‘Don’t worry, I’ll take you home with me,’ she murmured. She had read that plants responded if you talked to them, and her words of encouragement seemed to have worked—although that was strictly between her and the fern. After all, she was a highly educated professional and sensible was her middle name; her family and friends would be astonished if they knew that she talked to plants.
The office door opened again, and she turned her head to see Sue usher a man into the room. Sunlight streamed through the window and danced across his rugged features. Darcey’s first thought was that he was nothing like Marcus. But neither was he lukewarm, and he was definitely not safe. Now she understood what Sue had meant when she had said he was hot!
He looked as though he belonged to another century, when knights on horseback had fought bloody battles and rescued damsels in distress. Startled by the wild excesses of her imagination, Darcey forced herself to study him objectively, but the image of an ancient king still remained in her mind. Perhaps it was the dangerously sexy combination of black jeans and shirt and the well-worn leather jacket that emphasised the width of his shoulders. His height was equally impressive; the top of his head brushed the door frame and she estimated that he must be several inches over six feet tall.
Her heart gave a jolt as she raised her eyes to his face. He was not conventionally handsome like Marcus. Not a pretty boy. He was a man in the most masculine sense: hard-faced, square-jawed, with a strong nose and dark, penetrating eyes beneath heavy brows. His eyes gave away nothing of his thoughts and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line, as if he rarely smiled. His hair was thick and so dark it was almost black, falling to his shoulders. Darcey had a feeling that he cared little about his appearance and had no inclination to visit a barber.
As she stared at him she was aware of a coiling sensation in the pit of her stomach. The feeling was entirely sexual and utterly unexpected. She had felt dead inside since she had discovered that Marcus was sleeping with a glamour model with pneumatic breasts. The lightning bolt of desire that shot through her now was so intense it made her catch her breath. She sensed the power of the stranger’s formidable physique and for the first time in her life acknowledged the fundamental difference between a man and a woman—male strength and feminine weakness.
She suddenly realised that she was holding her breath and released it on a shaky sigh. Somehow she managed to regain her composure and gave Salvatore Castellano a polite smile.
‘Mr Castellano? How can I help you?’
He glanced at the nameplate on her desk and frowned. ‘Are you Darcey Rivers?’
He spoke with a strong accent. Italian, Darcey guessed. There was an arrogance about him that set her on the defensive.
‘Yes, I am,’ she said coolly.
He looked unimpressed. ‘I expected someone older.’
James Forbes had said that Darcey Rivers was an experienced and dedicated senior speech therapist. The description had put into Salvatore’s mind an image of a grey-haired, professional-looking woman, possibly wearing a tweed suit and spectacles. Instead he was faced with a slip of a girl with a heart-shaped face and a sleek bob of conker-brown hair that gleamed like silk in the bright sunlight pouring through the window.
He skimmed his eyes over her petite figure, noting how her fitted suit, reminiscent of the style worn in the 1940s, emphasised her tiny waist and the gentle flare of her hips. Her legs were slender and he guessed she chose to wear three-inch stiletto heels to make her appear taller. Her face was pretty rather than beautiful; her mouth was too wide and her eyes too big for her small features, giving her an elfin quality. Beneath her jacket her blouse was buttoned up to her neck and he briefly wondered if she was as prim as her appearance suggested.
Darcey flushed beneath the stranger’s intent appraisal. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,’ she said with heavy irony.
‘I am not disappointed, Miss Rivers.’
His voice was deep-timbred, with a sensual huskiness that made the hairs on the back of Darcey’s neck stand on end.
‘I am merely surprised. You seem young to be so highly qualified.’
Darcey knew she looked a good five years less than her age. Perhaps when she reached fifty she would be glad to look younger, but at university and at job interviews she had struggled to be taken seriously. Of course her name had not helped. Once people realised she was a member of the famous Hart family they were surprised that she had not followed her parents onto the stage. At least Salvatore Castellano was unaware of her family connection. But she felt irritated that he had mentioned her youthful appearance.
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ she told him tightly. ‘And Rivers is my married name.’
His expression was inscrutable, ‘My apologies, Mrs Rivers.’
Why on earth had she said that? Darcey asked herself. Intimating that she was married had been a subconscious response to his comment that she looked young. ‘Actually, I prefer Ms Rivers.’
His shuttered expression did not alter, but she had an unsettling feeling that his dark eyes could see inside her head. Sue had gone, and he closed the door with a decisive click and walked across the office.
‘I’m glad we’ve got that settled,’ he murmured drily. ‘Now, perhaps we can sit down and I will explain the reason for my visit?’
His arrogance was infuriating. Twin spots of colour flared on Darcey’s cheeks and she had half a mind to tell him to get lost, but she hesitated when she noticed that he walked with a pronounced limp.
‘A fractured femur—the result of a car accident,’ he said curtly. ‘My leg is held together with a lot of fancy metalwork.’
She was embarrassed that he had caught her staring at him. He made her feel as if she was sixteen again, immature and unsure of herself, lacking the self-confidence that the other members of her family possessed.
‘Don’t act like a timid mouse, darling girl,’ had been her father’s regular refrain. ‘Project yourself to the audience and believe in yourself—because if you don’t how can you expect anyone else to?’
It was all very well for her father, Darcey had often thought. Joshua Hart had earned a reputation as one of the finest Shakespearian actors in a career that had spanned three decades. Charismatic, exciting and unpredictable, he could also be distant with his children when he was focused on an acting role. As well as being an actor he was a brilliant playwright, and three of his plays had been performed in the West End. The one thing Joshua Hart certainly did not lack was self-belief.
‘Acting is in your blood,’ he’d often told Darcey. ‘How could it not be, with the combination of genes you have inherited from your mother and me?’
Her mother, Claudia, was a gifted actress, and Darcey’s brother and her two sisters had all followed their parents into the theatre. She was especially close to her younger sister Mina, and was proud of how she had overcome her disability to become a respected actress.
Only Darcey had chosen a different career path, and Joshua had not hidden his disappointment. Sometimes Darcey felt her father had taken her decision not to uphold the Hart family tradition and train at RADA as a personal affront. He had never been the easiest man to get on with, and in recent years she had sensed a divide between them that she longed to breach.
‘Ms Rivers?’
Salvatore Castellano’s curt voice snapped her back to the present. Without waiting for an invitation he pulled out the chair by her desk and sat down, stretching his injured leg stiffly out in front of him. Darcey decided that she needed to take control of the situation.
‘I’m afraid I can only spare you a few minutes, Mr Castellano,’ she said briskly. ‘I have a busy afternoon.’
His brows rose.