Blue Fire

  “What kind of woman do

  you think I am?”

  “Dangerous!” Jared said hoarsely, striding toward Christie suddenly, making her back away with a gasp as she saw the extent of the rage in his dark eyes. “I’ve never recov- ered from trusting you, and I doubt if I ever will! You’re nothing but a lethal little black widow. I could tangle spiders in the webs you weave, and you’re not weaving another one around me!”

  SARAH HOLLAND was born in Kent and brought up in London, England. She began writing at eighteen because she loved the warmth and excitement of Harlequin romances. She has traveled the world, living in Hong Kong, the South of France and Holland. She attended a drama school, and was a nightclub singer and a songwriter. She now lives on the Isle of Man. Her hobbies are acting, singing, painting and psychology. She loves buying clothes, noisy dinner parties and being busy.

  Blue Fire

  Sarah Holland

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE white Cadillac convertible sped along the coast of southern California. Christie sat in the front seat, blonde hair rippling in the hot breeze, a smile on her famous pink pouting mouth. This was turning out to be the best year of her professional life. She had just signed with Camarra Pictures for a further three movies, her last film had won her a nomination for best supporting ac- tress at the Academy Awards, and now she had been given the crowning accolade of the Hollywood social scene—an invitation to a weekend party at Casa Camarra.

  Her personal life was going wonderfully well, too. Glancing at the man beside her, she smiled, blue eyes tracing his austere profile with love. At forty, Simon was twelve years her senior, and today, with the California sea breeze in his blond hair and a debonair smile in his grey eyes, he looked very happy.

  They were newly engaged, she and Simon Mordant, and the diamond solitaire on her finger flashed in the hot sunlight as a reminder of her long-standing re- lationship with him, and the lovely but surprising con- clusion of marriage it was about to reach.

  Suddenly, he turned to look at her and frowned faintly. ‘What are you thinking about?’ he drawled in his sophisticated New York accent.

  ‘Oh… you.’ She smiled.

  He laughed. ‘What about me!’

  ‘Just that I can’t believe it took us so long to realise we were meant for each other.’

  ‘My dear, I knew it the minute I saw you. A vibrant beauty with talent, trapped in an awful British TV soap series. That girl, I said to myself, is destined for great things—I must get her by hook or by crook.’ His grey eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘And I did!’

  ‘I like to think that your interest in me was more per- sonal,’ she pointed out, a frown marring her brow, be- cause as far as she was concerned marriage was forever, and must be based on love, mutual respect, friendship— not strategic career moves.

  ‘How could you doubt me, Christie?’ He looked faintly hurt. ‘We’ve been such very close friends for three years now. I’ve been with you at every step of the way, and what could be more natural than to eventually propose?’ His smile was kind and loving. ‘All right— we don’t have a grand passion for each other. But I think we’ve both agreed that grand passions are dangerous.’

  ‘Yes…’ she said huskily, pain suddenly sheening her eyes.

  ‘After all, Jared Buchanan taught you all about grand passions—and nearly destroyed you in the process.’

  Jared seemed to rear between her and Simon like a ghost at a wedding feast.

  The worst thing was that it was true—Jared had taught her what grand passion was. He had taught her how it consumed like the fires of hell, ever-burning, ever- present, and ever-destructive. It was a dark, dangerous way to love, but she couldn’t forget it. What woman could? The fiery passion in his wild, dark eyes, the hoarse note in his voice when he was dizzy with desire, making love with a frenzied intensity that had driven them both to the brink of disaster.

  Passion like that was dangerous, Christie thought for the millionth time, her blue eyes darkening with the memory. Mature love was what she needed—and what she had with Simon. A love based on friendship, mutual respect and twinned futures. Not a blazing intensity that wrought more havoc than a forest fire. Besides, Jared had said he loved her, but his behaviour had told a very different story.

  Simon’s behaviour, however, told her that his love was real, solid, stable, consistent and lasting. They had known each other for three years now, and for the first two years had been nothing but friends, business partners, living out here in Hollywood building their re- spective careers. It had been around seven months ago that Simon had first kissed her, and although the kiss didn’t exactly set either of them on fire, it was the first kiss she had experienced for over two years, so she forced herself to lie back and enjoy it. Sweet, loving, tender Simon could not hope to ignite the fires Jared had tapped in her. But he kissed her often, and he loved her as a true friend—what more could she possibly ask for?

  He was right. Marriage was the natural step for her and Simon now. They weren’t lovers, and, to be honest, she knew that their wedding night would be as tame as their kisses. But at least she would be married to a kind, gentle man, and in no danger of the sort of hurt Jared inflicted.

  ‘We’re here,’ Simon said suddenly, and as she looked up she saw the vast electronic gates of Casa Camarra, that fabled palace by the sea.

  Palm trees towered against the tall white mansion, the turrets painted pale green, the smooth sleek lines almost European. It had been built by Eduardo Alfonso Camarra in the 1920s, when all of Hollywood glittered in silver-screened glamour. Now it was owned by Mike and Millie Camarra, his direct descendants, and the heirs to his film empire. They threw weekend parties, just as Eduardo Alfonso had, and although the glamour of the 1920s was long since gone, a weekend at Casa Camarra was still one of the most sought-after invitations in Hollywood. Not only did one become part of the most elite set, but one also became part of Hollywood history, simply by having been a guest at a Casa Camarra weekend party.

  ‘We’ve really made it now, haven’t we?’ Simon said beside her. ‘A weekend at Casa Camarra! We’re at the top of the heap!’

  Christie smiled, delighted too by their joint success. She had always wanted to be a famous film actress, ever since she was a little girl, and often wanted to pinch herself to see if her dream-come-true really was just that—a dream. Last year, when she won her Oscar at the Academy Awards ceremony, she had found herself walking up those legendary steps in a glittering evening gown and thought, My God, how did I get here? How can this be real? And how many times have I dreamt of this moment, never truly believing it could ever happen? At home that night, thinking of her unhappy childhood, the mother who had victimised her, the sisters who had sneered at her, and the schoolkids who had laughed at her. Had any of them seen her on international tele- vision? Had all the people who had been so cruel to her watched her collect her award, applauded by the most talented people in the film world, her contemporaries and peers? She did hope that they had! After all—wasn’t that what had spurred her on? Of course, her mother was long-since dead, but her sisters were alive and spitting poison every time Christie contacted any of them. The three witches, she had thought of them as when she was a child. They hated her even more now that she was famous than they had in childhood. She sent them Christmas and birthday cards—they never replied. But Christie believed in Karmic justice, and was convinced that one reason for her success was that she had never done anything malicious to anyone. Her reward was success, and as she sat in her luxurious Bel Air bedroom looking at Oscar, Oscar had looked serenely, impass- ively back at her, a symbol of absolute triumph, the pin- nacle of all her dreams, and she had thought, Is this how it’s done? So simply? Just my name read out from a card, then that walk up the s
teps to collect a little gold statuette? Ah, yes, it was always that simple, just so long as one did the hard work that led to that moment. And what a long, long road it had been, full of work, work, work and lost, lost love…

  Now, she looked up at Casa Camarra and reflected, Jared Buchanan never loved me. If he had loved me, he would have understood why I needed to be famous. He would have been happy for me—not tried to stop me.

  That emptiness came back into her heart. She pushed it away. I have Simon now, she told herself, and he does love me. Look how he’s helped and supported me. Of course he’s the right man for me.

  The Cadillac came to a standstill. Birdsong filled the hot Californian afternoon, crickets chirping in the ex- tensive grounds, and the sun blazed on the fabled white steps of the mansion.

  ‘I thought I heard a car!’ Millie Camarra came down the steps dripping with gold and glamour. ‘We’re all out by the pool, but I always come out to greet my guests properly—welcome to Casa Camarra!’

  ‘It’s wonderful to be here.’ Christie got out of the car and embraced Millie, who was drenched in Giorgio perfume. ‘Thank you so much for inviting us.’

  ‘Oh, that English accent!’ Millie laughed. ‘I’m sure that’s what makes the men go wild over you, Christie. It’s at such odds with your come-to-bed looks.’

  Christie gave a wry smile. ‘Don’t be embarrassing! I’m an engaged woman now, you know. Have you seen my ring?’

  ‘In every Hollywood daily,’ Millie drawled, but caught her hand for a closer look. ‘My, my! You did go to town, didn’t you, Simon? A diamond as big as the Ritz, as darling Scott Fitzgerald would have said.’

  ‘Nothing but the best for Christie!’ drawled Simon, white jacket slung over one elegant shoulder as he walked round the car, tall and blond and terribly Harvard. ‘How are you, Millie? You look stunning.’

  ‘Flatterer!’ she laughed, patting her red hair. ‘Come out back to the pool and say hi to everyone. Rodrigo will take your cases up.’

  They followed her across the cavernous marble hallway, breathtakingly beautiful with its art deco chan- deliers swinging forty feet above the white and black marble floor, a huge oil painting of Rudolph Valentino as the Sheikh on one wall, a painting of Jean Harlow in a long white silk gown on another, and further paintings of the Hollywood Greats lining the sweeping staircase that was just built for a leading lady to walk down.

  Out through a long series of rooms they went, finally out through a pair of vast French windows, until sud- denly they were in the sizzling heat of southern California, and the pool area was glittering in the sunlight.

  ‘Look, everybody!’ Millie clapped her hands, rings flashing. ‘Christie McCall and Simon Mordant.’

  ‘Hi!’ nine or ten people called in greeting, all lounging around the vast pool, which was lined with white Roman statues. Christie recognised several faces—an actor with a legendary past as a womaniser, his latest actress girl- friend who was really only a bit-part player, a producer, his wife, and, of course, Mike Camarra, the head of Camarra Pictures.

  ‘Mike!’ Simon made a beeline for him at once, shaking his hand and taking the seat opposite him. ‘Wonderful to see you…’

  Millie moved up to Christie. ‘Sit down, honey. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Cherry mineral water, please.’ Christie instinctively walked to where Simon was and sat down, even though she found Mike Camarra something of a shark with his gold-toothed smile and his billion-dollar-deal eyes.

  ‘… hear you made mincemeat of that little brunette actress?’ Simon was saying.

  ‘Sure did,’ Mike Camarra drawled, scratching his tanned paunch. ‘Sliced her up and fed her to the vul- tures. She’ll never work in Hollywood again.’ He winked at Christie. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart—you’d never be stupid enough to try and take on Camarra Pictures in a lawsuit, would you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Christie murmured wryly.

  ‘One cherry, one peach.’ A maid put the drinks on the table.

  ‘So—’ Millie sat down beside them ‘—only two more guests to arrive, now.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ Christie asked politely.

  ‘Well, sure.’ Millie smiled right at her. ‘Jared Buchanan and Nessa Vale.’

  It was six seconds before anybody spoke. Christie was white and not breathing. Her hand clutched the iced glass so tightly she thought it might break. It can’t be true, she thought in a state of shock. I must have misheard. She can’t be telling me that Jared is coming here, at any moment, and that he’ll be here for the whole weekend, hour after hour, minute after minute…

  She wanted to speak, but her mouth was so dry she couldn’t form the words, her tongue sticking to her palate. Like a stranded fish, she tried to lick her lips, and then she realised that Mike and Millie were amused by her emotional distress. There was only one expla- nation for that: they knew all about her and Jared’s passionate love affair of the past, and they had set them up deliberately to see what would happen.

  ‘Do you know Jared and Nessa?’ Millie drawled with amusement.

  Christie flicked an appalled gaze at Simon but, to her horror, found he was as white and speechless as she.

  ‘My, my!’ Millie laughed. ‘Look at your faces! You’d think Attila the Hun and his girlfriend were coming!’

  ‘His girlfriend?’ Christie’s raw voice echoed in the hot afternoon. ‘Jared Buchanan and Nessa Vale are—?’

  ‘Having a madly passionate affair? Yes, it’s the talk of Hollywood!’ Millie watched her with clever green eyes. ‘Oh, but you’ve been away filming on location in Mexico, haven’t you? You wouldn’t know what the latest gossip was.’

  ‘No…’ Christie was so disturbed that she knew she couldn’t stay out here, certainly not if Jared was going to arrive at any minute. But the shock was affecting her physically, and she found even the simplest movements difficult, her arm heavy and her hand shaking as she slowly, carefully set her drink down on the table and got clumsily to her feet. ‘But I think I’d like to go to my room now. Freshen up. Settle in. Unpack. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Millie got to her feet too. ‘I’ll have Rosita show you up.’ She beckoned to a beautiful Spanish maid. ‘How about you, Simon? Do you want to stay down here or—?’

  The roar of a powerful car engine came distantly from the other side of the house.

  ‘Ah!’ Millie smiled and flicked those knowing green eyes back to Christie, murmuring, ‘I expect that’ll be Jared now.’

  ‘Why don’t you hang around and say hi, Christie?’ Mike Camarra suggested, watching her as closely as his wife. ‘Jared’s a very powerful director. He could be good for your career.’

  ‘If he’s staying for the weekend,’ Christie forced herself to look and sound calm, even though her heart was banging nineteen to the dozen, ‘I’ll have plenty of op- portunity to get to know him.’

  Millie laughed softly. ‘Oh, yes, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to “get to know him” this weekend! Your bedrooms are right next door to each other.’

  Christie’s breath caught. She stared at them both, white with shock. They definitely knew! Bedrooms next door to each other? Oh, God, this was a nightmare!

  ‘Yes, madam?’ The Spanish maid was at their side.

  ‘Ah, Rosita!’ Millie turned to her. ‘Show Miss McCall to her room. I’ll go and welcome Jared and Nessa.’

  Christie began to move away with Rosita, her legs shaking beneath her, desperate to get to the sanctuary of her room, walking briskly, holding her breath, hoping her legs didn’t give way before Jared walked into that stunning marble hallway.

  Millie was walking rapidly to the open front doors. Car doors were slamming outside in the heat. Christie walked faster and faster, sweat breaking out on her upper lip.

  ‘Jared! Wonderful to see you…’

  Christie was halfway up the stairs, almost running now.

  ‘Hello, Millie. Long time no see.’ That dark, dangerous voic
e stopped her in her tracks just as she passed the vast painting of Vivien Leigh staring down in haughty beauty, dressed as Scarlett O’Hara in that in- famous scarlet dress, the woman who had turned down her soulmate in Rhett Butler and lived to regret it.

  Christie couldn’t resist Jared Buchanan, soulmate and past lover, even though he had been perfectly able to resist her. She found herself turning, one damp hand clinging to the polished banister, staring over one slim, bare shoulder as her heart beat with violent passion and then twisted, sick with love, hate, desire and excitement.

  Jared Buchanan stood in the vast doorway, mag- nificent, everything she had ever loved in a man, the sunlight framing his powerful body. He was dressed in black, with a tight waistcoat and crisp white shirt and black trousers, his expensive jacket slung casually over one broad shoulder. Hard muscles packed every inch of his six-foot-six frame with powerful masculinity and a sex appeal that made every woman who saw him want to give in to him—-just as she had done. Did any man have the right to be so superb? Not only lethally sexy, but brilliant, clever, talented and ruthlessly hard-headed in business.

  ‘You’re the last to arrive,’ Millie was saying.

  ‘You said six o’clock, and it’s only five.’ His deep, cool voice was still holding Christie captive.

  ‘Everyone else was early,’ Millie laughed.

  ‘Yes—who is everyone else, Millie? You were very cagey about the guest list when I—’ He broke off sud- denly, dark eyes catching the shimmer of gold hair and white dress on the stairs, flicking up abruptly to see Christie standing there watching him.

  Silence.

  The chandelier swung gently in the warm breeze.

  Christie stood very still, so did Jared. Their eyes locked in a moment of shock. His face was wiped clean of ex- pression as seconds ticked past and still he stared at her. Then his mouth tightened and rage leapt in those jet- black eyes.

  ‘Christie McCall?’ Jared looked down furiously at Millie. ‘She’s staying here for the weekend with us?’