Superstar Read online

Helen stopped at the door. "I'm sure he wouldn't, Miss York. You are, after all, his guest."

  Carrin nodded, aware that she had made herself look even more of a hick. After Helen left, she sat on the bed and contemplated her well-worn shoes. Her nervous euphoria had turned to despair, and she longed to burst into tears. Her sense of inadequacy rankled, and resentment replaced it. So, she was poor, so what? So her wardrobe consisted of jeans and T-shirts with two faded dresses.

  Her family laughed at her dreams, the chauffeur condescended and the maid outranked her in beauty and poise. So what? She was here to do business with Mark Lord, not worry about what he thought. Her romantic dreams had to take a back seat to reality now, and she would look like a complete idiot if she revealed the slightest hint of her feelings for him. She rose and changed into her costume and sarong. Undoubtedly Mark Lord would be several more hours at his meeting.

  Barefoot, she padded down the hall and found a door onto the pool area. A professionally landscaped garden surrounded it, complete with rare tree ferns in ceramic pots and a gazebo in the distance smothered with climbing roses. Hedges bordered bright, freshly planted flowerbeds, and spreading trees shaded the expanse of lush lawn mowed to putting-green perfection, complete with dead-straight stripes of light and dark green. The clipped grass tickled her feet as she trotted to the pool's deep, inviting coolness. She dropped the sarong on a reclining pool chair and enjoyed the breeze. Her swimming costume was almost new; she had bought it a few years ago for a trip to the coast and only worn it for the few days that she had spent at the seaside. The bright blue, silky material of the sleek one-piece suit matched her eyes.

  Determined to enjoy herself, she crossed the last few steps to the pool at a run and hurled herself into the water. The splash was rewarding, but she surfaced gasping in shock. Instead of a cool dip, the warm water did nothing to refresh her. Swimming to the side, she pulled herself out and sat on the edge to mop water from her face and shake it from her hair.

  "Of all the damn stupid ideas," she muttered. "Is he so rich he can't even have cold water in his pool?"

  "I like it warm, and since I usually swim at night, when it's cooler, it suits me."

  Carrin gasped and spun around. There he was. Mark Lord: superstar. His eyes flicked over her and came to rest on her face.

  "Welcome to my home, Miss York. I hope the rest of it comes up to your standards."

  Carrin realised that her mouth was open and closed it with a snick of teeth. Her eyes remained riveted to his. She could not tear them from his piercing gaze. His crooked brows, which she had seen so many times on the big screen, rose. He glanced at the pool, breaking the spell. Carrin tried to swallow her pounding heart, which was doing a fandango in her mouth, and wiped water from her face. Rising to her feet, she snatched up her sarong and wrapped it around herself before turning to face him again, feeling slightly less exposed. A slight, seductive smile tugged at one corner of his sensual mouth. Oh yes, she had seen that little smile many times before, and drawn it, too. She raised her chin and met his gaze again.

  "You startled me, Mr Lord. I thought I was alone."

  "Or you wouldn't have been making rude comments about my pool."

  Carrin's hackles rose. "It is rather warm. On a hot day it's nice to swim in cool water."

  "Then you should have used the other pool."

  "Other pool?"

  He pushed his hands into his pockets and sauntered closer. "Yes, the one on the side of the house, which I use for daytime parties and such. This one is for my nightly dip."

  Carrin folded her arms. "I didn't realise you had so many. Most people are content with one."

  Mark Lord shrugged. "I have five; another at my ranch in Louisiana, one at my holiday home in Spain, and one at my house in England. That one's also heated."

  Carrin noticed his distinct lack of accent. He had hardly any of the nasal American twang. He stopped near her and turned to contemplate the garden, allowing her to study his famous profile. She looked away, not wanting to be caught gaping at him.

  "Well, if you don't mind, I'll go and dress."

  "Why?" Mark Lord swung back to face her, looking surprised. "You wanted a cool swim, go and have one."

  "I came here to do business, Mr Lord, not for a holiday."

  He almost smiled. The wish to was obviously there, but she had never seen him smile. "My dear Miss York, I invited you to stay here for a week, and while you're in my home, you must feel free to amuse yourself any way you wish. Our business will be taken care of; there's no rush."

  She smiled. "Thank you, but I feel refreshed enough, and it's getting late."

  He glanced at the setting sun and shrugged. "As you wish. Oh, I'm having a little dinner party tonight, just a few close friends."

  Carrin's eyes widened. She had barely enough clothes to wear during the day, and definitely nothing to wear to a dinner party.

  He cocked a brow. "What's wrong?"

  "Er, I don't think I'm feeling up to a dinner party tonight, actually. Jet lag, you know."

  "I expect you to attend, Miss York. My friends want to meet you. You can retire early if you wish."

  Carrin's mind boggled. She was a failed writer of no note whatsoever from the backwoods of South Africa. Why would he want his friends to meet her? Was she to be the freak on show? Did they expect her to wear a springbok-skin skirt and walk around with a pot on her head? She was not ashamed of who she was, and if her lack of smart attire embarrassed him, that was his problem. He was not as tall as she had expected. He looked tall in films, yet he was no more than four inches taller than her, and she was only five foot seven. His black silk shirt was open at the neck to reveal an expanse of smooth tanned chest. Well-cut matching trousers, a gold watch and grey shoes completed his tasteful outfit. Becoming aware that he was still waiting for an answer, she inclined her head.

  "I'll see you later then."

  "Around seven. Helen will show you where we are."

  Carrin re-entered the house, aware of his eyes on her back and wanting to run. In her room, she changed into dry clothes and sat in front of the mirror. Her hair was damp and wild, and she dragged a brush through it, but it just curled back into its former state. Compared to Helen, she looked like a waif dragged in from the rain, or backwards through a hedge. To make matters worse, there would undoubtedly be beautiful women at the dinner tonight. Carrin shrugged and pulled a face.

  "You know you don't have a hope in hell anyway, stupid. Why even bother to try?"

  Well, she had met him. Any romantic notions were unrealistic anyway. A lot of things about him had surprised her, too. He was not only shorter than she had expected, but slender, though well built. Without the benefit of film make up, his face was not as striking, yet nothing could detract from the perfection of his features. Sighing, she dragged herself from her dream and went to shower.

  Carrin glared at the contents of her suitcase, now spread all over the bed, in despair. How the hell was she going to dress for dinner? She picked up her best pair of black jeans and hurled them across the room. She couldn't wear jeans to dinner. That left a floral skirt and a doubtful collection of blouses. She picked up the skirt and held it against herself. The material was so thin it was almost see-through. Usually she wore a petticoat with it, but of course, she had neglected to pack one.

  Rummaging in the pile of underwear, she found a pair of black tights. They could be worn on their own, but she had always considered that too revealing, and usually wore a long shirt over them. She pulled out a black sleeveless T-shirt. Well, it would have to do. An embroidered sash around the waist, a few accessories, and she would be reasonably well dressed. The only black shoes she possessed were a pair of plimsolls, so she put them on. The skirt was long, and the black tights were visible through it, but she thought the combination was interesting.

  Using her hairbrush with vigour, she slicked back her hair. She considered her meagre armoury of make-up, which consisted of eyeliner, mascara, powder and eye sha
dow. No use in plastering it on, he had already seen her without any, and nothing could be worse than that, except maybe being overdone. Seven o'clock approached, so she applied the make-up sparingly. The end result was not bad; it brightened her features and made her eyes look larger. A touch of pink lipstick, and she was ready.

  Helen waited at the bottom of the stairs, and her scathing look spoke volumes as Carrin reached her. Carrin glared at the maid, who turned and led the way down a hall to the side of the main entrance hall. Helen wore a little more make up than before, a deep red lipstick that complemented her creamy skin and ink-black hair. With a contemptuous smile, she threw open the double wooden doors to a massive lounge with a dining room next to it, visible through an archway.

  A crowd stood by a polished oak bar or sat on the luxurious cream leather sofas, drinking and talking. Most turned at her entrance, and she spotted Mark Lord by the bar, his presence like a beacon. He was still clad in the black and grey outfit he had worn earlier. A stunningly lovely red-head clad in a sleek white evening dress of watered silk with a sequin-studded top clung to his arm. She was the same supermodel Carrin had seen him with in the paparazzi magazine. The sultry beauty leant over and spoke in Mark’s ear, but he remained expressionless. She had to lean over, because she was at least two inches taller than Mark Lord.

  As she crossed the room towards her host, Carrin knew she was distinctly dowdy amongst so many well-dressed celebrities, much like a farmyard rooster in a flock of peacocks. The women's dresses were straight out of fashion magazines, and any one of them must have cost more than her mother's farm made in a year, maybe two. In fact, one woman wore enough diamonds to buy the smallholding twice over. Raising her chin, she approached the bar. Mark came to meet her, offering her a barstool. She perched on it as the waiter asked what she would drink, and he handed her the shandy she requested.

  Mark turned to the supermodel beside him. "Jenna, I'd like you to meet my house guest, Carrin York. Carrin, this is Jenna Morden."

  Carrin smiled. "Pleased to meet you."

  Jenna returned her smile coldly. "Likewise, I'm sure."

  Mark Lord indicated someone behind Carrin, and she turned to face a blond, blue-eyed man with classical good looks and the build of a Greek god barely hidden by a lightweight suit. He grinned, revealing even white teeth, as Mark Lord introduced him as Simon Grey. Carrin smiled, a little overwhelmed. Simon Grey was another superstar who always appeared in lead roles, a famous heartthrob adored by millions of women. She shook his hand, then Mark Lord led her away to meet the rest of his guests. They were all famous, mostly actors, and a couple of singers, even most of the wives or girlfriends were famous, as well as beautiful.

  Money marries money, Carrin thought wryly, or fame marries fame. After the introductions were over, Mark Lord returned to Jenna’s side, and Simon Grey sat beside Carrin. Evidently she had been partnered with him for the evening. He chatted about himself, a shallow conversation with which she soon grew bored. For all his good looks and charm, Simon Grey did not interest her in the least. Instead, her eyes were drawn to Mark, to whose arm Jenna clung. Forget it, Carrin berated herself, you don't have a chance, idiot.

  Hovering maids served a four-course dinner, each course more delicious than the last. After the third course, Carrin could eat no more. She had never seen so much food in all her life, or so much waste. Simon Grey, seated beside her, got into a conversation with the ageing actor on the other side of her, and they conversed across her, apparently oblivious to her presence. Twice, she looked up to find Mark watching her, a slight frown tugging at his brows. Most of the time, Jenna Morden kept his attention, whispering an intimate conversation for his ears only, forcing him to lean close to hear her.

  Carrin was glad of that; it gave her a chance to stare at him without his noticing, and she studied him. While the other guests picked at each course and left most of it, Carrin polished off everything that was put before her, until the fourth course, by which time she was so full she could only toy with it.

  Another problem had reared its ugly head by then, namely, she could no longer keep her eyes open. Each time she forced her eyelids apart, they stubbornly crept down again, and once the nodding of her head jerked her awake. Afraid that she would fall asleep and end up face down in her dessert, she leant back. A maid took Carrin's plate away, and she sipped her glass of wine. That only made it worse; wine always made her sleepy. The drone of conversation faded to a faraway hum, and her eyes closed. A touch on her shoulder jerked her awake, and she looked up. Mark stood over her, and Jenna eyed her sourly from the far end of the table.

  Dazedly she stood as he said, "Excuse us, but I'm afraid Miss York's tired. She only arrived today, and there's a seven hour time difference between here and Africa."

  The guests murmured in sympathy as he led Carrin away, gripping her elbow. His warm, gentle touch sent shivers through her. He took her as far as the doors, where Helen stood.

  "Take Miss York to her room, and see that she doesn't fall asleep on the way," he instructed.

  Helen nodded, her eyes soft as they rested on him.

  Carrin muttered, "Good night," and followed the maid back to her room, where she flung herself on the bed. How embarrassing. She did not have much time for self-recrimination, for her eyes slammed shut and sleep claimed her.

  Carrin awoke in the same position in which she had fallen asleep; sprawled across the bed, her eyes gummy and her mouth tasting like a cow shed floor. Climbing stiffly off the bed, she tottered to the bathroom and showered. Helen brought breakfast, but the sight of food turned Carrin's stomach. Her watch told her that it was eleven o'clock.

  "Where's Mr Lord?" she asked.

  "Playing tennis with Simon Grey."

  "I see." Carrin sipped her orange juice. "When will he be back?"

  "When they've finished." Helen turned and glided out, leaving Carrin with the unwanted breakfast tray. She ate as much as she could, then donned her swimming costume and sarong and set off to find the cool pool. It was at the side of the house, and far larger than the heated one at the back. After swimming a few lengths, she emerged refreshed and revitalised. Returning to her room, she changed into jeans and a T-shirt and settled down on the bed to draw. Now that she had studied Mark Lord in real life, she could sketch him with far more accuracy. A couple of hours later, a knock at the door made her shove her drawings under the pillow before inviting the person in.

  Mark entered, looking devastating in a white casual suit. His dark eyes flitted around the room. "If you're not busy, we could discuss your screenplay now."

  Carrin nodded. "Of course."

  As she dug in her suitcase, he leant against the doorframe. "You know, you can phone home if you want."

  She glanced up. "How do you know I haven't?"

  "All calls are logged in a computer downstairs."

  "I see. Well, I've been busy."

  His brows rose. "Writing?"

  "Drawing."

  "So you're an artist too. May I see?"

  Her blood turned cold. "No, I'd rather you didn't. They're just doodles."

  "Won't your family be expecting you to call?"

  "Not really." Finding the screenplay, she straightened. "Here it is."

  He pushed himself away from the doorframe. "Good, let's go to my study."

  Mark led her down the hall, his gait lithe and gliding, which she had not noticed in his films. In his villainous roles, he usually swaggered. Once she had seen him cast in a romantic role, and thought that it suited him, although it had been rather too sexual for her taste. Entering a book-lined room, he indicated a chair before a gleaming mahogany desk.

  "Have a seat, Miss York."

  "Please call me Carrin."

  He nodded. "Okay, and you can drop the 'Mr Lord', too."

  Mark settled opposite and steepled his hands. She fumbled with the manuscript and put it on the desk before she dropped it. She outlined the plot, gazing at his profile while he stared into space. When she fin
ished, he swung to face her, and she looked away.

  "I like it. It's original. Perhaps too original."

  "How can it be too original?"

  "Well, producers like to back a sure thing; that's why there are so many sequels. Once a formula has proven itself, they like to use it as many times as they can, until the audiences are so thoroughly bored with the theme that they no longer go to watch it."

  Carrin fiddled with her manuscript. "You've never made a sequel."

  "I refuse to. That's why I don't make many movies. Producers don't like an actor who refuses to make sequels, because it's very difficult to use another actor for the same part."

  "But all the films you've been in are good."

  A faint smile curled his lips. "I've made a few duds, which you probably haven't seen."

  "So you'd be willing to play the lead?"

  "I'll have to read the screenplay, but I like the plot."

  Carrin pushed the manuscript towards him. "And then you'll get a studio to make it?"

  Mark studied her, shaking his head. "I can't get a studio to make it; I'm not a producer. I can show it to a producer and tell him that I'd like to do it, which might persuade them to make it. But if they don't like it, there's nothing I can do."

  She nodded. "That's good enough."

  He leant forward, his eyes intense. "You know, if all your work is this good, you'll make it eventually. Sometimes it takes years to make a name for yourself, but if you keep trying you'll get there. Don't give up."

  She looked down at the manuscript, embarrassed. "I don't want to give up, but unfortunately I have to earn a living. I can't carry on like this indefinitely. You've given me some hope, and I'm grateful for that. Perhaps this will be my break."

  "I hope so. I know what you're going through; I've been there. Leave the manuscript with me, and I'll read it when I have time."

  Aware that she was being dismissed, Carrin stood up, and Mark rose to face her. "Tea will be served on the patio at four, if you'd care to join me."

  "Thank you."

  As Carrin walked back to her room, her stomach’s rumbles made her wonder what had happened to lunch. Entering the suite, she received a shock. Helen stood beside the bed, perusing the drawings Carrin had hidden under her pillow. She marched up to the maid.