crushing blow to her in the cold light of day and on his own territory. But his blood was fired up and he wanted to finish this off tonight. Besides, he was a man who never liked waiting—and now that he had control of the family estate it meant he never had to.
The woman in the floral dress had come to a halt and was now rapping on a dressing-room door.
‘Who is it?’ called a breathy voice he instantly recognised as that of Roxy Carmichael and something about its sensual undertones made his skin prickle with undeniable desire. But he stood hidden in the shadows as the door was pushed open and light streamed out from a shabby dressing room.
‘It’s Margaret,’ said the woman, her hand moving around in her pocket as if she was checking the note he’d just given her was still there.
From her position at the mirror where she had been wiping the last of the gunky stage make-up from her face, Roxanne swivelled round in the chair, trying not to look dispirited. But it wasn’t easy. It hadn’t been the greatest evening in the world. There was nothing worse than playing in a half-empty club to an audience which was full of drink. The Kit-Kat Club seemed to be on the decline and she knew that her singing spot had failed to revitalise audience figures. Hadn’t the management told her so just that very morning—in a grim message underpinned with the unspoken warning that lack of success would not be tolerated?
She told herself that it wasn’t personal—that the music industry had always been this way. She just happened to have been very fortunate at the start of her career and she shouldn’t forget that. But she was tired. Bone-tired. With an aching kind of emptiness which wouldn’t shift and a horrible tickle at the back of her throat which wouldn’t seem to go away.
Stifling a yawn, she looked at the woman in the floral dress who was standing in the doorway with an expectant look on her face and she forced a smile. ‘Yes, what is it, Margaret?’
‘There’s a gentleman here who says he wants to see you.’
A gentleman? Roxanne deposited the damp piece of cotton wool on the battered dressing table and gave a wry smile. Once, there had been thousands of people who had clamoured at stage doors to see her. Men who wanted to go to bed with her, and young girls who had looked up to her for no reason she’d ever been able to work out. Squads of security people had been employed to keep those crowds at bay—but not any more. These days, visitors were few and far between and those that did make it past the stage door were greeted with suspicion. She found herself wondering if her father had turned up out of the blue—with yet another ridiculous scheme for making her ‘comeback’. Her mouth tightened. As if she would ever consider letting him be a part of it—no matter how much her career could do with a lift. She thought about the dwindling audiences and the ever-more seedy venues and her heart twisted painfully in her chest. Because sooner or later she was going to have to take a tough, hard look at her future and ask herself how much longer she was going to tolerate being kicked back.
‘Did he give his name?’ she asked. ‘Is he from the press?’
Margaret shrugged. ‘He says he’s not. And he doesn’t look like a journalist. He looks...well...’ she lowered her voice ‘...handsome.’
Roxanne suppressed a shudder. There was possibly only one thing worse than some journalist wanting to do a ‘Where Are They Now?’ feature—and that was a man who might have decided that she was still attractive enough to pursue. She gave a cynical shake of her head. ‘I’m not interested in pretty boys, Margaret.’
‘And rich,’ murmured the older woman, like a bounty hunter.
At this, Roxy stilled—because some fantasies were too deeply ingrained to get rid of, no matter how crazy they might seem. Was it possible that her dream could still come true? That some wealthy impresario had been sitting in the audience listening to her singing and decided that he wanted to take a chance on her? Someone who had recognised that she still had a talent which burned brightly and which it was a crying shame to waste. And if that were the case, then surely it wouldn’t hurt her to turn on the charm, would it?
Smoothing down her hair, she injected a note of warmth into her voice. ‘Then why don’t you send him in?’ she said.
Titus had heard every word of the brief interchange and, although it shouldn’t have surprised him, still it made his mouth harden. What had he expected—that she’d be proud enough to turn away some unknown caller who had turned up at the end of her set? Of course not. Just the mention of money had made her voice quiver with eagerness. Some women would sell themselves for money, he reminded himself, and this was one of them. Swallowing down the sour taste of disgust, he stepped forward.
‘You can go in—’ Margaret began, but Titus had already brushed past her and walked into the tiny dressing room.
Still seated, Roxy widened her eyes as a tall figure entered the cramped confines of the room. A hundred conflicting messages buzzed around in her head as he quietly shut the door behind him and for a moment she felt positively weak. She was aware of an immense power, which seemed to spark off him like electricity—and of something else, too. Something she’d almost forgotten about until she met his icy stare for the first time.
Desire.
She swallowed. A desire which was the last thing she wanted, or needed. It began to scorch like wildfire around her veins and suddenly the cramped room felt claustrophobic. She wanted to get out—far away from the way he was making her feel. She wanted to run a million miles from that bright grey gaze which was boring through her and making her heart perform an erratic dance. ‘I don’t remember telling you to close the door,’ she said sharply.
Titus looked down at her—a hard smile on his lips as he registered the automatic darkening of her eyes in a response to him which was entirely predictable. He knew what he had—and what he had was something which made women fall at his feet like ninepins. He didn’t exploit it, but sometimes he used it. ‘Maybe you don’t want the whole club hearing what I have to say,’ he countered softly.
Roxy was about to tell him that she didn’t tolerate silken threats coming from complete strangers, but suddenly she was finding it difficult to speak. She didn’t know if it was his looks or his manner, or that cool, privileged accent which marked him out as aristocratic. But whatever it was, it was potent enough to make the words freeze in her throat. She let her gaze linger on him and somehow she couldn’t seem to drag it away again.
He must have been about six feet two—although his posture made him seem taller. Clad in a dark cashmere coat designed to keep out the worst of the bitter winter night, she’d never seen anyone with quite so much presence. And that was a pretty big admission considering she’d spent her life working in an industry where charisma was the common currency...
His body would have made most women take a second look, and so would the expensive clothes which sat so comfortably on it. But women were usually more interested in faces—and his was the most arresting face she had ever seen. High cheekbones looked as if they had been chiselled by a master sculptor—their hard lines contrasting with the sensual contours of his unsmiling lips. His dark hair was the rich, tawny colour of burnt copper. Like a lion’s mane, she found herself thinking. But his King-of-the-jungle likeness didn’t stop at his hair. He carried himself with the effortless grace of a powerful predator—as if everything he surveyed through those cold eyes were his.
Roxy didn’t react to his unsmiling scrutiny—at least, not outwardly. Her heart might have started fluttering with instinctive response to his outrageously alpha qualities, but he would never know that. She was good at keeping her feelings hidden. No, scrub that—she was an expert. She’d dealt with enough men in
