Golden Fever Read online

  ‘Yes,’ her voice was stilted, ’of course that meets my approval.’

  ‘Good,’ he snapped. ‘Now perhaps we can all call it a day.’ He gathered up the papers in front of him as the rest of them stood up and filed out of the room.

  ‘Phew!’ Rena breathed at Clare’s side. ‘He was a bit rough on you.’

  Rourke hadn’t been rough at all. She hadn’t been listening, he had a right to be annoyed. And he had been, his eyes like ice, his expression harsh.

  ‘I deserved it,’ she shrugged, aware that Rourke was still somewhere in the room behind them. Nevertheless, she jumped nervously when he suddenly appeared at her side.

  ‘I’m glad you realise it,’ he said grimly, showing her that he had been walking behind her for some time. ‘I’d like to talk to you,’ he added abruptly.

  ‘See you later,’ Rena said goodnaturedly, and left them alone.

  Clare eyed Rourke warily. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Not here,’ he rasped, taking hold of her elbow and propelling her towards the stairs, once again shunning the use of the lift.

  She swallowed hard, not wanting him to see how much he still alarmed her. ‘I don’t see what we can possibly have to talk about,’ she told him coolly. ‘Besides, I’m meeting my fiancé.’

  Rourke’s mouth twisted contemptuously. ‘What I have to say is strictly business, honey,’ he drawled. ‘Nothing your fiancé couldn’t sit in on if he wanted to.’

  Her mouth set mutinously. She didn’t want to be alone with this man—and she had no idea why it bothered her so much. She was going to marry Harvey, and yet Rourke’s hold on her arm disturbed her, just being with him disturbed her!

  He went back to her suite, waiting with ill-concealed impatience while she unlocked the door. Once inside Clare threw the key on to the coffee-table and turned to face Rourke with a confidence she was far from feeling.

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’ she asked once again.

  Rourke sat down without being asked to do so, running a tired hand over his furrowed brow. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me to take over the direction of this film at such short notice?’ he asked.

  Whatever she had been expecting him to say it hadn’t been that, and her eyes widened in astonishment. ‘I—Well, I—I never thought about it.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you did. Well it is, damn difficult. And it isn’t helped by your prima donna act,’ he added harshly.

  Clare paled. ‘By my …?’

  ‘Yes!’ He stood up, pacing the room. ‘I’m aware that you don’t like me, that you would rather have someone else working on this movie with you—but you’ve got me. And showing your contempt for me by not even paying attention to what I’m saying isn’t going to get you anywhere with me.’

  She gasped. ‘But I—That isn’t what happened,’ she protested.

  His nostrils flared out angrily. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No! I—’ She put a hand up to her temple, pushing her hair back as it tumbled about her face. ‘I was tired—’

  ‘I already made that excuse for you,’ his mouth twisted.

  ‘It was the true one!’

  ‘Then maybe you should try sleeping alone once in a while,’ he rasped.

  Clare had never been so incensed, her image of coolness flew out of the window. ‘Mind your own damned business!’ Her eyes sparkled rebelliously.

  ‘It is my business if your tiredness affects the making of this movie.’

  ‘I only flew in today—’

  ‘And whose fault is that? You’ve known for weeks that you had to be here by today. And I know for a fact that you’ve been in London since you finished your last film a month ago.’

  She didn’t ask how he knew, sure that he wouldn’t tell her even if he did. And the reason she had left it so late arriving in Los Angeles was because she had wanted to delay for as long as possible the painful memories she was going through today.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said stiffly, ’and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘No, it isn’t all that matters, damn you!’ He turned on her angrily. ‘You and Jason went through a lot of the scenes you have together when you were in England?’

  ‘Of course.’ She gave a haughty inclination of her head, thinking of all the hours they had wasted.

  Rourke’s eyes glittered angrily. ‘And didn’t it occur to you that we could have spent the last week or so doing the same thing?’

  ‘Of course it didn’t! I had no idea—’ She broke off, biting her lip, unwilling to let him know just how vulnerable she was.

  His eyes narrowed to steely slits, his expression wary. ‘No idea of what?’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me,’ she shrugged dismissively.

  ‘No idea of what?’ he repeated determinedly.

  Clare swung away from him, sure that she would never again regain her composure. ‘I didn’t know you were to be the director,’ she admitted with a sigh.

  ‘Didn’t know …? Why didn’t you know?’

  ‘I had no idea Jason—I wasn’t told,’ she explained lamely.

  ‘So you didn’t know until you arrived here today that I was to be here too?’ Rourke said slowly.

  ‘No.’

  For the first time today she saw humour lighten his expression, saw some of the devil lurking in his deep blue eyes. ‘Were you shocked, little baby?’ he taunted softly.

  ‘I was a little—surprised.’

  ‘I’m sure you were,’ he chuckled wryly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she flashed. ‘I have no intention of taking advantage of our past—association.’

  The humour faded, his mouth curled back into a sneer. ‘Honey, we didn’t have an association. We had sex, once,’ he rasped. ‘And it wasn’t even that good.’

  Clare felt as if he had hit her, her face going a sickly grey colour. ‘It wasn’t once,’ she choked. ‘It was twice.’ And he was right, it hadn’t been good, not the first time anyway. She had been too inexperienced, had panicked at the last moment, and Rourke had been too aroused to stop. He had hurt her, badly. But the second time had been so good she had cried with happiness. Obviously, it hadn’t affected Rourke in the same way.

  ‘Was it?’ he said in a bored voice. ‘I don’t remember.’

  She held back her tears with an effort, knowing that once he had left the room the floodgates would open up. It was a long time since she had cried, and it had been because of Rourke that time too.

  ‘I thought you said my fiancé could sit in on this conversation,’ she reminded him stiffly, knowing that Harvey would be shocked out of his mind if he could hear what they had been talking about.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you’ve been very—personal,’ she blushed, the greyness started to recede.

  Rourke shrugged. ‘He must know there was someone else before him.’

  Clare blinked. ‘He must?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you thought he didn’t know,’ Rourke scorned. ‘Every man can tell when he’s the first.’

  ‘And you should know!’ she said bitterly.

  ‘And I should know,’ he nodded distantly. ‘Do you think you’re going to be able to handle this, Clare?’

  She wouldn’t be able to handle anything in a moment, she would burst into tears in front of him—and she was determined not to do that. ‘Working with you, you mean?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her head was held at a proud angle. ‘I can handle it. After all, you were only the first, Rourke,’ her mouth twisted. ‘You’re far from being the last.’

  ‘I know that,’ he rasped harshly. ‘Just make sure you get some sleep tonight. We start at seven sharp in the morning,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll make damned sure you are,’ he said grimly. ‘I’ve never approved of families getting involved on location,’ he muttered.

  ‘That’s because you don’t have any.’ Her remark was made to wound, and she knew s
he had succeeded by the whiteness about Rourke’s mouth. She instantly felt contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Rourke—’

  ‘So am I,’ he snapped. ‘Sorry I ever told you anything about my life. Goodbye!’ and he slammed out of the room.

  Clare sank down into the nearest chair—something she seemed to have been doing all day today, as one trauma piled on top of another.

  She vividly remembered the night Rourke had told her about his childhood, remembered it because it was also the night he had become her lover!

  Her mother was to be in England for two weeks, and she managed to see Rourke every single day of that two weeks, even if it was only for a short time. He hadn’t lied when he said he was busy filming, and often he didn’t finish until nine or ten o’clock at night, only giving them time to have a snack supper together before Rourke collapsed into bed, building up his energy for the next day’s filming.

  Not once did he ask her to share that bed, be it at the beach-house or his more luxurious home in Bel Air. He kissed her, and touched her, but never with the same intensity he had that night on the beach.

  And it was driving her insane! She knew that she couldn’t stand his casual attitude to their relationship much longer, and on the eve of her mother’s expected return she knew she didn’t have a moment to lose. Because Rourke preferred his privacy and as he was also working hard, not many people had seen them together, but Clare knew that it wouldn’t be long after her mother’s return that she would find out about her and Rourke. And she wasn’t sure enough of Rourke’s feelings for her to know whether he would withstand the pressure her mother would put to bear.

  That last evening she dressed with special care, wanting Rourke to desire her, knowing that once her mother returned things would never be the same between them again.

  Rourke’s eyebrows rose when he called for her at eight o’clock, and she knew he approved of the yellow dress, of its fitted bodice, the way her pointed breasts supported the material, her shoulders completely bare, the style straight and fitted over her waist and hips, a long slit up the left side of the dress giving her freedom of movement—otherwise she doubted she would have been able to walk, the dress fitted her so snugly.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ drawled Rourke, opening the car door for her.

  ‘No occasion,’ she denied, flushing with pleasure at the way his eyes darkened over the long expanse of thigh that had been revealed as she sat down. ‘I just wanted to look nice for you,’ she added as he got in beside her.

  ‘And you do.’ He made no effort to start the engine, turning towards her. ‘But I thought we were having a barbecue at the beach-house tonight?’ He was dressed very casually in denims and a sweat-shirt.

  ‘We are,’ she frowned her puzzlement.

  ‘Then why—Never mind,’ he shook his head dismissively, flicking the key in the ignition, the engine roaring into life.

  Clare pouted her disappointment. ‘If you would rather I changed—’

  ‘Certainly not,’ he turned to smile at her as they drove out to the beach road. ‘You look beautiful enough to eat.’

  That was the whole idea! The past two weeks she had rarely worn a dress, the casualness of their dates calling for either shorts, or alternatively denims and a top. Tonight she had wanted to show him she could look beautiful if she wanted to, and she was disappointed by his reaction.

  The hand nearest to her moved out as he gently touched her cheek. ‘You look lovely, Clare,’ he told her throatily.

  Pleasure instantly lit up her eyes. ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled, his hand returning to the steering-wheel. ‘But with you looking like that I think I should change and take you out to eat.’

  ‘No! I mean, no, I—I’d much rather have the barbecue.’ If they ate out he would simply drive her home afterwards, and that wasn’t what she wanted at all. Besides, she liked him in the black denims and sweat-shirt, sure that he had never looked more ruggedly handsome than he did at this moment.

  ‘Sure?’ he frowned.

  ‘Very sure,’ she nodded eagerly.

  ‘Okay,’ he shrugged, ’barbecue it is.’

  By the time the steaks were cooked and the salad tossed and put on the table on the sun-deck the sun had gone down and the sky was a bluish black as they sat down to eat their meal, the only sound the soft music coming from the stereo in the lounge, and the crash of the waves against the sand.

  Clare smiled dreamily as she ate her meal, sure that she would never be happier than she was right now. Everything was perfect—the meal, the wine, Rourke sitting opposite her, his mood relaxed and teasing. He wasn’t always this relaxed, it often took him a couple of hours to lose his tension after a day’s filming, and she remarked on how hard he worked.

  Rourke shrugged. ‘I was taught at the orphanage that if someone pays you to do a job then it’s up to you to do it, no matter how long it takes to get it right.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she prompted softly; the subject of his childhood had never been entered into before.

  Normally he would teasingly have changed the subject, but tonight his mood was mellowed by the wine. He began to talk. ‘My mother was a rich American woman, my father a poor Irish gardener—her gardener. I think my mother must have liked the look of the rough Irish labourer, because they became lovers.’

  ‘And you’re the result of their marriage?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘They didn’t get married, Clare. My mother couldn’t marry an Irish immigrant, it was beneath her. No, he was only good enough to share her bed, not to become her husband.’

  ‘You can’t know that—’

  ‘Oh, can’t I?’ he rasped bitterly. ‘I can assure you I know exactly how my mother felt about my father and me. She came to see me once, at the orphanage,’ his eyes were distant, looking into the past. ‘She had married some wealthy American businessman, a man of wealth and breeding. She had two other children, both of them a lot younger than me, but she wanted to do something for the bastard she had brought into the world. She put some money into trust for me that I could claim on my twenty-first birthday.’

  Clare was shocked and dismayed by what he was telling her. He would have been better never to have met his mother, at least that way he could have made excuses for her rejection. ‘And did you—did you claim the money?’

  ‘No,’ he gave a bleak smile. ‘Much as I thought the bitch owed me something I didn’t want her damned money.’

  ‘And—and have you ever seen her again?’

  ‘Never,’ he said in an uncompromising voice.

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘Dead,’ he rasped.

  ‘I—How?’

  Rourke’s mouth twisted with bitter humour. ‘I’d like to be able to tell you that he wasted away for love of my mother, but it wouldn’t be true. He married some other woman, and he died an alcoholic when I was five years old. My mother told me all about it.’

  ‘Oh, Rourke, I’m so sorry!’ She reached out and clasped the hand that kept clenching and unclenching as he told of his childhood so different from her own cushioned one. ‘But I suppose there is one thing, your mother didn’t have to have you. I mean, there must have been abortion, even then.’

  ‘Not for a Catholic,’ he rasped. ‘So she had me and stuck me in an orphanage.’

  ‘Oh, Rourke,’ she choked. ‘Rourke, I—’

  ‘Let’s have some more wine,’ he suggested in a reckless voice, standing up. ‘We’ve talked enough for one day.’

  ‘Yes.’ Clare followed him into the house, wishing she had never asked him to talk of his past. He was still very bitter, blamed his mother for his rejection. No wonder he treated women so casually, with such a woman for a mother!

  They sat in the lounge listening to the stereo, Rourke staring broodingly into space, neither of them attempting to make conversation.

  Finally Clare couldn’t stand it any more, and stood up to leave. ‘I think I’d better go.’ She smoothed her dress down over her hips, slipping h
er feet back into her sandals.

  ‘No!’ Rourke stood up too. ‘No … I’m sorry I’m such bad company, Clare. How about if we go for a swim, clear the cobwebs?’

  Her expression brightened. ‘Okay,’ she nodded.

  He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘I’ll go and change, you’ll find some spare costumes in that cupboard. I keep them for unexpected—visitors.’

  She looked in the cupboard once he had gone into his bedroom, finding half a dozen bikinis in assorted colours and sizes. He was prepared for everything—or every woman!

  Well, she would see if he was prepared for this! She ignored all the bikinis, rapidly shedding her clothes before running across the golden sand into the dark blue water.

  Rourke came down the sand a few minutes later, swimming out to join her. ‘You should have waited for me,’ he told her sternly. ‘I wondered where the hell you were until I saw this golden mane.’ He wound a strand of her hair about his fingers, pulling her closer.

  ‘Did you?’ she asked throatily, her arms going about his neck as she pressed herself against him.

  ‘What the—! Clare?’ he frowned down at her.

  ‘Yes, darling?’ She rained light kisses along his jaw.

  ‘You ***don’t have any clothes on!’

  ‘No.’ ***She gave a husky laugh, her hands moving down to his ***hips.

  R***ourke stiffened. ‘What are you doing now?’ His hands held hers immobile.

  She kissed him lingeringly, her tongue running lightly along the edge of his parted lips. ‘If we take off your bathing trunks,’ she murmured softly, ’you’ll be naked too.’

  His mouth twisted derisively as he refused to release her hands. ‘And then what happens?’

  ‘You make love to me—I hope.’ She met his searching gaze unflinchingly.

  ‘I do?’ His eyebrows rose.

  ‘I hope so,’ she nodded.

  ‘Clare—’

  She entwined her legs with his, feeling his arousal against her thigh. ‘We’re a long way past the first date,’ she reminded him huskily.

  Rourke’s eyes darkened. ‘So we are,’ he agreed softly. ‘Okay, go ahead,’ he released her hands.

  She was glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, suddenly feeling very shy as she moved the bathing trunks down his body, aware of every muscle and sinew as she held the black trunks triumphantly in the air.