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‘Well, you could, I suppose,’ said Darian lazily, but then he shook his head. ‘No, on second thoughts—don’t. Let’s surprise them.’
‘Sure?’
Unseen, Darian smiled. ‘Oh, perfectly sure,’ he said softly. ‘Women are always so much more interesting when you catch them unawares, don’t you think? You see them for what they really are, rather than what they want you to see.’
‘That sounds like a pretty harsh judgement,’ observed Scott. ‘I didn’t have you down for a cynic.’
Darian smiled again, but this time it barely curved his lips. ‘Not harsh at all,’ he said softly. ‘Nor cynical. Just an accurate assessment. Now, come on—let’s go.’ And as his dark head appeared in the lighted studio the whole room fell silent.
Lara was out of breath, her unruly hair looking even more tousled than usual. The denim jacket she wore was making her much too hot, but she didn’t want to spare the time to take it off. She waited for the bus to swish its way through the puddle past her, and then made a run for the door of the studio, glancing at her watch as she did so. Damn, damn and damn!
Her agent had been doubtful—sniffy, even—about putting Lara forward for the casting, but frantic questioning had assured her that, yes, there was a last vacant slot in the day’s casting for Wildman Phones.
‘Why the hell didn’t you put me forward for it in the first place?’ she had wailed.
Her agent had sounded incredulous. ‘Lara—the last time I saw you your hair was cropped and dark.’
‘But I was appearing in a Russian play!’ she’d protested. ‘It’s back to normal now!’
‘How normal is normal?’ her agent had enquired patiently. ‘You’re a brunette, lovie—and they’re looking for the archetypal English rose!’
‘Archetypal, not stereotypical!’ Lara had retorted. ‘There’s nothing in the rulebook to say an English rose can’t have dark hair!’
‘I suppose not,’ her agent had responded doubtfully.
Lara pushed the studio door open and a brief feeling of irony washed over her. English rose indeed! Clad in denim and a clinging black tee-shirt, anyone less fitting the description she had yet to see. But she reminded herself that she wasn’t really here to get the job. She was here to see the great man himself, that was all—and what better way to do that than legitimately?
The two women standing in the foyer looked her up and down.
‘Which way’s the casting?’ Lara squeaked.
One looked uncertain and the other gave a slightly smug smile as she jerked her thumb in the direction of the spiral staircase. ‘Up there. And you’re late,’ she added bluntly.
‘I know I am,’ moaned Lara, as she legged it up the steps.
The room was stifling, reeked of lots of different clashing perfumes, and was full of women. Correction—beautiful women. And every single one of them had taken to heart the English rose theme in a big, big way. Despite her nerves, Lara bit back a smile.
Some of them wore lace-trimmed blouses; others were resplendent in flower-sprigged high-necked dresses. There was even one woman clad in floor-length muslin who looked as if she would be more at home eating cucumber sandwiches on a quintessential English lawn, instead of packed into a crowded studio with a load of competitive peers.
And every woman in the room shared one unmistakable characteristic.
They were all blonde!
‘S-sorry!’ gulped Lara as each sleek golden head turned in her direction.
Then, just as quickly, the women turned away from her again, and it took a moment or two while she caught her breath for Lara to realise that they were no
w all looking at one person. Or, rather, one man.
Lara hadn’t noticed him at first, because he had been standing in the shadows in one corner of the room, but once she had seen him she wondered how on earth he could have escaped her attention—because he seemed to radiate a vitality which made everyone else in the room look as though they were only half-alive. She narrowed her eyes in his direction and felt her heart clench in her chest, as if an iron fist had crumpled it between cold, hard fingers.
‘I—I’m 1-late,’ she stammered.
‘Damn right you are,’ he agreed, in a silky murmur.
She kept her face composed—she never quite knew how she did it—not when she was feeling this faint and dizzy and weak—and surreptitiously snaked her tongue out over lips which had dried so thoroughly that she felt she would never be able to speak again.
Sometimes you knew the truth about something by instinct alone, and if she had ever doubted the claim made by the writer of that letter then that doubt was vanquished instantly as she stared across the room at Darian Wildman.
