The Spellbinder: A Loveswept Classic Romance Read online

  The Spellbinder is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  2013 Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1987 by Iris Johansen.

  Excerpt from Roman Holiday 1: Chained by Ruthie Knox copyright © 2013 by Ruth Homrighaus

  Excerpt from Claimed by Stacey Kennedy copyright © 2013 by Stacey Kennedy

  Excerpt from Loving the Earl by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2013 by Sharon Cullen

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54620-3

  Originally published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House Company, New York, in 1987.

  www.readloveswept.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Editors Corner

  Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s Roman Holiday 1: Chained

  Excerpt from Stacey Kennedy’s Claimed

  Excerpt from Sharon Cullen’s Loving the Earl

  One

  Brody Devlin appeared on stage to take his eighth curtain call.

  The applause swelled, redoubling in volume as it echoed off the walls of the huge old theater. Every person in the audience was on his feet. His most ardent fans were wild with enthusiasm. They wanted to cling to him, keep him within their field of vision, listen to his deep, mesmerizing voice speak any words that would continue to envelop them in the spell he had been weaving about them all evening.

  Spellbinder.

  The word jumped suddenly into Sacha’s mind. For two months she had been trying to analyze Brody Devlin’s power over audiences; now she realized there was no logical explanation. He was a phenomenon, an actor who exuded such power and presence, he quite simply hypnotized and charmed, changing impossibility into reality, the commonplace into high drama. Even in this light-weight revival of the musical Camelot his power was riveting.

  Of course, his magnificent good looks were an asset that couldn’t be discounted. His role was demanding. He should have been exhausted now. But that didn’t seem to be the case. He stood center stage, and from where Sacha was watching in the tenth row, she felt as though she were absorbing some of the crackling energy he radiated. In the dark green velvet of his medieval costume he looked so stunning, one reviewer had said it was an accolade to his acting that he could make King Arthur believable as a cuckolded husband. Devlin’s shoulder-length hair was a deep chestnut color and his tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped physique conveyed an impression of tough yet magnetically appealing sexuality. The camera loved his face, but not because he had the features of an Adonis. His brilliant blue eyes were wide set and tilted up slightly at the corners, and his broad cheekbones and short nose were definitely irregular as was his long sensual mouth. Yet put them together, and they combined to create a face to fascinate and beguile. The face of a spellbinder.

  But tonight those brilliant blue eyes seemed restless and the smile on his tanned face betrayed impatience. Sacha inhaled sharply as she recognized the sign for which she had been watching for the past week: There was an air of leashed tension about him. Tonight. It would be tonight.

  Sacha turned to Louis. “Call your contact at the reception desk of his hotel,” she said in an urgent whisper, “and tell him it will be tonight. Probably within the next hour or so.”

  Louis Benoit raised an inquiring brow. “You’re sure? Jason is a very greedy man. He will charge us even if you’re wrong.”

  Sacha glanced back at the man on the stage. Devlin’s tension was growing. She could sense it even as the actor, masking it with a careless, charming smile, bowed and waved to the audience. “I’m sure. Hurry.”

  Louis nodded and then moved rapidly past the other people in their row. He hurried up the aisle, trying to get ahead of the crowd, which would be converging on the exits as soon as Brody released them from his spell.

  Devlin would not be persuaded to come back after this curtain call, Sacha thought. No matter how loudly people in the audience clamored for him to return, he wouldn’t. Sacha had studied him so closely for the last two months that she felt as if she knew his every thought. And tonight, she felt certain, he would tell Cass to make the arrangements.

  Cold perspiration dampened her palms, and she wiped them on her jeans. It was unusual for her to be nervous, but now she was more frightened than the first time Gino had sent her out on the streets. She drew a deep breath and braced herself, deliberately trying to subdue the apprehension that could make a coward of her. She had learned a long time ago that worrying never accomplished anything. It was better just to make up your mind, do what you set out to do with as much verve and style as you were capable of, and keep smiling. By assuming a cheerful outlook you could sometimes fool even yourself into believing everything was all right.

  She was only nervous now because tonight was terribly important to her and she had waited for such a long time for it. She would be fine as soon as she swung into action, she assured herself.

  Devlin was leaving the stage. It was the signal for her to depart too. She snatched up her worn blue-jean jacket from the back of the seat and slipped it on, her gaze still clinging to Brody Devlin as he strode gracefully toward the wings.

  As soon as he disappeared from view she started to move toward the aisle, excusing herself to the beautifully dressed patrons who were still applauding loudly, hoping for Devlin to appear again. She was scarcely aware of the condescending and surprised looks her faded jeans and scuffed loafers received. She was too intent on getting out and catching a taxi to take her to the hotel to worry about how she looked. Not that she would have worried anyway. You wore what you had the money to buy, and then, if anyone looked down his nose at you, you found a way to tweak that nose—again with the utmost style.

  Sacha hurried out of the theater and took a deep breath. The fresh air was invigorating after the perfumed closeness of the auditorium and, she noted, surprisingly cool for March in San Diego.

  Damn, she didn’t have much money left after buying those tickets tonight, and it was only a few blocks to the hotel. Maybe, if she hurried, she could walk it and still … No, she couldn’t take the chance. Tonight was too important. She jumped into the first waiting taxi in the zone in front of the theater and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Ventura Hotel. Hurry, please.”

  Brody was unbuttoning his emerald velvet doublet even as he reached the wings. He accepted the hot drink Joel Morton, the stagehand, held out to him and swallowed it in three swift gulps. Damn, he hated hot lemon juice. He would be glad to have this tour over so that he didn’t have to go through the motions of pampering his non-existent singing voice. Then he could relax and—

  And what? Lie on the beach at Malibu and vegetate? Better hot juice and road tours like this than the boredom that besieged him when he wasn’t working at all. He handed the glass back to the stagehand. “I want to see Cass,” he said curtly as he turned and strode down the hall to his dressing room.

&nb
sp; Joel Morton pursed his lips in a low whistle. Devlin’s notorious temper was obviously about to go on the rampage. It was completely out of character for him to be short with any member of the crew or with minor cast members. He usually saved his scathing sarcasm and glacier stares for the professionals in his own league. Well, Joel thought, it wasn’t his job to cope with Devlin’s displeasure. He’d deliver the summons to Cass Radison, Devlin’s manager, and let him try to calm down the actor.

  Brody slammed the door of his dressing room, tersely dismissed his dresser, Chuck, shrugged out of the velvet doublet, and threw it on the top of the screen across the room. He sat down before the mirror and began taking off his stage makeup with swift, jerky movements.

  There was a perfunctory knock on the door before Cass opened it and strolled into the dressing room. “A great performance, Brody.”

  “How do you know? You never watch the show and you have a tin ear.” Brody threw a soiled tissue into the wastecan. “I was flat as hell in at least half my numbers tonight.”

  “Strange, the audience didn’t seem to notice it,” Cass observed mildly. “You must have done something right.” He dropped down into the easy chair by the door. “Or maybe they just liked your costumes. You’ve got great legs in those tights.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at Brody’s lips as he met Cass’s limpidly innocent brown-eyed gaze in the mirror. “Thanks, I can always count on you to pinpoint my more stellar qualities.” He stood up and began unbuttoning his white balloon-sleeved shirt. “Not that I displayed many tonight. I don’t know why I took this role. I stink.”

  “That’s not what Time and People magazines said.”

  “I can’t sing. The role has no dimension. I should have done Tempest at the Old Vic.”

  “You did Shakespeare last year. You thought this would be a challenge.”

  Brody pulled the tails of his shirt out of the loden-green tights. “Did I? I don’t remember.” He stripped the shirt off and tossed it beside the doublet over the screen. “I was wrong.” He went to the closet, found the street clothes his dresser had readied for him and tossed them on the chair before the dressing table. “Thank God this is the last week.”

  “Have you read those film scripts I gave you?”

  Brody nodded. “One has possibilities. I’ll let you know.”

  Cass rose to his feet, his lanky body surprisingly graceful. “Hungry? I’ll call a car and we’ll find a decent restaurant. I feel like Chinese.”

  Brody shook his head. “Not tonight.” He resumed undressing. “Call Marceline’s service and have them send someone to the hotel.”

  There was no surprise in Cass’s face. He had been half expecting the order. He knew Brody was extremely highly sexed, and this request usually came at least once or twice in every town they played. “Same type as usual?”

  Brody nodded.

  “Right away.” Cass turned and opened the door. “Are you sure you don’t want to give our resident nymphomaniac, Guenevere, a try instead? She has all the requirements. She’s blond, stacked, and I understand she has a bedroom repertoire that would put any call girl to shame. I notice she’s done everything but crawl into your bed since she took over the lead in Saint Louis.”

  “You’re behind the times.” Brody smiled cynically. “She did that in Denver.”

  Cass looked mildly surprised. “Really? What did you do?”

  “Tossed her out on her fanny. The last thing I need is an affair with a bitch like Naomi Marlow; that would really complete the idiocy of this tour.”

  Cass nodded. No complications. It was the creed Brody lived by these days. Yet Brody was a very complicated man himself and that did breed more complexities. Catch-22. His father had been a much easier client to deal with when Cass had been his manager. Perhaps it was to be expected. Raymond Devlin had never been more than a fine character actor; Brody had reached superstardom when he was only twenty-five and had maintained that status for the last ten years. Brody had been offered every plum life had to offer and had tasted most of them. Cass supposed it was natural that the actor’s palate had become jaded. He was the darling of film and stage, acclaimed the greatest actor since Olivier, and had been chased by women in every country.

  Through it all he had remained surprisingly levelheaded, and each success had only fanned the desire to better his next performance, increase his range, bring something new and fresh to each succeeding role. Still, Brody’s search for perfection didn’t make Cass’s job any easier. The actor could be demanding, single-minded, and scathing if he detected any lack of professionalism in the people surrounding him. Cass had no problem with that aspect of his character; it was balanced by a sense of fairness and the generosity to give whatever help was needed to reach the common goal of any production.

  However, many people in the business didn’t share Cass’s view, and Brody’s ruthlessness had been as highly publicized as his many affairs. Well, that was their hang-up, Cass reasoned. He liked Brody as a man and respected him as an artist. He just wished to hell that the man would stop asking quite so much of himself and the people around him so they could all be more comfortable. Cass was getting too old for challenges. “I’ll call the service and tell them to have a woman in your suite when you get there.”

  “Good.” Brody strode naked toward the bathroom door. “Thanks, Cass.”

  “Just one of my wide array of services,” Cass said lightly. “One I’ve perfected over the years.”

  Brody stopped with his hand on the doorknob to gaze curiously at his manager. “I’ve never asked you. Did you perform this particular service for my father too?”

  Cass shook his head. “He preferred amateurs and wasn’t nearly as fastidious as you about complications.”

  Brody’s lips twisted. “So I’ve heard.” He had scarcely known his father. He was the child of Raymond’s second marriage and had visited him rarely during his lifetime. Raymond Devlin had been divorced four times and been involved in innumerable well-publicized affairs before his death eight years before. “To each his own.”

  Two minutes after the door closed behind Cass, Brody was under the shower. The warm water whipping against his body should have been soothing, but it failed to ease the tension knotting his muscles. Once he had reached this point, not even sex could totally relieve it. It was too raw and abrasive to yield to sleep or exercise, and he wasn’t stupid enough to use drugs or liquor. If he could just hold on until he got back to the hotel, the woman in the suite should help. He would sink into her body and take the edge off both his abstinence and this damn tension, which was almost always with him. He should have sent for a woman before this but he had felt an unaccountable reluctance. He thought it might have something to do with the boredom that had been gnawing at him for the past few years. Bored with sex? He must be getting old. No, his physical arousal was as strong as ever. It was the emptiness he felt afterward that bothered him.

  Still, sex helped more than anything else to defeat his nemesis. The tension would return after the act, but it wouldn’t be this bad for a while. He would be fine as soon as he got to his suite and saw the woman.

  He closed his eyes, thinking about the woman Marceline would send, and let the water pour over him. His instructions were always the same. The call girl must be blond, voluptuous, and versatile. She was given a key by the desk clerk and was always waiting naked in bed when he arrived at the suite.

  The woman wasn’t blond, she wasn’t voluptuous, and she definitely wasn’t waiting naked in bed.

  She was sitting fully dressed in the cane chair in the sitting room and jumped to her feet as soon as he opened the door. “Hello.” Her voice was breathless. “I’m Sacha Lorion. I’m very happy to meet you.”

  The words held the faintest hint of an accent of some kind. French? Well, it didn’t matter. She was all wrong. What the hell could the service have been thinking of to send someone like this teenage Lolita to him? She looked about seventeen in those beat-up jeans and jacket, and she
was staring at him with the fearless wide-eyed curiosity of a much younger child.

  “I’m Brody Devlin and I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You’re not what I wanted.”

  “No?” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “You don’t like me?”

  The accent was French, and her husky voice was vaguely erotic, Brody noted, stroking him like a whisper in the dark. Maybe … No, conversation was seldom required from his partners, and he would feel guilty as hell taking this big-eyed child to bed. “You’re too young,” he said gently.

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  He should have known Marceline’s service wouldn’t deal with children. Marceline’s women were all skilled professionals of the highest order. No doubt some of her customers preferred the kinky imagery of bedding a budding nymphet, but she would never risk supplying the actual goods. He closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry, you still won’t do.”

  “You think I’m ugly? I know I’m not to everyone’s taste.” The question was asked with no coyness, only that same bold curiosity he had noted in her expression.

  “No, you’re actually quite … attractive.” It wasn’t the right word, but her appeal was difficult to categorize. Her skin was truly magnificent, Brody thought, rose petals on velvet. Her ebony hair shone clean and healthy in the lamplight, falling to her shoulders and curving under in a simple page boy to frame high cheekbones, slightly pouty lips, and light blue eyes faintly uptilted at the corners. There was something vaguely familiar about those eyes, he thought absently. “I’m afraid you’re just not my type.”

  She smiled and he inhaled sharply. Not attractive. Beautiful. Her face was suddenly illuminated from within by a warmth and vitality that was near incandescent. “Then of course, I won’t do at all,” she said cheerfully. “I’m sorry. There must have been a mix-up. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” She strode briskly toward the telephone on the desk in the far corner of the sitting room. “I’ll call Marceline’s right away and arrange for a replacement.” She paused with her hand on the receiver and glanced back over her shoulder. “At this time of night it may take an hour or so, but I will take good care of you until she gets here. Have you eaten yet?”