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I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about him. He asked me out, I said no—that’s it. Over and done with.
And it hadn’t even been her he’d asked out, she reminded herself. The man had taken her for Sabine, sultry and seductive, sophisticated and sexy. She would have to be terminally stupid not to know how a man like that, who thought nothing of approaching a woman he didn’t know and asking her to dinner, would have wanted the evening to end had ‘Sabine’ accepted his invitation. It had been in his eyes, in his gaze—in the way it had washed over her. Blatant in its message.
Would I have wanted it to end that way? If I were Sabine...?
The question was there before she could stop it. Forcibly she pushed it aside, refusing to answer. She was not Sabine—she was Sarah Fareham. And whatever the disturbing impact that man had had on her she had no time to dwell on it. She was only weeks away from the most critical performance of her life, and all her energies, all her focus and strength, had to go into that. Nothing else mattered—nothing.
‘So,’ she said, making her voice cheerful, accepting the coffee Philip had poured for her, ‘you’re our one-man audience, Philip—how’s it going, do you think?’
His face lit. ‘You were wonderful!’ he said, his eyes warm upon her.
Damn, thought Sarah wryly, she’d walked into that one. ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said playfully, ‘but what about everyone else?’
‘I’m sure they’re excellent,’ said Philip, his lack of interest in the other performers a distinct contrast with his enthusiasm for the object of his devotion. Then he frowned. ‘Max treats you very badly,’ he said, ‘criticising you the way he does.’
Sarah smiled, amused. ‘Oh, Philip—that’s his job. And it’s not just me—he’s got to make sure we all get it right and then pull it together. He hears all the voices—each of us is focussing only on our own.’
‘But yours is wonderful,’ Philip said, as though that clinched the argument.
She gave a laugh, not answering, and drank her coffee, chasing it down with a large glass of water to freshen her vocal cords.
She was determined to banish the last remnants from the previous night’s unwanted encounter with a male who was the very antithesis of the one sitting gazing at her now. Philip’s company eased some of the inevitable tension that came from the intensity of rehearsals, the pressure on them all and Max’s exacting musical direction. Apart from making sure she did not inadvertently encourage Philip in his crush on her, sitting with him was very undemanding.
With his good-natured, sunny personality, as well as his eagerness and enthusiasm for what was, to him, the novelty of a bohemian, artistic enterprise, it wasn’t surprising tha
t she and the other cast members liked him. What had been more surprising to her was that Max had not objected to his presence. His explanation had not found favour with her.
‘Cherie, anyone staying at their family villa on the Cap is loaded. The boy might not throw money around but, believe me, I’ve checked out the name—he’s one rich kid!’ Max’s eyes had gone to Sarah. ‘Cultivate him, cherie—we could do with a wealthy sponsor.’
Sarah’s reply had been instant—and sharp. ‘Don’t even think of trying to get a donation from him, Max!’ she’d warned.
It would be absolutely out of the question for her to take advantage of her young admirer’s boyish infatuation, however much family money there might be in the background. She’d pondered whether to warn Philip that Max might be angling for some financial help for the cash-strapped ensemble, but then decided not to. Knowing Philip, it would probably only inspire him to offer it.
She gave a silent sigh. What with treading around Philip’s sensibilities, putting her heart and soul into perfecting her performance under the scathing scrutiny of Max, and enduring her nightly ordeal as Sabine, there was a lot on her plate right now. The last thing she needed to be added to it was having her mind straining back with unwelcome insistence to that unnerving visitation to her dressing room the night before.
At her side, Philip was glancing at his watch. He made a face.
‘Need to go back to your essays?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘it’s my cousin—the one who owns the villa on the Cap—he’s turned up on the Riviera and is coming over for lunch.’
‘Checking you aren’t throwing wild all-night parties, is he?’ Sarah teased gently, although Philip was the last type to do any such thing. ‘Or holding one himself?’
Philip shook his head. ‘Bastiaan’s loads too old for that stuff—he’s gone thirty,’ he said ingenuously. ‘He spends most of his time working. Oh, and having hordes of females trailing around after him.’
Well, thought Sarah privately, if Cousin Bastiaan was from the same uber-affluent background as Philip, that wouldn’t be too surprising. Rich men, she supposed, never ran short of female attention.
Before she could stop it, her mind homed back to that incident in her dressing room the night before. Her eyes darkened. Now, there was a man who was not shy of flaunting his wealth. Dropping invitations to flash restaurants and assuming they’d be snapped up.
But immediately she refuted her own accusation.
He didn’t need money to have the impact he had on me. All he had to do was stand there and look at me...
She dragged her mind away. She had to stop this—she had to. How many times did she have to tell herself that?
‘Sarah!’ Max’s imperious call rescued her from her troubling thoughts.
She got to her feet, and Philip did too. ‘Back to the grindstone,’ she said. ‘And you scoot, Philip. Have fun with your cousin.’ She smiled, lifting a brief hand in farewell as she made her way back to the stage.
