by Nora Roberts
hands before Link left the room. Cautiously, she picked up her fork.
“He’s certainly quiet.”
Pierce smiled and poured a pale gold wine into her glass. “Link only talks when he has something to say. Tell me, Miss Swan, do you enjoy living in Los Angeles?”
Ryan looked over at him. His eyes were friendly now, not intense and intrusive, as they had been before. She allowed herself to relax. “Yes, I suppose I do. It’s convenient for my work.”
“Crowded?” Pierce cut into the poultry.
“Yes, of course, but I’m used to it.”
“You’ve always lived in L.A.?”
“Except when I was in school.”
Pierce noted the slight change in tone, the faintest hint of resentment no one else might have caught. He went on eating. “Where did you go to school?”
“Switzerland.”
“A beautiful country.” He reached for his wine. And she didn’t care to be shipped off, he thought. “Then you began to work for Swan Productions?”
Frowning, Ryan stared into the fire. “When my father realized I was determined, he agreed.”
“And you’re a very determined woman,” Pierce commented.
“Yes,” she admitted. “For the first year, I shuffled papers, went for coffee, and was kept away from the talent.” The frown vanished. A gleam of humor lit her eyes. “One day some papers came across my desk, quite by mistake. My father was trying to sign Mildred Chase for a miniseries. She wasn’t cooperating. I did a little research and went to see her.” Laughing with the memory, she sent Pierce a grin. “That was quite an experience. She lives in this fabulous place in the hills—guards, a dozen dogs. She’s very ‘old Hollywood.’ I think she let me in out of curiosity.”
“What did you think of her?” he asked, mainly to keep her talking, to keep her smiling.
“I thought she was wonderful. A genuine grande dame. If my knees hadn’t been shaking, I’m sure I would have curtsied.” A light of triumph covered her face. “And when I left two hours later, her signature was on the contract.”
“How did your father react?”
“He was furious.” Ryan picked up her wine. The fire sent a play of shadow and light over her skin. She was to think of the conversation later and wonder at her own expansiveness. “He raged at me for the better part of an hour.” She drank, then set down the glass. “The next day, I had a promotion and a new office. Bennett Swan appreciates people who get things done.”
“And do you,” Pierce murmured, “get things done, Miss Swan?”
“Usually,” she returned evenly. “I’m good at handling details.”
“And people?”
Ryan hesitated. His eyes were direct again. “Most people.”
He smiled, but his look remained direct. “How’s your dinner?”
“My . . .” Ryan shook her head to break the gaze, then glanced down at her plate. She was surprised to see she had eaten a healthy portion of the hen. “It’s very good. Your . . .” She looked back at him again, not certain what to call Link. Servant? Slave?
“Friend,” Pierce put in mildly and sipped his wine.
Ryan struggled against the uncomfortable feeling that he saw inside her brain. “Your friend is a marvelous cook.”
“Appearances are often deceiving,” Pierce pointed out, amused. “We’re both in professions that show an audience something that isn’t real. Swan Productions deals in illusions. So do I.” He reached toward her, and Ryan sat back quickly. In his hand was a long-stemmed red rose.
“Oh!” Surprised and pleased, Ryan took it from him. Its scent was strong and sweet. “I suppose that’s the sort of thing you have to expect when you have dinner with a magician,” she commented and smiled at him over the tip of the bud.
“Beautiful women and flowers belong together.” The wariness that came into her eyes intrigued him. A very cautious woman, he thought again. He liked caution, respected it. He also enjoyed watching people react. “You’re a beautiful woman, Ryan Swan.”
“Thank you.”
Her answer was close to prim and had his mouth twitching. “More wine?”
“No. No, thank you, I’m fine.” But her pulse was throbbing lightly. Setting the flower beside her plate, she went back to her meal. “I’ve rarely been this far up the coast,” she said conversationally. “Have you lived here long, Mr. Atkins?”
“A few years.” He swirled the wine in his glass, but she noted he drank very little. “I don’t like crowds,” he told her.
“Except at a performance,” she said with a smile.
“Naturally.”
It occurred to Ryan, when Pierce rose and suggested they sit in the parlor, that they hadn’t discussed the contract. She was going to have to steer him back to the subject.
“Mr. Atkins . . .” she began as they entered. “Oh! What a beautiful room!”
It was like stepping back to the eighteenth century. But there were no cobwebs, no signs of age. The furniture shone, and the flowers were fresh. A small upright piano stood in a corner with sheet music open. There were small, blown-glass figurines on the mantel. A menagerie, she noted on close study—unicorns, winged horses, centaurs, a three-headed hound. No conventional animals in Pierce Atkins’s collection. Yet the fire in the grate was sedate, and the lamp standing on a piecrust table was certainly a Tiffany. It was a room Ryan would have expected to find in a cozy English country house.
“I’m glad you like it,” Pierce said, standing beside her. “You seemed surprised.”
“Yes. The outside looks like a prop from a 1945 horror movie, but . . .” Ryan stopped herself, horrified. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” But he was grinning, obviously delighted with her observation.
“It was used for just that more than once. That’s why I bought it.”
Ryan relaxed again as she wandered around the room. “It did occur to me that you might have chosen it for the atmosphere.”
Pierce lifted a brow. “I have an—affection for things others take at face value.” He stepped to a table where cups were already laid out. “I can’t offer you coffee, I’m afraid. I don’t use caffeine. The tea is herbal and very good.” He was already pouring as Ryan stepped up to the piano.
“Tea’s fine,” she said absently. It wasn’t printed sheet music on the piano, she noted, but staff paper. Automatically, she began to pick out the handwritten notes. The melody was hauntingly romantic. “This is beautiful.” Ryan turned back to him. “Just beautiful. I didn’t know you wrote music.”
“I don’t.” Pierce set down the teapot. “Link does.” He watched Ryan’s eyes widen in astonishment. “Face value, Miss Swan?”
She lowered her eyes to her hands. “You make me quite ashamed.”
“I’ve no intention of doing that.” Crossing to her, Pierce took her hand again. “Most of us are drawn to beauty.”
“But you’re not?”
“I find surface beauty appealing, Miss Swan.” Quickly, thoroughly, he scanned her face. “Then I look for more.”
Something in the contact made her feel odd. Her voice wasn’t as strong as it should have been. “And if you don’t find it?”
“Then I discard it,” he said simply. “Come, your tea will get cold.”
“Mr. Atkins.” Ryan allowed him to lead her to a chair. “I don’t want to offend you. I can’t afford to offend you, but . . .” She let out a frustrated breath as she sat. “I think you’re a very strange man.”
He smiled. She found it compelling, the way his eyes smiled a split second before his mouth. “You’d offend me, Miss Swan, if you didn’t think so. I have no wish to be ordinary.”
He was beginning to fascinate her. Ryan had always been careful to keep her professional objectivity when dealing with talent. It was important not to be awed. If you were awed, you’d find yourself adding clauses to contracts and making rash promises.
“Mr. Atkins, about our proposition.”
“I’ve given it a great
deal of thought.” A crash of thunder shook the windows. Ryan glanced over as he lifted his cup. “The roads will be treacherous tonight.” His eyes came back to Ryan’s. Her hands had balled into fists at the blast. “Do storms upset you, Miss Swan?”
“No, not really.” Carefully, she relaxed her fingers. “But I’m grateful for your hospitality. I don’t like to drive in them.” Lifting her cup, she tried to ignore the slashes of lightning. “If you have any questions about the terms, I’d be glad to go over them with you.”
“I think it’s clear enough.” He sipped his tea. “My agent is anxious for me to accept the contract.”
“Oh?” Ryan had to struggle to keep the triumph from her voice. It would be a mistake to push too soon.
“I never commit myself to anything until I’m certain it suits me. I’ll tell you what I’ve decided tomorrow.”
She nodded, accepting. He wasn’t playing games, and she sensed that no agent, or anyone, would influence him beyond a certain point. He was his own man, first and last.
“Do you play chess, Miss Swan?”
“What?” Distracted, she looked up again. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you play chess?” he repeated.
“Why, yes, I do.”
“I thought so. You know when to move and when to wait. Would you like to play?”
“Yes,” she agreed without hesitation. “I would.”
Rising, he offered his hand and led her to a table by the windows. Outside, the rain hurled itself against the glass. But when she saw the chessboard already set up, she forgot the storm.
“They’re exquisite!” Ryan lifted the white king. It was oversized and carved in marble. “Arthur,” she said, then picked up the queen. “And Guinevere.” She studied the other pieces. “Lancelot the knight, Merlin the bishop, and, of course, Camelot.” She turned the castle over in her palm. “I’ve never seen anything like these.”
“Take the white,” he invited, seating himself behind the black. “Do you play to win, Miss Swan?”
She took the chair opposite him. “Yes, doesn’t everyone?”
He gave her a long, unfathomable look. “No. Some play for the game.”
After ten minutes Ryan no longer heard the rain on the windows. Pierce was a shrewd player and a silent one. She found herself watching his hands as they slid pieces over the board. They were long, narrow hands with nimble fingers. He wore a gold ring on his pinky with a scrolled symbol she didn’t recognize. Ryan had heard it said those fingers could pick any lock, untie any knot. Watching them, she thought they were more suited for tuning a violin. When she glanced up, she found him watching her with his amused, knowing smile. She channeled her concentration on her strategy.
Ryan attacked, he defended. He advanced, she countered. Pierce was pleased to have a well-matched partner. She was a cautious player, given to occasional bursts of impulse. He felt her game-playing reflected who she was. She wouldn’t be easily duped or easily beaten. He admired both the quick wits and the strength he sensed in her. It made her beauty all the more appealing.
Her hands were soft. As he captured her bishop, he wondered idly if her mouth would be, too, and how soon he would find out. He had already decided he would; now it was a matter of timing. Pierce understood the invaluable importance of timing.
“Checkmate,” he said quietly and heard Ryan’s gasp of surprise.
She studied the board a moment, then smiled over at him. “Damn, I didn’t see that coming. Are you sure you don’t have a few extra pieces tucked up your sleeve?”
“Nothing up my sleeve,” Merlin cackled from across the room. Ryan shot him a glance and wondered when he had joined them.
“I don’t use magic when skill will do,” Pierce told her, ignoring his pet. “You play well, Miss Swan.”
“You play better, Mr. Atkins.”
“This time,” he agreed. “You interest me.”
“Oh?” She met his look levelly. “How?”
“In several ways.” Sitting back, he ran a finger down the black queen. “You play to win, but you lose well. Is that always true?”
“No.” She laughed but rose from the table. He was making her nervous again. “Do you lose well, Mr. Atkins?”
“I don’t often lose.”
When she looked back, he was standing at another table handling a pack of cards. Ryan hadn’t heard him move. It made her uneasy.
“Do you know Tarot cards?”
“No. That is,” she corrected, “I know they’re for telling fortunes or something, aren’t they?”
“Or something.” He gave a small laugh and shuffled the cards gently. “Mumbo jumbo, Miss Swan. A device to keep someone’s attention focused and to add mystery to quick thinking and observation. Most people prefer to be fooled. Explanations leave them disappointed. Even most realists.”
“You don’t believe in those cards.” Ryan walked over to join him. “You know you can’t tell the future with pasteboard and pretty colors.”
“A tool, a diversion.” Pierce lifted his shoulders. “A game, if you like. Games relax me.” Pierce fanned the oversized cards in a quick, effective gesture, then spread them on the table.
“You do that very well,” Ryan murmured. Her nerves were tight again, but she wasn’t sure why.
“A basic skill,” he said easily. “I could teach you quickly enough. You have competent hands.” He lifted one, but it was her face he examined, not her palm. “Shall I pick a card?”
Ryan removed her hand. Her pulse was beginning to race. “It’s your game.”
With a fingertip, Pierce drew out a card and flipped it faceup. It was the Magician. “Confidence, creativity,” Pierce murmured.
“You?” Ryan said flippantly to conceal the growing tension.
“So it might seem.” Pierce laid a finger on another card and drew it out: The High Priestess. “Serenity,” he said quietly. “Strength. You?”
Ryan shrugged. “Simple enough for you to draw whatever card you like after you’ve stacked the deck.”
Pierce grinned, unoffended. “The cynic should choose the next to see where these two people will end. Pick a card, Miss Swan,” he invited. “Any card.”
Annoyed, Ryan plucked one and tossed it faceup on the table. After a strangled gasp, she stared at it in absolute silence. The Lovers. Her heart hammered lightly at her throat.
“Fascinating,” Pierce murmured. He wasn’t smiling now, but he studied the card as if he’d never seen it before.
Ryan took a step back. “I don’t like your game, Mr. Atkins.”
“Hmmm?” He glanced up distractedly, then focused on her. “No? Well then . . .” He carelessly flipped the cards together and stacked them. “I’ll show you to your room.”
***
Pierce had been as surprised by the card as Ryan had been. But he knew reality was often stranger than any illusion he could devise. He had work to do, a great deal of final planning for his engagement in Las Vegas in two weeks time. Yet as he sat in his room, he was thinking of Ryan, not of the mechanics of his craft.
There was something about her when she laughed, something brilliant and vital. It appealed to him the same way her low-key, practical voice had appealed to him when she spoke of contracts and clauses.
He already knew the contract backward and forward. He wasn’t a man to brush aside the business end of his profession. Pierce signed his name to nothing unless he understood every nuance. If the public saw him as mysterious, flashy and odd, that was all to the good. The image was part illusion, part reality. That was the way he preferred it. He had spent the second half of his life arranging things as he preferred them.
Ryan Swan. Pierce stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He wasn’t certain about her just yet. He had fully intended to sign the contracts until he had seen her coming down the stairs. Instinct had made him hesitate. Pierce relied heavily on his instincts. Now he had some thinking to do.
The cards didn’t influence him. He could make cards stand
up and dance if that’s what he wanted. But coincidence influenced him. It was odd that Ryan had turned over the card symbolizing lovers when he had been thinking what she would feel like in his arms.
With a laugh, he sat down and began to doodle on a pad of paper. The plans he was forming for a new escape would have to be torn up or revised, but it relaxed him to turn it over in his mind, just as he turned Ryan over in his mind.
It might be wise to sign her papers in the morning and send her on her way. He didn’t care to have a woman intrude on his thoughts. But Pierce didn’t always do what was wise. If he did, he would still be playing the club field, pulling rabbits out of his hat and colored scarves out of his pocket at union scale. Now he turned a woman into a panther and walked through a brick wall.
Poof! he thought. Instant magic. And no one remembered the years of frustration and struggle and failure. That, too, was exactly as he wanted it. There were few who knew where he had come from or who he had been before he was twenty-five.