Shadows in the Limelight Read online

  With a soft groan, he slowly turned her to face him, moulding her yielding curves to his firm ones, and finding her mouth with his. There was an urgency to his kiss as he parted her lips, dragging a primitive response from the very depths of her. ‘Oh, Cat,’ he whispered against her lips. ‘Do you have any idea what you do to me?’

  As he kissed her his fingers found the buttons of her blouse and deftly unfastened them. Pushing it aside, he lowered his head to her exposed breast and took it in his mouth, his tongue tracing an exquisite circle that sent painful pleasure shooting through her. Her pulse was pounding in her ears as she strained against him, lost in a rapture of pure sensation. He slipped the top from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and buried his face in the scented flesh between her breasts. His jaw was faintly rough from the day’s growth of beard, awakening her senses with exquisite delight.

  Easily, he lifted her off her feet and laid her across the satin spread on the bed. For a long moment he held her eyes, then moved them slowly over her bare flesh in a look akin to a caress. ‘You’re so very beautiful, Cat,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think I could ever tire of looking at you.’ In a fluid movement he lay on the bed beside her, stroking the satin flesh of her midriff as his eyes roved over the rounded curve of her breasts. Catherine stared at him in mute appeal, the depth of her need almost painful. Her breasts felt full and heavy as his gaze touched them, and she ached for his touch. She raised her hands and linked them around his neck, her lips parting invitingly. The kiss was long and drugged, filled with the heat of passion that burned between them.

  Her blood was drumming in her ears, shutting out reality, when Kent suddenly jack-knifed off the bed, muttering a curse. Someone was knocking at the door, then: ‘Cat, are you about ready to come down?’ Mrs. Latimer’s voice was strident as it came through the closed door of the bedroom.

  For several seconds, Catherine stared at the doorknob in horror. She didn’t dare breathe for fear it would turn and Mrs. Latimer would come in uninvited. Kent’s mind was obviously running on parallel lines, because he suddenly hissed, ‘For God’s sake, answer her before she decides to come in!’

  His words snapped her trance, and she said quickly, ‘D-don’t come in, I’m ... I’m just changing. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.’ Her voice sounded high-pitched and unnatural.

  ‘OK, then,’ Mrs. Latimer answered through the door. ‘You don’t know where Kent is, do you?’ Casting a quick glance at the man standing beside the bed, Catherine quickly lied, ‘No-no. I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find him while you finish dressing,’ said Jean. Then they heard her walk away. Turning to look at Kent, Catherine suddenly became aware of the expression in his eyes and blushed crimson as she realised how close they had been to complete love-making. Self-consciously, she gathered the spread around her, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

  His eyes lingered momentarily on her. ‘I’d better get out of here,’ he said in a strained voice, and turning away abruptly, left the room.

  Fifteen minutes later, Catherine was dressed and walking down the corridor to the stairs. She hadn’t dressed so fast since her days as a singer when she had had to make quick costume changes between acts. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with a dropped waistline that gave it a faintly 1920s look. The low-cut bodice was held up by narrow shoulder straps and edged with silver sequins. With dark tights and matching shoes, it was very attractive, and Catherine hoped no one would notice it was slightly creased from lying in her suitcase.

  Mrs. Latimer was in the hall when she descended the stairs. Immediately, the other woman crossed to her, giving the dress a look of approval. Her face wreathed with smiles, she looped her arm through Catherine’s and impelled her towards the rear of the house. Catherine was faintly bemused by the time they reached the enormous living-room that faced the sea. She would have been disappointed if Kent’s mother hadn’t liked her, although her wholehearted approval was nearly as disconcerting.

  Finally the introductions were completed, and Jean left her with the last group she had met while she went to fetch her a glass of egg-nog. As Catherine listened idly to the small talk flowing around her, she casually inspected the room. It was ideal for entertaining and though there were easily thirty people in the room, it was far from crowded. Huge windows formed one wall, overlooking the water, and Catherine imagined the view of the Gulf Islands would be spectacular in the daylight. Holly boughs decorated the mantel of the stone fireplace where a cheerful fire crackled behind a glass screen. At the opposite end of the room from the fireplace was a magnificent grand piano in gleaming mahogany. Next to it was the Christmas tree, its pine boughs decorated with gold ornaments and lights that colour co-ordinated with the room’s furnishings.

  The tree almost reached the high, vaulted ceiling and Catherine was speculating as to how they had managed to get it through the door, when she noticed that the group around her had fallen silent. She looked up to meet cold, black eyes staring at her from a mature, handsome face. The family resemblance to Kent was unmistakable and she knew instantly that this man was his father. However, there was none of the friendly acceptance displayed by Mrs. Latimer in his face. His expression was faintly censorious, his gaze derogatory as he moved his eyes down her body in insolent appraisal.

  ‘So, you’re the famous Cat Devlin,’ Mr. Latimer said, his eyes returning to her face. Catherine frowned at the cold inflexion of his tone. She looked around to find that the group she had been standing with had quietly faded away. Mrs. Latimer was deep in conversation at the far side of the room, her mission of providing Catherine with a drink obviously forgotten. Kent had yet to arrive and Catherine realised she was on her own to deal with the unfriendly man before her.

  Catherine licked her lips nervously. ‘That was my stage name,’ she said finally. ‘My real name is Catherine Delaney.’ Her chin lifted slightly, her eyes finding his.

  ‘The name Cat Devlin is the one everyone is supposed to have heard, though,’ he said smoothly. He paused a moment, his eyes boring into hers and Catherine found she was forced to drop her own. ‘My son tells me that you are a great political asset and can make all the difference to his career.’

  ‘He has asked me to help him on his campaign,’ Catherine said evenly. She didn’t want to admit that Kent had later changed his mind. She couldn’t understand why James Latimer should have taken such an instant dislike to her, but whatever the cause, the feeling was mutual. His obvious scepticism about her worth as a political supporter rankled.

  ‘In exactly what form is this “help” supposed to come?’

  Catherine cleared her throat. ‘Accompanying him to various functions, being seen at his side...’ she hesitated a fraction of a second, then looked squarely into his face, ‘letting the public know that I’m the lady in his life.’ It was a foolish boast, designed merely to annoy James Latimer, but as she saw his jawline harden she knew it had succeeded and she was secretly pleased with herself for having made it.

  His eyes fell to the low neck of her dress, then moved lower to skim the rounded curves of her hips in a purely sexual appraisal. He looked up again, smiling faintly when he saw Catherine’s heated cheeks. ‘Yes,’ he said silkily, ‘I have little doubt that there are certain areas of my son’s life where he finds you quite useful.’

  Catherine drew her breath in sharply. ‘I don’t think I care for your implication, Mr. Latimer.’ She saw Kent enter the living-room with Peter Castle and automatically started towards him, wanting only to escape.

  As she moved, Mr. Latimer’s hand shot out to take her wrist in a painful grip. ‘Before you go, just one thing, Miss Devlin,’ he said in a soft, menacing voice.

  ‘For all your avowals of helping Kent politically, being publicised as the “lady in his life”, you have yet to appear at a public function with him.’ The hand on her wrist tightened. ‘I don’t like Kent bringing his little diversions into my home under the guise of a business associate.
It’s an insult to myself and to my wife. And just because he brought you here, don’t be tempted to think it means anything. No has-been entertainer has anything to offer my son on a permanent basis.’ His dark eyes glittered like obsidian as he held hers. Abruptly he released her and walked away without a backward glance.

  Momentarily stunned, Catherine watched James Latimer join a group standing near the tree. He shot her a look, his eyes contemptuous. As his mouth curled into a faintly satisfied smile, something inside her hardened. James Latimer was clearly telling her that she was not good enough for his son. More than anything else, his taunt that she was a has-been as though she had ‘never been’ rankled most of all. Her chin rose fractionally as she met James Latimer’s stare. She had thought her self-respect, her pride in being Cat Devlin had been destroyed. Finding out about Casey’s addiction had destroyed the illusion of perfection that had surrounded the Devlins, an illusion, she realised now, that she had believed in. Had had to believe in, to give her the pride necessary to perform. But with Casey’s death, and the reason for it, her life had been shown up for what it was—an illusion built on lies. She had hidden her identity, shunned the questions as much from shame as desire to avoid painful memories.

  But Kent’s father had just shown her that all pride was not dead. Maybe she didn’t have the blue blood of the Latimers of this world flowing in her veins, and maybe her brother had been on drugs, but Cat Devlin wasn’t a piece of dirt under James Latimer’s feet either!

  When Kent came over to her, bearing the drink his mother had forgotten, Catherine gave him a warm smile and slipped her arm though his. James Latimer had released something inside. She was Cat Devlin and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. She had been a good singer and excellent performer. There was pride in that, whatever had happened later. Laughing up at Kent, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the party.

  In the hours that followed, she knew Kent often looked at her with puzzled eyes, unable to fathom the change that had taken place. She laughed frequently, her eyes sparkling, and when someone asked her about her singing career, she didn’t retreat behind a wall of silence as she normally did, but answered their queries in an easy, relaxed manner.

  When the guests gathered around the piano to sing Christmas carols, Catherine joined them, Kent at her side. It was inevitable that one of the guests request that she do a solo number. For a brief instant, a refusal hovered on her tongue, then she saw James Latimer watching her, his look clearly indicating he expected her to decline. Turning to the pianist, she nodded her head and asked him to play an old classic that would clearly demonstrate the full range of her voice.

  The Latimers’ living-room bore little resemblance to the main room of a Las Vegas hotel and the accompaniment of a piano played by a social player was totally unlike the backing of a full orchestra. Yet as Catherine neared the end of the first verse, the magic of singing for an audience began to take over. The dozen guests grouped around the piano were no different from the hundreds she had performed for in her life and, in a backswitch of time, Catherine experienced once again that intimate communication between a performer and her audience. Her voice swelled on the high notes of the chorus as she poured her soul into pleasing her listeners. As a performer, a professional, she had an obligation to entertain and as she drew on the resources of her talent, she could feel the surge of warmth that emanates from a captivated audience.

  Deep silence greeted the dying of the last note. Then, as the guests recovered and started to applaud, Kent took her hands in his and pulled her to him.

  ‘That was beautiful, Cat,’ he said, his voice filled with emotion. His mouth came down on hers in a brief tender kiss before he released her. Automatically Catherine’s eyes went to his father’s, the triumphant light in them making their own challenge.

  Later, seated on the sofa next to Kent while he chatted with Peter Castle, she gave in to her exhaustion. The spurt of bravado that had carried her through the evening had faded, leaving in its wake a profound weariness. Kent was right about one thing: she was tired. Most retail businesses experienced a marked increase in trade in the month before Christmas and hers had been no exception. Yet though she had spent long hours at the store over the last few weeks, she wished suddenly that she was back among the flowers again. She found contentment, peace even, as Catherine Delaney. That was something she never had or would have as Cat Devlin. Cat Devlin lived in a mountainous terrain of emotions. She scaled steep peaks in front of an audience, reaching the summit in that brief moment before the applause broke out. Then the show was over and once again she was plunged back into the valleys. Catherine Delaney’s life was lived on a plain of rolling contours. There were no great highs, but neither were there any deep lows.

  ‘Tired?’ Kent asked softly, taking her hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

  ‘A little,’ Catherine admitted, giving him her attention.

  ‘The party will be breaking up soon. I don’t think anyone would object if you went up to your room now.’

  She sat up straighter, smoothing her skirt over her knees. ‘I think I will, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll walk up with you.’ Kent stood up and pulled her to her feet and Peter rose with them.

  ‘Before you go,’ said Peter, ‘I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your song. You haven’t lost your touch over the years.’

  Catherine gave him a slight smile. ‘Thank you.’ She wanted to forget about being Cat Devlin for a while. Maybe I’m one of those split personalities, she thought. Tonight was the first time she had felt like Cat Devlin in years, but now she was feeling like Catherine again. And Catherine wanted to go to her room and not think about Cat.

  ‘No, I think I must thank you,’ Peter said graciously. ‘The world lost something special when you ended your career. Was it only because you lost your brother?’

  Catherine hesitated, checking the impulse to nod her head. She had talked about her career tonight, about Cat Devlin and her life as a singer. Initially she had been uncomfortable, the years of dodging questions, serving up partial truths not easily forgotten. But, at the same time, there had been a certain freedom in speaking openly about the past. Finally she shook her head in answer to Peter’s question. ‘That was part of it, but there were other factors that made it difficult to continue.’

  ‘What were they?’ Kent joined the conversation. ‘Oh, a number of things,’ Catherine answered, noncommittally. Both men were still watching her with interest, obviously waiting for her to elaborate, so she continued: ‘For one thing, I had a falling out with our manager and didn’t want him handling my career any more. I would have had to find a way out of my contract with him and then there was the problem of finding a new manager, so ... it just didn’t seem worth it.’ She shrugged, then said to Kent, ‘I really would like to go to my room now.’

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed instantly, taking her arm and escorting her away. On the way out, they stopped near the piano to say goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Latimer. Catherine focused her attention on Jean Latimer, accepting her thanks for singing for her guests but all the time aware of the censure in her husband’s eyes.

  Finally, reluctantly, she turned her attention to Kent’s father. Holding out her hand to shake his, she met his eyes bravely. ‘Thank you, Mr. Latimer, for having me. Goodnight.’

  Ignoring her proffered hand, James Latimer said coldly, ‘You are my son’s guest, Miss Devlin. There’s no need to thank me.’ Turning on his heel, he stalked to the far side of the room. The three remaining endured an awkward silence for several seconds. Mrs. Latimer looked acutely embarrassed, her hands fluttering nervously.

  Catherine saw a dull red flush creep up Kent’s face as he looked at his father and the muscles of his jaw stood out in hard cords. Over the last weeks she had felt the lash of Kent’s temper a number of times and knew he was close to losing it now. He made a slight movement in the direction of his father and Catherine quickly grasped his arm. ‘I really do want to
go up now ... please, Kent.’ He looked down at her, his eyes still glinting with anger. ‘Please,’ Catherine repeated, and at last he nodded and led her from the room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CATHERINE walked slowly up the stairs with Kent at her side. At each step she felt a little stab of guilt. She had known what Kent’s father’s opinion of her was and she had been deliberately provoking him tonight. Instead of fading into the woodwork, she had consciously drawn attention to herself, to Cat Devlin, all because she had let herself be piqued by James Latimer’s opinion of her as a singer.

  Casting a surreptitious glance at Kent, she could tell by the set of his mouth that he was still upset. She could feel the tension in him, the anger. Though she occasionally resented him, she didn’t want to become a bone of contention between Kent and his father. For five years she had avoided the role of Cat Devlin and when she finally came out of the shadows, it was to make a complete mess of things.

  At the door to her room, Kent turned to her, gently resting his hand on her arm when she would have slipped past him and gone inside. For a moment he merely looked down into her upturned face, then said, ‘I owe you an apology. I’m sorry about what happened just now.’

  Catherine moved her head in a helpless gesture. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  He grimaced, running an impatient hand through his dark hair. ‘I don’t know what got into him, but he shouldn’t have talked to you like that. He ... I want you to understand something, Cat,’ he said seriously. ‘I’m not going to let it affect my relationship with you, and I don’t want you to either. As for my father, I’ll make sure he knows he can’t be rude to you without answering to me. It won’t happen again, OK?’

  Catherine stared at his shirt front for a moment, biting her lip for a moment. She was beginning to discover that being in love with someone wasn’t always easy. She didn’t like James Latimer, hated his blatant snobbery and inherent arrogance. But she loved Kent and knew she couldn’t come between him and his father, even if it meant letting James Latimer have what he wanted. ‘Maybe it would be better if we just forgot the whole thing,’ she said at last.