Early last month he’d discovered something special—a manuscript that, produced properly, would appeal to the upper crust of society but also entertain the working class. And as an unexpected bonus, the plot delivered more than simple entertainment.
It delivered a message without appearing to deliver a message. Layer by layer.
Something his father would never expect—as he wouldn’t be delivering it from a pulpit.
Carter paced back and forth in his office, his mind racing with ideas even as the weight of producing an unproven play pressed on his shoulders.
There was still so much to do, auditions to be scheduled, actors to be cast, and sets to be designed. The theater was his canvas, and he would paint a masterpiece that would captivate audiences and leave them breathless. He straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. It was time to bring his vision to life, and nothing would stand in his way. This production would define his legacy as a director.
He glanced at the clock, realizing that time was slipping away faster than he had anticipated.
He’d meet with Mr. Oldham, work out the issues he’d spotted, and then direct the most successful play Drury Lane had known in decades.
Three knocks sounded and Carter reined in his thoughts.
There was something promising about the nature of those knocks—not timid in the least, or apologetic, or overly subservient, but rather, sturdy, no-nonsense thwacks.
Carter's heart quickened as he waited for the door to open. The knocks had held a promise of finding the perfect replacement for Fiona, someone who would bring order and efficiency to his chaotic office.
He imagined a capable, middle-aged woman who exuded confidence and had a no-nonsense approach to her work. But as the door swung open, his eyebrows furrowed in surprise.
Standing before him was an astonishingly gorgeous young woman, her red hair pinned back but for a few errant locks caressing her jaw. He automatically imagined the silky locks hanging down, cascading over her shoulders like a fiery waterfall, but immediately dismissed the image.
“Good morning,” she said.
The radiance of emerald eyes held a spark of determination that matched her voice. Confident. Charismatic.
Carter felt a flicker of uncertainty, questioning whether this enchanting woman possessed the practicality he sought.
She was not grandmotherly, nor middle-aged, and definitely not male. In fact, she didn’t meet a single requirement Mrs. Grey had suggested.
Except, perhaps, the moss-colored high-necked gown that reminded him of his grandmother’s latest companion. And the ruthless knot she’d confined her hair in—hair so bright he doubted anything could hide it.
And then it struck him. She was more than a candidate for the position of assistant. She was obviously an actress.
Which explained the magnetic presence she exuded. With a composed nod, he extended a welcoming hand.
“You are…?”
“Your eleven o’clock appointment.” She looked as though she was going to curtsey, but then stopped herself.
What game was Mrs. Grey playing at?
This applicant was somewhere in her early twenties—possibly younger. And although dressed like someone’s spinster aunt, her attempt to hide lush curves and damn near perfect features failed dismally. He’d wager a week’s pay she aspired to the stage.
Definitely an actress.
He took the seat behind his desk as she closed the door behind her.
Bowled over by this woman’s hourglass shape, sultry eyes, and cherry red mouth, warning bells clamored in his head. True, the hideous green gown nearly succeeded in concealing the woman wearing it, but it could not hide the curve of her neck, nor the delicate hue on her cheeks.
Not just pretty, but beautiful.
His fingers twitched, along with the lower parts of his anatomy.
Send her away, Carter. Danger! Danger!
His office, which moments before had been nothing more than an inanimate cubicle to house his desk and chair, was suddenly charged with purpose and possibility.
