Dual Image

by Nora Roberts

  were smothering all the specialness that radiated from him.

  They weren’t unkind people, she mused, but simply set in their thinking. A child was to be formed along certain lines, and that was that. A child was a duty, a solemn one. While she understood the duty, it was joy that came first. They would raise him to be responsible, polite and well-read. And they’d forget the wonder of it.

  Perhaps it would have been easier if Scott’s grandparents hadn’t disapproved of Ariel’s brother so strongly or if Scott hadn’t been conceived in youthful defiance and passion . . . and out of wedlock. Marriage and Scott’s birth hadn’t eased over the strain in the relationship, nor had the tragic and sudden accident that had taken her brother and young sister-in-law.

  Scott’s grandparents would look at the boy and be reminded that their daughter had married against their wishes and was dead. Ariel looked at him and saw life at its best.

  He needs me, she thought, and ruffled his hair as he stood staring wide-eyed at a lumbering bear. Even when her heart wasn’t involved, she’d never been able to resist a need. With Scott, her heart had been lost the first time she’d seen him—red and scrawny behind a hospital glass wall.

  And she understood that she needed him. To have someone receive her love was vital. She thought of Booth.

  He needed her too, she thought, as a small secret smile touched her lips. Though he didn’t know it. A man like that needed the ease that love could bring to his life, and the laughter. And she wanted to give it to him.

  Why? Leaning against the barrier, Ariel shook her head. She had no solid reason, and that was enough to convince her it was right. When you could dissect something and find all the answers, you could find all the wrong ones. She trusted instincts and emotions much more than she trusted the intellect. She loved—quickly, unwisely and completely. When she thought about it, Ariel decided she should never have expected it to be otherwise.

  If she told him now, he’d think she was lying or insane. She could hardly blame him. It wouldn’t be easy to win the confidence of a man as wary or as cynical as Booth DeWitt. With a smile, Ariel nibbled on some of Scott’s popcorn. Challenges kept the excitement in life, after all. Whether Booth realized it or not, she was about to add some excitement to his.

  “Why’re you laughing, Ariel?”

  She grinned down at Scott, then scooped him up. He laughed as he always did at her quick, physical shows of affection. “Because I’m happy. Aren’t you? It’s a happy day.”

  “I’m always happy with you.” His arms went tight around her neck. “Can’t I stay with you? Can’t I live at your house—all the time?”

  She buried her face in the curve of his shoulder—a tender place—knowing she couldn’t tell him how hard she was trying to give him that. “We have today,” she said instead. “All day.”

  Holding him, she could smell the scent of his soap and shampoo, the scent of roasted popcorn, the hot, pungent scent of the sun. With another laugh, she set her nephew down. Today, she told herself, that was what she’d show him.

  “Let’s go see the snakes. I like to watch them slither.”

  ***

  Booth couldn’t understand why she kept crowding his mind. He should have been able to push Ariel into a corner of his brain and keep her there while he worked. Instead, she kept filling it.

  He could have accepted it if he’d been able to keep her in her slot—the actress he was all but certain would play his Rae. He could have rationalized his obsession if it had remained a professional one. But Booth kept seeing her as she’d been on top of New York, with her hair blowing frantically and her eyes filled with the wonder of it. That woman had nothing in common with the character of Rae.

  And he could see her as she’d looked in his apartment. Vital, fresh—with energy and integrity shimmering from her. He could remember her hurt when he’d been deliberately cruel, and his own guilt—a sensation he’d sworn he’d never feel again. He hardly knew her, and yet she was drawing things out of him he’d promised himself he wouldn’t feel again. He was perceptive enough to know she was a woman who could draw out more. For that reason, he’d decided to keep a safe, professional distance between them.

  Still, as Booth watched Ariel talk with Jack Rohrer before the reading, he couldn’t keep the established lines firmly in place. Was it because she was beautiful and he had always been susceptible to beauty? Was it because she was just unique enough to catch the attention and hold it?

  As a writer he couldn’t suppress his fascination with the unusual. But he got something from her—some feeling of absolute stability despite the fact that she dressed somewhere between a Gypsy and a teenager. He’d already asked her who she was and had been far from satisfied with her answer. Perhaps, just perhaps he should find out for himself.

  “They look good together,” Marshell murmured.

  The sound Booth made might have been agreement or disinterest, but he didn’t take his eyes from Ariel. If he hadn’t remembered her first reading so well, he’d have sworn he was making a mistake even considering her for the part. Her smile was much too open, her gestures too fluid. You could look at her and feel the warmth. He found it disconcerting to realize she made him nervous.

  Desire. Yes, he felt desire. Booth weighed and measured it. Strong, hard and very nearly urgent—and that with only a look. Of course, she was a woman a man had to want. He wasn’t worried about the desire, or even his interest, but about the niggling sensation that something was being slipped out of him without his knowledge and against his will.

  Pulling out a cigarette, he watched her through the blue-tinted smoke. It might be worth his while, both as a man and as a writer, to see how many faces she could wear, and how easily she wore them. He sat on the edge of Marshell’s desk.

  “Let’s get started.”

  At the brief, quiet order, Ariel turned her head and met Booth’s gaze. He’s different today, she thought, but couldn’t quite pigeonhole the reason. He still looked at her with that intrusive, serious stare that bordered on the brooding. The distance was still there; she was sensitive enough to recognize the wall he kept erected between himself and the rest of the world. But there was something . . .

  Ariel smiled at him. When he didn’t respond, she picked up her copy of the script. She was going to give the best damn reading of her career. For herself and—for some odd reason—for Booth.

  “All right, I’d like you to start at the top of the scene where they’ve come home from the party.” Absently Booth tapped his cigarette in a gold-etched ashtray. Behind him, Marshell nibbled on a stomach mint. “Do you want to read it over first?”

  Ariel glanced up from the script. He still thinks I’m going to blow it, she realized, and was grateful for the hard knot in her stomach. “It isn’t necessary,” she told him, then turned to Jack.

  For the second time, Booth witnessed the transformation. How was it that even her eyes seemed to go paler and icier when she spoke as Rae? He could feel the old sexual pull and intellectual abhorrence his ex-wife had always brought to him. With the cigarette smoldering between his fingertips, Booth listened to Rae’s scorn and Phil’s anger—and remembered all too clearly.

  A vampire. He’d called her that and accurately. Bloodless, heartless, alluring. Ariel slipped into the character as if it were a second skin. Booth knew he should admire her for it, even be grateful that she’d made his search for the right actress end. But her chameleon skill annoyed him.

  The chemistry was right. Ariel and Jack hurled their lines at each other while the anger and sexual sparks flew. There wasn’t any escaping it and no logical reason to try. Without knowing why, Booth was certain that giving Ariel the part was good professional judgment and a serious personal error. He’d just have to deal with the latter as he went.

  “That’ll do.”

  The moment Booth cut the scene, Ariel threw her head back and let out breathless laughter. The release—the sudden absence of tension—was tremendous. It would always
be that way, she realized, with a part as tough and as cold as this one.

  “Oh God, she’s so utterly hateful, so completely self-consumed.” Eyes alight, face flushed, she whirled to Booth. “You despise her, and yet she pulls you in. Even when you see the knife she’s going to slide under your ribs, it’s hard to step away.”

  “Yes.” Watching the scene had disturbed him more than he’d expected. Rising, Booth left his hands in his pockets. “I want you for the part. We’ll contact your agent and negotiate the details.”

  She sighed, but the smile lingered around her mouth. “I can see I’ve overwhelmed you,” Ariel said dryly. “But the bottom line is the part. You won’t regret it. Mr. Marshell, Jack, it’ll be a pleasure working with you.”

  “Ariel . . .” Marshell rose and accepted her offered hand. It had been a long time since he’d watched a scene that had left him as shaken as this one. “Unless I miss my guess—and I never do—you’re going to hit it big with this.”

  She flashed him a grin and felt like flying. “I don’t suppose I’ll complain. Thank you.”

  Booth had her elbow before she could turn around, and before he’d realized he intended to touch her. He wanted to vent fury on something, someone, but reasoned it away. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Feeling the tension in his fingers, she had to resist the urge to soothe it. This wasn’t a man who’d appreciate stroking. “All right.”

  They followed the same route they’d taken the week before, but this time in silence. Ariel sensed he needed it. When they came to the street door, she waited for him to say whatever he intended to say.

  “Are you free?” he asked her.

  A bit puzzled, she tilted her head.

  “For an early dinner,” he elaborated. “I feel I owe you a meal.”

  “Well.” She brushed the hair back from her face. His invitation, such as it was, pleased her—something she took no trouble to hide. “Technically that’s the other way around. Why do you want to have dinner with me?”

  Just looking at her—the laughing eyes, the generous mouth—pulled him in two directions. Get closer before you lose it. Back off before it’s too late. “I’m not completely sure.”

  “Good enough.” She took his hand and lifted her free one for a cab. “Do you like grilled pork chops?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed over her shoulder before pulling him into the cab. “An excellent start.” After giving the driver an address in Greenwich Village, she settled back. “I think the next move is to have a conversation without a word, one single word that has to do with business. We might just make it in each other’s company for more than an hour.”

  “All right.” Booth nodded. He’d made the decision to get to know her and get to know her he would. “But we’ll steer away from politics, too.”

  “Deal.”

  “How long have you lived in New York?”

  “I was born here. A native.” She grinned and crossed her legs. “You’re not. I read somewhere that you’re from Philadelphia and very top-drawer. Lots of influential relatives.” She didn’t even glance around when the cab skidded and swerved. “Are you happy in New York?”

  He’d never thought about equating it with happiness, but now that he did, the answer came easily. “Yes. I need the demands and the movement for long periods of time.”

  “And then you need to go away,” she finished. “And be alone—on your boat.”

  Before he could be uncomfortable with her accuracy, he’d accepted it. “That’s right. I relax when I’m sailing and I like to relax alone.”

  “I paint,” she told him. “Terrible paintings.” With a laugh, she rolled her eyes. “But it helps me work the kinks out when I get them. I keep threatening people with an original Kirkwood as a Christmas present, but I haven’t the heart to do it.”

  “I’d like to see one,” he murmured.

  “The problem seems to be that I splatter my mood on the canvas. Here we are.” Ariel hopped out of the cab and stood on the curb.

  Booth glanced around at the tiny storefronts. “Where’re we going?”

  “To the market.” In her easy manner, she hooked her arm through his. “I don’t have any pork chops at home.”

  He looked down at her. “Home?”

  “Most of the time I’d rather cook than eat out. And tonight I’m too wired to deal with a restaurant. I have to be busy.”

  “Wired?” After studying her profile, Booth shook his head. His hair was dark in the lowering sun, and the movement sent it settling carelessly around his face. A contrast, Ariel mused, to the rather formal exterior. “I’d have said you look remarkably calm.”

  “Uh-uh. But I’m trying to save the full explosion until after my agent calls and tells me everything’s carved in granite. Don’t worry”—she smiled up at him—“I’m a fair cook.”

  If a man judged only by that porcelain face, he’d never have believed she’d know one end of the stove from the other. But Booth knew about surfaces. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be a surprise under hers. Despite all the warnings he’d given himself, he smiled. “Only fair?”

  Her eyes lit in appreciation. “I hate to brag, but actually, I’m terrific.” She steered him into a small, cluttered market that smelled heavily of garlic and pepper, and began a haphazard selection for the evening meal. “How’re the avocados today, Mr. Stanislowski?”

  “The best.” The grocer looked over her head to study Booth out of the corner of his eye. “Only the best for you, Ariel.”

  “I’ll have two then, but you pick them out.” She poked at a head of romaine. “How did Monica do on her history quiz?”

  “Ninety-two percent.” His chest swelled a bit under his apron, but he continued to speculate on the dark, brooding man who’d come in with Ariel.

  “Terrific. I need four really nice center-cut chops.” While he selected them, she studied the mushrooms, well aware that he was bursting with curiosity over Booth. “You know, Mr. Stanislowski, Monica would love a kitten.”

  As he started to weigh the meat, the grocer sent her an exasperated glance. “Now, Ariel . . .”

  “She’s certainly old enough to care for one on her own,” Ariel continued and pinched a tomato. “It’d be company for her, and a responsibility. And she did get ninety-two on that quiz.” Looking over, she sent him a dashing, irresistible smile. He flushed and shifted his feet.

  “Maybe if you were to bring one by, we could think about it.”

  “I will.” Still smiling, she reached for her wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

  “That was smoothly done,” Booth murmured when they stepped outside. “And it’s the second time I’ve heard you palming off a kitten. Did your cat have a litter?”

  “No, I just happen to know about a number of homeless kittens.” She tilted her face toward him. “If you’re interested . . .”

  “No.” The answer was firm and brief as he took the bag from her.

  Ariel merely smiled and decided she could work on him later. Now, she breathed in the scent of spices and baking from the open doorways. Some children raced along the sidewalk, laughing. A few old men sat out on the stoops to gossip. After the dinner hour, Ariel knew other members of the family would come out to talk and exchange news and enjoy the spring weather. Through a screened window she heard some muted snatches of Beethoven’s Ninth, and farther down the pulse of top forty rock.

  Two years before, Ariel had moved to the Village for the neighborhood feel, and had never been disappointed. She could sit outside and listen to the elderly reminisce, watch the children play, hear about the latest teenage heartthrob or the newest baby. It had been exactly what she’d needed when her family had gone its separate ways.

  “Hi, Mr. Miller, Mr. Zimmerman.”

  The two old men who sat on the steps of the converted brownstone eyed Booth before they looked at Ariel. “Don’t think you should give that Cameron another chance,” Mr. Miller told her.

  “Boot him out.” Mr. Zimme
rman gave a wheeze that might have been a chuckle. “Get yourself a man with backbone.”

  “Is that an offer?” She kissed his cheek before climbing the rest of the steps.

  “I’ll have a dance at the block party,” he called after her.

  Ariel winked over her shoulder. “Mr. Zimmerman, you can have as many as you want.” As they started up the inside steps, Ariel began to fish in her bag for her keys. “I’m crazy about him,” she told Booth. “He’s a retired music instructor and still teaches a few kids on the side. He sits on the stoop so he can watch the women go by.” She located the keys attached to a large plastic grinning sun. “He’s a leg man.”

  Automatically, Booth glanced over his shoulder. “He told you?”

  “You just have to watch the direction his eyes take when a skirt passes.”

  “Yours included?”

  Her eyes danced. “I fit into the category of niece. He thinks I should be married and raising large quantities of babies.”

  She fit a single key into a single lock, something Booth thought almost unprecedented for New York, then pushed open the door. He’d been expecting the unusual. And he wasn’t disappointed.

  The focal point of the living room was a long oversize hammock swinging from brass ceiling hooks. One end of it was piled with pillows and beside it was a washstand holding one thick candle, three-quarters burned down. There was color—he’d known there’d be an abundance of it—and a style that was undefinable.

  The sofa was a long curved French antique upholstered with faded rose brocade, while a long wicker trunk served as a coffee table. As in Ariel’s dressing room, the entire area was cluttered with books, papers and scents. He caught the fragrance of candle