Shadows in the Limelight Read online

  ‘As for your wanting publicity,’ James Latimer scoffed, ‘without the right people behind you, all the publicity in the world won’t get you elected dog-catcher. I may not have ever run for office, but I know what I’m talking about. You’ll get elected by sitting with the boys in the smoke-Med rooms, not by having your picture spread all over the media.’

  Ironically, at that moment Kent was staring at a publicity picture from a magazine, not of a politician, but of the singer, Cat Devlin. What a beautiful child she had been! Not that the woman she had become was not a beauty, but she no longer possessed that look of uninhibited joy that made the teenager so eye-catching. Was it only age that had robbed her of that joie de vivre?

  ‘Well, so you agree with me? You’ll meet with Penrod?’ his father demanded, and Kent realised that he had nearly forgotten the man on the phone.

  ‘No,’ he said bluntly, still holding the picture. ‘I have to trust my own instincts. I’m sorry, Dad, but that’s the way it is. Now, I’d better be going. Say hello to Mom for me. Goodbye.’ He hung up before his father had a chance to detain him with further arguments.

  For several minutes, Kent continued to study the photograph. His father discounted the value of publicity in a political campaign, but Kent knew better. You could not put your ideas across if you couldn’t gain the voters’ attention. And it wasn’t the back-room boys who could get you that attention. Perhaps here was a way of showing his father that it took something more—or someone.

  Catherine tossed the pen on to her desk, stretching her arms above her head to ease her cramped muscles. She loved running the flower shop, dealing with the customers and suppliers, and working on the arrangements. The only drawback was doing the accounts. Apart from the fact that she was appallingly bad at maths, she was never comfortable demanding payment on overdue accounts. She catered to a wealthy clientele and though one would have thought that this wouldn’t be a problem, if anything it seemed to make it worse. She was beginning to think that the reason her clients had so much money was because they never paid for the things they ordered! Most seemed to think nothing of allowing their accounts to fall months into arrears.

  Massaging her temple, she wished she hadn’t lost Kent Latimer as a customer. Not only had he ordered a lot of flowers, he had actually paid for them! Roses, forget-me-nots, orchids—they had gushed out of the shop as gifts for his girl-friends. What an idiot she had been to offend him! The worst part was she probably had even less chance of making up with him than she did with Nancy, after a week during which she had been thoroughly snubbed by the girl.

  Fortunately, before she could brood on the loss of her friend for long, her assistant, Paula, came into the office. ‘There’s someone to see you.’

  ‘Coming.’ Catherine glanced down at her accounts and shoved her chair back, pleased at the interruption. Maybe she should hire an accountant—let someone else untangle all those numbers and send out chastising letters to the clients who wouldn’t pay. The idea brought a smile to her lips as she left the office.

  It died a swift death as she recognised her visitor. What was Kent Latimer doing here? Though he had never sent her the cleaning bill for his trousers, Catherine hadn’t been surprised that his secretary had stopped placing orders with her.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me?’ she asked, taking her courage in both hands when she reached him, tilting her head slightly to look up at him. Close up, he was devastatingly good-looking: his features were well formed and aristocratic, the clear blue of his eyes startling against his tan. There was a certain rugged masculinity about his face that the newspaper photographs she had seen of him hadn’t captured. And while she had realised he was handsome, for some reason she hadn’t expected him to be quite so sexually attractive. But he was, extremely so. Her smile grew strained.

  ‘Miss Delaney, I dropped in to ask you to have dinner with me this evening.’ He smiled down at her, exposing even white teeth that could have featured in a toothpaste ad.

  As his smile widened into a grin, she realised she was gaping at him. Hastily she closed her mouth, but couldn’t hide the confusion in her features. ‘Why?’ She said the first thing that came into her mind.

  He laughed softly, a warm, male sound that affected Catherine’s pulse. ‘Surely you don’t need to be told how attractive you are? I hadn’t expected you to fish for compliments,’ he teased her gently, his eyes openly admiring.

  Catherine flushed deeply at his familiarity and realised that, of course, a man with as many admirers as Kent Latimer would have charm, but why was he using it on her? After what had happened the other afternoon, she was frankly surprised he was even civil to her, let alone flattering.

  Deliberately assuming an air of composure, Catherine stepped slightly back from him before saying, ‘I can’t believe that’s the reason you’re asking me out.’ There was definite note of bewilderment in her voice that she couldn’t disguise.

  ‘Well, not entirely,’ he offered, and she looked at him sharply, suddenly cautious. ‘I wanted to make up to you for my behaviour the other day. I’m afraid I was rather rude to you when I left here and was hoping you would let me apologise by taking you out to dinner.’

  ‘B-but,’ Catherine stammered in confusion, ‘I ruined your clothes.’

  ‘And apologised very sweetly for the accident,’ he said smoothly. His lips pursed in a chagrined gesture. ‘I wasn’t very sweet to you, though, was I? I’m really quite ashamed of myself and hope you will overlook my rudeness. Please, won’t you have dinner with me and let me show you I’m not always such a boor?’

  His tone was warmly sincere, but Catherine met his eyes warily. She had resented the way he had rebuffed her attempts to apologise after the accident, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined he would be ashamed of his behaviour.

  She wasn’t altogether sure she believed him now. She knew the type of women Kent Latimer dated, or at least those he sent flowers to: society types, the occasional model. Somehow, a florist with a small shop didn’t fit the picture.

  Curiosity warred with caution, as she weighed the pros and cons of going out with him. She supposed the worst that could happen would be that he would turn out to be an absolute drip and she would be bored all evening. Smiling suddenly, she remembered she wouldn’t have to work on the books tonight, either.

  ‘I’d be pleased to have dinner with you Mr. Latimer,’ Catherine accepted politely. The shock of his unexpected invitation had worn off and she was starting to look forward to the evening.

  ‘Please call me Kent,’ he replied silkily, then: ‘I’ll pick you up at your apartment about eight.’ He reached down and took her hand, lifting it to his lips and gently placing his lips against the back of it. ‘Until tonight, Cat,’ he murmured softly, looking deep into her eyes, and then he was gone.

  For several seconds Catherine stared dumbfounded at the shop door. She looked down at her hand and touched the spot where his lips had been. Kissing her hand like that had been so incredibly ... corny. So why hadn’t she laughed in his face instead of gaping at him like some starry-eyed teenager? He certainly knew how to keep a girl off-balance, Catherine thought, wondering if she had made a mistake in agreeing to go out with him. She frowned and rubbed the back of her hand against her skirt, suddenly very wary of Kent Latimer.

  As she went back to her office she avoided Paula’s curious stare, unwilling to discuss her visitor with the girl. She needed to think. He hadn’t asked for the address of her apartment, and now that she thought about it, he had called her Delaney and not used her stage name, Devlin. Obviously he had checked her out before asking her for a date. But why?

  CHAPTER TWO

  CATHERINE was aware of the curious stares that followed them as the maître d’ led them to their table by the window—that the eyes of the other women in the room were faintly envious as they rested on her escort. And well they might be, she thought, glancing at the handsome profile of Kent Latimer. His reputation as a ladies’ man was justly
deserved, and although she knew she was foolish to succumb to his practised technique, she couldn’t help being impressed by him.

  He had arrived at her door promptly at eight, declining her invitation for a drink before they left. Instead, he had taken her to the revolving lounge on top of the Sheridan Landmark for pre-dinner cocktails. Over forty floors above the street, it gave a magnificent, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the city, without it being necessary to turn one's head. Not that Catherine had really noticed the view, she was far too enthralled with her companion. Somehow Kent Latimer managed to combine an old-fashioned chivalry that made a woman feel cherished and protected with a modern regard for her opinions and ideas that afforded her respect and equality as a person. Throw in the fact that he was attractive, wealthy, undoubtedly sexy, and very eligible and it was no wonder she was half-way to finding him irresistible and their date had barely begun.

  By the time they had left the Sheridan for the restaurant in another prestigious Vancouver hotel, Catherine was in a state of heady well-being that had nothing to do with the Martini she had consumed. Her usual reserve towards men seemed to have deserted her and she was determined to make the most of her date with Kent. She was tired of lukewarm friendships that never touched her emotions, and Kent Latimer was the most interesting man she had met in years. Allowing herself to become infatuated with him was amusing.

  When they reached the table, Kent held her chair for her, making sure she was comfortably settled before taking his own seat. He sent a warm smile to her across the candlelit table before turning to accept the wine list from the waiter. Kent gave it a cursory glance, only ascertaining her preference for red or white, before ordering an imported Chardonnay. Then he turned his attention to the dinner menu, occasionally making suggestions as to what Catherine might like to eat.

  The wine approved and poured, their order taken, the last waiter glided away from the table, leaving them alone. Kent took an appreciative sip of his wine, then smiled across at Catherine. ‘This is an excellent wine. I hope you like it.’

  Catherine sampled her own glass, quickly concealing her reaction. The wine was drier than she was used to and tasted faintly astringent to her palate. ‘Have you eaten here before?’ she asked, deciding wine was a topic it might be best to avoid. When she had been a singer, she hadn’t drunk at all, it didn’t fit with the image she had tried to project, and in the years since then she had had little opportunity to acquire the taste for fine wines.

  Kent nodded in answer to her question. ‘They usually do quite a good job of the meal, and the service is excellent.’

  Catherine looked around and found another waiter watching them with predatory regard. ‘They tend to make you feel almost guilty if you don’t give them something to do,’ she commented, laughing softly as the man leapt into action to light the cigarette of a woman seated at a nearby table.

  He followed the direction of her gaze. ‘I’m glad to see you don’t smoke, it’s not a habit I find attractive.’ He turned back to her. ‘But then you don’t strike me as a person with vices.’

  She swirled the pale gold wine in her glass, taking a small sip to hide her embarrassed flush. He seemed to be expecting some reply, so finally she said, ‘Thank you for the compliment, but I assure you, I’m only human. I have my faults just like everyone else.’

  He reached out and took her hand, his fingers twining in hers. Little lines of amusement fanned out from the corners of his eyes as he grinned at her. ‘What are you hiding?’ He chuckled softly, shaking his head. ‘You have beautiful eyes—too beautiful to hide dark secrets.’

  The waiter returned at that moment with their appetisers, and Kent released her hand to allow him to set the dishes before them. Catherine watched the man refill their wine-glasses, despite the fact that they had barely tasted the liquid. Kent’s teasing comments had had a shattering effect on her mood. Dark secrets—why had he had to use that term? There were too many dark secrets in her past, secrets she could never tell anyone.

  She bent her head to sample her appetiser, although the thought of food at that moment was repellent. The magic had gone out of the evening and she didn’t know how to recapture it. Unaware of her withdrawal, Kent tasted his prawn cocktail, then took another sip of his wine before speaking. ‘I hope you’ve forgiven me for my behaviour the other day,’ he began, smiling at her. ‘I wasn’t being intentionally obtuse when I failed to recognise the name of Cat Devlin.’

  For an instant the hand bearing a forkful of food to her mouth froze. What a fool she was! All the time she had been speculating on why Kent had asked her out, she had overlooked the most obvious reason of all.

  Catherine forced herself to look up, to smile. Unfortunately for Kent Latimer, he was going to be disappointed; the last thing she would do was talk about her alter ego. Cat Devlin. ‘You couldn’t have been expected to, so there’s nothing to forgive. Please, let’s just forget about it.’ She turned her attention back to her plate. ‘This is quite good. I’m glad you recommended it.’ She took a bite. The salmon tasted like cardboard.

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ he echoed, then persisted, ‘but Catherine, I’m really sorry about the way I acted that afternoon I came into your shop. I’m not normally that difficult to get along with, I assure you.’

  ‘It isn’t important, Kent,’ she said, pushing her plate to one side. ‘Besides, I wasn’t exactly pleasant myself. I hope the person you gave the flowers to enjoyed them.’

  ‘She did. They were for my secretary—a birthday gift. I happened to mention who you were and she turned out to be a great fan of yours.’ He looked up to grin at her. ‘The next morning she brought in this enormous scrapbook of press clippings about your career.’ (A scrapbook—Catherine suppressed a grimace). ‘You had an exciting life. I’m surprised you gave it up.’ He paused, giving Catherine the opportunity of commenting, but when she remained silent, he continued, ‘I suppose you didn’t want to go on as a single after your brother died.’

  ‘That’s right.’ How could she manage to introduce another topic of conversation without sounding rude?

  ‘Losing your brother must have been a blow, especially as you’d lost your parents a few years earlier.’ There was another of those pauses as he waited for her to speak, but what could she say? ‘Your father was a minister, wasn’t he? It couldn’t have been easy to adapt to the life of a Las Vegas entertainer coming from that sort of sheltered background. You and your brother handled it well. A lot of kids your age would have been corrupted by that sort of life, though I suppose your parents still provided sound moral role models even though they had passed on.’

  Catherine took a sip of her wine, finding it difficult to swallow and struggled with a half-hysterical urge to laugh. If Kent only knew! If she had followed her mother’s role model she would have found it very easy to fit into the Las Vegas scene. In the ten years since Rick Moss, their manager, had concocted that phoney biography for her and Casey, Catherine was still amazed that they had never been found out.

  Of course, if anyone was an expert at deception, it was Rick. He would have made a perfect camouflage officer for the army. Catherine bit her lip; she really didn’t like thinking about Rick, about the secrets he kept. How could he and Brian have kept something like that from her? Rick, she could understand: getting help for Casey might have incurred publicity and he would have done nothing to jeopardise their career. But Brian—he was supposed to have been their friend!

  For one frightening second, the image of Casey as she had last seen him filled her brain—his features relaxed in death, his body sprawled across the front seat of his car. Quickly she closed her eyes, pressing her hand to her forehead as if to push the image out of her mind forever. She wouldn’t think about the Devlins, about Casey, about what had happened.

  ‘Tell me, Cat,’ Kent persisted, a touch of annoyance in his tone, ‘what was it like being a successful entertainer?’

  His question intruded into her thoughts and suddenl
y she was furiously angry. Looking up, she glared at him with a set face, and Kent’s own mouth finned. ‘I imagine your life was quite different then,’ he probed again, a stubborn light glinting in his eyes.

  ‘It was,’ Catherine said shortly.

  ‘And you don’t miss it?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ She focused on a point just beyond his shoulder. Did she miss it? Strangely enough she didn’t know the answer. Sometimes she would recall the surge of adrenalin that had shot through her when she had stepped out on to the stage, the heady sensation that seemed to lift her right off her feet when the applause started. But singing—that had been only a small part of being Cat Devlin. As for the rest of it—she would never go back, and at the thought of it she found herself clenching her hands in her lap. The long hours, the pressure, the demands that had taken so much out of her that she had lost her brother even before his death.

  Resentfully, Catherine met Kent’s eyes, her own glacial. ‘If you’ve read the clippings, there isn’t anything I can add to them,’ she said curtly.

  The awkward silence that followed this statement was finally broken by the arrival of a waiter. He removed their used plates and topped up their wineglasses before leaving them alone again, while Catherine fiddled nervously with her napkin. She knew she had angered Kent, but he had left her no way of avoiding it. Finally, as the lengthening silence became even more uncomfortable, the orchestra started to play a lively number with a strong Latin beat, and in desperation she asked, ‘Do you think we could dance to this?’

  Kent frowned slightly, but good manners dictated he should agree, and laying his napkin aside, he rose from his chair to escort her to the dance floor. As he led her through the steps of the rumba, Catherine looked up at him and smiled uncertainly, but he wasn’t looking at her, his face set. She was guiltily aware she had handled things badly, but although she was a little ashamed of her churlishness, there had seemed no other way of choking him off.