Dare to Love (20 page)

“Only the best for La Lopez,” he said.

“But my clothes—”

“They belonged to Mary Ellen Lawrence. Elena Lopez wouldn't be caught dead in any of them. Don't worry, luv, you're going to be very pleased with your new things. You damn well better be. They're costing me a king's ransom.”

Remembering our arguments, I was extremely upset that he had taken it upon himself to select all my new clothes. I opened the boxes expecting to find flashy garments all aglitter with spangles and frills, only to discover elegant black slippers, lovely beige silk undergarments, black lace gloves, a magnificent hat, and the gloriously elegant purple velvet gown I was now wearing. Anthony had beamed with pleasure as he watched me opening the boxes. He admitted that he had been mistaken, that Elena would have perfect taste in her offstage attire, saving the flamboyance for the footlights. He assured me again that I would love the rest of the garments as well, those arriving in Elena's trunks.

I was eager to see them, but first I would have to get through the ordeal of arriving at the hotel, checking in, fending off the gentlemen of the press. Thinking of that, I shivered inside. Anthony would be at my side, lending me some of his strength, however, and David would be there, too. David planned to meet us in the lobby after bringing Millie to the hotel and checking her into her own private room, which I had insisted be near my own. Millie was to be my personal dresser and maid. She was elated at the idea of “going respectable,” thrilled at the prospect of being a part of my new life. Anthony had balked at hiring her, claiming that he couldn't afford to pay her a salary, that he was going to be bankrupt as it was, that I could bloody well dress myself, bloody well do my own hair. But I stood firm, coolly informing him that unless Millie were given the job, Elena Lopez would never set foot in London. He had carried on, accusing me of blackmail, but he had given in at last, and I had won another small victory.

Ever since the night Anthony had sallied off to take his friend to the party, I had been much harder to handle. Ever since the moment I had smashed the vase against the wall, I had been deliberately temperamental, questioning his judgment, arguing with him, insisting that I have my own way on a number of occasions. I found myself aggravating him intentionally, and Anthony was easy to aggravate. I'd spent hours and hours each day creating Elena Lopez under his tutelage, and it seemed that I was actually taking on some of her strength and self-confidence.

Standing before the mirror now, I admired the woman who was reflected in the glass. She was indeed exotic, not Mary Ellen at all. The gown was a rich velvet of deep royal purple. It had long tight sleeves and a form-fitting bodice with a square-cut neckline that left most of my shoulders and a considerable amount of bosom exposed. The skirt fell from the very tight bodice in gleaming folds over ruffled mauve petticoats. It was a regal garment, simple, incredibly elegant. I pulled on the delicate gloves with gossamer-like floral patterns of black lace. My hat was a great cartwheel of purple velvet with an enormous brim that slanted down in front. Black, white, and purple ostrich plumes spilled down on one side. I adjusted the brim, fastened the long black pin in place and stood back to admire the total effect. I had never worn such beautiful things. They seemed to give me confidence. I actually felt that I was an exceedingly attractive woman. Perhaps I could carry the whole thing off, after all. I felt like Elena Lopez, a glamorous creature who could have any man simply by crooking her little finger.

“Ready, luv?” Anthony inquired.

I turned, startled. I hadn't heard him approach. He stood in the doorway, a bit subdued, looking wonderfully handsome in his formal attire. There were faint smudges beneath his eyes, a tightness at the corners of his mouth. I could sense his tension, and I wanted to take his hand and squeeze it and assure him that everything was going to go smoothly. I felt a great rush of warmth and affection for this man who had bullied me and treated me so abominably and made these past weeks so unnerving and so very exciting.

“I suppose so,” I replied. “I'll just need to fetch my fan.”

“You look spectacular,” he said. “I'd like to hurl you on that bed and make love to you until you screamed for mercy.”

His expression was grim, his voice flat, but his words were thrilling nevertheless. I picked up the fan, fastened it around my wrist, and glanced around the room for a final time.

“I don't suppose I'll be seeing it again,” I remarked.

“It's very unlikely. Cleeve will pack all your personal belongings tomorrow and bring them to the hotel.”

“Make sure he doesn't deliver them to a home for the needy. I'm still upset about my clothes.”

“Look, luv, I'm rather on edge. Let's not get into that again.”

“I was just making conversation—”

“Don't,” he snapped.

Even though I realized he was under a great deal of strain, I was offended. There was no need for him to be so abrasive and cold. He turned and strode through the studio in brisk, determined strides. I followed more slowly. I would miss this vast room with its huge skylight and shabby furniture and Bohemian atmosphere. It had been the scene of so many arguments, so much frustration and anger, so much elation. As I said goodbye to it, I realized I was saying goodbye to a whole part of my life. I would never be the same again. As soon as I entered the hotel as Elena Lopez I would be starting a completely new phase. I was sad, frightened, too. I hated to leave, to move on.

“Are you coming?” he called impatiently.

I followed him down the stairs, silent, offended. The carriage was waiting for us in the courtyard. As he opened the door, helped me inside, and climbed in beside me, he remained grim, so very grim. The driver turned the carriage around and, passing through the portals, started down the street. We were on our way. The confidence I had felt earlier ebbed away. It was his fault. He sat there with his arms folded across his chest, his chin tilted down, his eyebrows lowered in a straight, solemn line. Anthony Duke was a man of many moods. The charming, whimsical fellow who had carried me off to his studio might have been another individual altogether.

“We'll want to put on a good show,” he said. “We'll ignore the press, refuse to speak to any of them, but we'll want to put on a good show nevertheless.”

“Of course,” I said coldly.

“You're Elena Lopez. Remember that. Remember it at all times. You're a stunningly beautiful, tempestuous
femme fatale
.”

“I'll try.”

“You'll do more than try.”

“Don't worry, Anthony. I have quite a lot invested in this little project, too. My whole future.”

“You needn't be snippy,” he growled.

“You needn't be so bloody aloof.”

“Something's been bothering you, luv. I can tell. You haven't been yourself these past couple of weeks. You've been stubborn, unreasonable, demanding. It's almost as though you've been trying to get back at me for something I've done.”

“You're imagining things.”

“Maybe so, but I don't like it. I don't like it at all.”

“That's just too bad,” I retorted.

Fortunately, he lapsed into stony silence again. We were both spoiling for a fight, and it wouldn't do to give vent to our hostilities at this particular moment. The carriage rumbled over a bridge and passed through a sordid slum district. I clenched my hands tightly, growing more and more tense. The urge to cry was still with me, but I refused to give in to it. Anthony would have no patience with tears. Anthony had very little patience to begin with. He was harsh and hard and completely unfeeling.

We left the slums behind, and rode through a park, green lawns spread with soft shadows from the trees, lovers strolling hand in hand along the flowered pathways. Out of the park, the carriage slowed down because of heavy traffic. We were nearing the Strand. The sounds of the city assailed my ears, and through the window I could see the crowded sidewalks, elegantly attired men and women strolling past expensive shops and restaurants. As we drove through Covent Garden, a labyrinth of majestic old buildings, the narrow streets littered with wilted flowers and cabbage leaves, I gazed at the opera house, grand and imposing with its tall white columns. A few moments later we were moving down the Strand at a snail's pace.

When the carriage stopped, my heart seemed to stop with it. Anthony climbed out and turned around to take my hand. Our eyes met. His expression was still grim, his blue eyes dark with worry. He had staked everything on this, I suddenly realized. His whole future depended on the next few moments. If I failed, if they even suspected I wasn't genuine, he could lose everything. He helped me out of the carriage, holding my hand very tightly, his fingers crushing mine together. He seemed to radiate nervous tension. I had been grossly unfair. He had worked so hard, had invested all his money, had gone deeply into debt, because he believed in me. I couldn't fail him. I couldn't let him down.

“This is it, luv,” he said.

I nodded and stepped into character. Mary Ellen Lawrence vanished, her worries and apprehension evaporating. I was dark and exotic and gorgeous in my purple gown and beplumed hat. I was spoiled, accustomed to much pampering, and I was sensual, accustomed to turning every male eye. I had had a tedious, bumpy crossing from Calais to Dover, an even more tedious ride in a stuffy railroad carriage, and I was in a testy mood, concerned about my trunks. Elena Lopez took over entirely, possessing me. I saw with her eyes. I felt with her emotions. Gazing at the lovely facade of the hotel with open disdain, I spoke with a heavy Spanish accent.

“So thees eez zee oh-tel. Elena Lopez eez accustomed to pal-aces. I do not like thees place. Zhere eez no red carpet!”

I glared at him with angry eyes. Anthony was taken aback, and then he was delighted. I could see his spirits rising. He gave my hand another tight squeeze. Pulling my hand free, I tossed my head. This English menial was altogether too familiar. I allowed him to take my elbow and lead me toward the entrance where a doorman in gray uniform festooned with gold braid held the door open for us. Moving past the doorman without a glance, my chin tilted haughtily, my red lips forming a pout of disapproval, I looked over the spacious lobby, all gold and crystal and gleaming white. A group of men in poorly fitting suits were clustered near the front desk, talking loudly. One of them turned and saw us. He let out an exclamation of glee, and the whole pack charged us.

They all began to talk at once, eager, excited voices and rapid-fire questions merging together and creating one vast roar. I recoiled in horror, my eyes flashing. They were like a pack of leaping, yapping hounds, and I wanted to slash them with a riding crop. Anthony gripped my elbow tightly, shoving the men back with his free hand. David joined the group. He helped Anthony subdue the pack.

“Later!” David cried in his robust voice. “Give her room! Let her pass!”

“How do you like London?” a thickset redhead bellowed. “What do you think of English men?”

“Is it true that Franz Liszt locked you out of your room?” a strapping blond yelled.

“Are you really Lord Byron's illegitimate daughter?”

“Did the Russian poet really commit suicide because you wouldn't—”

“Back!” David thundered.

“Don't shove me, mate! Hands off! Who the bloody 'ell do you think you are? I just want a minute of your time, Miss Lopez. I just want to know if—”

I stood stony still, ignoring the noise, the confusion, the flushed, hearty faces, the overwhelming stench of cigar smoke and sweat. David and Anthony finally managed to drive the pack away from me. Anthony told them I was exhausted, far too exhausted to talk with them now. David promised that they would all be invited to a reception in my suite, later. I would talk freely then, and there would be food and drinks. The men grumbled menacingly. One of them called David a traitor but he ignored the remark. Finally, the pack withdrew, huddling together near the elegant staircase to stare at me angrily.

“Who are zees men?” I asked as Anthony rejoined me.

“The press,” he replied.

“Zee big man with zee shoulders and sandy 'air, who eez he?”

“David Rogers. He's working for us. He'll handle all our relations with the press. We've already arranged for your suite, Miss Lopez, but you'll have to sign the register.”

The gentlemen from Fleet Street were listening intently. They watched with hostile eyes as I followed Anthony over to the desk and signed the register. The desk clerk, looking both embarrassed and appalled that such a commotion had taken place, handed a key to a youth in a gray-and-gold uniform and told him to take us up to my suite. The men continued to grumble among themselves. I didn't like their mood. I decided to do something about it. I might not be able to answer their questions just yet, but I wanted to win them over immediately. I looked at them with a great deal of interest, a woman sizing up potential bed partners.

“Why do I need someone to 'andle zees men for me? Why can't I speak vith zem? I deedn't know zey were vith zee press. I thought zey were ardent admirers who wanted to sleep vith me.”

“Uh, Miss Lopez—” Anthony began uneasily.

“Are all English men zo 'andsome?” I asked.

The men were listening and watching me intently. I continued to study them, my lips slightly parted, my eyes straying from man to man.

“Zat big redhead, he is good-looking, no? He eez big and tall with zee strength of a stallion. Zat blond, he has zee smouldering eyes, he is very good vith zee women, I can tell. Zey are all virile. Zey remind me of my Cossacks. I will ask zem up to my room. I will answer zeir questions and give zem champagne.”

“Later, Miss Lopez,” Anthony said nervously. “Mister Rogers has arranged a reception. You can talk with them then. You're tired. You've had a very uncomfortable journey, and—”