STOLEN MOMENTS

by Michelle Martin

  * * *

  He wasn't feeling even remotely that glib when he sat at a small table at the Surrealistic Pillow two hours later applauding the end of a very good set by an R-and-B duo. His palms were cold and clammy. The same could be said of his stomach. The club was warm, even hot, but his skin was covered in goosebumps. He couldn't recall ever being this nervous before.

  He was amazed at himself. He was amazed that he cared so much about what was going to happen to a woman he had known only forty-eight hours.

  Maynard Kip, the club's owner, walked up to the single microphone stand on the small wooden stage. The stagelights made his bald head glow. "Ladies and gentlemen," he bellowed into the mike so that the entire club reverberated with his deep voice, "I want you to give it up now for Miss Harley Smith!"

  The audience obligingly applauded as Harley walked onto the stage. She wore red high-tops, black leggings, and a belted ruby red satin tunic top. Her black Stratocaster hung from its strap against her belly. She looked a little nervous, but basically steady on her feet. Duncan wanted to bolt from the club.

  "Good evenin', folks," she said into the microphone, startling him with a touch of Oklahoma in her voice. "I figured I'd start out with an oldie but a goodie. I hope you love it as much as I do."

  She surprised everyone—and shocked Duncan—by breaking into a guitar intro that every rock-and-roll-loving human being on the planet knew. My God, he thought, the chance she's taking!

  Then she began singing "Johnny B. Goode," only she had changed the lyrics to "Janey B. Goode." Duncan felt the hair on his scalp rise up just as it had done the first time he had heard the Beatles sing "She Loves You." She was good! She was better than good. She sang in a strong, infectious alto, so different from Jane Miller's gentle soprano, and played the guitar like Chuck Berry and Eric Clapton combined. She had pulled three-quarters of the house down onto the dance floor before she had finished the first verse.

  Duncan was grinning like an idiot. Harley had eschewed Chuck Berry's duckwalk to drop to her knees for the guitar solo. She owned the Surrealistic Pillow and every human being in it. The club was surging with an energy high Duncan had never felt before. When she adjusted the final verse to sing "Her mama told her, 'Honey, you don't need a man, 'cause you will be the leader of a big old band,'" every female in the club screamed herself hoarse.

  Two measures into her second song, "Dancin' in the Street," and Harley had 212 devoted slaves who eagerly became her backup group, singing the "dancing in the street" lyric at the top of their lungs.

  She gave them great music and pure joy and the audience beamed back love with a force that could have knocked out a Patriot missile. But rather than swallowing it whole and demanding more, like some past and present vampire performers Duncan could name, Harley beamed that love right back at the audience, happier than any human being he had ever seen. He wanted to sit right there and see Harley that happy for the rest of his life.

  She concluded her set with a gleeful rendition of the Killer's "Great Balls of Fire"—which made Duncan wonder just how innocent she really was. She bowed to the thunderous applause. Then her blue gaze swept the crowd and stopped unerringly when it reached Duncan. She grinned right at him. "Ain't this a kick in the head?" she said, and he laughed out loud with some of the joy she was radiating as she started to leave the stage.

  "No!" the audience bellowed.

  "Sorry, gang," Harley said into the mike with an apologetic smile, "but my ten minutes are up."

  It only made the audience pound the floor and their tables harder. Maynard Kip stepped up to the microphone. "You're not going anywhere, Harley Smith. Get back here and sing to these people."

  The crowd cheered this change in club policy as Harley, looking a bit bemused, walked back to the mike. Then she grinned at the audience. "You folks are terrific," she said into the mike. "I'm gonna buy a bus and take you with me everywhere I go!"

  Happier and more satisfied than he'd ever felt, Duncan settled back into his chair to enjoy himself. Harley loved the music and loved performing and she wanted the audience to know it. It was a tremendous gift that she gave them, Duncan decided, and him. Boyd Monroe must have spotted it the first moment he laid eyes on her.

  Boyd. He'd have an apoplectic fit if he ever saw Harley perform with such exuberance. It was the antithesis of Jane Miller's decorous, feminine appeal. Unlike the girl Boyd had groomed, Harley was all woman on this stage. Duncan suspected Mr. Monroe was going to have his hands full trying to stuff Harley back into his tiny cage. The question was, would he eventually succeed? Had Harley had enough time away from him to fully reclaim the strength she would need to stand up to him from now on? Or would he bulldoze through the last few days as if they had never happened?

  "Okay, now," Harley said at the conclusion of "House of the Rising Sun," the guitar work she had used to replace the song's electric organ raising goosebumps on his skin. "This is going to be my last song, so I might as well take a chance and try out something new I've been working on. It's called 'Nice Girls Don't.' Have a listen."

  Duncan leaned forward against the small table. She was feeling brave tonight. And with good reason. The song rocked. It was sassy and hot as it ranged over all the advice parents had handed down to their daughters through the years—nice girls don't kiss on the first date, nice girls don't date boys with tattoos, nice girls don't skinny-dip in the local swimming hole, nice girls don't go out on the town by themselves. The chorus was simple and direct.

  "Ni-i-i-ce girls don't," Harley sang, then dropped her voice to a sexy growl, "but I do!"

  The audience bellowed its approval louder and louder with each chorus.

  At the end of the song, she dropped a demure curtsy—wholly belied by her grin—thanked everyone for listening, and walked offstage.

  Duncan was out of his chair and heading backstage before the roar of applause had even begun to abate. A side door to the left of the small proscenium led up four steps to the narrow and congested wings. He had to squeeze past a skinny bass guitarist who looked no more than fourteen, an acne-scarred sax player, and a magenta-haired girl holding a pair of drumsticks in her hands, before he found enough room to expand his lungs into an actual breath. Ten feet away, near the back brick wall, stood Harley and Maynard Kip. She was nodding earnestly, eyes shining. Then she saw him.

  "Duncan!" she shrieked, hurtling herself into his arms like she'd been shot out of a cannon. "I did it! I did it!"

  "I know, I know!" he said hugging her back and finding it hard to let her go. "You were wonderful. Stupendous!"

  "My old voice and the songs I love and I still connected with the audience! I can't believe it. All these years … Boyd lied to me. Hell, I lied to myself. I can make it on my own. I can be the performer I always wanted to be. I've never felt like that on stage before," she said, blue eyes glowing up at him as she stood within the circle of his arms. "It was like a continuous jolt from fifty thousand watts of electricity and falling off a cliff like Wile E. Coyote and ten zillion Christmases compressed into one excruciating moment. It was the most incredible, wonderful, amazing experience of my life! Thank you for giving it to me," she said, hugging him fiercely.

  His hand, trembling slightly, sifted through her short brown hair. "You're very welcome."

  He felt her sudden awareness that she was in his arms—and they weren't dancing—in the slight stiffening of her body. He let her step away as he also rocketed back to earth. Neither could quite meet the other's eyes.

  "We all set, Harley?" Maynard Kip asked as he walked up to them.

  "You bet, Maynard," Harley replied, turning with almost palpable relief to the bald club owner.

  "Then I'll go announce the next group. Try to keep it down, you two."

  Duncan watched Maynard walk off and then turned back to Harley feeling very grim. "What is all set?" he demanded.

  She looked wary. "One of the groups Maynard hired for the Friday-through-Sunday gig next week canceled on him. I'm filling i
n."

  "Harley—"

  She took a step back, arms folded defiantly across her chest. "I have never broken a promise in my life, but I'm breaking one now. I'm not going back to Boyd tonight, Duncan. Not after that set. It just changed my life, don't you see?"

  "Harley—"

  She took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. "I am not going back until I've had my full holiday."

  "Oh yes you are."

  "Oh no I'm not."

  "We had an agreement. I have kept my end of the deal—"

  "I know. You've been great."

  "—and it's time for you to do the same," Duncan grimly concluded.

  "Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not until I've had my fourteen days."

  Duncan exploded. He swore at her in English, French, German, and Italian even as the newest band to take the stage pounded the club with decibel-stretching music. He accused her of every crime since Lizzie Borden took ax in hand. He threatened her with handcuffs and chains. "You will not ruin my career single-handedly!" he informed her. "You will not destroy everything I've worked toward these last two years just so you can indulge some selfish little whim!"

  "Whim?" she shrieked. "This is no whim, this is my life I'm talking about. This is my music and my soul and my freedom!"

  "Talk about them on your own time, Princess. Right now," Duncan said, grabbing her wrist, "you are coming with me."

  "The hell I am!" she yelled, jerking herself free with surprising strength. "You aren't God. You can't just order me about and expect me to obey. I am a living, breathing, thinking, free woman and you're not taking me anywhere!"

  Both were panting for breath as they glared ferociously at each other.

  "Oh, fuck this," Duncan said as he grabbed Harley and threw her over his shoulder.

  "Put me down!" she shouted, twisting and struggling until she suddenly tumbled free.

  He lunged for her again, but she jumped back. "Now wait just a minute," she ordered.

  "Sure," he said, grabbing for her.

  She scrambled just out of his reach. "Come on, Duncan. Maybe we can compromise."

  "Compromise?" he said in utter disbelief. "I have compromised enough!"

  "But I think I know a way that I can have my holiday and you can protect your career. Really."

  "Sure you do."

  "No, Duncan," she said, holding up her hands, "think about it a minute. My holiday and your job security are all about Boyd. And the thing is, he has been acting strangely lately. You think something's going on, too. I saw your face this afternoon when Emma was telling you about my world tour. Boyd worries you, and not simply because he's a control freak."

  "All right, I agree, he's up to something," Duncan said, arms akimbo, "but it could be as little as having a lover in your every port of call. I am not going to ignore my responsibilities—"

  "Change your responsibilities."

  "What?"

  "Work for me, Duncan, not for Boyd. Let me hire you. Let me be your client."

  Duncan gazed down into dark blue eyes. "Oh, you are wicked," he said.

  "Really?" she said eagerly.

  He couldn't help it. Duncan gave it up and laughed. "Really," he assured her with a smile.

  She gave him a lopsided grin. "Look, I don't want to get you into any more trouble. I really don't. And I think this is the perfect plan to get you out of trouble and into Colangco's good graces. I mean, think about it, Duncan. First of all, you did your job. You found me. You got me. Case closed. Now I'm giving you your second big case. If Boyd is up to something other than international nooky, and you can prove it, that becomes another major feather in your cap. In the meantime, I think I know just how to talk your father around so he won't have to be hospitalized and you don't have to stay on his blacklist."

  "Too late. I've been permanently enshrined."

  "Still, I can calm him down and provide the firm with another high-profile job."

  "Maybe," Duncan murmured, thinking it over. He'd always hated the idea of locking Harley back in Boyd's prison. Now he wouldn't have to. By presenting her to his father, he would prove that he really could get the job done. Now the Giscard case would just be icing on the cake. By taking Harley on as a client, he would have an even better chance to prove himself to his family and he would be able to allay his own growing concerns about Boyd Monroe.

  He refocused into hopeful blue eyes. Oh yes, this was definitely a win-win situation. He smiled suddenly. "Boyd has badly misjudged you," he pronounced. "Okay, here's the deal: I don't take you back to Boyd, I do take you on as a client, you talk Dad into accepting the switch, you get your holiday, and I get my career-making investigation."

  "Deal!"

  "There's just one condition."

  "What?" Harley demanded suspiciously.

  "You talk to Dad tonight. I see no reason to keep him in agony until tomorrow."

  "You are a devoted son, Duncan Lang."

  "I just don't want him to drop dead before he has a chance to put me back in his will."

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  « ^ »

  Duncan had told her what to expect and he hadn't steered her wrong. Colby and Elise Lang lived in a neo-Federal town house on East Sixty-fourth Street

  between Fifth Avenue

  and Madison Avenue. The town houses and mansions up and down the street screamed wealth and prestige and exclusivity. Harley felt like a trespassing hobo. The Langs' immaculate five-story red brick town house with limestone trim was not welcoming. Nor was the austere, hatchet-faced butler who opened the broad front door and surveyed Duncan with forbidding chill before stepping back to admit them both to the house.

  Harley found herself engulfed by a huge reception hall complete with towering columns and marble floor. A grand marble staircase rose from the middle of the hall and swept up to the other floors.

  "I trust we're not interrupting another one of Mother's boring dinner parties, Johnson," Duncan said with surprising cheerfulness.

  "This is Wednesday night, Master Duncan," the butler stated in a frosty English accent. "If you will be so good as to recall, Wednesday nights are reserved from social activity."

  "So they are. Mom and Pop in the parlor?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Lang are in the library," Johnson frostily corrected. "I have just taken them their cognacs."

  "We've arrived in the nick of time, Harley," Duncan said, catching her hand and pulling her toward the stairs. "The final sip of cognac precedes beddy-bye time. Be an angel and watch over this for us," he said, handing Harley's guitar case to Johnson. "Don't bother announcing us," he called back to the slightly quivering butler. "We can do the honors ourselves. We'll bypass the elevator," he informed Harley, "to give you the full effect of the ancestral home."

  "Gee, thanks," she muttered.

  "The basement has a fully equipped billiard room and bar," Duncan announced in a masterful impersonation of a celebrity tour guide as they began to climb the stairs. "The dining rooms—one for family, one for guests, of course—and a formal drawing room are on the second floor. The library and the master bedroom suite are on the third floor. Brandon's and my old rooms are on the fourth floor; the servants' quarters are on the fifth floor."

  "What? No swimming pool?"

  Duncan grinned at her. "Much too nouveau riche for the Langs."

  The wall framing the staircase was lined with originals by Watteau, Boucher, and Fragonard. The third floor landing boasted a Rubens and two delicate Cellini statuettes on ebony stands.

  "Your parents like the old masters," Harley observed, silently blessing Boyd for making her study art history.

  "They like anything that makes them look like old money. Grandfather built the family fortune on bootlegging during Prohibition. Security work seemed like a natural offshoot of that—something Dad prefers to forget. Ah, here we are," Duncan announced before a set of imposing neo-Federal wooden doors. "Brace yourself and remember, this was basically your idea, so don't blam
e me if you have nightmares later."

  Harley's fingers slid up to cling to her gold pendant. The man was not reassuring.

  Duncan pulled open the doors and led her into a warmly lit paneled library of pale rose and white. Mid-to-late-nineteenth-century masters hung on the walls. The floor was oak parquet. The furniture was neo-Federal. The people seated opposite each other on matching rose brocade chairs were dressed in attire appropriate for a royal reception.

  Standing in her red high-tops, it forcibly struck Harley that she and Duncan were badly underdressed.

  "Hello, Dad; hello, Mother," Duncan called as he ruthlessly pulled her into the room. "I'm glad we caught you."

  Colby Lang glanced up from his book, his blue eyes narrowing with both distaste and anger when he recognized his son, in a leopard-print shirt no less. He surged out of his chair and pointed an incriminating finger. "You!" he said in an awful voice. "You miserable, lying dog! It is only because of your mother's pleas on your behalf that I don't banish you from the company forever."

  "Mother always had a soft heart," Duncan said with a sardonic smile.

  Harley doubted it. She couldn't find any evidence of softness in the thin, dark-haired woman in the silver Givenchy gown.

  "How dare you burst in on us at this hour of night!" Colby Lang continued in the same awful voice.

  "Outrageous of me, I know, but I thought you'd both like to meet Jane Miller. Miss Miller, my parents."

  Colby was actually struck dumb for a moment. Harley could only admire Duncan's technique.

  "How do you do, Mr. Lang," she said, stepping forward and holding out her hand. "I'm so glad to meet you. I am in very great need of your help."

  She heard Duncan choke on something that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Still, Colby Lang appreciated the performance.

  "Miss Miller!" he said, taking her hand, his composure instantly restored. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

  Harley winced inwardly. If Duncan and his father had been armed, the body count would already be piling up. "Thank you," she murmured. "Mrs. Lang, you have a lovely home."