Scorpio Summer Read online

  An intriguing specimen, Frances mused, but it was the eyes that really held. Although they had only been cast her way briefly she wanted to see if they were really flecked with yellow, or whether the peculiar lighting in the lift had changed ordinary hazel into something more unusual.

  She had her wish, for at that moment the thickly lashed lids were lifted to reveal a cool regard. Their impact was as strong as she expected, but he didn't speak and she was aware of a stupid feeling of disappointment. Perhaps he doesn't like women ? she thought, as quickly rejecting the idea. There had been something in that look that told her he was all man, and as no woman likes to be totally ignored, and Frances always had had an impish sense of humour, some devil prompted her to say, her voice faltering and full of apprehension:

  'H . . . how long will the oxygen hold out, do you think?'

  She might have guessed that he wasn't easily fooled . . . but at least he was rewarding her with his full attention. With raised brows his eyes lifted expressively to the ventilation shaft above their heads and then back again to her face.

  'You're not going to become hysterical, I hope?' he asked, in a voice that spoke volumes. Woe betide hysterical women!

  'No, I'm not,' Frances replied with great charm, 'at least, I don't think I am, but I'm not making any promises. It all depends upon how long we're in this delightful situation.' She changed her weight on to the other foot, wedging herself more comfortably into the corner. 'Do I look the hysterical type?' she added curiously.

  He gave her a long critical inspection. Frances was well used to being looked over by prospective theatrical managements, but suddenly, to her intense disgust and surprise, she found herself blushing deeply as his eyes travelled lazily over her, a gleam of amusement lurking in the back of the openly shameless regard. Too late to retract, Frances lifted her chin, a small smile of defiance playing on her lips, cursing her stupidity and knowing what he could see . . .

  A female who talked too much, middle twenties, height five seven, figure nicely rounded, what was visible. Wearing shaggy simulated fur jacket and heavy brown wool skirt, mid-calf. Neat feet clad in tan suede knee-length boots. Good deportment when not slouched against wall. So much for the body—now for the head. Rather a roundish face, good skin, fair with a generous natural colour and a hint of freckles over the bridge of a nondescript nose. Full, bow-shaped mouth, wide smile, good teeth, friendly blue eyes and attractive voice. Hair— well, that was to remain a mystery. Pulled down securely against the keen wind, over a wide, intelligent brow, was a thickly knitted cloche hat, the green matching her ribbed jumper.

  Frances mourned the hat. It hid, according to her, the only asset she possessed . . . she could be grateful to the gods for her thick abundance of hair, but she had no intention of letting this lecherous moron opposite in on the act!

  'Well?' she prompted sweetly, every nerve telling her that although this man might not be a maniac he was certainly dangerous, acknowledging his attraction, while hackles rose against the bold, cynical appraisal which she was sure was supposed to teach her a lesson. Against what? she thought indignantly. Talking to strangers in lifts, or only him in particular?

  He waved a hand expressively. 'One can never tell. I suspect you're more choleric than hysterical, but I do hope you keep on the optimistic side . . . I don't like slapping females.'

  Not only dangerous, but also a liar, fumed Frances inwardly. He was the epitome of egotistical male happily slapping down any female who stepped out of line. She could almost hear the whip cracking!

  'I'm very glad to hear it,' she ground out, smiling through her teeth. 'And as for being choleric . . .' and she stopped, finding a disconcerting gleam at the back of the tawny eyes and realising that her sense of humour was being paid back in kind. 'Very funny,' she said sarcastically, and marched the few paces to the control panel to press all floor buttons, one by one, in varying combinations, her finger stabbing with full force. Nothing happened, and glancing impatiently at her watch she resumed her initial position, refusing to meet his eyes.

  It was not in her nature to remain on her dignity for long, however, and looking across the space between them, she asked: 'Do you think it would be any use shouting?'

  'I doubt it,' the superior being replied, and following her gaze to the small trap in the roof, he added sardonically : 'And I have no intention of doing a James Bond either.'

  'No one's asking you to,' Frances replied kindly, thereby implying that she quite realised he wasn't up to it but that she understood and forgave. His lips twitched and her spirits lifted. He wasn't such a stuffed shirt after all. Since she was a friendly, gregarious soul, uncommunicative, inscrutable men bugged her, but the twitching lips was a point in his favour. She chose to forget the bold look and high-handed manner for the sake of sanity.

  She eased her weight once again, saying: 'I think I'll sit down. I didn't have anything to eat at lunch-time and all this standing is beginning to tell,' and pulling a newspaper out of her bag she spread it on the floor in her corner and settled herself down. Her eyes began to idly scan that part of the paper not covered by herself and her interest quickened. She leaned forward, finger to print.

  “Let the Stars Foretell!"' she read out portentously, and then looked up, eyes alight. 'I don't believe in horoscopes, but they can be entertaining. At least, there might be something in birth signs. I once had a job as a typist to a woman astrologer—she was writing a book about reading the stars" and recognizing people born under the different signs of the Zodiac. Quite a bit rubbed off and stuck.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes . . . it's rather complicated actually. Did you know that the sun changes signs not on the stroke of midnight, which would be awfully convenient, wouldn't it, but at variable times during the day. That's why to obtain an accurate chart you have to give the time of your birth as well as the day and year, and even then it depends on other planets ascending or descending. I'm not sure which.' She grinned at her vagueness and returned to the printed page, eyes swiftly passing down the column. 'Listen to this for Libra—that's me. "Favourable aspects lie ahead, especially financial ones. Be wary of hasty judgments, patience will be rewarded. Red is the colour for this week." ‘She slanted him a look, pulling a face. 'I can do with a favorable financial aspect and can be patient if necessary, but the colour is right out. I never wear red. So that's that.' She tilted her head consideringly, a teasing look on her face. 'Do you want to know your forecast?' she asked.

  'I'd rather make my own destiny, thank you,' her companion drawled, jabbing again at the alarm button as he spoke.

  'Ah! a definite non-believer,' murmured Frances. 'If I knew you better I might have a stab at a guess.'

  'Who knows, you might get the chance; if we're in here much longer we'll be reduced to telling our life histories,' he remarked dryly.

  'I have the feeling that it would be me who did all the talking,' Frances answered, equally dry. 'You're not a communicative person, are you? Mmm . . . that should give me a clue!' and she leaned her head against the wall and contemplated him, eyes half-closed,'. . . so that rules out Leo, and Aries. Taurus or possibly Virgo?' she asked tentatively, and seeing his face knew she had failed and gave a laugh. 'Oh, well, it's all a load of rubbish. You can twist anything to fit it if you really want to. And folk always preen themselves for the good bits and deny that they're anything like the bad!'

  She rose to her feet, folding up the paper and giving an involuntary yawn. 'Oh, dear . . . how long have we been in here now?'

  'Twenty minutes.'

  'Is that all ? Ye gods, it seems like twenty hours!' She paused from brushing down her skirt to grimace. 'Sorry, didn't mean to sound so rude, but. . .' She pursed her lips thoughtfully. 'How about Cancer . . .?' and then was flung violently off balance as the lift jolted into life, descending at an alarming rate.

  When it finally came to an abrupt halt somewhere between floors three and four, Frances found her face buried in lambswool, the stranger's arms tightly ro
und her. They had collapsed into a heap on the floor after he had tried to save her fall, only to overbalance himself.

  She couldn't have moved at that moment even if her stomach had allowed her. She had left it up there between seven and eight and it was taking a little time to catch up, or rather down, and the lift, although now stationary, seemed to be whizzing round and round.

  It didn't matter, however. The arms were strong and comforting and the sweater beneath her cheek soft. She could hear his heart beating with reassuring regularity and with an amazing rush of surprise Frances realized just how long it had been since she lay in a man's arms. Getting over Mark and trying to forget Chichester and her last love affair had taken time.

  Pushing herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, she at last breathed: 'Sorry, I . . .' but her legs would not obey her head—that errant stomach had now come winging home, and a wave of nausea swept over her.

  'It's a good job I learned to play Rugby football,' he said, sitting upright and holding her steady.

  'If it does that again I shall be sick,' she managed.

  'Not over me, I hope,' came the dry rejoinder, as he rose to his feet bringing her with him, and then: 'Hold tight, here we go again,' and this time they shot upwards.

  With a jolt that caused them both to stagger, the lift stopped, and the doors opened with as much aplomb as if they had been behaving perfectly all day. Without a pause Frances was hauled bodily out into the corridor where there was an immediate babble of excited voices. She opened her eyes and as quickly shut them. It was better to feel everything going round rather than to actually see it doing so. Over and above everything else came the voice of her companion, curt and decisive.

  'Put that chair between the doors to stop them closing, will you, please? and you—telephone down to Maintenance . . . open that window and bring another chair,' and the arms, those nicely comforting arms, led her staggeringly along for a few yards, pressured her into sitting down and then were taken away.

  Beautiful fresh air . . .

  With eyes still closed Frances lay back, aware of things going on around her, but not caring. After a short while she heard someone come over to her.

  'Breathe in deeply,' a voice ordered, and then: There's no need to wait, thank you. She'll be all right,' and footsteps receded, accompanied by subdued talk, and gradually everything quietened.

  'I daren't be anything else,' she murmured, testing her eyes carefully and finding her lift companion staring down at her, 'or else you'd probably toss me down the lift shaft!' She grimaced and put a hand to her head. 'How do you know I'm all right?'

  'Because the colour is coming back to your cheeks,' came the equable reply.

  'It isn't good for anyone to be so sure of himself,' she retorted.

  There was a touch of amusement in his voice. 'You did very well back there. I didn't think for one moment that you would panic, but you can never be sure how people will react.'

  'Well, thank you very much! You might have given some indication of what you felt! But then, as we've already agreed, you're not the communicative type. And I think that I should add that I'm not usually so talkative.'

  He smiled. 'I'm sure you're not.'

  'Yes, well . . .' Frances looked away. That smile, when genuine, was really something. The lift doors gaped invitingly, only the chair looked incongruous, half in, half out. Turning back, she continued politely: 'Please don't let me delay you any longer.'

  'I'm in no hurry. Who have you come to see?'

  'I'm supposed to see a Mr Deverell—Tom Deverell.' Sheshrugged. 'I was late anyway. Do you know him?' Suddenly arrested by the look on his face, she stared. 'You're not him, are you?'

  He gave a slightly malicious smile. 'That would be the final straw, wouldn't it? No, I'm not, but I was on my way to join him.'

  'You were? How extraordinary.' Frances felt relief sweep over her. For some reason the thought of depending on this man for a job was faintly alarming.

  'So you're an actress, are you ? I thought you said you were a typist?'

  'Only when I'm out of work,' she explained.

  'I see.' He closed the window, remarking casually: 'I thought Tom had finished all the auditions.'

  'I'm sure he has,' Frances agreed, standing up carefully. 'Do you think it's worth searching for him?'

  'Why not? And in view of the fact that you've had no lunch, we should search for a hot drink,' he replied shortly. 'Come along. Girls who diet want their heads examining.'

  'I'm not dieting,' protested Frances. 'I can never eat before an audition—I'm too nervous!'

  'No doubt fainting at the director's feet has its possibilities,' he said impatiently, drawing her along the corridor. 'We're on the seventh so we have to walk a flight.' He stopped. 'Unless you want to use the other lift?'

  'Ha, ha,' she commented dourly as they moved towards the stairs, and he gave a brief smile. They climbed for a few seconds in silence and then he asked:

  'Do you always turn up late for auditions?'

  'No, I do not I' The question, although a legitimate one, rankled. It was no business of his. 'I have an adequate and quite truthful explanation for Mr Deverell, should he be willing to listen to it.'

  'Oh, I expect he will, if you smile at him nicely. He won't mind if it's truthful or not.'

  Frances was the one to stop now. 'It's a good job you're not Tom Deverell, isn't it? It's quite obvious that my smile wouldn't work with you!' She sighed heavily, took a deep breath and tried again, her voice all reasonableness. 'Look, you've probably had one hell of a day where nothing's gone right for you, but please, don't take it out on me. This audition happens to be important to me and I've probably fouled it up through no fault of my own. Do you think you could find this man Deverell and then you can wash your hands of me and go your own sweet way. In the meantime, I shall be practicing my smile.' She challenged him with her eyes and he replied blandly: 'Yes, I think I can do that for you, though you may have to wait while I find him.' They had come to a halt outside a door. He pushed it open and ushered her in, the latch clicking loudly behind her.

  Frances took in the room with one critical sweeping glance. It looked familiar, like all abandoned rehearsal rooms. A forlorn feeling swept over her and she wandered disconsolately to a chair and sat down, her eyes passing from the table, still untidy with papers and filled ashtrays, to the piano and a number of chairs scattered about in the otherwise empty room. It was no use. The auditions were over and done with. Why was she waiting? She might just as well go home. The door opened and a girl came in, carrying a cup. There's sugar in the saucer, if you want it,' she said kindly, without preamble. 'Felix said even if you don't usually take it, you're to do so now, but then Felix likes giving his orders,' and before Frances could say anything more than a surprised 'thank you' the girl hurried out. Felix . . .

  Frances sipped the coffee gratefully, wondering at his thoughtfulness. The name suited him. She shrugged . . . more than likely she would never see him again and he would become merely 'the man in the lift' in her memory . . . but she thanked him for the coffee. Draining the last dregs she placed the cup carefully on the table and tried to relax. And waited . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  "'Here we are! Well now, Felix has explained all about the delay,' a cheery voice said from the open doorway, and Frances looked up to see a stockily built man of middle years come bustling towards her. "Bad luck being stuck like that . . . nasty experience . . . must have been most upsetting. Good job you had Felix to look after you . . . very dependable,' and he held out his hand, a wide smile on his face.

  Frances hastily stood up and offered her own. 'Mr Deverell ?' she asked.

  'That's right . . . now I suggest you take a script and read the section marked . . .'

  'You want me to audition, stammered Frances, hardly able to believe her good fortune.

  'Are you fit enough now, or would you like to come , back tomorrow?' Tom Deverell was fumbling around on the desk until he found
the script. 'It would be easier now, of course. Lifts . . . I hate them, but in a building this size they're a necessity. Hope you're not going to sue us!' and he beamed up at her.

  Frances warmed to this friendly man and smiled. 'No, I don't think I'll be doing that.'

  'Good, good. How do you feel, then? Willing and able?'

  'Yes, I'll be glad to audition.' Frances nearly laughed at the inadequacy of her reply.

  Deverell glanced over to the door. 'Ah, Felix, there you are. I think we've time to audition Miss. . . er . . . I'm afraid I don't know your name ..

  'Heron. Frances Heron," supplied Frances. 'I have a list of my past experience here and she rummaged in her bag and brought out a foolscap sheet of paper, wondering as she did so why this Felix person should be in on things ... him she could do without! Her eyes flickered in his direction and whatever thoughts were on his mind seemed as though they were disagreeable ones, by the forbidding "look ors his face.

  "Splendid! You go over there and read the passages while I glance at the list,' Tom Deverell suggested, and Frances moved to the chair he indicated. She managed to read the pieces through three times before he bounced to his feet, saying: "Ready when you are, Miss Heron.' He crossed to her. 'As you've probably gathered, the story is set in Cornwall in the early eighteen hundreds. I suppose it could be termed an historical romance—it includes the politics of the time, life in the grand house as opposed to a fisherman's cottage, smuggling, storms at sea, all the ingredients that go to make a good serial— at least, so we hope. He enjoyed his own joke for a few seconds and then went on; The hero is a fellow called Nick Penruth—Penruth being the title of the serial As you see, the part you're reading is that of Mary Trewith. It's al! shades of Lama Doom," he added, beaming enthusiastically,