She pulled a face. ‘Then he’ll have to want. I’m too tired, Derek,’ she insisted as he went to protest. ‘I’m not in the mood to pamper an old man, even if he is rich as Croesus.’
‘Jordan isn’t old——’
‘Not unless you call thirty-nine old,’ drawled a third person.
Eve turned slowly, her expression giving nothing away as she looked at the man now standing in the open doorway. Yes, this would be Bartholomew Jordan; he just oozed confidence in himself and his power over other people. He was impressive to look at in the dark pin-striped suit, white silk shirt, and meticulously tied tie, his blond good looks a startling contrast to his deep tan. His hair was several shades of blond, from white to pure gold, in an overlong windswept style, his deep green eyes watching her mockingly, his lashes long and dark, his nose straight, his firm mouth curved into a questioning smile, his jaw strong and purposeful.
Yes, he was impressive—and Eve wasn’t impressed at all. She raised her eyebrows, controlled under that insolent stare. ‘They say eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves,’ she told him in her naturally husky tone.
Derek gave her a frowning look. ‘Eve——’
‘Would you leave Miss Meredith and me to talk?’ Bartholomew Jordan walked farther into the room, holding the door open for Derek to leave.
Eve faced him unflinchingly. ‘I believe you heard me say I was tired, Mr Jordan.’ She picked up her handbag and swished out of the room, down the corridor and out of the stage-door without a second glance.
She was instantly surrounded by enthusiastic fans, signing one or two autographs before she realised she was going to have difficulty getting away from here. She was being pushed and jostled, hands coming out just to touch her. She cringed from those hands.
Suddenly her elbow was taken in a firm grasp, and she was propelled firmly out of the crowd towards a waiting car. ‘Thanks, Der—You!’ she gasped as she looked straight into the deep green eyes of Bartholomew Jordan. She tried to pull out of his grasp. ‘Would you please let me go,’ she ordered coldly.
‘Gladly,’ he drawled. ‘If you want me to leave you to the mercy of that mob,’ he nodded behind her.
Eve followed his line of vision. If anything the crowd had increased in number. ‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t want you to do that.’
‘Then get inside,’ he commanded curtly.
The chauffeur had appeared at the back of the car and was even now opening the door for them. Eve got in, moving over as far as she could as Bartholomew Jordan climbed in beside her, the door firmly closed before the chauffeur got in behind the wheel. The window between the driver and the back of the car was firmly closed, leaving the two of them in complete privacy.
Eve was aware of the smell of expensive cologne, a tangy elusive smell that in no way detracted from this man’s own animal smell. She could also detect the aroma of cigars or cheroots, this smell as pleasant as the cologne.
‘Just how did you intend getting home this evening?’ he asked in that pleasant well-modulated voice that spoke of an expensive education.
She shrugged dismissively. ‘I was going to ask Derek to call me a taxi.’
His mouth twisted derisively. ‘After the performance you gave this evening you’re lucky to get away in one piece.’
‘I’m sorry I displeased you——’
‘You didn’t,’ he cut in on her sarcasm. ‘The opposite.’
Her head went back, her long dark hair gleaming down her back. ‘I hardly expected to make such an impression.’
His green-eyed gaze ran appraisingly over her clearly defined curves in the shimmering body-hugging material of her cat-suit. ‘In that outfit you don’t even need to sing to make an impression.’
Eve flushed at the familiarity in his voice. ‘Mr Jordan——’
‘Bart,’ he put in softly.
She blinked up at him, her eyes very blue. ‘Bart?’
He nodded, his hair very blond. ‘All my friends call me Bart.’ He took a cheroot out of the case in his breast-pocket. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked politely.
‘Not at all. And I’m not a friend, Mr Jordan,’ she told him coldly. ‘And I have no intention of ever becoming one.’ The smell of his cheroot filled the car as he returned his gold lighter to his pocket, using the expensive item as if it meant nothing to him.
‘Never?’ he quirked an eyebrow.
‘Most of my friends are of years’ standing,’ she said coolly. ‘Now could you please drop me off here? I can easily get a taxi now.’
‘Let me drive you to your home.’
‘I don’t live in London.’
‘Then I’ll drive you to wherever it is you want to go,’ he offered smoothly.
Eve controlled her anger with effort. This man liked his own way, that much was obvious, but men like him left her cold. Over-confident, arrogant, and high-handed—Bartholomew Jordan fitted that description as if it had been made for him.
‘I want to go here, Mr Jordan,’ she sat forward, ‘if you could ask your driver to stop.’
‘Why?’ came his stark query.
Her eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘Maybe because I like to choose my own company.’
His eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful. ‘You don’t like me. Why?’
‘Like I said, I like to choose my own company.’
‘And given that choice?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t choose you!’ she said rudely.
‘Derek James?’
She looked startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’
His expression was haughty. ‘He informed me you were spending the night at his apartment.’
And so she was, but in a separate bedroom! Not that this man would believe that, he wouldn’t understand such a sterile relationship. He was everything she most despised, over-confident, and over-wealthy, believing that wealth could buy him anything he wanted. And right now he probably thought it could buy him a place in her bed!
She gave him a derisive look. ‘I am. I always stay with Derek when I’m in town.’ She didn’t explain to him that she also stayed with Derek’s wife, Judy.
Bartholomew Jordan’s mouth twisted. ‘What a nice arrangement!’
She shrugged. ‘We like it.’
He studied the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘No chance of your dropping him?’
Her eyes widened.
