completely forgotten. She was so angry that she sent him a telegram in the end; it read, ‘Received and discarded, Eve Meredith’. She sent it to his bank, knowing that something as important as a telegram would reach him wherever he was.
That would show him what she thought of him and his roses!
It was when she woke up that the uncertainty set in. Much as she disliked Bartholomew Jordan and everything he represented, he really wasn’t a man she should antagonise. And the telegram had been a childish gesture. It should have been enough that she knew she had destroyed the roses. This way she was inviting retribution.
But it seemed not. A second bouquet of roses appeared at the theatre that evening, this time signed ‘Bartholomew Jordan’. He had to have received her telegram by now. Unless he had placed the order for these roses before he had received it? But that didn’t make sense, not when he had signed the second card so formally.
He certainly was a persistent man, surprisingly so, although it was doubtful that he needed to be this persistent normally; most women would be falling over themselves just to be associated with him.
Derek’s eyebrows rose as he saw the roses still lying in their cellophane on the table where Eve had thrown them. ‘An admirer?’ he asked curiously, obviously looking for the card she had put away in her handbag.
‘One with more money than sense,’ she nodded. Her cat-suit was a deep red this evening, her hair long and crinkled from the tight plaits she had bound it in after washing it this afternoon. Her make-up was just as dramatic, her mouth a deep slash of red to match the suit.
‘Here,’ Derek broke off one of the roses and pushed it into her hair over her ear. It gave her the look of a wild gypsy. ‘Perfect,’ he nodded his approval.
Eve pulled the rose out of her hair, throwing it in the bin. ‘It would wilt before the end of the performance,’ she said stiffly as she saw Derek’s shocked face.
‘You could have replaced it during the break,’ he said practically.
Her head went back. ‘I’d rather not.’
He frowned. ‘Who are they from?’
‘Guess,’ she invited dryly, hoping he would put her dislike of the deep red blooms down to their sender.
His face brightened. ‘Not Bart Jordan?’
‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Not Bart Jordan.’
‘Don’t tease, Eve,’ he said seriously.
She turned angrily to face him. ‘What is it about this man? Why is he so special? I’ve had men like him interested in me before, but you never tried to tell me how to behave with them.’
He flushed. ‘I’m not telling you how to behave with Jordan either. I just don’t think it would do us any good for you to upset him. He has a lot of influence, he could make things very uncomfortable for us if he chose to.’
‘And do you think he might?’ She remembered the threat in Bartholomew Jordan’s voice.
‘I think he could do,’ Derek nodded.
‘And what do you suggest I do about it?’ she asked tartly. ‘Sleep with him just to make sure he stays sweet?’
Derek flushed. ‘I didn’t say that——’
‘I’m so sorry,’ her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Maybe it just sounded that way to me.’
He gave an impatient sigh. ‘You’re impossible in this mood, Eve. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be nice to him.’
She stood up. ‘He doesn’t want me to be nice to him, he wants to go to bed with me!’
‘I’ll admit he’s attracted to you, but——’
‘He told me what he wants, Derek,’ she interrupted firmly. ‘He wants me, in his bed. And he isn’t getting me!’
‘Eve——’
‘The answer is no, Derek.’
He sighed. ‘I don’t have the time to argue with you right now, you have to be on stage in a few minutes. And for what it’s worth, Eve,’ he added almost gently, ‘whoever he was, he isn’t worth it.’
She froze. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded tautly.
‘You know what I mean. I’ve known you almost five years now, and you’ve never let a man near you——’
‘I’ve been out on dates!’
‘Date, in the singular. You never go out with the same man twice.’
She gave a tight smile. ‘Maybe I just like variety.’
Derek shook his head. ‘That isn’t true and you know it. No man lasts with you because he isn’t allowed to get near you, either physically or emotionally.’
Eve flushed. ‘You’re near me.’
‘Only as a friend, and only as near as you’ll let me. Eve, you——’
‘I have to go, Derek,’ she interrupted abruptly. ‘But I’ve never interfered in your private life, and I don’t expect you to interfere in mine.’
‘Eve——’
‘I have to go.’ She hurried out of the room as the music began to play.
It was perhaps unfortunate that the first person she saw was Bart Jordan. He was sitting in the front row of the audience, in an end seat, his blond hair very distinctive.
Eve glared at him, her resentment a tangible thing. This man had caused her to argue with Derek, something she never did, and worst of all he had brought back the painful memories of Carl.
If anything her performance was even better than last night, her anticipation of telling Bartholomew Jordan just what she thought of him incentive enough for her to give the performance of a lifetime. She had never been so sensually abandoned during the rock numbers, so heartbreaking during the sad love songs.
By the end of the evening she knew the appreciative clapping and shouting to be wholly deserved, and a lot of the fans were rising to their feet. Only one man didn’t applaud; Bartholomew Jordan got up and left by a side door as her last number came to an end.
Eve watched him go with disbelief. She had been conscious of his still figure all through the concert, had tried a little harder with each new song in the hope that he would applaud that one. He never did, just sat watching her steadily with those luminous green eyes.
Eve became more and more frustrated as the evening went on, and those heavy-lidded eyes never left her, a mocking twist to the firm lips that had plundered hers so thoroughly the evening before.
Well, she would show him when he turned up in her dressing-room. If he thought he had had the brush-off last night he would find out what that really meant tonight!
She waited fifteen minutes for him to show up, and when he didn’t she knew he must be waiting for her outside. He had probably left early to get his limousine.
But once she got outside there was no limousine, no Bartholomew Jordan. The damned man had genuinely walked out on her concert!
CHAPTER TWO
EVE’S mood was explosive during rehearsals the next day; she was critical of the musicians, until at last one of them shouted back at her. That took her aback, so much so that she was speechless for several minutes.
‘Okay, take a break, everyone,’ Derek filled in the silence. ‘Back on stage in ten minutes. You come with me.’ He pulled Eve off the stage and down into her dressing-room. ‘Now, what’s going on?’ he demanded to know.
Her face was flushed. ‘You had no need to do that,’ she snapped. ‘I could handle it.’ She pushed her hair back impatiently.
‘Maybe you could,’ he sighed. ‘But I don’t think the boys could. You were throwing the proverbial tantrum out there, Eve.’
‘I was not——’
‘You were, and you still are. What on earth is the matter with you?’ he sighed his exasperation. ‘You’re being hell today!’
She glared at him angrily for several minutes, her expression one of rebellion. Then the fight went out of her. She was being hell, she was surprised someone hadn’t told her earlier; the boys in the group didn’t usually take any nonsense, not from anyone.
‘I’ll apologise,’ she said tautly, her hands thrust into the back pocket of her skin-tight denims, her lemon tee-shirt figure-hugging too.
‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ he said firmly. ‘What’s upset you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Eve!’
She bit her lip, looking down at her hands. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, she just felt angry at the whole world. ‘Maybe I’m tired,’ she shrugged.
‘We all are. That’s no excuse.’ He put his arm about her shoulders. ‘You know that, don’t you, Eve? Guy was playing that last number perfectly, you were the one off key.’
‘I’ve said I’ll apologise!’
He moved back. ‘Make sure you do. Having the musicians walk out on us is something I don’t need.’
‘Derek——’
‘Okay, okay,’ he held up his hands defensively, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know you in this mood.’
She didn’t know herself. Usually nothing got to her, and yet since her first meeting with Bartholomew Jordan her mood had been very erratic. And no man was allowed to do that to her, she wouldn’t allow them to.
The rest of the rehearsals went off all right. Guy accepted her apology, but she took all the band out to lunch just to ease things between them. She was behaving very badly, something she had sworn 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 turned slowly, his face stony. ‘Yes?’ he asked curtly.
‘Oh, Derek, I’m sorry!’ She held out her hand pleadingly.
For a moment it seemed he was going to ignore that plea, then he relented and gave a rueful smile. ‘Our first argument.’ He shrugged. ‘Not bad after five years.’
‘I really am sorry,’ she bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
‘Nerves,’ he dismissed. ‘Hurry and change, Eve. Only another hour to go and then you can sleep for twelve hours if you want to.’
‘Tomorrow’s rehearsal…?’
‘Forget it. You couldn’t be any better than you are right now. And I happen to think you need the rest more. Just get through this hour, Eve, and you can take tomorrow off.’
‘All right,’ she nodded, her smile bright, but that smile faded as she went back into her room.
She was trembling all over, her skin cold and clammy. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, and yet she knew she couldn’t let Derek down. Derek? Shouldn’t she be going through this gruelling torture for herself, and not because of loyalty to Derek?
She knew he wasn’t lying when he said he had just about sold his soul to get the money together for this weekly booking. She had had one hit record, her second was slowly starting to creep up the charts, but that didn’t make her a star. Backers for a relative newcomer weren’t easy to come by, and it had taken Derek months of hard work to get the cash together.
And now she wished it were all over, wished she never had to perform in front of an audience again. She loved to sing, had always enjoyed it, but maybe the reviewers were right when they said she didn’t have the stamina to compete in the big time.
It took all her will-power to change into the red suit, but her entrance back on stage was greeted with ecstatic applause. She was halfway through the first number when the spotlights playing across the stage picked up the fair head set at an arrogant angle on the first row of seats, the bright light emphasising the many shades of blond.
Bartholomew Jordan was now sitting in the seat he had reserved! He must have come in during the interval. She hadn’t spotted him at first because it just hadn’t occurred to her that he would arrive this late in the show.
But there he was, just as self-assured as ever, looking totally out of place amongst the teenage audience she had attracted, the deep green velvet jacket, snowy white shirt, and black trousers equally out of place. He looked as if he were either on his way to, or had just come from, a dinner engagement.
Once again he didn’t applaud her performance, but his green-eyed gaze didn’t deviate from her once as she sang song after song. This time he stayed until the end of the concert, but he made no effort to come backstage to see her.
Eve had to admit to being puzzled by his behaviour. He obviously hadn’t lost interest in her, and yet he wasn’t pursuing her as doggedly as she would have expected him to. Not like Carl; he had been very persistent. But she hadn’t been so unwilling then, hadn’t got her fingers burnt.
Carl. She would never forget him, or the lesson he had taught her. Her mind was plagued with thoughts of him as she tried in vain to fall asleep that night. She was exhausted, she should have fallen asleep instantly, but memories of Carl wouldn’t be denied. She could see him now, tall, dark, incredibly handsome, with a lethal charm that no woman, least of all the naïve fool she had been then, could resist.
She had been singing in a club out of town the first time she saw him, singing the meaningless songs that didn’t intrude on the enjoyment of the patrons as they ate their meal before going in to gamble on the gaming tables in the other room.
Carl had been with a tall blonde woman, classically beautiful, her clothes obviously having an exclusive label. And yet for all her apparent wealth and beauty the other woman hadn’t been able to hold Carl’s attention, Eve had done that.
The intensity of his gaze made her blush, and she even stumbled a couple of times over the songs she had been singing night after night for the past two weeks, ever since the club had opened. She had been lucky to get the job in the first place, although she was far from being the top entertainment the club had to offer, the top stars appearing in the gaming-room.
Carl had come back the next night, alone this time. He had invited her over to have a drink with him during her break. She had refused, as the club rules said that she wasn’t to mix socially with the customers. She had been grateful enough for this stipulation when she first went to work at the club; a lot of the places she had worked in in the past had treated her as little more than a call-girl. And yet she had been attracted to Carl, had wanted to be with him, had been regretful at having to turn him down.
He had finally realised what the problem was and had arranged to meet her away from the club, although he usually managed to get into the club to see her for a few minutes each evening when she was working. That first evening they had gone out for a late supper. Carl had got her to talk about her family, about her dead parents, the godparents who had brought her up since their death. He had seemed genuinely interested in her life, although he revealed little about himself, except that his name was Carl Prentiss, and that he had a business in the City.
Eve had been naïve, naïve and totally stupid, infatuated with a surface charm and the way he received only the best service wherever they went together. His affluence was something he took for granted, but something that in her naïveté she had been impressed with.