style="font-size:15px;"> By the end of the evening she knew the appreciative clapping and shouting to be wholly deserved, and a lot of the fans were rising to their feet. Only one man didn’t applaud; Bartholomew Jordan got up and left by a side door as her last number came to an end.
Eve watched him go with disbelief. She had been conscious of his still figure all through the concert, had tried a little harder with each new song in the hope that he would applaud that one. He never did, just sat watching her steadily with those luminous green eyes.
Eve became more and more frustrated as the evening went on, and those heavy-lidded eyes never left her, a mocking twist to the firm lips that had plundered hers so thoroughly the evening before.
Well, she would show him when he turned up in her dressing-room. If he thought he had had the brush-off last night he would find out what that really meant tonight!
She waited fifteen minutes for him to show up, and when he didn’t she knew he must be waiting for her outside. He had probably left early to get his limousine.
But once she got outside there was no limousine, no Bartholomew Jordan. The damned man had genuinely walked out on her concert!
EVE’S mood was explosive during rehearsals the next day; she was critical of the musicians, until at last one of them shouted back at her. That took her aback, so much so that she was speechless for several minutes.
‘Okay, take a break, everyone,’ Derek filled in the silence. ‘Back on stage in ten minutes. You come with me.’ He pulled Eve off the stage and down into her dressing-room. ‘Now, what’s going on?’ he demanded to know.
Her face was flushed. ‘You had no need to do that,’ she snapped. ‘I could handle it.’ She pushed her hair back impatiently.
‘Maybe you could,’ he sighed. ‘But I don’t think the boys could. You were throwing the proverbial tantrum out there, Eve.’
‘I was not——’
‘You were, and you still are. What on earth is the matter with you?’ he sighed his exasperation. ‘You’re being hell today!’
She glared at him angrily for several minutes, her expression one of rebellion. Then the fight went out of her. She was being hell, she was surprised someone hadn’t told her earlier; the boys in the group didn’t usually take any nonsense, not from anyone.
‘I’ll apologise,’ she said tautly, her hands thrust into the back pocket of her skin-tight denims, her lemon tee-shirt figure-hugging too.
‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ he said firmly. ‘What’s upset you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Eve!’
She bit her lip, looking down at her hands. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, she just felt angry at the whole world. ‘Maybe I’m tired,’ she shrugged.
‘We all are. That’s no excuse.’ He put his arm about her shoulders. ‘You know that, don’t you, Eve? Guy was playing that last number perfectly, you were the one off key.’
‘I’ve said I’ll apologise!’
He moved back. ‘Make sure you do. Having the musicians walk out on us is something I don’t need.’
‘Derek——’
‘Okay, okay,’ he held up his hands defensively, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know you in this mood.’
She didn’t know herself. Usually nothing got to her, and yet since her first meeting with Bartholomew Jordan her mood had been very erratic. And no man was allowed to do that to her, she wouldn’t allow them to.
The rest of the rehearsals went off all right. Guy accepted her apology, but she took all the band out to lunch just to ease things between them. She was behaving very badly, something she had sworn never to do in her career. She was a lone woman working in a male-dominated environment, and the last thing she needed was to earn the reputation of being a temperamental bitch.
Luckily her behaviour didn’t seem to have inhibited the men in any way; their jokes were as ribald as usual as they more or less took the local pub over. She felt a little easier when she emerged out into the afternoon sunshine, walking to Derek’s flat rather than taking a taxi. She was unrecognisable without her dramatic stage make-up, just another pretty girl enjoying the sunshine.
She was relaxed before the start of that evening’s show—always a bad sign. The adrenalin should be pumping, her senses charged and alive. It was almost as if she had burnt herself out in anger that morning, and she had no enthusiasm for the show ahead of her.
‘Present for the lovely lady.’ Derek appeared in the doorway of her dressing-room, or rather the bottom half of him did; the top half was obscured by a huge bouquet.
She stood up. ‘Derek, you shouldn’t——’
‘I didn’t.’ He held out the flowers to her.
Eve stiffened. They were roses—red roses. The card clearly said ‘Bartholomew’. Her mouth tightened, and she fought down the impulse to throw the flowers away. They were beautiful roses, just in bud, and a deep, deep red. There must be at least three dozen here, she just couldn’t destroy them. Maybe one of the stage workers would like them for his wife?
‘Is it safe to come in?’ Derek raised a hopeful eyebrow.
She laughed at his pretended fear. ‘Yes, come in,’ she invited, putting the flowers down on the table; the ones from yesterday were still lying there in their cellophane.
Derek strolled over to a chair, leaning his arms on its back. ‘Persistent, isn’t he?’ he said dryly.
Eve gave him an angry glare. ‘I suppose you looked at the card,’ she accused.
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t realise it was a secret.’
‘It isn’t,’ she sighed. ‘How long have I got?’ she changed the subject.
‘Five minutes. Are you ready?’
She spun round in the electric blue cat-suit. ‘Don’t I look ready?’ she teased.
‘You always look beautiful.’
‘Thanks,’ she accepted dryly. ‘Why the flattery, Derek?’ she asked, eyes narrowed.
‘No reason. Surely it can’t hurt to make you feel good before you go out on stage? You were looking a bit tired when we arrived,’ he added worriedly.
Strange, she didn’t feel that way any more; the adrenalin was pumping, the blood heated in her veins. ‘I’m fine now, Derek,’ she assured him.
‘Mood gone?’
‘I—Yes, mood gone,’ she said reluctantly.
He quirked
