Kirsty was still trying to assimilate the shock of firstly seeing Drew here—the last place she had expected him to be—and secondly, and perhaps worse, his involvement with the Ousebridge Players and his recommendation of her to Simon. It was something she was finding it impossible to come to terms with.
Why on earth had he recommended her? It was something she simply could not understand. And what must the rest of the cast think? She writhed mentally in horror; they must know how she had got the part, did they think that she had asked Drew to intercede on her behalf? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened, but even if she was able to wield such influence she would never, never do so. If she was to succeed she wanted to do so on her own merits. It was totally abhorrent to her to think that Drew Chalmers had been responsible for her getting the part. And yet only a handful of hours before she had been mentally thanking her unknown champion, making a vow not to let the company down. But that was before she had realised that Drew Chalmers was the one who had recommended her. Why? Because of what had happened in Winton?
She moved slightly, stifling a gasp as she realised that he was looking directly at her, freezing like a tiny trapped animal caught in the mesmerising glare of a predator’s gaze. He moved, lean and graceful in formal evening clothes; a man who automatically drew the eye of those who saw him, his predatory, tigerish stalk carrying him through the crowd that parted automatically for him. He was smiling at her, tiny lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, his mouth quirked in amusement, and Kirsty felt the resentment boil up inside her. How dared he take it for granted that she would be grateful for his intervention—and that was what his smile suggested. Didn’t he realise that she would far rather have succeeded on her own merits? And why had he done it? Not simply out of charity. A terrible thought struck her. He had been furious, she knew, at the trick she had played on him. Could this be his way of taking revenge; getting her a part that she herself suspected might be beyond her and then sitting back to watch her fail, before reminding her of his earlier judgment—proved correct by yet another failure. She darted a quick glance at the impassive features. Someone was talking to him and he was giving them his whole attention, yet it was impossible to read anything in his face. He was a man who was adept at concealing his real feelings, and yet they would run deep, Kirsty sensed that instinctively. She had played with those feelings as carelessly as a child might a box of matches, without realising the danger, until it was too late. Was Drew capable of acting in such a cold-blooded fashion? Her instincts gave her an unequivocal ‘yes’, and she shivered suddenly, causing Helen to frown in concern and ask if she was cold.
Reassuring her hostess, Kirsty was just about to excuse herself when Beverley Travers suddenly materialised at Drew’s side, her eyes narrowing in recognition and dislike as she spotted Kirsty.
‘Darling!’ she trilled in a clear carrying voice, polished fingernails bright spots of crimson against the silky fabric of Drew’s shirt. ‘Isn’t that your little bedmate over there?’ She was looking directly at Kirsty and there was no way that she or anyone else could mistake the remark or the look that accompanied it.
Kristy coloured to the roots of her hair, paling just as suddenly, conscious of Helen’s small gasp, and her protective hand on her arm; of Drew’s sudden frown, his grey gaze impaling her where she stood.
Everybody in the room seemed to be looking at her. They had all heard Beverley Travers’ deliberately malicious remark. Kirsty had a cowardly impulse to turn and run—and then Drew stepped forward, smiling lazily at Helen. Kirsty couldn’t look at him, so the sudden shock of his fingers curling round her arm was even greater, his breath stirring the faint tendrils of hair on her forehead as she heard him saying lazily over her head, ‘Helen, will you forgive us if I take advantage of your party to make a rather special announcement?’
Helen was laughing, and as Drew hadn’t lowered his voice at all, but had spoken in a cool but quite discernible tone, people standing within earshot had forgotten their own conversations in favour of listening to his.
This was it, Kirsty thought fatalistically. Having recommended her to the Baileys, he was now going to announce that he had changed his mind and why. She wanted to turn and run, melt away—anything to escape the dénouement she knew was to come. As though he sensed her desire to escape Drew’s grip on her arm tightened, the touch of those hard, lean fingers causing curious sensations to radiate outwards, from the spot where the careless stroke of the ball of his thumb over her skin sent frissons of awareness along her nerve endings. The caress was automatic and oddly soothing, nevertheless she was tense, anticipating with every second hearing his dry criticisms of her ability.
‘Well, darling?’ The words were anything but dry; and so huskily sensual that at first Kirsty didn’t realise he was addressing them to her; and in fact would have gone on oblivious to the fact that he was addressing her if Helen hadn’t smiled conspiratorially at them and murmured, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
To what? Kirsty wondered dumbfounded, unable to think beyond the unreality of having Drew look at her with a tenderness that brought a strange lump to her throat, her mouth painfully dry as he turned her unresisting body to face him, his lips against her temple as he murmured quite audibly, ‘Shall I tell them, then?’
The smile he gave her as he kissed her lightly and then held her slightly away bemused her with its teasing warmth.
‘Tell them what?’ she was about to demand croakily, when Beverley Travers, obviously as much in the dark as Kirsty was herself, pushed past her friends to confront Drew, anger flashing in her eyes as she insisted, ‘I want to know what’s going on! First I discover this… this… person in your suite, and now.…’
‘Then I’ll tell you.’ Drew spoke quite calmly, but the look in his eyes would have frozen molten lava at a thousand feet and Kirsty was glad that she was not on the receiving end of it. ‘Kirsty and I are engaged.’
Kirsty didn’t know which of them was the more stunned. She rather thought it was her. Beverley Travers’ shock, although painfully evident, was quickly masked, a sneer quickly curling her mouth as she said cuttingly, ‘Clever little girl, but it won’t last.’ And then she was gone, turning on her heel and stalking through the crowd of people pressing in on them offering congratulations, masking their evident curiosity, chattering blithely about wedding dates and dark horses.
Kirsty stood it as long as she could and then suddenly could bear it no more. She longed for peace and quiet; to escape somewhere where she could come to terms with Drew’s shock announcement. Why had he done it? To punish Beverley Travers for walking out on him that night in his suite? Surely that must be the answer. In another man she might have thought his action born of some quixotic and chivalrous desire to protect her good name—after all, as both of them knew, Beverley Travers’ implication had had no true base, but then Beverley hadn’t known that. Nor did she know how close it had come to being true. Kirsty’s face flamed as she remembered that Drew had been the one to draw back, the one to call a halt.
‘Drew, Kirsty looks positively faint!’
Helen’s concerned tones cut through the fog of bewilderment enshrouding her, and the next thing she knew Drew was marshalling her towards some chairs, his murmured, ‘Now don’t you dare run away!’ holding enough of a threat to send her nervous system into a frantic overdrive.
Not that she was given any opportunity to flee, much as she would have liked to. No sooner had Drew left her to go and get her a drink than she was surrounded by avid questioners. When had she and Drew met? How long had they known one another? etc., etc. Cherry had just reached her when she saw Drew returning with a tall, frosted glass.
‘Well, well, you kept that a dark secret,’ Cherry commented. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll need Mrs Cummings’ bedsit now.’ When Kirsty looked uncomprehendingly at her, she added kindly, ‘Drew won’t want you living alone when you could share his house. He bought it when he originally invested in the theatre, and although he can’t spend as much time up here as Simon and Helen would like he keeps on the house for those occasions when he can.
Drew had invested in the theatre! Kirsty’s mouth fell open, and then suddenly the full meaning of Cherry’s comment became plain and colour surged into her too pale face. Fortunately, before Cherry could comment, Drew had reached them and was placing her glass on a small table he had commandeered.
‘What have you been saying to Kirsty to make her go that colour?’ he demanded of Cherry in a friendly manner, one arm draped casually round Kirsty’s shoulders, as he drew her down towards his shoulder.
Really, the man had missed his true calling, Kirsty thought bitterly. He was a consummate actor, currently engaged on giving his all to the role of newly engaged male, but why? Had she been right? Was it because of Beverley Travers?
‘I was just saying she wouldn’t need Mrs Cummings’ bedsit now that the pair of you had announced your engagement. She’ll be living with you.’