Authors: Sorcha MacMurrough
Sorcha Mac Murrough
Sorcha Mac
Murrough has been writing stories since she could hold a pen.
She has a degree in Irish history, from
which she draws her inspiration.
She lives in glorious rural Ireland, and loves cooking, hiking and
calligraphy.
Also
by the author
The
Rakehell Regency Series
The
Mad Mistress
The
Missed Match
The
Miss Matched
The
Matchless Miss
The
Scarred Heart
Guardian
of the Heart
The
Mistaken Miss
STAR
ATTRACTION
Sorcha
MacMurrough
HerStory
Books
To my best friend Darlene, and all
the happy memories of our days at university.
And to x, y, and z the models for
Brad?….. You know who you are!
Copyright
the author 1998
Second edition, 2003
This edition 2008, published by
HerStory Books with additional material
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted
in any form by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or
by any information and storage
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination,
and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales,
is entirely coincidental.
ISBN
13:
978-1-58345-037-6
Her
Story Books
CHAPTER
ONE
Zaira Darcy raced across the foyer
of the main university building.
The first day of a new term, and she was already running around like a
mad woman, she reflected ruefully.
She saw one of the elevator doors about to close, and decided recklessly
to sprint for it.
But Zaira hadn’t calculated on
another like-minded person charging for it as well. The collision knocked the
wind out of her. Zaira's books and lecture notes went flying in every
direction.
It was only due to the
presence of mind of the tall figure, who grabbed her by the elbows, that she
wasn’t sent sprawling herself.
“Damn, I’m sorry, look what I’ve
done,” he drawled in a West Coast accent, as he pulled her up and steadied
her.
Zaira was so awestruck by the
presence and physical beauty of the man that she could only gaze up at him
mutely.
Emerald green eyes
caressed her own grey ones intimately before he eased her down onto one of the
benches and went to retrieve her property.
She sat gazing at the muscular
back as it rippled through the black and purple UCLA sweatshirt he wore. She
took in his long virile legs encased in black jeans. His hair was dark brown
with intriguing reddish flashes, and curled softly at the nape of his neck.
As he reached out, she saw the hands
were strong and capable-looking, with each large enough to hold both of her own
at the same time.
He knelt by her
gathering papers, and finally looked up into her face.
Zaira grew embarrassed as her gaze
lingered, but she could not take her eyes away from his twinkling green
ones.
The rest of his face was
breath-taking as well.
His lashes
swept lushly over his fine deeply tanned cheekbones as he blinked, and his lips
were full.
Just right for smiling,
or kissing, Zaira thought suddenly, and for a moment she thought her theory was
about to be proven, for he moved upwards, and his mouth came within a few
inches of hers.
“I think I’ve got everything here,
and I’m really sorry.
I’d heard
New Yorkers were always in a hurry, but I guess I found out the hard way,” he
said with a grin.
“And now I’ve
probably made you late on top of everything else,” he added apologetically as
he tried to sort her papers into some kind of order.
“No, not really,” she heard
herself lie, and wondered way her voice sounded so strange.
“I was just making a bet with myself
that I could get on that elevator, and I probably would have if we hadn’t
bumped into each other.”
Then she realized what she had
said, and they both laughed.
“Well, you’re pretty much the
first person I’ve spoken to since I got here yesterday, so I’m sorry again, and
it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” His voice lingered on the word “pleasure.”
Zaira felt herself blush as the
green eyes took her in from top to toe.
She had felt very professional-looking in her grey pinstripe suit with
her auburn hair tightly pinned into a demure chignon and her spectacles perched
on the end of her nose, but under this alluring Californian’s scrutiny she felt
stark-naked.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Zaira asserted
rather coldly, as she lifted the pile of books from the bench and held out her
other hand for her papers.
“You’re not,” he said with a
smile, as he walked towards the lift, still holding her papers.
Zaira had no choice but to follow,
and as they stood in silence waiting for the elevator, she noticed him looking
at the titles of some of her books.
“
Political Shakespeare?
Drama within Drama?
Never heard of them.
How could Shakespeare be political?
It’s only literature, isn’t it?” he said, sounding mildly
interested but rather condescending.
“Is that what they make you students read at this university?”
“No one makes
me
read it, I make my students read
it, and no, Shakespeare is not simply literature but an historical and a
political document. All literature is solidly based on the concerns of the
society in which it is produced, like male/female relationships, relationships
between the classes, and other big political issues.
Shakespeare would have never been successful on the stage or
in print when the book of his plays was first published unless he’d been
writing about things people were genuinely concerned about.
All writing needs to appeal to people’s
concerns, or else it won’t be successful except as the most light-weight of
entertainments.”
“Like films?” the infuriatingly
handsome stranger asked her as the elevator door pinged open and they stepped
inside.
“Films can address many serious
concerns, and there are of course excellent adaptations of Shakespeare, but
unless it speaks to the audience in a new way, it won’t endure.
Films too are a product of the society
and culture that produce them.
French films, for example, are very different from English, Russian or
American films, aren’t they?”
“They sure are,” the stranger
replied with a smile, watching her intently.
“Many of the best films are taken
from novels, so obviously something appeals to the film-makers in these
stories. They take it on trust that their audience will feel the same way, and
therefore pay to see the film.
But
it isn’t merely entertainment, is it?
It’s a huge money-making venture on the one hand, at its most basic
level, but also in some cases even propaganda, making the public see the image
the director and the cinematographer want us to see.
It’s not true to life. If it were, they’d be making
documentaries.
So there's another
level of art added to what is already artistic, and another level of politics
to something which is already political,” Zaira explained patiently, warming to
her subject, as well as her audience.
They reached the tenth floor, and
Zaira suddenly realized she was going to be dreadfully late if she didn’t get
rid of him soon.
“We’re on ten,”
she said.
“You aren’t lost, are
you?”
“I, um, no,” he said, with a blink
and shake of his head.
“I’m going
to Room 1012.”
“Right, well, it’s this way, the
door next to mine,” Zaira said, leading him down the corridor.
“You must be doing that new film
studies course Brad Clarke is giving this term.
I must admit I’ve never liked any of his films, but of
course it’s a matter of taste.”
The tall dark stranger hesitated
for a moment in the corridor, and handed her back her papers abruptly.
“Here you are, I’d better give you
these, or your students will get even more of the nonsense you’ve just been
talking off the top of your head,” he sneered, before continuing down the
corridor on his own.
Zaira was astonished by his
rudeness; he’d seemed so friendly, and genuinely interested in the things she’d
been saying.
She followed him and
saw to her dismay that several reporters and students had gathered outside Room
1012, and were now taking photos of the gorgeous stranger.
Oh no!
she groaned inwardly.
Of all the people in the universe she
could have bumped into and insulted!
Brad Clarke, Hollywood’s hottest new director, famous for his pride,
arrogance and temper.
Brad Clarke,
famous for his womanizing, flamboyant lifestyle, and vast wealth.
Brad Clarke, the man who was coming to
see her tomorrow to discuss the novel she had written with a view to buying the
movie rights!
Reflecting that she couldn’t mend
any fences now, since she was already very late for class, Zaira hastily
trotted into her lecture hall and began to apologize, introduce herself, and go
over the book list all in one breath.