Dear Villain Read online

  'I don't know how good you are on a proper dance floor, Adam, but you show a knowledgeable expertise in the drawing-room shuffle!'

  Carlyon laughed softly and his arms tightened their hold. When the record finished, he made no move to smile polite thanks and go, but stood easily and relaxed, his arms still holding her. The music continued and it seemed natural to rest her head on his shoulder, ears and eyes closed to the rest of the world, conscious only of the two of them, moving slowly to the rhythm. All inner warnings were ignored and Liz gave herself completely to the amazing and unpredictable happening of being in Adam Carlyon's arms.

  Something intangible made them stop dancing and heedless of the other couples moving round them in the semi-darkness they stood close, staring into each other's eyes. Suddenly afraid of the look on Adam's face, Liz began to tremble and pulling away, she said breathlessly:

  'It's late, I must go,' which was idiotic, to say the least, as she was supposed to be staying the night. Adam Carlyon said abruptly:

  'Get your coat, I'll run you home.'

  Liz hesitated, tempted to refuse, but she didn't care to argue with the finality of his voice, nor with the strangely forbidding expression on his face. In any case, what could she say? Certainly not, no, thank you, Adam, I'm scared of you, neither could she admit to not having to go home in the first place! She made her way through the crowded room, peering for her sister. Helen was dancing with her husband; obviously the novelty of having one had not yet worn off.

  'I've got a lift home, Helen, so I'm leaving now,' Liz whispered, hoping it had registered as Helen nodded dreamily.

  She hurriedly climbed the stairs, stepping awkwardly over a couple halfway up, who were engaged in a low-voiced argument. Trying to be calm and fighting a losing battle with her torn feelings of anticipation—part eager, part reluctant —Liz searched and found her coat in the spare bedroom, which was being used as the cloakroom. She was just peering for her boots which had been kicked under the bed when she heard voices. About to proclaim her presence, she then heard Adam Carlyon's name mentioned and sat still on the floor, crouching low behind the bed, piled high with coats. A split second later she realised what a fool she was. How embarrassed she was going to feel when they put the light on. But luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the two women who entered found their coats, as Liz herself had, by the light from the landing.

  She would not have taken any notice if they had been young—a man such as Adam Carlyon was bound to attract bitchy remarks from personable females. But the two women were middle-aged. Liz knew them fairly well. Betty McInnes was the co-author of Adam Carlyon's latest production, and Meg Morley one of the actresses in it. Neither, so far as Liz knew, had an axe to grind where Adam Carlyon was concerned. In fact, both admired and knew him as well as he allowed anyone to know him. They reminded Liz of her mother.

  'I do hope Liz doesn't get hurt. She's too vulnerable, not at all his type,' Betty said, in a concerned voice, rummaging for her coat.

  'Well, she's not a beauty, certainly not what I'd call a Carlyon woman,' considered Meg. 'Although she has beautiful eyes.'

  'And what's more important, a lovely disposition. There's nothing underhand or devious about Liz.'

  'Perhaps he's fed up with the sophisticate and fancies the ingénue for a change,' reflected Meg, adding almost crossly, 'and surely she knows what he's like?'

  'My dear, do you think that would make any difference if Adam really made up his mind to convince her otherwise? Maybe he's decided to stop flitting around—we're none of us getting any younger! Can you see if my gloves are there on the floor, Meg? Ah, yes, here they are. I only wish I was twenty again.

  'Oh, Betty, no, not for me. Too dominant.'

  'It wouldn't matter if you loved him—and he loved you. All that arrogance usually conceals basic insecurity.'

  Meg replied with amused indulgence: 'Betty, you writers are all the same!'

  'No, really, Meg. He always strikes me as being essentially a lonely person.'

  Moving to the door, Meg laughed, 'My dear, considering, to my knowledge, he's got at least three females in tow, not forgetting Tracey Miller who's in America at the moment, it's hardly likely he's that!' She lowered her voice. 'It wouldn't surprise me if our hostess…'

  'Oh, I don't think so. But Liz, such a nice girl. She's sure to fall for him, they all do, who could help it? I only hope I'm not around to pick up the pieces. I do like your coat, Meg, it really suits you. Where…'

  Liz was frozen into a crouching position, not daring to breathe, but as their voices receded, she straightened, a feeling of mixed anger and dejection sweeping over her, leaving her with the absurd impulse to burst into tears.

  Thrusting her arms into her coat, Liz realised she had only herself to blame. She could not blame Betty or Meg, they had only voiced what she had refused to think. All right. She had been flattered by Adam's attention, her common sense weakened by his physical attraction—he only had to touch her to reduce her to a jelly. But now the time had come for sanity to return before it was too late.

  Savagely she pulled at the zip on her boots and taking a deep breath, made her way down the stairs, brushing past the same couple, who had now obviously arrived at a mutual understanding.

  Her throat tightened at the sight of Adam, waiting in the hall, hands in pockets, fur collar upturned, saying goodnight to Betty McInnes. Giving Betty a bright smile, Liz followed Adam out to the car.

  They travelled in silence. Most of the lights were out in the street where Liz rented a bed-sit, but there was light enough to see Adam's face as he turned to her after switching off the engine. Knowing it was not going to be easy, and feeling the flutterings of panic rising inside her, Liz said quickly:

  'Thank you very much for the lift, Adam. You needn't bother to get out. It's beginning to snow and I can manage.'

  What an inane speech! As if she thought she could get away with it as easily as that! A hand of steel gripped her wrist as she reached for the door.

  'Why all the rush, Elizabeth?' and then, 'You're trembling. Something's happened—what is it?'

  Liz often wondered what the outcome would have been had she told him. As it was, she wordlessly shook her head and tried to free her hand. His voice was thoughtful.

  'I wonder why I always get the impression that you're running away, Elizabeth? When you allow yourself to relax you enjoy my company, we talk the same language, laugh at the same things… yet there's this feeling I have that every so often you close up on me.'

  Liz managed a laugh. 'Don't be ridiculous, Adam. And y-you're hurting me.'

  The grip slackened but did not move. His voice was casual and matter-of-fact.

  'I thought at first we were friends. I would go further and say that there could be more than just friendship between us. There's an attraction, Elizabeth, a physical as well as a mental one, which I dare you to deny.'

  How could she deny it, when his thumb was gently caressing her throbbing wrist, sending shivers through her? His hands grasped her shoulders, pulling her round.

  'I don't…' she began helplessly.

  'Dear, sweet Elizabeth—what don't you?'

  She would have been lost, but for the faint underlying amusement in his voice that stung her to say, more harshly than she intended:

  'Perhaps it's inconceivable to you, but I don't want to become one of the famous Carlyon Women, to be picked up and dropped whenever his high and mighty lordship pleases!'

  Liz had read about silences being electric, and now she experienced it. She was released gently and in an ominously quiet voice, Adam Carlyon said:

  'My dear girl, heaven forbid you do anything so obviously abhorrent to you!' His voice became dangerously silky. 'Perhaps it's marriage or nothing with you? Well, you're very young, of course, and although youth is refreshing—I'm an old hand and not so easily caught!'

  Insufferable man! Liz was suddenly, blazingly furious and struggled ineffectually to open the door. Almost inarticulate with rage
, she waited as he got out, taking his time with infuriating self-possession, and walked round to her door, the hard snow crunching noisily beneath his firm and deliberate tread. As she thrust herself past him he grabbed her arm and pulled her close, his voice curt and low.

  'Don't be frightened of living, Elizabeth—or you may end up fodder for the worms before giving life a try.'

  'Let me go!' she ground out between clenched teeth, fighting his grip which tightened.

  'Go back to your secure, regulated cocoon—you'll be safe enough.' His smile was derisive. 'But just to let you know what a taste of living is like, I'll leave you with this.'

  The kiss was long and hard. She struggled for a moment and then lay still. His hand moved to the back of her head, forcefully holding it rigid while he studied her face, cheeks hot with anger now being cooled by the lightly drifting snow-flakes, eyes bright with unshed tears.

  This time the kiss was soft and gentle, lingering with a promise of what might have been. Liz's whole being was in a state of confusion and tumult and self-disgust. When she was allowed to breathe once more she heard his mocking laugh and began to shake uncontrollably.

  'Of all the conceited, arrogant, insufferably overbearing…' Her voice wobbled treacherously and she pushed him violently away and ran. Stumbling through the snow, she reached the house and was safe, the closed door a solid barrier between them. Silent and trembling, she heard the roar of the engine as the car accelerated away.

  Liz awoke the next day, feeling heavy-eyed and drained. Judy was gone, but a note was propped against the teapot. May be out when you get home, Liz read, so don't forget your key. What do you think of this? Following the arrow which went from the note on to the morning paper, Liz saw that "this" was a photograph of a theatrical gathering somewhere in London. It was similar in shape and form to all the other photographs she had seen in the past, and Liz reflected that the press did a good job in keeping the world informed of Mr Adam Carlyon's interests. The only difference between one and another was the gorgeous creature by his side. As for the great man, there was the familiar elegant figure, face dark and taciturn. As always, his lady-love was smiling radiantly.

  As Liz turned into the forecourt of the theatre, the sun was just beginning to come out again after a short, heavy shower of rain. The sunlight, shining on to the glistening stone steps and white facade, made an impressive picture. She slowed down in front of the glass cases showing the photographs of the principal actors and actresses billed for the first three plays of the season. Some she knew personally, others she had heard of or had seen working. All were smiling down at her. In the centre—the photograph of the visiting director. Liz stared hard, as if the continual viewing of his face would eventually prepare her for his actual presence. She thrust her chin determinedly. Good morning, Mr Carlyon, she said silently to the mocking face, and passed through into the foyer. That marvellous, intangible aura, belonging only to the theatre, reached out and encompassed her as she walked slowly up the softly carpeted, open stairway, and through the double doors leading to the auditorium. Inside she found herself in semi-darkness, rows of empty seats standing regimentally resplendent in burgundy plush. Down below, bathed in a soft light, was the vast stage, soon to be filled with the colourful characters that make The Shrew such an admirable piece of theatre.

  A shout, followed by a bang, made her realise that the backstage area was still occupied by workmen. Running lightly down the aisle steps, Liz made her way to the rear exit doors and down a maze of corridors until she came to the offices. Polly Lawson, plump and efficient, looked up from her typewriter and smiled.

  'Hello, Liz, have you settled in at The Laurels?'

  'Yes, thank you, Mrs Lawson. It was kind of you to recommend me to Judy. If everything works out, it should suit me fine.'

  'I'm sure it will, my dear. Judy is a favourite of mine. A sensible girl with her head screwed on the right way. I feel certain you'll take to each other, and please… call me Polly, everyone does.' She handed some papers to Liz. 'Here's some stuff Mr Harvey left you, and if ever you want to use a typewriter, that one over there's usually available.'

  'Thanks, I'm only a two-finger typist, but even that comes in useful sometimes. If anyone wants me, I'll be marking out the rehearsal room,' and with a smile, Liz went in search of coloured sticking tape and a large metal measure. She collected one of the lads who was doing assistant stage management from the workshop, and together they unrolled the plans of the set and pinned them carefully on to the wall.

  'Now, Andy, we must be sure to do this properly. Everything must be marked completely to scale. Act one tape is red, act two, blue, and act three, yellow.' She looked at her notes. 'I see they're combining the four acts into three for our production.' She gave Andy the measure. 'We'll start by outlining the perimeter, leaving spaces for the doors.'

  For the next two hours they worked hard. Half-way through the job they were joined by one of the other ASMs, Steve, which made things easier. At twelve they broke for lunch. Liz looked at her watch.

  'Okay, boys, be back at one to finish the last bit. I'll leave you to it, so make sure it's right!' She grinned. 'If it is, I'll treat you to a pint.' Liz joined the other backstage staff in the canteen and spent an enjoyable hour talking shop. She was just thinking it time she left when Steve came in and attracted her attention. Going over to him, he said:

  'Mr Harvey wants a word with you. He's on the telephone in reception.'

  Smiling her thanks, Liz hurried to the booking office desk and nodding to the enquiry, 'Are you Liz Browning?' from the girl there, she took the telephone and John's voice came over briskly.

  'Lizzie? Can you do me a favour? Polly's up to her eyes at the moment as we haven't all the office staff yet, and I've just remembered I promised to organise some foodstuff for Adam's flat. Can you do it for me?'

  'Well, yes, of course, John, but where is it? And don't forget I'm not mobile.'

  'Lord, yes—hold on. Are you there, Liz? Polly says you can use her car, and the fiat's in the same block as Simon's, he found it for us, actually. Make your way back to the office and Polly will give you the key to her car and to the flat at the same time.'

  A few moments later Polly handed over the two sets of keys.

  'Bless you for going, Liz. The car's a blue Fiat, I can never remember the number, but you can't miss it, it's parked just inside on the right. You know where Simon's flat is, of course, and Mr Carlyon's is in the same block on the other side of the building, number fifteen on the second floor. I believe there's a good supermarket quite near and I've made a list of what to get in. Don't forget to keep the receipt.' She thought for a moment, then said: 'I think that's all.'

  'Has your car got any little foibles I ought to know about?' Liz asked, putting the keys into her bag.

  Polly laughed. 'No. Not being mechanically minded, I have it serviced regularly and you should find it behaving.'

  Who would have thought, said Liz to herself, as she negotiated the traffic, that I would be doing such a personal, homely favour for the great man? There must be dozens who would just jump at the chance and it's me that gets lumbered ! Thank the lord he hasn't arrived yet.

  By the time she had battled her way around the maze of shelves at the store, queued at the cash till and staggered out to the Fiat with a loaded carton, the streets were filled with nose-to-tail traffic, all concerned with leaving their daily toil behind them and getting home as quickly as possible. After waiting some time, Liz at last eased the Fiat into the outgoing lane, by kind courtesy of a Rover-owner who had an amazing likeness to Clark Gable. Now if I'd been Helen, Liz pondered, any one of those others would have been only too willing to let me in. Still, perhaps Clark Gable liked what he saw. She grinned. More likely he also had a compulsion for lame ducks!

  Liz turned into the familiar entrance to Elmscourt and parked the car. Struggling with the heavy box of groceries, she reflected wryly that Adam Carlyon did not need a DSM, but an Amazon dogsbody, and she
certainly had not applied for that job. Balancing the box on one knee, she fitted the key into the lock.

  The small hallway was blocked by two large suitcases.

  'God! He's here!' Liz clutched frantically at the now precarious box and stood appalled. Then the memory of Polly saying something about luggage being sent on made her thumping pulse slow down to normal.

  How stupid can you get? she asked herself crossly. If that's the way you react, my girl, you might just as well pack up and go. After all, the man can't eat you, she reasoned, negotiating the cases and moving along the hallway, and although agreeing with this sensible remark, she did not want her first meeting with Adam Carlyon to be on such personal ground and would far rather meet him at the theatre when everyone else was there.

  Packing the things into the wall unit and fridge did not take long and when Liz returned to the theatre she found Polly waiting for her.

  'Come along, move over. I'll give you a lift home.' 'There's no need to do that,' protested Liz.

  'It's not far out of my way, and one good turn, etc.'

  Judy was out when Liz let herself into the flat. At ten o'clock a tap sounded on her bedroom door.

  'Liz? I haven't disturbed you, have I? I saw your light still on and wondered if you'd like a drink. I'm just making myself one and there's some hot milk left.'

  'Oh yes, please, Judy. I'd love one.'

  'What's that you're doing?' called Judy from the kitchen.

  'The stage director's book,' said Liz, slipping the last page thankfully through the binder.

  'Don't you ever do anything unconnected with the theatre?' quizzed Judy, bringing in the mugs of steaming chocolate.

  'Of course I do, but this job's terribly important to me. I must make a success of it, for a number of reasons.'

  'And what are they?' Judy perched herself on the end of the bed.

  Liz said slowly:

  'I don't know if I'm being super-sensitive, but the fact that John's my brother-in-law could be a handicap. People aren't to know I applied for the job before I knew John had been made the director; not that that helps really, as he had a large say in who was chosen.'