CHAPTER THREE

EVE slept in late the next morning as Derek had said she could, spending a leisurely hour in the bath once she got up. Would Bartholomew Jordan be there again tonight? She had a feeling he would be.

The roses arrived as usual, signed ‘Bart?’ this time. She had to admire his nerve!

Yes, he was there as she began the concert, his behaviour exactly the same as before, those steady green eyes enigmatic as he watched her. This time he stayed for the full concert, getting up and leaving only as the rest of the audience applauded.

Eve had felt better tonight, although the feeling of weakness once again washed over her as she left the stage, and that cold clammy feeling was back. Derek caught her as she swayed.

‘What is it?’ he asked worriedly, looking down at her pale face.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she managed to murmur through suddenly stiff lips, the world suddenly seeming very far away, everything looking as if it was at the far end of a telescope. ‘I feel—weird.’

‘I would say Miss Meredith is suffering from strain.’ Bartholomew Jordan spoke authoritatively from behind them, instantly taking charge of the situation. ‘Have my car brought round to the back entrance,’ he ordered Derek. ‘I’m taking Eve home.’

‘No!’ She struggled to free herself as Bartholomew Jordan took over her support, his arm about her waist as he led her effortlessly down to her dressing-room. ‘My car should be here in a moment,’ he told her as he lowered her into a chair, his quick gaze taking in everything about the room at a glance, the roses he had sent still in their Cellophane wrapping.

Her legs and arms felt so heavy, her whole body lethargic, the world fading and returning in waves. She was even too weary to fight this man as he seemed to take control, of her and the situation.

He came down on his haunches in front of her, rubbing her chilled hands, very attractive in a dark evening suit that made his hair appear even more golden, his tan even deeper. ‘How long have you been like this?’ he demanded in that husky voice that spoke of authority.

She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to be taking over her brain. ‘I—Only just now,’ she licked her lips, their dryness making it difficult for her to speak. ‘I—I was fine—out there,’ she waved her hand in the general direction of the stage.

His eyes were narrowed to green slits. ‘You looked far from fine to me. You’ve been bordering on this collapse for days,’ he added grimly.

‘I didn’t collapse!’ she roused herself enough to protest. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’

‘Like hell you are!’ he exploded, standing up forcefully. ‘Derek had no business letting you continue in this state.’

Her eyes sparkled deeply blue as she fought back the fog that threatened to overtake her. ‘It wasn’t a case of “letting” me do anything, Mr Jordan. I’m twenty-five years of age, I control my own life, my own actions. And I can find my own way home!’

‘You can take your choice, Eve,’ he said hardly. ‘You either go by ambulance or in my car.’

‘I’m going by car——’

‘Then I’m taking you,’ he told her firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

‘I don’t want you to. I——’ Suddenly she started to cry, frowning surprise at her own weakness. What on earth was the matter with her? She never cried, never!

But she was crying now, the mascara that was supposed to be waterproof running in black streaks down her white cheeks. And she couldn’t stop herself, crying and crying, until her body shuddered with exhaustion.

Bartholomew Jordan grasped the tops of her arms and shook her gently. ‘Stop it, Eve,’ he ordered in a commanding voice. ‘Come on, pull yourself together.’

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