THE BEAUMONT BRIDES

The Beaumonts on the NOOK

2011-09-16T23:20:00.000-07:00

I've noticed, at Barnes and Noble, that several people have commented in WILD JUSTICE reviews that they'd love to download WILD LADY and WILD FIRE but couldn't find them.

The good news is that WILD LADY is now live for the Nook and WILD FIRE should be there very soon.

2011-09-14T23:13:00.001-07:00

NEW VOICES went live today - you can register here and upload your entry. Or read what the early birds have posted and leave comments, too. And here's the lovely Flo Nicholl introducing four of the NV mentors.

It's been agony keeping the secret that I'll be working with one of the twenty writers who get through the first round, but the list went up today. I'm so thrilled and excited!

2011-09-11T09:22:00.000-07:00

THE COVER

What is it about a cover that draws the eye, tempts the reader?

For most of my writing life I've had no control over titles or cover art and I usually see it at the same time as the first readers, those who are members of Mills and Boon or Harlequin Reader Service bookclubs.

Sometimes it's a delight, sometimes I never want to see it again but hearing other authors complaining about their covers I know this is about the author's own perception of the book. The way they see the characters in their head. The reader isn't hampered by this and usually the artwork does the job, which is to sell the book.

Recently, however, I republished three books - where the rights had reverted to me - as eBooks and, for the first time in my life, I had the heady experience of choosing my own cover.

And guess what? Maybe I can do a better job than the guys who have to put covers on more than a hundred book a month (can you imagine how difficult it must be to come up with something different every time?) because this cover has attracted more attention, raised more comments, and a lot more of the phwoar factor than the other sixty covers put together.

And if you want to take him home and keep him, he's free right now on Kindle UK, Nook, and Smashwords

eBooks

2011-05-14T00:02:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy, buzzy time here with the release of the eBook editions of The Beaumont Brides trilogy and the launch of my new Riva, Tempted By Trouble.

There's a special kind of pleasure in being completely in control over cover, pricing, blurbs - if you cringe you only have yourself to blame! - and watching the numbers tick over each day as sales rise.

Lots of discussions on the web about the process at the moment. There's a particularly interesting article on the up side of the business in The Washington Post and when the WP is taking this seriously, you know that there's been a change in the wind.

That said, I wouldn't put a book that hadn't been professionally edited into the public sphere. Heck, I even asked my Harlequin editor to look at my short story for Loves Me, Loves Me Not before I handed it in.

One of the great things about eBooks, I've found - as a reader - is that I can download a sample first and if I can't wait to read on, then all I have to do is click on buy. If I don't I haven't lost anything except a few minutes of my time. I do urge you all to do this with writers you don't know.

I'm still reading lots of paper, too - love my local library - but, faced with the task of winnowing a lifetime collection of books x 2 (the dh is a great book buyer) when we do eventually sell the house and move, I'm grateful that this latest batch can be slipped into my handbag.

2011-04-19T03:59:00.000-07:00

I've finally got The Beaumont Brides loaded onto Smashwords and to celebrate I'm giving my fans a chance to download WILD JUSTICE for free using the following code - WX82P - which you simply apply at the checkout.

It's only available for a short time, so grab it while it's going!

IT'S LIVE!

2011-03-31T05:23:00.000-07:00

I'm absolutely thrilled to announce that the first of my Beaumont Brides trilogy, WILD JUSTICE, is now live on Kindle.

It's taken me a while to re-edit, find artwork for a cover (final version thanks to Mr Fielding) and get to grips with formatting the book for Kindle. After a couple of false starts with that one, it's finally uploaded with all the words and spaces in the right place. (Easier said than done!)

These are much longer than my series romances - 400 pages in print - with more characters and sub-plots as you'd expect, and perhaps a little more intense.

In the first of the trilogy, Fizz Beaumont is confronted by sponsorship problems for her radio station. Having just invested heavily in a scheme to ensure the future of the station, the news that her main sponsor has been taken over is a serious blow. She has a bank loan to service, staff to pay and it's vital that she persuade the new owner of Harries Industries to maintain his company's support. her first encounter with Luke Devlin is not a roaring success.

You can download the first chapter to your Kindle from Amazon - a try before you buy deal and, in the meantime, I'm working on getting WILD LADY and WILD FIRE up and running.

2011-03-15T01:11:00.000-07:00

THE BEAUMONT BRIDES

is a trilogy of romance novels written by
award winning romance author

Liz Fielding

Wild Justice, Wild Lady and Wild Fire

This trilogy is about to be released as eBooks, initially for Kindle, but hopefully to other platforms in the near future. Here, as a taste, are the first chapters of each of the books.

"Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more man's nature runs to, the more ought the law to weed it out."

Francis Bacon

Betrayed by a lover, her career in ruins, Fizz Beaumont devotes all her energy to restoring Broomhill Bay pier, using the old theatre as the home for the radio station that is her life.

The arrival of tycoon Luke Devlin, who has taken over her major sponsor, threatens not just her radio station but -- as he offers her a lesson in passion which promises to set the skies ablaze -- everything she holds dear.

CHAPTER ONE

'LUKE Devlin?'

Fizz Beaumont pushed a distracted hand through the heavy mop of chestnut hair that fell across her face, obstinately refusing to be confined by a pair of delicate antique tortoiseshell combs that had once belonged to her mother. Irritated by their uselessness she abandoned them on her desk and scooped her unruly hair into an elastic band with one practised movement before her father's continued silence alerted her to the fact that this was more than a social call to discuss a letter he had received that morning. She looked up. Edward Beaumont, tall, handsome, elegantly tailored heartthrob to the blue rinse brigade looked unusually awkward and her eyes finally dropped to the letter he was holding in his hand.

'Who is Luke Devlin?' she asked. Then, 'What does he want?'

'I think, my dear, that he's already got what he wants,' her father replied, heavily. 'He's taken over Harries Industries.'

'Harries? You're joking,' she began, then realised with a chill feeling in her stomach that had nothing whatever to do with the February wind finding its way through every corner of the old sash cord window, that he wasn't joking. Her father was in deadly earnest. 'But how could he take over? Harries isn't for sale. Where's Michael? Surely he isn't just letting this happen?' The questions tumbled out, her father clearly had no answers. 'I've never even heard of the man,' she finished, as if that would put an end to such nonsense.

Edward Beaumont pulled a face, sympathising with his daughter's bewildered reaction. 'It seems that not many people have, at least not until it's too late. He keeps a very low profile.'

'Low is about right,' Fizz responded, with warmth. 'Positively belly to the ground. There's hasn't been so much as a whisper -'

'He moved very quickly according to Michael. Apparently it's something he does particularly well. But since he now owns this radio station's major sponsor, I suggest you keep any opinions about his business methods strictly to yourself.'

Still confused at the suddenness of this turn of events Fizz clutched at straws. 'Are you absolutely certain? It's not just some misunderstanding ...?

'I'm afraid there's no doubt about it, Fizz. Michael phoned me late last night. And the news room have just received a press release.' He threw the sheet of paper embossed with the impressive letterhead of Broomhill Bay's largest manufacturer onto the cluttered desk that separated them, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his superbly tailored jacket and stared at the ceiling as if washing his hands of the whole affair. 'I thought it would have taken the new man a few days to get around to worrying about details like us. But this was delivered by messenger a few minutes ago.'

A small chill ran through her veins as she reluctantly reached out to pick it up. It was brief and brutally to the point. In the current economic climate the new management of Harries Industries was forced to "rationalize" its generous sponsorship of sport and the arts in the town. And since the support for Pavilion Radio was an informal arrangement between Michael Harries and Edward Beaumont, the company would be making immediate changes.

Fizz Beaumont's wide forehead creased in a puzzled frown. 'What does this mean?' she asked. 'Informal arrangement? Harries have been sponsoring us since we first went on air. Michael was as enthusiastic about it as you were ...' It was on the strength of Michael Harries' financial support that she had borrowed so heavily in order to go ahead with her plans for the new restaurant this year.

Her father continued to avoid her eyes but his eloquent shrug spoke volumes. 'It was a gentleman's agreement, Fizz. Michael and I have been friends ever since school and a handshake seemed -'

'Some gentleman!' she exploded. 'Some friend if he's sold us out without warning -'

'It isn't his fault,' her father declared indignantly. 'He didn't have any choice.' His actor's voice vibrated against the walls of her small office, but she had lived with his role playing for far too long to be intimidated.

'Then who's fault is it? You were the one who assured me that I had no need to concern myself with the details -'

'I know.' He cleared his throat. 'And I'm sorry, Fizz, but I just never foresaw this situation. Apparently Michael's been selling off his shares for months in an attempt to keep the company afloat until things got better. They didn't ...' He raked his fingers through the thick mane of hair, beautifully distinguished by silvery wings at his temples and paused momentarily to gather himself. Her father had played so many parts in his long career on the stage that he simply wore the one that was most appropriate to the occasion. Recognising the prelude to his "betrayed Lear", Fizz hurriedly intervened.

'And this,' - she glanced at the letter again - 'this Luke Devlin has been buying them?' She felt a surge of anger that someone could have so insidiously been able to gain control of Harries Industries without a fight, without having to stand up and declare himself.

'Michael was so relieved to sell the shares at a decent price he didn't give a thought to the possible consequences.'

'Oh, lord,' she murmured, suddenly stricken with guilt that in her concern for the station she hadn't given her father's oldest friend a thought. Her life was being made more difficult, but Michael had lost a company that had been founded by his family generations ago and which had been the prop and mainstay of manufacturing employment in the town ever since. And what about the men and woman who worked in the plant? Would they still have jobs to go to this morning? Tomorrow morning? 'I'm sorry, Dad. I know that Michael's been a good friend to us. This isn't his fault. Everyone's been hard hit in the last couple of years.'

And it was true. The painful fact she had to face was that the fault was entirely her own. If she hadn't let her enthusiasm run away with her wits she would have made certain the generous sponsorship her father had negotiated was watertight. But he had made it clear that this was something she didn't need to bother her head over and she had been sensitive about intruding on an agreement between two old friends. 'Do you think this man realises the implications for us if he withdraws support?'

'I don't suppose he cares. Why should he? He's an outsider, a stranger.' Her father seemed momentarily to lose his poise and for once, look his age. 'Michael asked me to tell you that he was truly sorry. Apparently when the takeover move came, it all happened so quickly that there was no time to warn you.'

'I didn't realise that the company was in difficulties. Did you know? If only he had given us an idea of the trouble he was in.' She stopped. There was no point in saying what she would have done had she known. She had to deal with the situation now.

Without the new bank loan they could have managed. They would still manage. What she had to do now was persuade this Luke Devlin that Broomhill Bay would be a poorer place without its radio station. And have a convincing answer when he asked, as she knew he would, why he should be expected to support it. She had to be positive. It might all just be a storm in a teacup. A standard letter to all Michael's good causes and there were plenty of them ... Over the years the town had come to rely heavily on the Harries family. The Beaumonts too were always there to help raise funds, but the big money had always come from the Harries, both the family and the company. Not any more. Mr Devlin was clearing the decks and he certainly hadn't wasted any time.

She gestured towards the letter. 'I suppose we shouldn't judge the man before we hear what he has to offer,' she said.

Edward Beaumont shrugged imperceptibly. 'Maybe this is all just a formality,' he said, giving voice to her own thoughts. 'I'm sure he'll cut back, but I can't imagine that he'll withdraw his support entirely.'

Fizz re-read the letter carefully but there was no comfort to be found in the stark words. Michael's cheque had been due within days. Without it the station's own soap opera as well as live coverage of local sports events for the following twelve months would be at risk. And without those programmes the franchise was at risk as well. But the new chairman of Harries Industries made it quite plain in his letter that he expected changes to take place without delay. Changes. Why didn't he just say what he meant instead of playing with words?

'Surely he just can't back out of a commitment at this late stage,' she was driven to protest, 'even an informal one?'

'I imagine that even if it had been a legal commitment he would have been within his rights to change things.' Of that she had no doubt. But she would have been a lot happier nevertheless. If only he had told her the truth. A gentlemen's agreement, indeed! She could hardly believe it. Two dear old-fashioned gentlemen, friends doing business together on a handshake; it was bound to lead to disaster, Fizz fumed helplessly.

And the radio franchise was up for renewal within months. If they failed to meet their programming agreement it was possible that they would lose it. Worse, since the relaxation of ownership rules, they were wide open to a takeover bid themselves. She knew of one consortium that had already bought up several nearby stations and was turning out anonymous pop music so that without the station “idents” it was almost impossible to tell who you were listening to. The whole concept of independent broadcasting by local people for local people was beginning to look very shaky. She had been so determined to make her station different, special. With the help of her family and the generous support of Michael Harries she had succeeded. And now, just when she had expanded her business base in order to make the station self-supporting, to avoid having to rely so heavily on sponsorship, she was suddenly in danger of losing it all.

'What will happen to Michael?' she asked, in an effort to keep her own troubles in perspective. 'Will he be all right?'

'He was putting a brave enough face on it, going on about how glad Alice is that he's retiring early, how great it will be to spend the winter at his place in the Algarve and play golf all day. But you know how he felt about the plant. He loved it. Every brick of it and everyone who worked there.'

And now it was owned by some anonymous financier who wouldn't care tuppence about the generations of lives invested in it, wouldn't care about anything except a snappy return on his investment. She dropped the letter on her desk and walked across to the window, rubbing at the cold glass misted with their breath. The view of the bay curving away into the distance, the town nestling beneath the hills rising away into the distance, the sea in all its moods rarely failed to inspire her, even on glowering winter days when the waves battered remorselessly against the pier. But today the sea and sky were uniformly grey, the hills blotted out by cloud, the town misted by a heavy drizzle. February at its most dreary. 'What do you think he means by changes?' she asked, finally, turning back to face her muddled little office. It always looked so much worse on the rare occasions when her father deigned to climb the stairs from his own, far more opulent office on the mezzanine floor. Her father, her sister, her dead mother, all had that same star quality that eclipsed everyone and everything they stood near, making the rest of the world look just plain shabby.

'I don't know. Maybe this Devlin fellow just wants to put things on a regular footing,' he suggested, hopefully.

'And if he doesn't? If he just wants to be rid of us? Can we fight it?' She had to face the possibility. Far more than a possibility. Then as her father's shoulders slumped uncharacteristically she was sorry she had asked. He obviously felt bad enough without her rubbing salt in the wounds.

'How much can the station stand, Fizz?'

She gave a little shrug. 'The sports coverage and Holiday Bay are the major items of expenditure. Given time I might be able to put together a package, but there isn't another local company who could take on the sole sponsorship of one of those, let alone both. Not right now. Not at such short notice.'

'But you can't drop them, Fizz,' he warned. 'It was part of the franchise agreement. Live drama and live sport. It gave us the edge over the competition and the Radio Authority could fine you, or decide against renewal this summer if you drop them.'

'It might not take that long. We still have staff contracts, salaries to pay.' And the loss of advertising revenue. Even if they could drop the programmes, it wasn't a solution.

'Is there money left from the bank loan?'

'Not to spare. There are enough bills from building contractors to paper my office walls ...'

'Just as well it's so small, then,' her father said, in an effort to make a light of the situation.

She conceded a smile. 'Yes, I suppose so.' Very small and very shabby. She wasn't a star and didn't need a glamorous setting in which to shine. 'But it's the bank loan that will be the main problem. If only I hadn't gone ahead with the restaurant. Waited another year ...' She let it go. Her father had no interest in the financial side of the station. He lent it his name and his stature to Pavilion Radio, the rest was up to her.

'You just need a good season, Fizz,' her father said, trying to be kind. He continued to run on optimistically, but she wasn't listening, she was too busy trying to think. In a worst-case scenario, assuming Harries' sponsorship was totally withdrawn it would take a lot more than optimism. It would need a great deal of patience and understanding from the young merchant banker who had been so flatteringly eager to provide the loan for the new restaurant in the restored Pavilion. Flattering eager to take the relationship rather further than banking, if she had given him any encouragement. Her sigh was imperceptible.

It had seemed such a brilliant idea, how could it possibly fail? They already had an informal chat and music show live from the foyer of the Winter Garden every morning in the summer season and on Saturdays in the winter. It seemed so simple to capitalise on an audience already in a happy mood, to offer good food with the best view in Broomhill Bay and a gift shop full of locally made souvenirs, including their own Pavilion Radio merchandise to spread the word. It would make money, she knew it would, but it would take time. She had worked so hard and it had all been going so well. If they could hold on until Easter came, bringing the first visitors ... She turned to stare once more at the letter on her desk, then picked it up. 'Devlin has asked you to phone him. Have you done that?'

'Not yet. I thought you should do it.'

'Me? Don't be silly, he'll gobble me up and spit me out. I'll come with you of course, but it's probably better that he thinks he's dealing with you.' After all, everyone else thought she was station manager in name only, that she had been given the job by her father because he felt sorry for her. Because she didn't have the talent of her glamorous big sister. Because she was the only Beaumont who couldn't act. She preferred it that way. And her father's sheer physical presence was usually sufficient to mesmerise people into doing what he wanted. Her father's expression suggested he had other plans. 'At least until we can work out what his mood is,' she wheedled.

'Fizz, darling, I'm up to my eyes with the joint schools' production of Much Ado just as the moment. And my new television series is facing a bit of a crisis.'

'What kind of crisis.'

'Financial. What other kind is there? A couple of the backers have pulled out. I've got to find someone else or put up the money myself.' In other words don't ask me to help with the cash flow? 'And Claudia telephoned last night in a bit of a state over the film with Sean Deveraux, so I've really got to go up to town today -'

'Dad, please!'

'Look, darling, I know absolutely nothing about running the station and a man like Devlin will see through me in a second. I really think it would be better if you went up there and put all your cards on the table. Michael trusted your judgement, why shouldn't he?'

Michael had just lost the company his family had built from nothing. It wasn't much of a reference. Her father had picked a hell of a time to step back and leave her to prove she could handle it.

Hidden away in her office she managed the station, made decisions, produced the ideas that kept the advertisers happy. Only two or three people knew the truth, that Pavilion Radio had been her idea. It was her baby and like all babies it was hard work, but she loved it. The hardest work of all had been to convince a bunch of hard nosed bankers that they should lend her the money to develop the restaurant. With her father at her side the give the bankers confidence she had pulled it off. But she had known exactly what was required that day. Facing the unknown on her own was something else ...

'He probably just wants is to be buttered up by the famous Edward Beaumont. That might be all it would take,' she said quickly, well aware that her father had a weakness for flattery. 'Even the most hard-boiled businessmen have their weak spots.'

'If he had been a hard-boiled businesswoman,' he joked, 'I might be of some use to you. As it is I'm just an old ham actor. If you hadn't coached me I would never have convinced those bankers that I knew what that restaurant deal was all about.'

'I can coach you again,' she pleaded, feeling the tide of panic rising to her throat. She didn't want to step out into the spotlight. He couldn't expect it. She still needed time.

'You're the brains behind this outfit, Fizz. You don't need me you know. You can do it if you let yourself.' He reached out, lightly touched her cheek. 'And your face is so much prettier than mine I'm sure you'd be far more effective at buttering him up than I could ever be.' He glanced at his watch. 'Of course if you need me I'll try and help, but I must go now.' Then pausing in the doorway he turned to her. 'You know this is your station, Fizz. You made it what it is. It's up to you to fight for it.'

She stared at the door he had so carefully closed behind him. Had there been an almost audible snip as he had cut the umbilical cord? He had been pushing her for months, insisting that when the licence came up for renewal she must publicly take on the role of chief executive of Pavilion Radio. She had resisted, preferring to hide beneath her father's famous name, let him step forward to take the applause and the praise and the awards that occasionally came their way. Now he was using this crisis to drive her out into the open, making her fight for her station, because no one else was going to do it for her. It was her baby that was being threatened and knights in shining armour being thin on the ground these days, a girl had to fight her own battles.

Slowly she sank into her chair and reached for the telephone and gripping the receiver until her knuckles whitened, she dialled the number at the top of the letterhead.

'Good morning, Harries Industries. How can I help you?'

'Good morning. This is Felicity Beaumont calling from Pavilion Radio,' she said, investing her voice with a confidence she was far from feeling. 'I would like to speak to Mr Luke Devlin.'

* * *

If it had been Luke Devlin's intention to make life as difficult as possible for Felicity Beaumont, he could not have chosen a better time to drop his bombshell.

'Miss Beaumont?'

Fizz immediately recognised the smooth tones of the local bank manager. 'Mr Nicholson, what can I do for you?'

'Deposit the sponsorship cheque from Harries Industries?' he suggested, without bothering with the niceties of polite conversation. She had been expecting the call. The takeover had been reported on their own news programmes in great detail, as well as in all the local newspapers. Speculation about redundancies and cuts was rife and the town had a jittery air which had inevitably infected the radio station. Several times in the last week staff had abruptly stopped talking when she entered a room. 'There is going to be a sponsorship cheque isn't there?' Nicholson continued. 'It's ten days until the end of the month and I don't have to remind you that the salaries will take you a long way over your overdraft limit.'

'I am aware of that Mr Nicholson and I have a meeting scheduled with Mr Devlin later this week to confirm the details of Harries sponsorship with the new management.' More truthfully, she was still waiting to speak to the wretched man and if her fingers had been crossed any more tightly they would have broken. 'I don't anticipate any difficulties.'

She winced as she replaced the receiver. She hated lying, but she needed time. Despite her determination to see Luke Devlin at the first possible moment, his secretary had been evasive about an appointment, merely assuring Fizz that he would be told of her call. She could do nothing, but wait and gather her ammunition. Checking and double checking the portfolio that had convinced the financiers to loan the money for the restaurant and gift shop, and the photographs of what was now an expensive reality. There were pages of careful costings and conservative estimates of return on investment. And she had a sheaf of photographs and news cuttings showing sponsorship banners at sporting events and listening figures for Holiday Bay.

And she hadn't wasted her time while she waited. She had been looking for alternative sources of sponsorship from likely companies. But the reaction was the same from everyone. With the future of Harries Industries in question, no one could afford to be relaxed. As the largest employer in the area any cutbacks would hurt local businesses. And the invoices for the January Sales ads wouldn't be sent out by the advertising agencies until the end of the month. Not that anyone would be in a hurry to pay them.

She glared at the phone. 'Ring,' she instructed it. 'Go on, damn you, ring!' It immediately responded with a low burble and for one disbelieving second she stared at it. Then as it rang again she snatched it up. It was her father.

'I was just checking to see if you had managed to speak to Mr Devlin yet.' He was a good actor, but even so she could detect the note of anxiety on her behalf that had crept into his voice.

'Not yet,' she said, rather more brightly than she actually felt. 'I suppose we must come pretty low on his list of priorities right now. I'll let you know as soon as anything happens.'

'Well, it's in your hands, Fizz.' Yes, she thought, putting down the receiver. That had been made more than clear to her. But she wasn't complaining. Her father had already done enough, helped her to pull back from the abyss ... The telephone rang again.

'Fizz Beaumont,' she said, matter-of-factly.

'Good morning, Miss Beaumont. Luke Devlin returning your call.' His voice was cool, distant and not particularly encouraging. He must know why she was calling but he waited, leaving her to do all the work.

She forced her face into a smile, knowing that it would come through in her voice. 'Thank you, Mr Devlin, that's most kind of you when I know you must be very busy. I received your letter -'

'Did you?' he interrupted, smoothly. 'That's odd, I don't recall having written to anyone called Fizz Beaumont. It seems unlikely that I would forget such an unusual name.'

Fizz could have kicked herself. Instead she forced laughter into her voice, congratulating his wit. 'I meant of course the letter you sent to my father. Since I am the station manager and deal with all financial matters, he naturally passed it straight on to me.'

'I see.' The words conveyed a world of meaning. That her father had been less than polite in passing on his letter to a subordinate. That he wasn't used to dealing with chits of girls when it came to business. Something more that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She dropped the laughter. It clearly hadn't impressed him one bit. 'My father is deeply involved with the city's youth theatre at the moment, as well as other projects that have first call on his time. And he prefers to leave all financial matters to me.'

'Even when it concerns the fate of his radio station? Dare I suggest that excessive sponsorship has made him just a little flabby in his attitude?' Again that dismissive edge to his voice. Fizz felt the slow burn of anger darken her cheeks.

'The fate of Pavilion Radio concerns him very deeply, Mr Devlin. He could come along and give you a convincing portrayal of a high-powered business tycoon if you feel that is your due. But that's all it would be. A performance. He did you the courtesy of assuming you would want to deal with someone who actually knows what they are talking about.'

'And you do?' Once again she caught the undercurrent in his voice. Dislike? She drew the fine arched wings of her brows together in a puzzled frown, but he gave her no time to dwell on the possibility, or wonder at it. 'Well, since you have been nominated as spokesperson, Miss Beaumont, I suppose you will have to do. Please be at my office at twelve o'clock.'

'On which day?' she asked, excessively polite.

'This day, Miss Beaumont. If I had meant any other I would have said so.' And with that, he hung up.

Fizz was shaking when she put down the telephone. So much for putting her cards on the table and dealing with the man in an honest and straightforward manner. He had wanted to speak to her father and considered her second best. She opened her mouth to tell the four walls of her office exactly what she thought of Mr Luke Devlin. Instead she replaced the receiver. She had no time for such nonsense. It was nearly eleven and the ring road would be packed with traffic as this time of day. And she had to change.

She had dressed for the ice-house temperature of her office in the roof of the old winter garden where the heating never seemed to penetrate with any real enthusiasm. Thick corduroy trousers, flannel shirt, an Aran sweater with frayed cuffs that she had bought for fifty pence at a jumble sale. Hidden away in her office at the end of the pier her Eskimo garb went unnoticed by anyone but the station staff who were used to it, but it would hardly impress Mr Luke Devlin with her business acumen. She came from a family of actors and was well aware of the importance of putting on a show, wearing the right costume for the part.

The pin striped business suit that she had borrowed from her sister to wear during her negotiations for the loan with the bank was hanging behind her office door in readiness for Luke Devlin's summons. It had given her confidence to get through the ordeal of presenting her plans to a group of dubious bankers, hopefully it would carry her with equal success through the coming interview. Determinedly ignoring the cold she stripped off her outer garments and stood in her navy stockings and silk teddy, peering in the old cracked mirror fastened alongside the door while she refreshed her makeup and tidied her hair. Then she stepped into the skirt, fastened the jacket about her, slipped into her high heeled shoes and turned to check her rear view.

Regarding her reflection in the long mirror fastened to the wall, Fizz was regretfully aware that the suit didn't have quite the same sharp elegance on her as it had on her sister. But then, she thought, pulling a somewhat rueful face at herself, what did? It wasn't that she was short. Five feet, seven inches was a respectable enough height. But Claudia had obeyed nanny's injunctions to eat her crusts to be sure that her hair would curl, her cabbage for a perfect complexion and she had drunk up her milk to grow straight and tall so that one day she would be a beautiful and famous actress like their mother.

Two years younger, Fizz clearly hadn't tried anywhere near as hard. Not that there was anything wrong with her appearance. Her complexion was fine, apart from a few faint freckles that never disappeared even in the dead of winter and although she'd somehow missed out on the curls, she was perfectly happy with the thick, chestnut hair that she had twisted into a neat, businesslike chignon. But although she would never have worn the skirt as short as Claudia did, Fizz was human enough to envy her sister those extra three inches.

Just before twelve, she parked in front of the impressive head office of Harries Industries, running through, in her head, the convincing little speech that she had been preparing since she had received that bombshell of a letter. It was reasonable, thoughtful, understanding. She would invite Mr Devlin to come and visit the station, see for himself the impressive scheduling, the ties with community projects, the fact that their local sports coverage had won an award that had reflected handsomely on Harries Industries. If he would just give her the chance to say it, she thought, uneasily aware of a distinct feeling that Mr Devlin might not be in the mood to listen to her well rehearsed arguments. She took a deep breath and headed for the main entrance.

There was a glossy new receptionist in the entrance hall. It hadn't taken long for the new brooms to get to work. 'Can I help you?' the girl enquired, with a professional smile.

Fizz smiled back equally professionally. She had convinced herself she was playing a part and she was glad of a dummy run. 'Felicity Beaumont, Mr Devlin's expecting me.' She signed the visitors book and while she clipped on a little label that identified herself a such she smiled at the new girl and asked, 'What happened to Edith?'

'Edith?'

'She was the receptionist here for ten years.'

'Oh?' The girl wasn't interested. 'Maybe she took early retirement.'

A secretary looked up from her desk as she entered the chairman's suite of offices. Another new face, older this time. Michael's secretary had probably taken the same fast track to retirement as Edith. 'Felicity Beaumont,' she said, announcing herself once again. 'I have an appointment -'

'Oh yes, Miss Beaumont. Please take a seat.' The telephone rang and the woman answered it, listening briefly, then without further acknowledgement of Fizz, she gathered her notebook and swept out of the suite.

Fizz waited. Ten minutes passed while her nerves frayed, began to unravel, disintegrate. She began to silently rehearse her presentation to keep her mind occupied. Fifteen. When her watch informed her that it twenty minutes after twelve o'clock, she knew that it was deliberate. The man was nothing but a petty little tyrant, she decided, taking pleasure in demonstrating his power. His manner on the telephone had already betrayed his negative attitude towards her and her father. It was almost as if he felt some personal animosity towards them. But that was patently ridiculous. He was obviously just a thoroughly unpleasant man.

Fizz got up and began to walk around the office, taking deep calming breaths, concentrating on the paintings that decorated the wall, refusing to let the man wind her up with such an obvious tactic. But it took a serious effort of will to uncurl her fingers from the tight little fists that she had unconsciously made of her hands. She was staring at a painting of the pier, constructed in 1835 by the first Michael Harries for the shipment of their goods to the continent, when the door behind her opened.

She turned quickly to face the man who held all their destinies in the palm of his hand but there was nothing in his appearance to reassure her. His thin, humourless face had the pallor of a man who spent his time hunched over columns of figures under artificial light. He looked as if he had a calculator for a brain and probably hadn't listened to a radio since the transistor had been invented. But it was her job to convince him of the importance of his support.

Fizz advanced swiftly over the thick carpet before she quite lost her nerve and extended her hand. 'Felicity Beaumont,' she said, introducing herself confidently with her warmest smile.

'Yes?' He clutched a pile of folders in both his hands and made no move to respond to her gesture.

And he managed in that one dismissive word to make her feel both foolish and angry all at once. Letting her hand fall to her side, she continued to smile even though she thought her face would crack with the effort. 'You said to be here at twelve,' she reminded him. 'I realise you must be very busy.' She resisted the temptation to check her watch, to remind him that it was now nearly half past the hour. That would not be a good start.

But he wasn't listening. 'Where is Mrs Meynell?' he asked, irritated.

'Your secretary?' Fizz asked, trying hard to remain cool in the face of such rudeness. 'She went out a few minutes ago.' He began to retreat into the office. 'Mr Devlin,' she said, quickly, before he could disappear again.

'Yes, what is it?' She hadn't known quite what to expect from this man who gobbled up companies for breakfast, but she had thought someone, well, larger in body and spirit. Maybe she was just hoping for that.

'I'm sorry my father can't be here to talk to you in person, but I did explain the reason. And you did ask me come and see you. She indicated the portfolio lying on the chair beside her. 'Please let me show you what we are doing at Pavilion Radio before you make up your mind to stop sponsoring the -'

'Miss Beaumont, I'm afraid that you are labouring under some misapprehension. I cannot help you.' And he turned away, heading back towards his office.

That was it? No chance to put her case, just a few words exchanged in a secretary's office? Oh, no. Not good enough. Not nearly good enough. 'Won't you at least listen to me?'

The man stopped with a sigh, clearly out of patience with her as he regarded her slightly flushed cheeks, the way her breast rose and fell a little too rapidly beneath the smooth navy cloth of her suit. 'I suggest you save your appeals for those foolish enough to listen, Miss Beaumont. I really haven't the time to waste on such nonsense.' With that he retreated into the office and for a single shocked moment Fizz remained where she was.

It was a long time since she had come so perilously close to losing her temper. Really losing it and demonstrating the aptness of her pet name that had started as her sister's lisping attempt at Felicity, and stuck because of her habit of going off like a rocket when her emotions were inflamed. It was a long time since she had lost her temper. The bubble of outrage that now rose to her throat warned her that she was still quite capable of exploding.

What on earth did the man think he was playing at? He had invited her to his office, kept her waiting interminably and then dismissed her without even the pretence of listening, the courtesy of a hearing. And he had the nerve to criticise her family's manners!

She didn't stop to consider the wisdom of her actions. She had nothing to lose and she certainly wasn't leaving without giving this man the benefit of his character. Snatching up her portfolio, she followed him through the pair of tall, ornately carved doors that guarded his sanctum and closed them behind her with a sharp click. Half way across the vast room he turned, clearly startled by her presumption, but she gave him no time to protest before she launched her attack.

'I realise that a gentleman's agreement means very little these days, Mr Devlin. But you asked me to come here and the very least you can do is listen to what I have to say,' Fizz launched herself into an ardent plea, her large indigo eyes sparkling as she warmed to her theme. 'Pavilion Radio has given this town real local radio. News, documentary reports, sport, natural history programmes about the local ecology, good investigative reporting. It's given the people a voice and no other independent station has a wider range of programmes. No other station of it's size has its own local soap opera, or children's programmes -' 'I have no children,' he replied, indignantly. 'And if you're so successful I don't see why you need sponsorship at all. If you can't pay your own way ...' He made a dismissive gesture, clearly considering the matter beneath his lofty attention.

Fizz snapped. She had spent three miserable days pouring over her figures trying to cut everything to the bone. But the truth of the matter was that there was only bone left.

'You might be a brilliant businessman, Mr Devlin,' she said, 'very plump in the pocket. But I have to tell you that you're very thin in the heart.' The man's eyes did not even flicker, but in any case she was beyond stopping. 'Well, I hope you're happy counting your money. That it will keep you company when the Scrooge mentality has won, local radio is reduced to endless pop music and the pier has crumbled into the sea. Because it will be your fault. And I'll make sure everyone in this town knows it.' For a moment after she had finished speaking there was utter silence. Then a slow hand clap from the door made her spin around and for a fraction of a second, it seemed, her heart stopped.

Then it happened. Light the blue touch paper and stand back. Fizz. Woosh. Rockets. Catherine wheels. Roman candles. Her insides lit up like a firework display.

The man whose square shoulders appeared to fill the opening was somewhat taller than average, six foot two, or three maybe and although still some way short of his fortieth year, there was no doubting the air of authority that sat on his shoulders as easily as the smooth cloth of his elegantly cut grey tweed suit.

His hair, thick, straight, almost black, was brushed back from his face to expose a wide forehead, dark brows that jutted over a pair of slate grey eyes. His mouth, when it smiled, would be wide and the lines etched into his cheeks would deepen in a way that would warm the coldest heart.

But he wasn't smiling now. Although a certain sardonic glint in those eyes suggested that he might have gained just a little amusement from her indignant outburst.

'Don't call us and we promise we'll never call you,' he said, as he moved away from the door and walked towards her. Rooted to the spot, Fizz remained seemingly bereft of the power of speech while he walked slowly around her, apparently fascinated by the severity of her business suit. 'You've dressed for the part, I grant you,' he said. 'But it takes more than a costume to play a part. And someone should have warned you that there's no room for emotion in business. Tell me, Miss Beaumont, what production was that thrilling speech adapted from? Little Nell? Maria Marten and the Red Barn? It certainly had all the elements of melodrama.' He paused and finally looked straight down into her eyes. 'Or do I mean farce?'

© Liz Fielding 1996

2011-03-13T22:44:00.000-07:00

WILD LADY

Claudia's story...

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN Claudia Beaumont, late and pushing her new sports car hard in the narrow Berkshire lanes, finally spotted the entrance to the airfield, she experienced two distinct and warring emotions. Relief and dread. And dread was winning by a country mile.

But she knew that the letter was simply the product of a sick mind. Someone was trying to frighten her, make her look feeble and if she backed out now her anonymous correspondent would have succeeded. For heaven's sake, she expected to be frightened. Who wouldn't be? And who was she to deprive millions of television viewers of a vicarious thrill? She slowed and turned into the gate. There had damned well better be millions or she would want to know the reason why.
T
he security guard checked her car registration against a list he had on a clipboard, then directed her to the far side of the field where the OB unit was set up beside a large aircraft hangar. Even at a distance the scene gave the appearance of organised chaos. Excitable men, earnest young women milling about in an attempt to give an impression of their own enormous importance, heavy cables snaking through the grass, vehicles everywhere, the essential catering truck doing a roaring trade in coffee and bacon sandwiches.

And a small aircraft, a very small aircraft, was parked on the apron in front of the hangar waiting to take her several thousand feet into the air so that she could jump out of it for the amusement of the vast audience of Saturday night viewers.

'Do the show, darling,' her agent had coaxed. 'It's popular family entertainment, not in the least bit tacky, all the money the viewers pledge goes to a charity of your choice. And we'll get a big plug for the new television series.'

He'd forgotten to mention the fact that one of the guests would be landed with an amusing little forfeit. And with three envelopes to choose from she'd managed to find the parachute jump. It was quite possible, she realised with a belated flash of insight, that they all contained the same forfeit. It was highly probable that she'd kill her agent.

'You'd better put your foot down, miss,' the security guard advised. 'The weather looks as if it might be closing in and if you don't get off the ground soon, you'll have to come back another day. And that won't please Mr MacIntyre.'

It wasn't her eagerness to please Mr MacIntyre, whoever he was, or to get on with the jump that sent the little car leaping forward. If the film crew had a wasted day because she was late, Claudia knew she would be about as popular as an outbreak of rabies in a boarding kennels.

There were a number of cars parked in a neat line facing the hangar. Her car was lipstick bright against the greyness of the morning and aware that every head had turned at her approach she did a slick change down as she drove onto the grass, planning to slide neatly into the space between a gleaming black Landcruiser and the silver Porsche that she recognised as the pride and joy of the show's director.

There was only one problem. When she put her foot on the brake it went straight to the floor without resistance. For a split second she froze. It couldn't be happening. Her car was brand new. Two days old. But it was happening. And she was heading straight for Barty's Porsche.

She wrenched hard on the steering wheel, somehow expecting that it, too, would fail to respond. It didn't fail. It responded with fingertip precision. And after that everything seemed to happen at once. The jolting tango along the black bulk of the Landcruiser, the bruising jerk as her seat belt locked and bit into her shoulder, the airbag exploding into life. The final nightmarish sound of rending metal as she collided with the hangar.

Then everything went very quiet for a moment before the door beside her was wrenched open. If she had had the time to anticipate any reaction from the horrified onlookers, she would have expected sympathy, concern, even worry that she wouldn't be able to go ahead with the planned jump.

What she got, apparently, was a bear with a sore head. And he was growling at her. 'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' Definitely a growl. The kind produced by low, controlled anger. It seemed par for the day, Claudia thought, that the gap between expectation and reality should be so vast.

She turned, unhurt, but somewhat dazed by the rapidity with which events had overtaken her and was confronted by a pair of large boots, combat trousers that seemed to ascend into the stratosphere and the kind of taut, aggressive hips that would normally give her a pleasurable tingle of expectation. The voice however, did not encourage her to expect anything except ... well, aggravation.

At a disadvantage in the near ground level car, she unfastened the seatbelt, leaned out and looked up. She was right about the stratosphere. Wrong about the bear. But not that wrong. The man went up a very long way before widening out into a pair of shoulders that would have done justice to a barn door. He also had a thick pelt of black hair that would have curled had it not been ruthlessly trimmed into submission and the kind of blue eyes that any girl would gladly die for. From the expression in them, she thought, this girl just might be required to. But she didn't like his immediate assumption that she was to blame for the accident. She would go down fighting.

'Playing at?' she enquired, determined to show him that she was not in the least bit intimidated by his size, or his damped down anger. Or by his eyes. 'Why, musical cars of course,' she said, with a careless wave of her hand. Her shoulder complained but she ignored it. 'Care to join me?' she invited.

It was perhaps fortunate that at that moment they were inundated by near hysterical television personnel. 'Claudia! Darling! My precious girl, are you all right?' Barty James, the programme's director waggled his hands dramatically. 'Shall we call an ambulance?' He turned to his harrassed assistant. 'Shouldn't there be an ambulance standing by? Isn't there supposed to be a doctor -' He began issuing a tirade of instructions, sending minions flying in all directions, but mostly for cover.

Claudia, used to theatrical hysteria, took no notice. Instead she swung long, silk clad legs out of the car and waited for someone to help her to her feet. Barty was still busy berating his hapless assistant for the lack of an ambulance. Blue eyes had swiftly removed himself from the scene and was more concerned with the damage to the Land Cruiser. Abandoning all hope of immediate aid and succour, she climbed from her car unaided and joined him. His concern was well placed. The damage, although superficial, was widespread. She had scraped and dented every panel, leaving streaks of scarlet paint like careless kisses, along the entire right hand side.

The hangar didn't look much better. She hadn't hit it hard, but had still managed a pretty spectacular job of buckling and splitting the elderly corrugated metal.

But her lovely new car had far the worst of it. The left hand side had suffered horribly in the encounter with the Land Cruiser and the bonnet now looked as if a very heavy footed figure skater had been practising triple toe loops on its glossy paintwork. It was not a pretty sight, but as she turned to blue eyes she managed a smile, quite prepared to be brave about it although under the circumstances hysterics would have been quite permissible. Blue eyes was unimpressed.

'I do hope you're properly insured, Miss Beaumont,' he said, curtly, in case she had missed just how unimpressed he was.

Claudia, who could usually reduce a man to stuttering incoherence in less time than it took to say it, was seriously shaken to discover that this man was quite immune to her particular brand of magic. Insurance? That was all that bothered him? He wasn't in the least concerned about her health, the fact that she might have broken her neck? Apparently not. As their eyes met across the wreck of her car she received the very strong impression that he was quite prepared to break it himself. Well, the day was still young and if her anonymous correspondent was right, he might yet get his wish. The thought was enough to drive the smile right off her face.

'Why wouldn't I be properly insured?' Her premium was, in her opinion, large enough to insure any ten cars. 'But if you think I'm paying for this, you can forget it,' she said, nettled by his manner into displaying a little irritation on her own account. 'For your information my brakes failed and since this car is only two days old it's going right back to the manufacturer. I suggest you call them and tell them your troubles.'

'The brakes ...' There was a twittering of excitement from the television men.

Blue eyes didn't twitter. 'You really expect me to believe that?' It was quite obviously not a question to which he expected an answer. He had made up his own mind and disbelief was written in every tightly controlled line of his face. 'You were showing off and driving too fast for the surface. Damp grass is like ice if you hit the brakes too hard.'

'Is it? And if you hit the brakes and nothing happens?'

'You lost control. If your brakes had simply failed you wouldn't have hit the Land Cruiser, you'd have hit the Porsche.'

'I know that. It's why I swerved. I didn't want to hit Barty's Porsche ...' Something in his expression warned her that she wasn't helping matters and her voice died away.

'Are you saying that you hit my car on purpose?' He spat out the words, one by one.

'It seemed like a good idea at the time.' She glared at him. 'It still does.' Then she threw up her hands in despair. It had been a bad day from the moment she got out of bed and found that horrible anonymous letter on her doormat. 'Is there any chance of a cup of coffee around here?' she demanded.

'Claudia, darling, why don't we forget this for today?' Barty intervened, quickly. 'You're overwrought. It's quite natural,' he added, quickly, as she glared at him, too. 'I'll run you down to the local hospital for a check up. Since you've had an accident we'll be covered by insurance and we don't want to take any risks do we?'

'Don't we?' Claudia asked. Blue eyes was giving her the kind of look that suggested she might have manufactured the accident simply to get out of the jump and she didn't like it. 'Oh, for heaven's sake, Barty, I'm not made of glass. Let's get all my bruises over with in one day.' She looked around. 'Where's Tony?' Tony Singleton was the one bright spark in this entire fiasco. Her role in Private Lives kept her on stage until eleven every night, but it had still been worth dragging herself out of bed first thing for Tony's training sessions, even under the watchful eye of the television crew. They had filmed her swinging gracefully from a tower in a harness under his careful instruction, learning how to fall, even packing the parachute she was to use.

Today they were going to celebrate her maiden jump. Without the cameras.

'Tony's wife telephoned this morning to cancel.' Blue eyes regarded her steadily. 'Apparently he's feeling a bit under the weather. She didn't think it was a good idea to take any risks with him.'

Wife? He was married? The low down sneaking rat! Some days it was just not a good idea to get out of bed.

'His wife?' she enquired, coolly. Being an actress had its advantages. The ability to hide feelings was one of them.

'She's expecting a baby next month.' He punctuated the remark with a speaking, one-shouldered shrug. 'Didn't he mention her?'

No. He had somehow managed to overlook that minor point. After all, actresses were notorious for sleeping around so it didn't really matter did it? Like hell, it didn't.

'Not that I recall,' she replied.

'Perhaps he didn't think it was important. But don't worry, Miss Beaumont. I'm here to look after you in his place.'

Now why wasn't that a comfort?

'Really?' she said. 'And who the devil are you?'

His face finally cracked into something that might have been a smile, although she could see that his heart wasn't really in it. 'Gabriel MacIntyre. But Mac will do.' He didn't offer his hand, instead his eyes made a rapid transit of the space between her feet and her carefully tousled blonde hair, making an instant judgement on her short, flirty little skirt and loose silk jersey top. She had dressed to spend the day with Tony, not for a parachute jump and he knew it. 'And you are the glamorous Miss Claudia Beaumont,' he said, pointedly. He seemed singularly underwhelmed by the fact.

'I know that,' she informed him, crisply. It was odd how very crisp she was feeling considering the fact that she'd just run into the side of an aircraft hangar. The man had much the same bracing effect as the blast from a bottle of smelling salts. 'But please don't stand on ceremony,' she added. 'Miss Beaumont will do just fine.'

'Darling, don't be naughty!' Barty, his thin body encased in a close fitting silk shirt, a toning scarf knotted with studied carelessness around his throat, intervened nervously, throwing a jittery look in the direction of Mac. 'Mr MacIntyre will think you don't like him.'

'Then he'd be right. I don't.'

'Claudia!'

'Well, what do you expect? I told him that my brakes failed and without the slightest evidence to back him up he chose to believe I was lying.'

It was clear he believed a lot of other things about her. None of them were true either.

Mac, blue eyes, was unrepentant. 'I saw the way you were driving.'

Barty was beginning to unravel. 'Are you quite sure you want to go ahead with this, Claudia, darling?' He pulled her aside, lowering his voice to a whisper. 'We'd all quite understand ... shock, what have you ...'

Claudia realised the crew were looking at her expectantly. Things had changed. With the insurance company paying, they'd all have an extra day's work if she decided to throw a wobbly and put the stunt off until a later date. But they didn't have to jump out of an aeroplane for the titillation of all those millions of television viewers, everyone of whom was no doubt hoping to see her fall flat on her face. Especially the one who sent her that nasty little note.

'We do it now, Barty, or not at all,' she announced. This was not a day she wished to repeat. She turned to Gabriel MacIntyre. 'Come on, Mac. I can see you can't wait to push me out of an aeroplane. Lead me to my overalls and let's get on with it.' It gave her considerable pleasure to see that she had taken him by surprise. Although he didn't flicker so much as a muscle, Claudia knew that he'd been convinced she was going to bottle out. She would rather die than give him that satisfaction.

Slowly and with obvious reluctance, he jacked up the smile. If he ever made an effort, she thought, he might be dangerous. There didn't seem much likelihood of her finding out.

The equipment was laid out on a trestle in the hangar. A pair of bright red overalls with her name printed across the back because it had looked good on the ground shots. And it would make identification easy, she thought with a wry little smile, if she simply ploughed straight down into the nearest field. Then the boots. Her helmet was next, a mini camera and microphone already attached and ready to be hooked up to the power pack she would wear at her waist. Goggles. Finally, the parachute that she had packed herself under Tony's supervision.

The crew were already suited up, running last minute checks on their cameras and microphones with the OB unit.

'Is there somewhere I can change?' she asked.

Mac's eyes flickered over her unsuitable clothes. 'I hope you're wearing warm underwear,' he said. 'It'll be cold up there.'

'I've a nice line in silk thermals. Would you care to check them out?' He handed her the overalls and pointed her in the direction of the office without another word.

Claudia strode off jauntily enough, but once the door was shut behind her she let out a deep breath and sank into a chair. She was beginning to shake and wasn't sure whether it was a reaction to the shunt with the car, or whether she was just plain scared.

She shed her skirt, her top, her tights, then retrieved from her bag the thermal vest and long drawers that Tony had advised, pulling them on as quickly as her shaking fingers would allow. Damn Tony and his boyish charm. He could have got her through the next half an hour without a qualm, unlike Mr MacIntyre. At least she had nothing but a few stolen kisses to reproach herself for. Although why she should reproach herself for anything when he was the cheating bastard, she wasn't quite sure. But she did. And so did Mac.

By the time she came to fasten the front of the jump suit her fingers were shaking so much with a mixture of nerves and anger that she couldn't keep hold of the zip pull. A sharp rap on the door, making her jump, was the last straw and she gave up trying.

'We haven't got all day, Miss Beaumont.' Miss Beaumont. He made it sound like an insult.

Clutching the overalls together at the front she emerged from the office. 'I'm having zip trouble,' she said, loftily. 'It seems to be stuck.'

Mac didn't say a word. He simply took hold of the pull and the wretched thing slid smoothly up to her neck. Then he pushed down the velcro flaps. 'You should have asked for help sooner,' he said, when he was satisfied. 'I told you I'd take care of you.'

She cleared her throat, nervously. The crew had moved outside leaving just the two of them in the hangar. 'So you did,' she said.

'Is there anything else?'

'No.' She reached for her helmet and tugged it on. 'I can manage now.'

'I hope so. We've all been waiting quite long enough. You were very late.'

She tucked in her long blonde hair. It seemed to take forever and he finally lost patience, finishing the job for her without much care for her scalp. Then he fastened the chin straps. 'I couldn't find the airfield,' she said. 'It's not exactly well sign-posted.'

He ignored the implied criticism and picked up her 'chute. She flexed her shoulders and held back her arms for him to lift it on. He didn't.

Now who was wasting time? 'What's the matter?' she asked, looking behind her.

'Nothing. I'm just going to change this 'chute.'

'What's wrong with it? I packed it myself and Tony said I'd made a perfect job of it.'

'Then Tony must have had his mind on other things. I'll get you another one from the store. Why don't you wait outside?'

She glared after him. It wasn't such a hardship. He was six foot two inches of unadulterated masculinity. He might raise her hackles, but after the narcissism and hot house atmosphere of the theatre she had to admit that there was a rough hewn, unfinished freshness about the man. Not that he was her type. She liked sophisticated, well groomed men who knew how to treat a lady. Gabriel MacIntyre appeared to be the kind of old-fashioned chauvinist who preferred his women barefoot and pregnant. He probably had half a dozen baby MacIntyres to prove it.

And she made it a rule never to play house with other girl's husbands.
But men didn't make it easy to be noble. Tony, lying and potentially cheating Tony, for instance, had looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. At least Mac wore a wedding ring.

Ten minutes later, buckled, fastened, wired for sound so that every gasp of fright could be experienced vicariously by the television audience, she was hurtling down the runway in a noisy, comfortless aircraft. She forced herself to smile. The fuselage had been fitted with tiny cameras to catch every fleeting expression and she was supposed to be enjoying herself. This was all good, clean fun.

Ideally they should all be chatting and laughing but thankfully it was too noisy. No doubt someone would add on the kind of jokey commentary that would make the studio audience roar with laughter. She smiled harder, hoping that she hadn't chewed all her lipstick off. It was the performance of a lifetime.

Nothing could go wrong.

The cameramen, all experienced free-fallers, were relaxed as they circled the airfield gaining height, double checking camera equipment with the OB crew on the ground.

Mac was standing behind the pilot, waiting until they reached the right height. He turned for a moment and stared at her, his eyes thoughtful, his forehead creased in a deep frown. It was unsettling, but she met his gaze, challenged it. Then the pilot shouted something to him and he looked away.

Claudia tried to remember everything that Tony had told her. But her mind was a blank. And then, in the noisy cramped space of the aircraft, with the jump only minutes away, the letter that had been pushed through her door in the early hours of the morning floated back to the surface of her mind and began to fill the vacuum with its insidious poison.

What kind of sick mind did it take to do something like that? To take so much trouble to find all the right letters in a newspaper, cut them neatly out then arrange them precisely, sticking them down one by one? She tried to blot it out. It was rubbish, nonsense, some sick person's idea of a joke. Any successful actress was bound to provoke jealousy. It was inevitable. Especially when her path was perceived to have been eased by famous parents, a mother who had been a legend, a father who had directed the play she was appearing in right now. The letter was nothing. She had torn it up and thrown it in the bin with the rest of the rubbish.

Everything had been checked a dozen times. She was jumping from a static line. The 'chute would open automatically. All she had to do was go through the drill Tony had taught her. It was no big deal. She looked up as Mac tapped her on the shoulder. It was time to go.

Nothing could go wrong.

But her skin was slicked with sweat as she watched the camera crew jump out of the open doorway, moving away from the aircraft, getting into position to film her own exit from the plane. They made it look so easy. It was easy. She adjusted her goggles.

Nothing could go wrong.

Mac hooked her to the static line then guided her into place in the doorway. Below her the ground was like a picture from a storybook. Small, clean, beautiful. The rushing wind tugged at her, eager to suck her into the void, but she held on, waiting for Mac's signal. It seemed forever coming and she glanced at him. He smiled reassuringly. He'd picked a hell of a time to decide to be friendly, she thought, as at last he slapped her on the shoulder with sufficient impact to ensure she didn't change her mind and mess up everyone's day.

Then, as she plunged downward, dropping towards the Berkshire countryside at thirty-three feet per second per second, she quite suddenly recalled that Gabriel MacIntyre had changed her carefully packed parachute at the last minute. And no one else had seen him do it.

The fields, the hedges, the silver ribbon of river all seemed to merge and resolve into a sheet of cheap lined paper covered with a jumble of newsprint.

I'VE FIXED YOU, DARLING CLAUDIA. OR RATHER I'VE FIXED YOUR PARACHUTE. ENJOY YOUR JUMP. YOU WON'T BE MAKING ANY MORE.

* * *

Gabriel MacIntyre stood in the open doorway of the aircraft and watched Claudia Beaumont fall, counting the seconds, releasing the unexpectedly held breath as the parachute streamed out behind her and the canopy billowed and spread as it filled with air.

He had been so angry when he had seen the envelope tucked in the 'chute she'd packed herself, certain it was a message from Tony. It had been something of a shock when, in the privacy of the store room, he'd opened it and seen what was inside.

She was floating gently now, drifting slightly in the light breeze, the jeep with the ground camera crew chasing after her. He hoped that despite her apprehension she had managed to relax sufficiently to enjoy herself, but the irony of the situation was not lost on him. Her celebrity had put her in a situation where she had been forced to do something she would gladly have avoided. And he had been forced to stand by and watch, instead of being out there, skimming the air for those few magical seconds, the closest sensation to flying a man could ever hope achieve.

He pulled a face as she hit the ground heavily, almost feeling the bone-jarring shock of a bad landing. She had been too tense to collapse and roll the way Tony would have shown her. She'd be stiff tomorrow. And if she'd cut her lip maybe it would be her understudy's lucky night. He hoped she hadn't. She had the kind of mouth that dreams were made of even when she was chewing of her lipstick with nerves.

He watched for a moment longer as the ground camera crew homed in on her, determined not to miss anything that would give the viewers a buzz, hoping that the cool Miss Beaumont would be sufficiently shaken to say something that needed a bleep. That was always good for a laugh.

His lips twisted in disgust at his own feelings of superiority. He was taking their money for God's sake, part of the circus whether he liked it or not. And what a circus it was.

He saw her rise to her feet, apparently unhurt by her heavy fall, then peeled away from the doorway, dropping into the canvas seat that Claudia had so recently vacated, rubbing at a knee that was never slow to remind him that he wasn't quite the man he had been. Be patient, give it six months, the specialist had said and they'd look at it again. He didn't need six months. He knew he'd never jump again. Not and walk away.

He pushed the thought away, taking the envelope he had retrieved from Claudia's parachute from his pocket, shaking out the pieces of a photograph and putting them together. He'd seen the picture on the cover of one of the Sunday supplements a week or so earlier; Claudia Beaumont dressed and made up for a role that, according to the headline, her mother had once made her own. Despite the artificial, stylised glamour of the photograph, the girl's almost luminous beauty shone through and he could see why someone as gullible as Tony had been bowled over.

He had thought himself utterly immune to anything that obvious, but when she'd put her head out of that ridiculous little car and looked up at him with those huge silver fox eyes he had been uncomfortably aware of his own stampeding testosterone. He'd been so busy defending himself from her siren beauty that he'd bawled at her like a barrack square bully instead of checking to see if she was hurt.

His mouth twitched in an involuntary smile. She hadn't needed anyone to look out for her; Miss Claudia Beaumont might look like an angel but she was quite capable of giving as good as she got. Sometime within the next half an hour he would have to apologise to her and he had the distinct feeling that when he did she would be laughing at him, knowing precisely why he had responded in the way he had.

Was there a man alive who wouldn't?

He looked at the photograph again. It had been cut into six pieces. Arms, legs, head, each neatly severed from the body. The effect was distinctly chilling and obviously calculated to scare Claudia silly. It had to have been Adele. When she was happy, contented, at peace with herself and the world, she was a delightful young woman. Jealous, she was a tiger, quite capable of reacting to any threat to her marriage with that kind of over-the-top gesture and she had been at the airfield yesterday evening, blazing with indignation and fit to kill.

He shrugged, pushed the envelope back in his pocket wishing he'd never got involved in this pantomime. The money the television company were paying for the use of his field, his team, would help to underwrite the cost of training a bunch of written-off youths into a talented free fall team, but when he had been approached with the idea, he hadn't anticipated someone like Claudia Beaumont as part of the package, disrupting their lives.

He shifted uncomfortably. Maybe he was misjudging the woman. Once Tony had set eyes on her it was inevitable that he would start thinking with his hormones and it was quite possible that Claudia hadn't known that he was married. She hadn't erupted like Adele when he had told her, but the anger had been there, just for a split second before she had covered it with that cool dismissal. He looked up as the pilot caught his attention. 'How'd it go?' he mouthed over the noise of the engine.

'No problems.'

No problems. He may have had doubts about Claudia Beaumont's morals but there was certainly no doubting her courage. Because it took courage to jump when you were frightened out of your wits. And she had been frightened despite all that brittle-edged bravado. He'd seen too many first time jumpers to miss the signs. Men usually went through with it because they didn't want to look stupid in front of their mates. Claudia Beaumont would have looked stupid in front of millions of television viewers. And from what he'd heard, she hadn't been given much of a choice to start with.

He bit down hard. She didn't deserve his sympathy because he certainly wasn't misjudging the situation that had developed between her and Tony. Damn the man. Why the hell couldn't he grow up and realise just how lucky he was?

The aircraft wheels touched down on the runway with a bump and a screech and moments later they were taxiing onto the apron in front of the hangar, followed by the jeep that had brought Claudia and the rest of the crew in from the far side of the field.

He lowered himself through the door, taking care to put his weight on his right leg first and by the time he had turned Claudia had taken off the helmet and goggles and her hair was flying about her face. Even with a slightly swollen lip and a graze beneath her left eye she looked incredibly beautiful as she held the flirtatious film crew at bay with an easy grace. He was impressed. He really hated having to admit it, but he was seriously impressed by her composure. He'd seen grown men throw up, cry even, with relief that it was over. That they were still alive.

Then she saw him and her smile faded to be replaced with a tiny frown as he stepped forward to help her down. After a moment's hesitation she put her hands on his shoulders and he gripped her waist. It fitted comfortably between his hands and as he lifted her, her hair swung forward enfolding him in some faint exotic scent that mingled with the everyday scents of clean fresh air and bruised grass that clung to her jumpsuit. She was tall for a woman, no featherweight as she hung momentarily above him, yet he would rather have held her than let her go. And when he set her down, his hands remained at her waist.

She didn't move but remained perfectly still within the circle of his arms, that tiny frown still puckering the wide space between her eyes and without thinking, Gabriel MacIntyre bent and kissed her. Her mouth tasted the way he knew it would, honeypot sweet, seductively so and he had a momentary sense that quite suddenly everything was right with the world. Then she stepped back, raised her hand and slapped him. Hard.

For a moment nobody moved. Then one of the camera men grinned at him. 'Don't worry mate, for a small consideration we'll edit that bit out.'

2011-03-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

WILD FIRE

Melanie's Story

CHAPTER ONE

'WITH this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow ...'

A sigh rippled through the congregation as Edward Beaumont placed a ring on the finger of Diana Archer and made her his wife. He had been alone for a long time, since the death of his first wife, the beautiful and talented actress Elaine French and everyone who knew him was delighted with this September love that had come to him so unexpectedly.

Only Melanie, his youngest daughter, balled her hands into tight little fists and blinked back a tear. Why couldn't she be happy for them? Diana was the kindest, loveliest of women, even if her daughter took some swallowing.

She looked around her. Her older sisters, her half-sisters she adjusted the relationship mentally although they had taken her so fully to their hearts that distancing herself from them in this way seemed another betrayal, were so obviously delighted by this turn of events. But then they had seen Edward suffering at the hands of their mother. Maybe that was the problem. On the other side of the world she had witnessed her own mother's loneliness, her suffering. That was the gulf that set them apart today.

Her mother had never had any of this, the old church decked out in spring flowers, the solemn vows, the expensive reception that would follow it. Not that Juliet would have bothered about the rich trappings of ceremony. A simple register office wedding would have been enough, but her mother had been denied any public acknowledgement of Edward's passionate love for her. She had lived out her life with only her daughter to remind her of a love so great that she had sacrificed everything for it. And she had died before Edward had discovered what she had done and been able to put things right. If she had lived this might have been her day.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and made an effort to concentrate on the service. But as she looked up she caught Heather Archer's gaze fixed upon her from the other side of the church and saw the shocking reflection of her own thoughts in the younger girl's face. Maybe she was remembering the other ghost at the feast, her own beloved father.

Melanie, the smooth skin between her dark eyes momentarily creased in the slightest of frowns, continued to regard the other girl, this new member of a family that seemed to be growing almost daily, first with the birth of Fizz's daughter, then Claudia's marriage to Gabriel. Now Edward was taking a new wife. There seemed to have been nothing but celebrations in the last year. But Heather, his new stepdaughter, eighteen years old and dressed like a black scarecrow in her student uniform of Oxfam cast-offs that would have looked more at home at a funeral than a wedding, wasn't celebrating.

The only difference between the two of them, Mel decided, was that Heather didn't care who knew it.

If she didn't make an effort to counteract the tears stinging at her eyelids, everyone would know how she was feeling too. Not that there was anything wrong with tears. Both Fizz and Claudia were dabbing at their eyes with delicate lace-edged handkerchiefs. Tears at a wedding were to be expected, almost mandatory, but they were supposed to be tears of happiness. Irritated with herself, reminding herself that she had been acting professionally since she was ten years old, she assumed a serene smile. But the need to lever a smile to her lips on what should have been the happiest of days forced her to come to a decision that she had been putting off.

It was more than a year since she had come to England. It had been a momentous year, a wonderful year. She had found a family she had never known existed, they had taken her to their hearts and she had wallowed in the kind of family life that she had never experienced before. But when she had added Beaumont to her name, Melanie Brett had somehow got just a little bit lost.

Luke should have understood. Her mother's younger brother, he was surely sharing just a little of her feelings today? Except that he was now a part of the extended Beaumont family. Married to Fizz and with a darling baby daughter to take up every moment, he was distracted by his own happiness and she couldn't deny him that. Maybe if she had had a love of her own she would have been less wrapped up in the past. But for weeks the past had been tugging at her sleeve, calling her back and it was, Melanie decided, time to take a look back, remind herself who she was. Before she forgot.

After Edward and Diana had left the reception, she sought out Luke to tell him what she intended to do.

'You're taking a year off?' he repeated, in all too obvious disbelief. 'Are you mad?'

'I've been working practically non-stop since I was ten years old, Luke. I'm not complaining, I nagged Mum to let me do it, I was the envy of all my friends and I loved every moment of it, but I'm entitled to a holiday. So I'm adding up all the holidays I've missed out on over the last ten years and I figure a year off is about right.'

'Can you take a year off in your business? Aren't you afraid that when you come back everyone will have forgotten you?'

'I'm prepared to take that risk.'

He still looked doubtful. 'You'll be bored to death in ten minutes.' Melanie stifled her irritation. Luke didn't mean to be patronising, it was just that he'd been a surrogate father to her for so long that he couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that she was an adult.

'I won't be bored. And if I am I'll get a job. Something ordinary. I've never done anything ordinary.'

'I think you'll find that "ordinary" is over-rated.' Luke, still regarding her with concern, was distracted by his wife waving frantically from the other side of the room. 'Fizz wants to get back to the baby, Mel. Can we talk about this later?'

'There's nothing to talk about, Luke. I'm not asking your permission here, or asking you to hold my hand. I'm just letting you know my plans so that you won't worry. Will you say goodbye to everyone for me?'

Melanie watched Luke struggle to keep his silence knowing that he wanted to tell her that nothing would ever stop him from worrying about his sister's little girl. Instead he said, somewhat gruffly, 'We'll miss you, Mel.' Then he bent and kissed her cheek. 'Keep in touch. If you need anything -'

'I'll send you a postcard.'

Her agent was less sanguine. 'You can't leave London now, Mel.' Trudy Morgan tapped a script lying on the desk in front of her. 'This,' she said, 'could have been written for you.'

'Really?' Mel was standing at the window staring down into the street where a mime artist had attracted a small crowd. He was working them with great skill drawing them into his routine, making them laugh at him and at themselves. 'Then I'm sorry. But I meant it when I said I won't be available for a while.'

'Read it, Mel. You'll love it. And you're perfect for the part.'

Mel shrugged. She had no intention of taking a part in a sitcom but she knew Trudy meant well so she picked up the script, glanced at the character outlines. 'Don't tell me,' she said, pulling a face. 'I get to play the dizzy blonde, right?'

'The part could have been written for you.'

'Could it? I'm blonde,' she agreed. 'So is any other actress with access to a bottle of peroxide -'

'Maybe. But not everyone can play sweet and dizzy as convincingly as you, darling.'

Melanie knew her agent meant that as a compliment and that was part of the problem. 'I'm sure this is a gift,' she said, replacing the script on the desk, 'but I've been playing a dizzy blonde since I was ten years old, Trudy. Pre-pubescent cute, boy-mad adolescent, teenager in the throes of calf love and then true romance and a wedding so beautiful that it made the fans weep in the streets. I'm twenty-one in a few weeks, Trudy. I'm sick of playing the sweet girl next door.'

'Ah.'

'Ah? What does that mean?'

'Nothing.' She took back the script and put it away in a drawer. 'I'll give you a call when the National are auditioning for Ophelia, shall I?'

Mel could usually tell when she was being teased but this time she wasn't quite certain. 'Does the National audition leading roles?' she asked, her own tongue firmly in her cheek.

Trudy didn't laugh. 'You might get lucky.'

'I see.'

'I don't think you do.' Her agent, Mel realised with a shock, was angry. 'You may have been a soap queen in Australia since you were knee high to a dung beetle, Melanie. And there was a time when every schoolgirl in Britain rushed home after school to watch the series too, so your name is well-known in Britain to a mainly young, mainly female audience.' She placed her hands on the desk and leaned towards Mel. 'That's good. That I can sell. That's your value to a producer. You have to capitalise on that.'

'What about Private Lives?'

'An ingenue role in a play directed by your father, launched on money put up by your uncle and starring your sister. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to remember you were playing a dumb blonde in that too.'

'It was a box office success,' Mel protested. 'It made money hand over fist.'

'Well, Luke Devlin has the Midas touch, even when he's indulging his niece. And all that tear-wrenching publicity when Edward Beaumont told the world that you were his love-child didn't exactly harm the box-office. As a dizzy blonde you're bankable, Mel, but you haven't got the track record for anything tougher. And this is a tough business. No one can afford to take the risk that you'll fall flat on your face.'

'Taken to its ultimate conclusion that suggests I'll still be playing the same role when I'm fifty.'

'You'd never be out of work.'

'Frankly, I'd rather quit now.'

Trudy did not back down. 'Well, maybe you should think about that, Melanie. That way I won't be wasting my time chasing parts that you think you're too good for.' She eased back slightly, tilting her head in a gentle query. 'Or maybe you can persuade Uncle Luke to underwrite your career,' she suggested, with calculated cruelty. 'I warn you, he'll find Shakespeare a lot more expensive than a popular four-hander.'

'I notice you haven't suggested I appeal to my father?'

'Your father has been in the business a long time. He's got more sense.'

'He was keen to do The Three Sisters with Fizz and Claudia -'

'It would have had a certain curiosity value,' Trudy admitted, 'although it has been done before.'

'I see.' Mel's heart was beating with almost painful slowness. 'Tell me, Trudy, are you trying to tell me that I'm at my personal zenith? That this is as far as I'm ever likely to go?'

'Who can tell?' She waved her hand dismissively as Mel began to protest. 'You don't lack talent, darling, or you wouldn't be in my office, no matter who your father is. But we have a problem with the public perception of you. You're light, you're fun. But would you pay good money to go and see yourself as Lady Macbeth?'

That didn't even merit a response. She was far too young for the part and they both knew it. 'No, but it might be fun to try Portia. Or what about Nora?' she said, in a moment of inspiration. Ibsen's heroine made her point exactly.

Trudy's reaction was less than flattering. 'Are you serious? That's a role for an accomplished actress -'

'I know, darling,' she said, putting on a grand dame voice. 'Someone terribly distinguished ...' Then she shrugged, '... and years too old for the part. They used to say the same thing about Juliet.'

'Melanie -'

'And you have to agree that on the surface Nora is just about the dizziest creature in the theatrical cannon.'

'Yes, but -'

'Yes, but, Trudy. It's all just an act. I know. And I know exactly how it's done. I do it myself every time I step on stage or in front of a television camera.'

Trudy was stunned. 'You're telling me that you're prepared to turn down a sitcom by writers with a track record for success, a role that could turn you into a household name, for a dream?'

'Why not?' Everything she'd said was true. And if it made Trudy think twice about her career she was quite prepared to let her believe it. 'We all need dreams, Trudy. They might as well be big ones.'

'And if you fell flat on your face?'

'I would have tried.'

For a moment the older woman was lost for words, then she busied herself about her desk, straightening papers, pins. 'Yes, well, dreams come expensive. Your problem, my girl, is that you don't have to work to eat. I do.' This time the dismissive gesture had a finality about it. 'I can't afford to waste my time on dreams. Call me when you've come to your senses.'

'That's the whole point, Trudy. I have come to my senses.'

'What's sensible about taking a year off when you're being offered work. Save your holiday for the time when the phone doesn't ring.'

'This is more than a holiday. I've missed out on a lot of ordinary life.'

'Ordinary life?' Trudy snorted. 'All you'll do is lotus-eat on some Aussie beach and listen to your friends tell you how wonderful you are while they eat your prawns and drink another crate of Fosters.'

'You really think I'm that shallow?'

'I think that's about as close to ordinary life as you're ever likely to come. Ask Claudia what it takes to become a real success, Mel. Your sister sweated her socks off to get where she is but she has no illusions, she knows that the theatre is a looking-glass world where it takes all the running you can do to stay in the same place. If you want to actually get somewhere you have to work at least twice as hard as that.'

'I'm not running away from hard work. I'm refusing to repeat myself endlessly until I start to believe that's all I can do.'

'Really? Well you're in the fortunate position of being able to take that line. You've been working for ten years and your clever uncle has invested all the money you've earned so that you can afford to be picky. Perhaps that's your real problem. You've never had to struggle or call on any deep reserves of strength to see you through months, years even without a decent part. You're like an oyster without the grit, Mel, a soft centred chocolate, a little treat that slides down without any effort. Maybe you should go away and grow up a bit. But you won't do it lying on beach, contemplating your navel.'

Mel had been holding her feelings in check for weeks. Trying not to show her unhappiness because she knew she was being unfair to her family. She knew her feelings were unreasonable. It had been her mother's decision to stay away from Edward and he'd suffered every bit as much as she had. But that didn't make them any less real and Trudy's scathing attack was the final straw.

'You think not knowing who your father is until you're nineteen years old is easy? You think working on a soap opera day in and day out and still getting good school grades is easy?' She placed her hands flat on the desk and looked her agent straight in the face. 'You think sitting and watching your mother die is easy? You've seen me this year with my father and Claudia and Fizz, playing happy families at first nights and weddings and christenings. But don't think you know me, because you don't.' She straightened, gathered her jacket and bag and paused in the doorway just long enough to say, 'Don't call me, Trudy, when I'm ready to start playing at make-believe again I'll call you.'

As the door slammed behind her Trudy Morgan stared for a moment and then gave a hoot of laughter.

She would never have believed Melanie had it in her. Still chuckling she crossed to the window. Would the girl still be travelling on a head a steam by the time she reached the square. or would she have had time to calm down?

Steaming. Seeing through a red mist, positively vibrating with rage, her heart alone would have made redundant the entire timpani section of an orchestra. Melanie's whole body was focussed on her one purpose, to catch the first available flight to Sydney where she was the home-town girl made good that the crowds turned out for and not just another Beaumont. And a second-class, inferior sort of Beaumont at that. She didn't even see the white-faced mime artist do a classic double take. Nor did she hear the ripple of laughter from his audience.

Swept along on a tide of blistering rage, her angry momentum carried her through the heavy glass door of the travel agent's office with such speed that the man approaching it from the other side was forced to step back sharply to escape the abrupt and painful rearrangement of his profile. And still she was oblivious to her surroundings until, on a reflex honed by an acute sense of self-preservation, the man grabbed her shoulders to prevent her from cannoning into him.

'Hey, there, slow down.' The abrupt jolt almost stunned her, so deep had she been in her fury, so intent in her purpose. Melanie had never been so angry, had no idea that it was possible to feel that way and she raised her hand to her forehead, dazed by the suddenness with which she had been wrenched out of her temper. 'Are you all right?'

All right? Of all the stupid ... of course she wasn't all right ... Then she took a deep shuddering breath. It wasn't this man's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault ... it would have been so much simpler if it were.

'I'm sorry,' she began. 'I'm afraid I wasn't looking ...' And then she was looking. Straight up into a pair of steel grey eyes that were regarding her with more than a touch of impatience. His voice too, she realised, had been more irritated than concerned. And with awareness came the realisation that his hands were still clamped to her shoulders. The man clearly thought that if he didn't hold on her she might collapse at his feet. And his expression left her in no doubt that he didn't want the bother of picking her up again. About par for the day, in fact. She took a short breath and very firmly stepped back. 'I'm sorry,' she repeated.

And then one of the girls who worked in the office was at his side. 'Is everything all right, Mr Wolfe?' she asked. 'Are you hurt?'

His eyes never left Melanie's face and she gave another little gasp as something seemed to heat in them, something intense, something she thought, almost desperate. Then, whatever it was had been obliterated and his eyes were as cold as steel. 'I'm fine. I can't say the same for this young woman.' He stared at her for a moment longer, then he eased his shoulders in a movement so slight that it could scarcely to be classed as a shrug. 'You'd better slow down before you hurt yourself. Or someone else,' he said. Then he nodded briefly to the girl at Melanie's side.

'I'll call back for the tickets in about twenty minutes.'

Melanie shivered slightly, but couldn't have said whether it was the suddenness with which he had jolted her from her temper, or the strange impact of the man's eyes that made her feel as if she had been touched by a force of nature. A damped down, hidden force. Like a slumbering volcano.

'If you'd like to come and sit down, one of our assistants will help you.' Melanie had quite forgotten the girl at her elbow, but now as she looked round the office she discovered herself to be the single point on which every gaze was fixed.

'What? Oh, no. No. It's all right.' She was already backing out of the office as fast as her slightly shaky legs would carry her. 'I think I'd better ... that is, I need to think ...' She stopped, took a steadying breath. 'I'll come back later.' Maybe. The girl's concern was palpable and Melanie did her best to produce a reassuring smile. 'I think I need a few minutes to gather my thoughts. I'll go and have some coffee.'

'Would you like to take some brochures with you?'

'Oh, no. Thanks. I know where I'm going.'

Or did she? Because despite what she had told Trudy, she was rushing straight back to Oz and the comfort of old friends, going back not forward. But as the adrenalin rush evaporated from her system she certainly felt an urgent need to sit down somewhere quiet to try and make sense of what she was doing.

Sense was not going out of its way to co-operate. As she crossed the square to a wine bar, this time travelling at considerably less than the speed of light, she saw the exquisite double take with which the mime artist swivelled the attention of his audience towards her. Her momentum faltered slightly, but she kept on walking.

Before she had gone more than a few yards there was a tap on her shoulder. She swung round determined to tell the man to find someone else to pick on, but there was no one there. A tap on her other shoulder and still no one. The crowd were laughing quite openly now, but she wasn't in the mood to play straight man to a clown. She took a deep breath and for a moment she remained perfectly still before turning to ask him, very politely, to leave her alone. But when she came face to face with him, he was standing with his hand over his heart, every line of his body exquisitely portraying the bashful little man in love with a beautiful girl. In spite of everything, she smiled.

That was a mistake. Encouraged, he immediately responded by producing an outrageous daisy from thin air, presenting it to her with a ground scraping bow.

Three floors above the square, Trudy shook her head. The boy was superb. Graceful, funny, pathetic in turn as he wooed Melanie with his art. She was still smiling as she turned back to her desk and pressed the intercom on her desk. 'Get me Claudia Beaumont, will you, Lisa?'

A few moments later the telephone rang. 'Trudy?' Claudia's voice floated seductively from the receiver. 'How did it go?'

'Not well. She wouldn't even discuss the sitcom. I'm afraid it's going to take more than that to keep her in England.'

'Damn. Luke was certain that a new challenge would keep her here. Any ideas?'

'Not one. Unless you know of anyone smitten enough with the child to underwrite her in A Doll's House.'

'You're kidding.'

'I wish I was.' Claudia let out a long slow whistle. 'Precisely. I gave her rather a hard time I'm afraid.'

'Poor Melanie.'

'She doesn't need your sympathy, darling, she gave me an equally rough ride and if she was poor there wouldn't be a problem, she wouldn't be able to turn this down. I'm really worried about her going back to Australia. They adore her there and they'd give anything to get her to stay. They'll spoil her rotten, tell her how wonderful she is and before you know it she'll be back in the soaps. Can't Luke do something?'

'What for heaven's sake? She's twenty-one in a few weeks time. If she wants to take a year off and disappear…'

'It seems out of character. She's a family girl, and she's been very protected. When I think of the way you behaved at her age -'

Claudia pulled a face at the telephone. 'You think there's something more than a holiday behind this?'

'Maybe. But she's worked hard for years in television,' Trudy pointed out. 'It could be that she's just lost the taste for it. What does Edward think?'

'He doesn't know. He'd already left on his honeymoon - but I know it'll break his heart if she drifts away.'

'Will it? He's got a new wife to keep him happy. And a new step-daughter -'

'Heather? Puh-lease!' Claudia paused. 'Oh, dear God. You don't think that's behind this sudden need to get away? I would have said that Melanie didn't have a jealous bone in her body -'

'And I would agree you. But on reflection it is possible that it's the new Mrs Beaumont who's brought on this attack of the sulks. The papers have made a great deal of fuss about the wedding ... How Edward has finally got over the death of the precious Elaine.'

'Oh, don't. It's been a nightmare. If people only knew...'

'Well they don't. They don't know that Edward loathed Elaine, that she made his life a living hell and they don't know that he loved Melanie's mother. It must have hurt. Happy ever after would have seen her mother in Diana's place.'

'But her mother is -'

'Dead?' Trudy paused. 'Forgotten?' she enquired, not very kindly.

'Of course not! Surely she can't think ... Oh, Trudy, what on earth can we do?'
'Nothing. Or at least nothing that isn't weeks too late. Isn't there a man around to distract her?'

'A man?' Claudia cocked an errant brow at the telephone. 'Don't let the thought police hear you suggesting something so politically incorrect.'

'This is an emergency, Claudia. It's the best I can come with at a moment's notice.'

'Well Andy Gilbert is still carrying a torch -'

'Good grief, Claudia, I said a man. Someone capable of driving every other thought out of her head. If he hasn't managed to do that by now he's not going to be any use to us. What this situation needs is a midnight lover...'

'A midnight lover?'

'The kind of man that dreams are made of, darling. Surely I don't have to spell it out to you? You married one.'

Claudia laughed softly. 'If she finds someone like Mac you might never get her back, Trudy.'

'I'll take that risk.'

'Then I'll put my mind to it, although I have to warn you, men in that category are rarer than hen's teeth. I'm sure Dad could sort this out in a moment if he were here -'

'How long is are the honeymooners planning to be away?'

'Who knows? Luke and Mac chartered them a yacht in the West Indies as a joint wedding present. Neither of them have any commitments to rush back for so they've decided to take their time, go where they like, do as they please.'

'Some people have all the luck. Claudia - you've worked with Mel, how good is she? Really?'

Claudia laughed. 'You're her agent, Trudy, why are you asking me?'

'Because I want to know.'

There was small silence and then Claudia said, 'Melanie is better than anybody will ever give her credit for, Trudy, better than she probably realises herself. The trouble is she makes it look so easy that people assume she's not working at it, that she's just being herself.'

Trudy grimaced. 'That,' she said, 'explains a lot.'

Melanie laughed. She knew how it was done but the sponge flower compressed in the clown's palm expanded so swiftly that it seemed to appear from nowhere. But she still wasn't going to be sucked into his act for the amusement of the crowd. She declined the flower with a quick shake of the head and stepped around him. The crowd, with one voice went, "Ahhhh ..."

It was almost irresistible. Almost. But as she turned away he was there again. He was not tall. She was five feet seven in her thickest woolly socks and this man barely topped her, yet he was holding the crowd that had gathered to watch him in the palm of his hand with the power of his presence. The leotard moulded to his body displayed beautifully sculpted muscles and beneath the white make-up, the mournful painted-on expression, his bones were finely modelled. He would attract attention even when he wasn't performing.

And whether she liked it or not he had already made her part of his performance, the kind of mime perfected by Charlie Chaplin, the bashful little man falling in love with the beautiful, unattainable girl. Despite herself, she was drawn in until when, finally he presented her with the absurd flower once more, she laughed and took it, allowing him to kiss her hand.

She was still laughing as she finally walked away, her temper having evaporated as quickly as it had boiled up in the warmth and charm of his performance. He was well worth the ten pound note she'd dropped in his hat.

Then as she crossed the piazza to a small wine bar she felt another tap on her shoulder. But she wasn't playing again. 'What do you want?' she asked, as she turned to face him. He shook his head, holding out her ten pound note, presenting it to her with a formal little bow.

Did he think it was a mistake? 'No, no,' she said, slightly embarrassed. 'Keep it. Please.'

He went through an exquisite routine, his heart was hers, he could not take her money.

They were beginning to attract attention. 'Don't be silly. You earned it. You were wonderful.'

He feigned modesty. She didn't believe it but laughed out loud at his nonsense and apparently encouraged by this, he elaborately but silently invited her to join him for a drink.

'Well, that's an original pick-up line.'

'But did it work?' he asked, finally breaking out of character. 'What do you say?'

Jack Wolfe, a few floors above Trudy Morgan, in the penthouse suite, was also more interested in what was happening in the square than the protests of his younger brother.

'Come on Jack, be fair. The way you boss me about anyone would think you were my father.'

'I might as well be.' Jack Wolfe bit down hard, turning abruptly from the performance below him. 'Who else do you turn to when your rent needs paying? Or when you need funds for a rugby tour? Or when -'

'That's just it, Jack,' Tom rushed in, not in the least abashed by this catalogue of his ingratitude. 'I've got a ticket for the rugby international at Murrayfield this weekend. They're like gold dust -'

'And undoubtedly as expensive. I'm sorry Tom. I have no doubt that the England team will miss your support to a man and I wouldn't ask you to do this for me if it wasn't important, but I'm needed in Chicago -' Tom opened his mouth to argue, but Jack had had enough. '- and someone has to be in my apartment when the workmen come to fit the windows.'

'Why the hell to they have to do it this weekend?'

'Because they didn't do it properly the first time. If it's any comfort I don't suppose they are any happier about it than you -'

'Christ, Jack, not just workmen, but bad-tempered workmen. Can't Caroline sort it out? You're seeing her this evening aren't you?'

'I've had to cancel that too. So you're not the only one who's suffering -'

'She gave you a hard time too, did she? I don't suppose she's used to being stood up.'

'- and since I'd rather not encourage Caro's nesting instincts, I'm afraid for the purpose of this exercise, you are it, Tom. Accept your fate gracefully.'

Tom reserved all the grace at his command for the rugby field. For the glacial beauty his brother chose to squire about town he had nothing but undisguised loathing. 'Nesting instincts?' He snorted. 'You've got to be kidding. That woman has all the home-making instincts of the cuckoo.'

'I sincerely hope so,' his brother replied, with a wintry smile. 'Her lack of domesticity is one of Caro's most endearing qualities. But women have a way of disguising their true feelings and I am not prepared to take the risk.'

'Why?'

'Why am I not prepared to take the risk?' Jack asked, an edge to his voice.

But Tom was feeling reckless. 'If you like. I mean why on earth do you hang around with women like her? Aren't you afraid of getting frostbite? Christ, she's so thin I'd be afraid she'd break if I turned over in bed too quickly -'

'Fortunately, that is something that you will never have to worry about.'

'You can't punish yourself forever, Jack.'

'Punish myself?' The edge sharpened and Tom flushed. There was an unbreachable boundary about his brother, an inviolate area of his life that no one was allowed to mention. Tom had been too young at the time to really understand what had happened to his brother when Lisette died, but as he grew older he could see that blanking it off was a mistake. And that avoiding emotional involvement with women like Caroline Hickey who were all appearance and no heart, would in the end destroy him. But knowing it and telling him were two different things.

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.'

Jack accepted his apology with a dismissive gesture and turned back to the window. The mime artist was trying to draw a girl into his act, the girl from the travel agents who had been in such a state. She didn't want to play, he could see by her body language that she just wanted to get away but as she turned to tell the clown to leave her alone he must have done something to make her smile.

It was a smile that lit up the square, a smile that seemed to underline his own emotional sterility, the terrible emptiness at his core that made it impossible to reach out and offer himself .

Just for a second, in the doorway of that travel agents he had had a glimpse of how it could have been as every instinct had urged him to take the girl into his arms and hold her, offer her simple human comfort. Except that people were never simple; if she had been a company in trouble he would have leapt in there, done everything he could to help without thinking twice. That would have been easy.

But people expected so much more, demanded so much more. He had failed once and he hadn't been able to handle it. The responsibility for another person's life was too much. So he had chosen to ignore the need he had recognised in a young woman's face and walk away from the risk.

The clown was doing a lot better. And now the act was finished, he was following her, talking to her, taking her into the wine bar. It must be easier for a clown, Jack thought, with a white painted face to hide behind.

'But what happened, Jack ... it's a long time ago,' Tom persisted as he walked away from the window.

'You'll need a key,' Jack said, as if he hadn't spoken. He took one from his pocket and held it out. For a moment Tom looked as if he would baulk then, with a shrug of resignation he gave in and took it. 'Oh, and Tom -'

'I know. No parties.' He sighed.

Recognizing that his brother had finally accepted the inevitable, Jack Wolfe's expression softened a little. 'It's not that bad -'

'Yes it is. You haven't even got a television.'

'You can listen to the match on the radio,' he pointed out, suddenly tired of pandering to a spoilt boy's complaints. 'And should you find time hanging heavy you could always try revising for your exams.'