Golden Fever. Carole Mortimer

       CHAPTER ONE

      IT was amazing how Los Angeles airport never seemed to change, just as the people never seemed to change. Clare had lost count of the amount of times she had landed here, and yet each time it looked like the same people milling around, the same engrossed faces, the eagerness of a holidaymaker, the world-weary one of the businessman.

      What category did she fall into? She wasn’t a holidaymaker, that was for sure. The days of her carefree youth spent on Malibu Beach were long gone. She was here to work, so that probably put her in the latter category.

      And yet she felt as if she had come home. The last five years of living in London might not have happened. She felt like the eighteen-year-old she had been then, just newly left school, the whole world at her feet. Only she hadn’t seen the whole world, only——

      No! She wouldn’t think of him. She never thought of him now, or of the time she had spent with him.

      ‘The baggage!’ Her voice was sharp as she turned to the man walking at her side.

      Harvey Pryce looked his usual calm, unruffled self, not at all like a man who had just spent over nine hours on an aeroplane. And why should he?—he had been asleep five minutes after take-off, only waking up in time to freshen up, change his jacket, and leave the plane.

      And Clare had spent the same time wondering if she had made a mistake in agreeing to do this film. Of course, when she had accepted the part she hadn’t realised that some of the filming would take place in Long Beach. If she had known that she wouldn’t even have looked at the script.

      She was still running away, she knew that. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Just to think of Rourke made her feel like the gauche innocent she had been then, and considering she was known for her coolness now that was some admission.

      ‘I’ll get it,’ Harvey answered her statement, striding confidently over to pick up the single cases they had each brought with them.

      Clare waited, immune to the admiring glances she was receiving, a tall slender woman in a golden-yellow dress, a wide white leather belt secured about her narrow waist, the straightness of the skirt emphasising the long length of her tanned legs. Her hair hung straight and golden to her shoulders, her face youthfully beautiful, her eyes golden beneath winged brows. ‘Golden Lady’, the press had nicknamed her, and Harvey, as her manager, saw to it that she kept to that image.

      ‘Miss Anderson?’ A young man stood in front of her, a boy of eighteen or nineteen, his flushed eagerness showing his youth. ‘It is Clare Anderson, isn’t it?’ he asked uncertainly as she remained silent.

      She looked at him coolly, the perfection of her face showing no emotion. ‘Yes?’ Her voice was low and husky, naturally so, and not affected as so many so-called friends liked to think.

      ‘Oh, boy!’ His face lit up. Like so many of his contemporaries he was dressed casually, in faded denims and a tee-shirt, with not a care in the world other than having a good time. And L.A. was certainly the place for that.

      Clare envied him, feeling about fifty years old when faced with his youthful enthusiasm. It certainly felt as if she had lived that long sometimes—the constant barrage of work, the different locations, the different fellow actors to work with. And when she wasn’t working she was attending the parties Harvey claimed she had to go to so that she was never forgotten, was always in the public eye.

      Only Harvey remained the same, safe, reliable Harvey, who would sell his soul to get his star the leading role, the best publicity. And she was that star!

      And she wore his ring, a large chunky diamond that weighed heavily on her long slender finger. The ring had been there a little over a year now, and so far they had made no plans of putting a plain gold one at its side.

      ‘Can I have your autograph?’ the young boy was asking now.

      ‘I—Sorry?’ she frowned, too preoccupied to be aware of what he was saying to her.

      ‘This young man would like your autograph, Clare.’ Harvey materialised at her side, instantly taking charge of the situation, leaving the porter to struggle along with their suitcases, carrying only the briefcase that had accompanied him on the plane. He flicked open the briefcase, and a photograph of Clare miraculously appeared from its depths. ‘Here,’ he handed it to her to sign, censure in his frowning blue eyes.

      Clare bit her bottom lip, knowing she was being less than gracious, favouring the boy with a smile designed to dazzle—knowing she had succeeded when he flushed his pleasure.

      She couldn’t be more than four or five years older than this lad, and yet she felt miles apart from him, knew that her way of life, the glitter, the falseness, had given her a sophistication that more than matched Harvey’s thirty-five years.

      But she was going off at a tangent again, her thoughts constantly wandering today. Once again she smiled at the waiting boy, and took a gold pen from her handbag. ‘Who shall I write it to?’ she queried softly.

      ‘Nick,’

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