Pagan Enchantment. Кэрол Мортимер

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      ‘Step on to my casting couch!’ Vanda giggled. ‘I might even be persuaded to do that for a man like him.’

      ‘Really, darling,’ Harry drawled haughtily, ‘do have some class! That approach is old hat now. And you, darling,’ he spoke to Merry, ‘make a good impression, there’s a love.’

      ‘“There’s a love”,’ Vanda mimicked softly as he moved away. ‘Do you know why he calls us all darling or love?’

      ‘Why?’ Merry asked vaguely, wondering if Gideon Steele really did have her in mind for his next film. What a break that would be if he did. This awful play would have been worth it!

      Vanda grimaced. ‘Because he can’t remember our names.’

      ‘Who can’t?’ she frowned.

      ‘Handsome Harry can’t. Hey, are you with me?’ her friend teased.

      ‘Sorry,’ she smiled. ‘I was just—I can’t believe Gideon Steele asked to see me!’

      ‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ said Vanda without jealousy, her arm through the crook of Merry’s as they went to the dressing-room they shared with two other girls.

      Merry was very nervous when she went back on stage, even more conscious of the man sitting alone in the front row. His hand was down from his face now, revealing deeply tanned skin, a long straight nose, the well-shaped mouth twisted derisively, the tinted glasses still hiding his eyes. Merry had always believed the eyes to be the mirrors of the soul, and without seeing his eyes she couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking. But that derision on his mouth made her squirm.

      By this time the theatre was slowly emptying, so that by the time they came to the end of the play the clapping in the darkened theatre sounded to be half a dozen people. And Gideon Steele wasn’t one of them, getting to his feet and going through the stage door to the right of him. Merry had a brief glimpse of him before the curtain came down, a tall powerfully built man, wearing fitted denims and a brown bomber jacket.

      ‘Wonderful, darlings. Wonderful!’ Harry enthused ecstatically as they wandered off the stage.

      ‘It may have escaped your notice, Harry,’ one of the male cast taunted, ‘but the damn theatre was empty by the time we got to the end!’

      ‘Exactly!’ he cried. ‘That’s exactly the reaction I was looking for.’

      ‘Idiot!’ hissed Vanda.

      ‘I don’t know what you’re all complaining about,’ he snapped. ‘You have nothing to lose—–’

      ‘Except their reputations as actors,’ drawled a sardonic voice.

      ‘Gideon!’ Harry exclaimed with a smile. ‘My dear man! What did you think of it?’

      Merry was busy studying the man she now knew was Gideon Steele. He stood only feet away from her, taller than any of the other men here, older too, with an aura of power and vitality that seemed to make him impatient with his surroundings. His hair was very dark, almost black, brushed casually back from his face and long over his collar and ears, the face hard, as if carved from granite, the glasses still in evidence and so shielding the expression of his eyes.

      He looked at Harry unsmilingly. ‘It was trash,’ he said bluntly. ‘And that’s being kind.’

      Harry’s mouth dropped open, a hurt look to his face. ‘Gideon …’

      ‘And who gave you permission to call me your dear man, boy?’ he snapped, using his obvious seniority to humiliate the other man. ‘You ought to be put against a wall and shot for the setback you’ve given the reputation of the theatre tonight. In fact, I’d like to be the one to do the shooting,’ he derided harshly.

      Several of the cast members turned away to hide their smiles, but not Merry. She knew the play was awful, that they must all have been mad to appear in it, that without his own money to back it Harry would never have got it as far as a theatre, but that didn’t excuse the way Gideon Steele was verbally humiliating the other man in front of everyone. It was cruel and unkind—but then Gideon Steele had a hardness about his mouth that seemed to indicate he enjoyed being cruel on occasion.

      ‘I’m sure we all have our failures when we first start out,’ she heard herself say. ‘Even you, Mr Steele,’ she added softly, holding her breath at her own daring.

      She had remembered something about Gideon Steele, something she had read about him once. He may be a highly acclaimed director now, but when he had started out fifteen years ago he had had an absolute disaster of a film, had had trouble getting finance for future films, and it had taken the succeeding five years to prove his skill. But he had been at the top of his profession for ten years now.

      He looked over in her direction, everyone about them suddenly falling silent, the ones that had been rushing off to change now lingering on at the prospect of a heated exchange. ‘Touché, Miss …?’

      ‘Charles,’ she supplied stiltedly.

      His mouth tightened. ‘Meredith Charles?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He turned furiously to Harry. ‘You told me the one with the orange hair!’ he ground out.

      Harry looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m sure I said pink … Does it matter?’ he shrugged dismissively.

      The other man controlled his anger with effort. ‘Not now,’ he sighed. ‘I’d like to talk to you, Miss Charles,’ he told her impatiently.

      The buzz of interest deepened about them, and Merry felt herself blush. Whatever he had to say surely shouldn’t be said in front of the rest of the cast?

      Obviously he thought so too, for he took her arm in a firm grip to move her to one side of the corridor, out of earshot of the others, most of them starting to wander off to their dressing-rooms now, losing interest when it was obvious he had come to see Merry and not themselves.

      ‘Do you mind?’ She shook off his hand, conscious of the speculative looks she was receiving; some of her fellow actors obviously doubted that this man’s interests were professional—as she did herself. He hadn’t even realised which one she was, had thought Vanda was her!

      Someone pushed by them, momentarily knocking Gideon Steele off balance, so that for a moment Merry was crushed between the wall and the hardness of his body. She wasn’t very tall herself, only five feet two, and consequently her face was squashed against his chest, his thighs grinding into her.

      ‘Hell!’ he muttered, moving back. ‘It’s impossible to talk here. Go and change, I’ll wait for you outside.’ He pushed the tinted glasses up the bridge of his arrogant nose. ‘Don’t be long.’

      ‘Mr Steele!’ Her angry outburst stopped him in the process of turning to leave.

      His brows rose. ‘Yes?’

      She frowned her consternation. ‘I’m sure you’re a brilliant director, in fact, I know you are—–’

      ‘You surprise me,’ he drawled, ‘after appearing in this garbage.’

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