She stared back at him, eyes wide, clutching her reticule to her chest, and a ghost of a whisper teased the back of his neck.
Unforgivably stunning—that’s what she was.
“Mr. Dodd?” She broke the awkward silence.
He cleared his throat and forced his gaze to the papers on his desk.
“No auditions this week. Unless you’re a damn good secretary willing to work long hours for low pay, you need to go.” He could barely keep his eyes off her. And not because she vied for his attention, but because of the opposite. “Now.”
Bloody smart woman—dressing up like a governess or dowager’s companion in the hopes that she’d land a position that would allow her unfettered access to the director.
Once she’d established herself, of course, in his office but also his bed, she’d expect him to award her with the most coveted roles.
Which would enrage the other actresses—a conflict that could sabotage even the most mundane productions.
Something he, unfortunately, knew from experience.
When she didn’t leave, Carter leaned forward. “Do you still want to apply for the secretarial post?”
Her eyes darted around the room.
“I’m not an actress.” Her voice was lower than he expected, temporarily distracting him from her lie.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a playwright.”
Playwrights and Secretaries and Actresses, Oh My!
Miss Giselle Sparrow had expected the director to be somewhat welcoming. He was the person who’d sent for her, after all. It was he who’d expressed an interest in her manuscript.
But he was not smiling. In fact, she did not imagine his irritation.
Giselle, Elle to her sisters and parents, glanced around the office while awaiting his response.
She’d climbed two flights of stairs to reach the director’s office, a longish room that might have once been an apartment. Large windows lined one wall, reflecting the long shelf built opposite them. The director’s desk took up most of the far end, a smaller desk the other, with a table between the two of them. The table was covered with a mishmash of old playbills, scripts, tickets, and even a few items that looked as though they were sometimes used as props.
She’d entered the theater using the rear door, and then explored the back of the house before finding the director’s office. Even between productions, the scent of lumber and stain filled her senses. Backstage literally buzzed with excitement and potential and Elle ached to be a part of it.
And it all began and ended here—with the director.
She’d expected him to be much older than the man seated before her. And she hadn’t expected him to be so good looking—better-looking than the most handsome of the eligible gentlemen amongst the ton.
Even while scowling.
In fact, perhaps his looks improved with that scowl. Because nothing about him appeared pampered, or soft, or weak. From the shadows etched beneath mahogany eyes, past his chiseled jaw to his well-worn boots, this man…
If she’d thought to bring one of her fans, she’d be waving it in front of her face.
She glanced down at the fob watch attached to her reticule. Eleven in the morning—the time he had chosen.
“A playwright?” He cocked his head to the side. “Or an actress who has taken a gander at writing a play?”
“I’m not an actress!” She wasn’t even close to being one. She loved watching plays, talking about plays and then putting her own stories down on paper. But she hated being watched—being the center of attention. Which was something her father had never understood about her.
And why she’d decided to find her own way. It was the only way she could avoid a life of pomp and fuss. It was her only answer.
And then she saw it—her precious manuscript tossed on the corner of his desk—almost hidden beneath a stack of correspondence and… carefully torn scraps of paper that appeared to have once been a calendar.
