Beaumont Brides Collection (7 page)

‘I imagine scripts will have to be rewritten and that will involve some expense,’ he continued.

‘How thoughtful of you.’

‘You’ll find Melanie is very enthusiastic about radio, very keen to widen her experience in the medium.’

‘And there isn’t a radio station in the country that wouldn’t give her a guest spot as I’m sure you know.’

‘But I want her here with me, in Broomhill Bay,’ he said, very softly. ‘So it must be your lucky day, Miss Beaumont.’ Lucky? On the surface, maybe. Yet she preferred to suspend judgement on her luck for the present. She had the feeling that nothing was quite that simple where Luke Devlin was concerned. ‘And Melanie greatly admires your father,’ he continued, smoothly. ‘I believe he has something of a reputation for bringing on young actresses.’

Something about the way he said this set her teeth on edge. ‘My father is a busy man,’ she said, quickly. ‘He hasn’t time for coaching.’

‘Well, maybe once he’s met her, he’ll make the effort to set a little time aside for her. From his hectic schedule.’

‘I’m sure she’s charming, but I would advise against raising her hopes.’

‘I could make it a condition of the sponsorship.’

‘That, of course, is up to you.’ Pointless to suggest that she didn’t have to accept such a condition. They both knew that she did.

 She looked at the cheque. She wanted to run with it to the bank, pay it in and make Mr Nicholson a happy man.

Something, some inner voice, was urging her not to do anything without thinking about what he was offering and what he wanted in return. If he wanted Melanie on the show badly enough to pay for the privilege, a day or two wasn’t going to make any difference.

‘It’s an interesting proposition, Mr Devlin,’ she said, finally, holding the cheque out to him. ‘But I think it would be better if you kept this until I’ve spoken to my father.’ Her hand remained extended, but he made no move to retrieve his cheque.

‘So your boast that you have full authority to make decisions is an idle one? I’m disappointed in you, Miss Beaumont. You’ve wasted my time.’

She refused to rise to his taunt. ‘On the contrary. You have wasted mine. I came here to discuss finance. I’d be happy to accept the portion of your cheque dedicated sports coverage, unless of course you know some other young person who is anxious to join the commentary team?’ His eyes gleamed dangerously, but he didn’t answer. ‘No, of course not, you did say just one extra member of staff. Unfortunately my father is the casting director of “Holiday Bay” and the decision must be his.’

‘Then you’d better tell him that it’s a package deal, Miss Beaumont. You can’t have one without the other.’

Somehow that didn’t come as a surprise. She made a move to stand, but the sofa clung to her, possessively. He ignored her plight.

‘Then we must hope that my father is as enthusiastic about Melanie as we both are.’

‘Are you telling me that casting entirely rests upon merit? That it has nothing to do with finance?’

‘“Holiday Bay” is a “soap” on a small independent radio station, Mr Devlin. Hollywood it isn’t. But courtesy requires that I speak to my father.’

‘Courtesy? Then we are in agreement on something,’ he replied, with the suspicion of a smile that sent her treacherous pulse cart-wheeling. ‘A promising beginning. Nevertheless, there are occasions when artistic decisions are too important to be left to the artists. And if you don’t agree to my simple condition, it will all be academic anyway. You are out on a limb and I can assure you that sooner rather than later someone will come along and saw it off.’

A threat? It sounded horribly like one. ‘You?’ she demanded. ‘Or are you simply content with providing the saw?’

‘You climbed out along the branch all by yourself, Miss Beaumont. Does it really matter who lops it off?’

‘It’s really not as bad as that,’ she said, with every appearance of calm conviction.

His smile deepened and she remembered, far too late, her earlier feeling that trying to deceive this man would be futile. It was that bad and somehow he knew it as well as she did. He knew too damned much. But for the moment he was generously prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘I’ll believe you, Miss Beaumont, if you’ll just tear that cheque up,’ he said. And he waited.

Fizz realised with a jolt that she had been wrong when she decided Luke Devlin had no feelings. Quite wrong. He was actually enjoying this, she realised, her hackles rising dangerously at the thought of him playing with her, with the fate of her station.

As if he sensed her intention to tear the wretched cheque into a million pieces and consign it and him to the devil, he stretched out his hand and fastened long, cool fingers warningly about her wrist. ‘I won’t write another one, Felicity Beaumont, so I suggest you think twice before you do anything ... melodramatic.’

It was almost as if he was determined to goad her, sting her into an unwise retort. Why? She wanted to ask him, demand that he tell her, but she had been imprudent enough for one afternoon.

To have lost her temper in the face of his disquieting authority, for the amusement of this infuriating man, would have been too shaming to bear. Instead she managed a laugh, small, a little breathy it was true, but still a laugh. She was driving herself beyond the limits today.

Her own career as an actress might have been short-lived, but the techniques she had learned at RADA came in useful from time to time. When she wanted to hide emotion, for instance, or to cling onto her self control and at this moment they were both being tested to the limit of endurance.

‘You’re right of course, Mr Devlin,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid I couldn’t impose this on my father without his agreement. He might not be prepared to accept it and then we would be in real trouble.’ And she fervently hoped he hadn’t noticed the tiny wobble in her voice. Sometimes technique alone was not enough.

‘I’m glad you realise that.’ And he opened his fingers to release her hand. She wanted to snatch it away. Instead she quietly laid it back in her lap, where it trembled very slightly from the sheer effort of holding onto the small slip of paper that represented the future of the station and all its employees. Tear it up? She might as well attempt to tear up a telephone directory. ‘But if, as you boasted, it were your decision?’ he persisted.

It was her decision and hers alone, but she needed time to think. To work out what his motives were. “Holiday Bay” was a popular programme that had more than justified the hard work that had gone into it, but with Melanie Brett in the cast they would draw a vast teenage audience away from the national commercial stations. That would be a tremendous boost for advertising.

The obvious choice would be to grab his money and run. But that was what bothered her most. He wasn’t the kind of man who would pay for something that he could have had for nothing. There was something more to this than a simple trade off.

He saw the conflicting emotions in her face.

‘In the end, the toughest decisions have to be made alone, Felicity Beaumont,’ he warned her. ‘They divide the men from the boys. The winners from the losers. So? What do you say?’

CHAPTER THREE

LUKE Devlin did not wait for her answer but stood up and apparently satisfied that he had made his point, magnanimously offered her his hand to help her to her feet.

He didn’t move back as she rose and she found the tip of her nose uncomfortably close to the smooth tweed lapel of his suit; her senses stirred by a combination of elusive masculine scents. Good soap, the faintest woody top note of expensive cologne, the rich leather interior of an expensive motor car.

He was playing power games with her, demonstrating that he was stronger than her in every sense. With the sofa tight behind her calves, she was unable to retreat, put some distance between them and she felt trapped.

She was normally so careful to avoid any physical contact other than a handshake with men she did not know well, who did not understand the inviolate circle of space she kept around her. It made it easier to keep relationships distant, to avoid misunderstandings. But she had been angry when Luke Devlin had made his entrance and anger had shattered the protective bubble, made her vulnerable.

Now the cool touch of his hand as his fingers locked with hers were a jolting reminder of how different it had once been. A painful reminder that her skin had once tingled with excitement, of the clamour of her pulse pounding in her ears, a longing that had ached between her thighs.

An almost audible sigh of relief escaped her lips as he released her hand and stepped back to pick up her portfolio. It was short lived as hand lightly at her back he escorted her to the door.

‘You have until Friday, Miss Beaumont.’

Friday. Friday was the day the salary cheques would have to be signed and the payment was due on the loan.

There was still that long, slow post Christmas period to get through before the holiday season began, a time when local businesses traditionally cut advertising to the bone. And now the town was holding its collective breath waiting to see what would happen at Harries. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Did he know that? She risked a glance at his hard profile.

Yes, she decided. Luke Devlin knew altogether too much.

She would like to know how he had got his information, but there was little point in asking him. He would simply smile, threatening the permafrost once more and then he’d change the subject. Well, she would have to do her own homework. Find out everything she could about him. Maybe he had some weakness that she could use to her own advantage.

She caught herself. She had come out of the meeting with her sponsorship intact. It was far more than she had hoped for and his one condition could be easily coped with.

She should be happy. Over the moon. But there was this deep gut instinct that Luke Devlin was trouble. Not just because of her almost overwhelming response to him. That was personal and she would have to deal with it, but something else. A feeling so nebulous that she could not have put it into words. She was probably being foolish, but happy was the last thing she felt.

She pulled herself together. ‘Friday?’

‘At twelve o’clock. You can give me your decision then.’

‘I will. You’d better look after this in the meantime,’ she said, offering him his cheque.

He smiled. Was it deliberate, she wondered? Did he know that when he made the effort he radiated enough power to light up the national grid?

‘I’d like you to keep it, Miss Beaumont. It will help you make up your mind.’

‘No…’

He took it from her, folded it neatly in half and tucked it into the breast pocket of her suit.

She swallowed, her entire body trembling as the pressure of his knuckles through the broadcloth brought her breast to singing life, bringing painful memories surging back from the place they had been buried so deep that she had almost managed to forget. ‘

You shouldn’t do that,’ she said, hoarsely, her eyes firmly fixed on the pattern of his tie. Burgundy. With the insignia of some professional organisation. Silk. Well it would be, wouldn’t it?

One dark brow rose a fraction. ‘Do what?’ he asked, as if he had no idea what his touch was doing to her, when she was sure he must be only too aware of the painful blush, the stammering incoherence to which he was reducing her.

‘Banks,’ she began, but the word was more throat than voice.

‘Banks?’ he prompted, gently.

Drat the man - he had apparently left her incapable of stringing a simple sentence together. She dug her nails hard into the palm of her hand. ‘Banks,’ she said, with almost grim determination, ‘hate you to fold cheques. It messes up their electronic systems.’

‘Really?’ His fingers seemed to burn through the treacherous suit, heavy enough to keep out the cold and the wind, but no protection against his casual touch and he knew it. His smile verged on an insult. ‘I’ve never had any complaints.’

She didn’t think he was referring to banks. Was certain of it. God, the arrogance of the man. The sheer bloody nerve. She took a swift step back, retrieving herself from his drugging touch.

‘Are you that sure of yourself?’ she enquired, her emotions veering wildly between a furious urge to slap his face and an equally urgent desire to rip her clothes off and pull him down with her onto the thick carpet. That would certainly wipe the smile off his face.

The thought provoked an almost overwhelming desire to giggle. In fact she realised she was in grave danger of hysteria.

Taking a firm grip of herself, she asked, ‘Aren’t you afraid that I might pay it into the bank? Once the salaries are drawn and this month’s loan repayment made, I won’t be able to give it back to you if I change my mind.’

His mouth tightened into a thin dangerous line and he dropped his hand to his side. ‘I wouldn’t advise anything so rash, Miss Beaumont.’

Tension finally overwhelmed her and she giggled. ‘I was joking, Mr Devlin.’

‘Were you, Miss Beaumont?’ He handed her the portfolio, his eyes expressionless. ‘I’ll see you here on Friday at twelve. We’ll see who’s laughing then.’

*****