‘Jean is visiting her mother in Edinburgh,’ Alex said uncomfortably. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’
But they were like hounds on the scent and one of them bayed, ‘And you are a keen theatre-goer, Ms—? Or is it Mrs? Or are you just a wannabe?’ The voice persisted as Fenella refused to give her name. ‘A model, perhaps, just itching to break into television?’
‘Oh, Alex—’ Fenella hid her twitching mouth against his broad, dinner-jacketed shoulder just as the flash lights exploded again.
Alex said toughly, ‘That’s enough. Go hassle someone else.’ And he swept her forward into the luxurious foyer.
A breathing space, if only brief. While Fenella got her heartbeats back under control Alex’s deep blue eyes raked her pale face with deep concern.
‘You all right, sweetheart?’
‘I’m fine.’ Golden eyes sparkled into his. ‘You did warn me what to expect. I think I could get hooked on living dangerously!’
And there was no time to say any more because they were being whisked through to the main restaurant area, all soft lighting and wickedly sumptuous décor and potted plants like a miniature exotic jungle flanking delicate Japanese silk screens painted with golden dragons with glittering ruby eyes.
And full of beautiful people. And the table they were deferentially conducted to was within spitting distance of Saul Ackerman’s party. If she looked to the left of Alex’s shoulder she would be staring straight into the chairman’s face.
A quick, encompassing glance told her he had even more presence than she had realised when Alex had pointed him out to her during the interval back at the theatre. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he had the type of hard, slashing features that could never be over-looked. But it was more than merely the striking combination of a strongly modelled bone-structure, thick black hair and piercing silver-grey eyes. It was the sheer unadulterated power of the man.
She didn’t look his way again. She concentrated on Alex. A tiny muscle was twitching at the corner of his mouth and that only happened when he was nervous. Gently, she laid her hand over his.
‘Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I promise.’
‘Of course it will.’ There’d been only a momentary hesitation preceding his answer and then he was smiling into her eyes and he was back to being the urbane, self-confident man she loved. ‘Now order something fabulous, Fen, my darling, and we’ll have the best champagne on offer.’
‘Well…’ She could hear the note of doubt in her voice and deplored it. But the menu she’d been handed was almost too heavy to hold, and nothing was priced. ‘Can you afford it?’ Which was even more deplorable, but she couldn’t help it.
‘Look on it as payment for services rendered and those yet to come.’ Alex leaned back expansively in his chair, the look in his eyes, the play of that smile across his mouth making her understand why women had literally thrown themselves at him during his live stage performances a decade or two ago, why his records had once regularly featured high in the charts. ‘And if I can’t afford it, Jean can.’
‘Say no more!’ Fenella buried her head in the menu. She was famished. And it was common knowledge that Jean was fabulously rich. She’d inherited a fortune from her father and was due to inherit another when her mother died. Not an event Jean was anticipating, Fenella knew, but the old lady was over ninety. So the price of a meal in a place such as this wouldn’t cause Alex’s wife any hardship!
‘Has Ackerman noticed us yet?’ Alex asked quietly as soon as he’d given their order. ‘Too obvious if I turned round. I don’t want him to think our being here was anything other than coincidence.’ He leaned forward, trailing a finger down the side of her face. ‘Look over to their table in a moment or two; make it natural. I don’t think there’s a man in the room who could have failed to notice you, sweetheart.’
Fenella wasn’t so sure about that, but she knew the trouble Alex had gone to to discover which restaurant Ackerman intended to bring his party to tonight in time to reserve a table himself.
Strangely unwilling to meet those silver-grey eyes, she waited until the champagne was brought to their table, breaking up their intimately whispered conversation. Then slowly, as if wanting something to do while Alex’s attention was no longer given exclusively to her, she allowed her eyes to wander idly over the animated group at Saul Ackerman’s table.
Vesta Faine was as lovely close to as she had been on stage, her dark beauty enhanced by the dramatic lines of the white satin of her gown, her vivacious chatter obviously holding Jethro Tamblyn in thrall. The playwright was leaning forward, his arms folded on the table, his ruggedly striking features animated as he listened to every word. He looked as if he had been running both hands through his dishevelled, wiry chestnut hair for at least a couple of hours. In contrast, his wife looked out of her depth in her unimaginative chain-store dress, her pale blue eyes fixed anxiously on her famous husband. Had she married the boy from her own Cornish village when he’d been nothing more than a struggling, impecunious writer only to find him leaving her behind? Would she be able to withstand the pressures of his newly found fame?
Aware that these idle musings were merely delaying tactics, she reluctantly glanced at the head of the table. Saul Ackerman was probably just as riveted by the actress as Jethro was. But she met the silver-eyes head on and the mocking awareness in them made her face go hot.
She looked away quickly, expelling the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, dipping her head on the slender stalk of her neck, feeling the long ornate drop-earrings brush against her skin, restraining the desire to remove the irritants. She had only worn the outlandish things to soften the effect of her starkly modern hairstyle. Cut very short into the shape of her head at the back, it was long on top, falling forwards into a honey-gold fringe that brushed her eyebrows in a heavy, well-defined curve.
‘Well?’ Alex arched a brow. ‘Have we been noticed?’
Hastily banishing any trace of discomfort or wariness from her eyes, she gave him her most brilliant smile, the discreet, muted lighting making her shoulders gleam like oiled satin above the rich black silk of her low-cut dress as she leaned forward, her voice low and intimate as she told him, ‘Yes. I don’t think anyone, even someone as tunnel-visioned as Saul Ackerman, could fail to recognise your impressive profile!’
‘Never mind that.’ The blatant flattery left him visibly unimpressed. ‘The bastard knows every line on my face! It’s you I want him to see, Fen. I want him to recognise you when he sees you again.’ He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. ‘I want him so he can’t take his eyes off you.’
Involuntarily, her gaze slid to the other table and her breath caught in her lungs. Even through the thick veiling of her long dark lashes there was no mistaking the speculation in those flat silver eyes. Saul Ackerman was leaning back in his chair, making no attempt now to join in the conversation that was flying around his table, the fingers of one hand idly playing with the stem of his wine glass as he watched her, his eyes unnerving.
Two thunderous heartbeats later Fenella dragged her attention back to Alex. It would appear that his wish had been granted. Ackerman would know her if he saw her again. Something fluttered inside her breasts, something uncomfortable and alien. Vowing not to look Saul Ackerman’s way again, she made a determined and happily successful effort to flirt with Alex across the table but could make little impression on the superb meal she had been hungry for only a short while ago.
