Rachel Lindsay - Man Out of Reach Read online

  Rachel Lindsay - Man Out of Reach

  They were not free to love each other

  Sara had sacrificed a brilliant future as an opera singer—using the money for her training to save her brother from prison for embezzling. That was how she met Brian's boss, Philip Stafford, head of the Combined Television Company.

  It was a momentous meeting. Not only did Sara find a new and exciting career— but she and Philip fell in love.

  It seemed that her unselfish, act had been rewarded, then she learned that her love had no future. Philip was married—tied to a spoiled; selfish woman in such a way that he would never be free…

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Vissi d'Arte, Vissi d'Amore… I have lived for Art… I have lived for Love."

  The voice lingered caressingly over the words, then, gathering passion and strength, it soared upward like a bird to the final note.

  Sara Lister's hands fluttered to her breast and her eyes sought those of the swarthy, thickset man in front of her. In the gathering dusk of the June evening his features were lost in shadow, and she waited anxiously for him to speak.

  "Brava! Brava, ragazza mia," he said at last, and as he moved forward she was astonished to see tears in his eyes. '' We will make a singer of you yet.''

  Hardly extravagant praise, yet Sara's heart beat fast as she put the sheet of music into her case and took her coat from its peg on the wall.

  Tears in Professor Vallombrosa's eyes! For longer than she cared to remember the only tears that had been shed in this room had been her own! Never would she forget the day when, fresh from her triumph in a student operatic production, she had stood before the famous Italian teacher only to be told that she could not sing at all—that she would have to start again from the very beginning!

  But nothing could sway Sara's determination to succeed and, in the wholehearted manner in which she did everything, she applied herself to her studies, thankful to her godmother for leaving her a legacy which, though modest, was sufficient to enable her to fulfill her heart's desire.

  Now Sara had her reward. The weary months of breathing exercises, the endless practicing of scales had at last borne fruit, and even she was astonished at the power and range of the voice she possessed.

  Common sense told her she was only at the beginning of her career and that there were many years of work ahead of her. But as she waited for her homeward bus she daydreamed of the future and saw herself on stage, holding a vast audience spellbound as the fragile, pathetic Mimi, or the saucy spitfire Musetta!

  A smile dimpled her cheek. How good life was when you were only twenty-two and the world was yours to conquer!

  She was walking on air as she entered the block of apartments in Kensington where she lived with her mother and brother, and raced up the stairs to the second floor. Leaving her coat in the hall she went into the living room. It was empty, but as she turned to go out her mother came in with a tea tray.

  "Let me carry that for you," Sara said, and placed it on the table in front of the settee. "You know it's not good for you to carry heavy things."

  "What's heavy about a tray?" her mother answered as she sat down and picked up the teapot.

  Sara sighed. It was hopeless to argue with her mother, for though she had suffered from asthma for years, she refused to regard it as an illness that might prematurely end her life. Even a recent heart attack had in no way frightened her and though Sara had been glad that her mother refused to regard herself as an invalid, she could not help wishing she would not go to the other extreme and look on herself as a healthy woman.

  "Stop standing there with such a miserable expression," Mrs. Lister interrupted briskly. "Sit down and nave your tea."

  Sara lifted the lid of a silver dish and looked inside. "Crumpets—heavenly!" She bit into one. "Don't get these too often, darling. They're fattening!"

  "You needn't worry," her mother smiled. "To my way of thinking you're too thin."

  "Then I'll be the first opera singer who is! I'd hate to play Mimi dying of starvation in a garret if I were covered in rolls of fat!"

  "You playing Mimi!" Mrs. Lister leaned back, her expression wistful. "I wish your father were alive. He'd be so happy for you."

  Sara stared into her teacup. Even now she felt a stab of pain as she remembered her father. He had been so full of life, so confident in her future that she had never believed he would not be alive to share it with her. Devoted though she was to her mother, it was her father in whom she had confided. Perhaps because of this she had never resented the fact that her mother looked on Brian as the apple of her eye.

  As if she had been following a similar train of thought, Mrs. Lister broke the silence with a contented sigh. "I must say I never thought Brian would settle down as happily as he has with the BBC. He really seems to love his work.

  "Not the BBC," Sara interrupted. "The CTC."

  "It's all the same," her mother said.

  "It certainly isn't," a voice spoke from the door and they looked up as a slim, dark-haired young man with a pale face came into the room. Flinging his briefcase onto a chair, he grinned at Sara and bent to kiss his mother. "The Combined Television Company is about fifty times more go- ahead, I'll have you know! We've been going for a tenth of the time, but we re earning ten times more!"

  "You're giving away ten times more too," Sara said dryly. "Don't you get bored doing that ridiculous quiz show each week?"

  "I never get bored handling money," her brother grinned. "The top prize is a thousand pounds now!"

  "What will the questions be on this time?" Mrs. Lister asked.

  "Geography," Brian answered. "I'll tell you about it tomorrow. I can't talk now. I've got a date." Whistling cheerfully, he strode down the corridor and Mrs. Lister began to gather the tea things.

  What are your plans for tonight, darling?"

  "There's a concert on the radio I want to hear," Sara replied.

  "Wouldn't you rather go out with one of your girl friends? I know singing is your career, but you seem to be making it your whole life."

  "That's the only way you can be a success in this profession," Sara replied, and to save any further discussion, she took hold of the tray and carried it into the kitchen.

  Placing it on the table she stacked the dishes in the sink, glancing at herself in the mirror on the wall as she did so. Although her mother was pleased at the prospect of having a daughter with a successful operatic career, Sara knew she'd Be equally pleased if she gave it up and married some nice young man. Not for the first time Sara wished she could be like the majority of her friends, eagerly waiting to settle down to wedded bliss. Yet for her, bliss was a concert platform, an auditorium filled with people all waiting to ear her voice.

  The mere thought of success brought an added sparkle to her eyes and an added vitality to her face. It gave sparkle to her large, hazel eyes—eyes that were one of her best features—and warmth to her creamy skin and chestnut hair. Taken feature by feature she was a pretty girl, but taken as a whole she was outstandingly lovely. No, it would not be lack of opportunity that turned her into an old maid, she knew, but merely lack of desire.

  It was several weeks later when Sara arrived home unexpectedly early and, remembering her mother was out playing cards with friends, knew with a feeling of relief that for a few hours at least she would be completely alone. She yawned and stretched luxuriously, then padded into the drawing room, stopping in surprise as she saw Brian standing by the mantelpiece.

  "What are you doing home so early?" she asked flippantly. "Got the sack?" Her smile disappeared as her brother turned and she saw his face. "What's wrong, Brian? You look dreadful!"

  "I feel dreadful."

/>   She waited for him to continue and when she realized he had no intention of doing so, she moved closer, reminded of their childhood when he had always turned to her in times of trouble.

  "Tell me about it," she said quietly. "It can't be as bad as all that."

  "That's all you know!" He slumped into a chair and rested his head in his hands. "It couldn't be worse."

  "Tell me. Perhaps I can help."

  "No one can help me." He looked up. "The fact is I've— I've taken some money."

  "Do you mean money that doesn't belong to you?"

  "Yes."

  "How much?"

  "Two thousand pounds."

  "Two thousand pounds!" The blood drained from her face. "Whatever for?"

  In a voice so muffled she could hardly hear him, he told her what had happened. It was an all too familiar story. Someone in the studio owned a share in a horse, and more out of fun than a real desire to gamble, Brian had placed a bet on it. A surprise win had tempted him to plunge more boldly, but the inevitable run of bad luck had followed and soon he was faced with debts to the tune of one thousand pounds. His bookmaker had pressed for payment and Brian had been tempted to borrow the money for a final frantic effort to double up on his losses.

  "You know I'm working with Pat Dorland on his Friday show. 'Scoop the Pool'—well, I'm in charge of the money that's given away in prizes and—and———-"

  "You don't mean you stole that?"

  "I borrowed a thousand pounds from it and I've lost every penny."

  Sara closed her eyes, unable to bear the anguish in Brian's face. She knew she should be angry with him, yet all she could feel was pity.

  "Does Mr. Dorland know about it?" she asked.

  "Yes. He says if I replace it he won't say a word to anyone."

  Sara sprang to her feet. "Why didn't you tell me that before?

  "What good would it have done? I haven't a hope of finding the money unless I try my luck again. I've tried to figure out where to find the cash, but it's hopeless. It's the end of my career, if not worse. If CTC brings the thing into court it'll mean prison."

  As Sara listened to him, she knew that the solution lay in her own hands. It would be impossible to continue her singing studies if it meant using money that could otherwise save him from disgrace. And she would not only be saving her brother but her mother too, for if Brian was sent to prison the shock might easily kill her. She looked at her brother's face, seeing the tears that glittered in his eyes, the tremble of a jaw which at the best of times was none too firm. It was not fair that she had to sacrifice her own future in order to save his. Not giving herself time to think anymore, she put out her hand and caught Brian's.

  "Don't talk about prison. I could never stand by and let a thing like that happen. You mightn't have the money, but I have."

  "Do you mean your legacy?" Hope dawned in his eyes and then died. "I couldn't let you do it. You're using it for your singing."

  "I wouldn't feel much like singing if you were in prison," she said dryly. "No, Brian, you must use the money to pay off your debts."

  "My God, Sara!" he said hoarsely. "I'm not worth the sacrifice."

  "I'm not doing it for you," she said firmly. "I'm thinking of mother. If you went to prison the shock would kill her."

  At the mention of his mother, Brian sank down in his chair. "I've been thinking about mother ever since I left CTC."

  "A pity you didn't think of her before you started gambling!"

  "I don't blame you for talking to me like that," he said huskily. "I'm not worth saving."

  "Don't talk like an ass. OF course you're worth saving. Most young men have gambling debts at one time or another. Yours are a bit higher than the average, that's all."

  It was an effort to keep her voice light, but she knew it was the only way to stop herself from breaking down. Recriminations against him would be useless. Only by giving him strength now could she help him face up to the present and try to make something of his future.

  "Will it be all right if I give you the money tomorrow?"

  "Yes. I'll give it to Pat Borland straight away. It might be better if you gave it to me in cash, Sara. A check would be a bit tricky."

  "Very well, I'll go to the bank first thing in the morning.''

  If Sara found it difficult to reconcile herself to a future without singing, she found it even more difficult after her interview with Professor Vallombrosa, for he received the news as if it were a personal loss.

  "You must not give up," he exclaimed. "If you cannot afford to pay for your lessons I will teach you for nothing. Your voice is a gift, you dare not throw it away."

  "I'm not throwing it away," she said softly, "but it's a gift I can't afford to keep."

  Seeing he could not persuade her to change her mind, he sighed and kissed her hand—the first time he had made such a gesture.

  "The world is losing a star."

  "There are many stars in the sky, Professor."

  "But they do not all shine as brightly as you."

  There was nothing to be said to this and she hurried down the road and boarded a bus to return home. It was eleven o'clock. By now Brian had probably given the money to Mr. Dorland, thus assuring his future. How bitter to think that at the same time he was also ruining hers!

  I'd better not go on thinking this way, she warned herself. Brian never asked for my help and I mustn't blame him.

  Anxious to show she bore him no ill will, Sara put on one of her prettiest dresses that evening and told her mother they would have dinner in the dining room instead of the kitchen, which they usually did to save trouble.

  "What are you celebrating?" her mother asked.

  "Nothing. I just don't think we should get into a rut because we don't have visitors."

  Picking up the cutlery, she went into the dining room to lay the table. If only she had the courage to tell her mother she had given up singing. The longer she put it off the more difficult it would become. Maybe she could tell her now? She was halfway across the hall when she heard Brian's key in the door and she swung around to greet him. One look at the pallor of his face told her something was wrong and she pulled him into the dining room and closed the door.

  "What is it?" she asked quietly. "Didn't Mr. Dorland take the money?"

  "Oh, he took it all right, but he gave me something in exchange." Brian ran his hands through his hair. "My notice! '

  "But he said he'd give you another chance! He'd no right to break his promise."

  "He didn't break it. Somehow or other P.J. got to hear what had happened."

  "Who's P.J.?"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake!" Brian said irritably. "He's the boss. The big chief of CTC. Philip John Stafford, head of the Combined Television Company of the United Kingdom."

  "Don't make him sound so impressive," she said dryly. "No matter what his title, he's still an ordinary man."

  "There's nothing ordinary about P.J.! You should see him. He has a face like a hawk and a mind to match. He called Patrick in this afternoon and told him I must go at once. 'We can't afford to have any weak links in the chain,' were his actual words. 'If the fellow has let us down once he's bound to do it again.' Patrick pleaded for him to give me a second chance, but he wouldn't hear of it." Brian smiled bitterly. "It means the end of my career. Nobody's going to employ me without a reference—and I can imagine the sort of reference P.J. would give me if I asked him!"

  "It's not fair," Sara burst out. "Surely he realizes people make mistakes. Maybe if you saw him yourself—"

  "It wouldn't do any good.''

  "Then I 'll go and see him."

  "I tell you it wouldn't do any good. Besides, he'd refuse to see you.

  Sara closed her lips firmly, her round jaw stiffening into a stubborn line that Brian' recognized would brook no argument.

  Then I'll wait outside his door until he does," she said. "I don't care what power he has—P. J. Stafford is just a man as far as I'm concerned, not a king. I'll go and see h
im tomorrow."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The confidence with which Sara had said she would go and see Philip Stafford ebbed as, the following day, she entered the vast building that housed the offices and studios of CTC. Twelve stories high, its gleaming facade flanked with marble columns, it reared up toward the smoky London sky in garish magnificence. Across the front of the building the words Combined Television Company were strung in vivid neon lighting, and on the doors, above the windows, and everywhere it was possible to fit them, the motif CTC appeared in intertwining letters of gold and black.

  Sara stepped through the swing doors and entered a vast marble hall teeming with people. Ahead were the elevators, and as she walked toward them an attendant stepped forward.

  "Whom do you wish to see, miss?"

  "Mr. Stafford."

  "Your name?"

  "Miss Lister," she said firmly.

  Motioning her to wait, he picked up a telephone in a niche by one of the elevators and spoke into it.

  "I'm sorry, miss," he said as ne put it down, "but Mr. Stafford's secretary says he has no appointment with you, and does not wish to make one."

  Sara was so angry that she knew a childish longing to stamp her feet. How dared he refuse to see her? She hesitated, wondering what to do, then on an impulse asked the attendant to give her name to Patrick Dorland.

  "You're in luck," the man said as he replaced the phone again. "He'll see you right away. Go to the fifth floor. Room 207."

  Sara did as she was told, and a few minutes later, feeling far less confident than she looked, entered a well-furnished office. A sandy-haired man with vivid blue eyes rose from behind the desk to greet her and she had an impression of extreme height and strength—an impression confirmed as he caught her hand in a grip that made her wince.

  "Miss Lister?" he asked in a soft voice that held more than a hint of Irish brogue.

  She nodded. "It's good of you to see me, Mr. Dorland."

  "Not at all. Please sit down." He waited until she did so and then perched on the edge of his desk, swinging one long leg in front of him as he stared at her.