by Nora Roberts
He retrieved it, then grimaced. Dangling it by his fingertips, he handed it over. “Shower with this, do you?”
Laughing, she took it and dropped it in with the rest of her practice clothes. “No, it’s just sweat. Sorry.” But there was no apology in her eyes, only humor. “Dressed like that, you don’t look as though you’d recognize the substance.”
“I don’t generally carry it around in a bag with me.” He wondered why he didn’t simply move by her and start on his way. He was already five minutes late, but something about the way she continued to look up at him with such frank good humor kept him there. “You don’t react like a woman who very nearly lost a pair of tights, a faded leotard, a ratty towel, two pairs of shoes and five pounds of keys.”
“The towel’s not that ratty.” Satisfied she’d found everything, Maddy closed her bag again. “And anyway, I didn’t lose them.”
“Most of the women I know wouldn’t negotiate with a mugger.”
Interested, she studied him again. He looked like a man who would know dozens of women, all elegant and intelligent. “What would they do?”
“Scream, I imagine.”
“If I’d done that, he’d have my bag and I’d be out of breath.” She dismissed the idea with a graceful shrug of strong shoulders. “Anyway, thanks.” She offered her hand again, a delicate one, narrow and naked of jewelry. “I think white knights are lovely.”
She was small and completely alone, and it was getting darker by the minute. His natural instinct for noninvolvement warred with his conscience. The resolution took the form of annoyance. “You shouldn’t be walking around in this neighborhood after dark.”
She laughed again, the sound bright, rich and amused. “This is my neighborhood. I only live about four blocks away. I told you the kid was green. No self-respecting mugger’s going to look twice at a dancer. They know dancers are usually broke. But you—” She stepped back and took another long look. He was definitely worth taking the time to look twice. “You’re another matter. Dressed like that, you’d be better off carrying your watch and your wallet in your shorts.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Deciding one good turn deserved another, Maddy merely nodded. “Can I give you directions? You don’t look as though you know your way around the lower forties.”
Why had he been the one feeling responsible for her? In another minute that kid might have planted a fist in her face, but she didn’t appear to have considered that. “No, thanks. I’m just going inside here.”
“Here?” Maddy glanced over her shoulder at the ramshackle building that housed the rehearsal hall, then looked at him speculatively. “You’re not a dancer.” She said that positively. It wasn’t that he didn’t move well—from the little she had seen, he’d looked good. He simply wasn’t a dancer. “And not an actor,” she decided after only a brief mental debate. “And I’d swear … you aren’t a musician, even though you’ve got good hands.”
Every time he tried to walk away from her she drew him back. “Why not?”
“Too conservative,” Maddy told him immediately, but not with scorn. “Absolutely too straight. I mean you’re dressed like a lawyer or a banker or—” It struck her, clear as a bell. She positively beamed at him. “An angel.”
He lifted a brow. “You see a halo?”
“No, I don’t think you’d be willing to carry that kind of weight around. An angel,” she repeated. “A backer. Valentine Records?”
Yet again, Maddy offered her hand. He took it and found himself simply holding it. “That’s right. Reed Valentine.”
“I’m Merry Widow.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“The stripper,” she said, and watched his eyes narrow. She might have left it at that, just for the possible shock value, but then he had helped her out. “From Take It Off. The play you’re backing.” Delighted with him, she covered his hand with her free one. “Maddy O’Hurley.”
This was Maddy O’Hurley? This compact little urchin with the crop of disheveled red-blond hair and the scrubbed face was the same powerhouse he’d watched in Suzanna’s Park? She’d worn a long blond wig for that, an Alice in Wonderland look, and period costumes of the 1890s, but still … Her voice had boomed out, filling every crack in the theater. She’d danced with a frenzied, feverish energy that had awed a man who was very difficult to impress.
One of the reasons he’d been willing to back the play was Maddy O’Hurley. Now he was face-to-face with her and swamped with doubts.
“Madeline O’Hurley?”
“That’s what it says on the contract.”
“I’ve seen you perform, Miss O’Hurley. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Lights, costume, makeup.” She shrugged it off. When there weren’t footlights, she prized her anonymity and acknowledged her own unremarkable looks. She’d been born one of three—Chantel had gotten the heart-stopping beauty, Abby the warm loveliness, and she’d gotten cute. Maddy figured there were reasons for it, but she couldn’t help being amused by Reed’s cautious look. “Now you’re disappointed,” she concluded with a secret smile.
“I never said—”
“Of course, you wouldn’t. You’re much too polite. Don’t worry, Mr. Valentine Records, I’ll deliver. Any O’Hurley’s a wise investment.” She laughed at her own private joke. The streetlight behind them flickered on, signaling that night was coming, like it or not. “I guess you’ve got meetings inside.”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Time’s only important when you’re on cue. You’ve got the checkbook, Captain, you’re in charge.” Before she stepped out of his way, she gave him a friendly pat on the arm. “Listen, if you’re around in a couple of days, come by rehearsals.” She took a few steps, turned and walked backward, grinning at him. “You can watch me bump and grind. I’m good, Valentine. Real good.” With a pirouette, she turned away, eating up the sidewalk with an easy jog.
In spite of a penchant for promptness, Reed continued to watch her until she disappeared around the corner. He shook his head and started up the stairs. Then he noticed a small round hairbrush. The temptation to leave it where it lay was strong. Curiosity was stronger. When Reed scooped it up, he noticed that it carried the faintest scent of shampoo—something lemon scented and fresh. He resisted the urge to sniff at it and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Would a woman like that miss a hairbrush? he wondered, then shrugged the thought away. He’d see that she got it back in any case.
He was bound to see Maddy O’Hurley again anyway, he told himself. It wouldn’t hurt to do one more good deed.
Chapter 2
Nearly a week passed before Reed managed to schedule another visit to the rehearsal hall. He was able to justify the trip to himself as good business sense, but just barely. It had never been his intention to become directly involved with the play itself. Meetings with the producer and sessions with the accountants would have been enough to keep him informed. Reed understood balance sheets, ledgers and neatly formed columns better than he did the noises and the scents inside the decaying old building. But it never hurt to keep a tight rein on an investment—even if the investment involved an odd woman with a vivid smile.
He felt out of place. He was a twenty-minute cab ride from his offices yet was just as out of place in the rehearsal hall in his three-piece suit as he would have been on some remote island in the South Seas where the natives wore bones in their ears.
He would never have considered his life sheltered. In the course of his career he’d visited some seamy areas, dealt with people from varied backgrounds. But he lived uptown, where the restaurants were sedate and the view of the park out his apartment window was restful.
As he started up the stairs, Reed told himself it was natural curiosity that had brought him back. That coupled with the simple matter of protecting his interests. Valentine Records had sunk a good chunk of capital into Take It Off, and he was responsible for Valentine Records. Still, he reached into his pocket
and toyed with Maddy’s hairbrush. Going against his natural inclinations, he headed toward the sounds of music and talk.
In a room wrapped with mirrors, he found the dancers. They weren’t the glittery, spangly chorus one paid to see on a Broadway stage, but a ragtag, dripping group of men and women in frayed tights. To him they were a helter-skelter mix of faded, damp leotards without any hint of the precision or uniformity expected of professionals. He felt uneasy for a moment as they stood, most of them with their hands on their hips, and stared at the small, thin man he knew was the choreographer.
“Let’s have a little more steam, boys and girls,” Macke instructed. “This is a strip joint, not a cotillion. We’ve got to sell sex and keep it good-natured. Wanda, I want a hesitation on the hip roll, then make it broader. Maddy, raise some blood pressure when you step up in the shimmy. Bend it from the waist.”
He demonstrated, and Maddy watched, considered the move, then grinned at him. “I saw the design for my costume, Macke. If I bend over like that, the boys in the front row are going to get an anatomy lesson.”
Macke looked her over. “A small one, in your case.”
The dancers around her snorted and cackled. Maddy took the ribbing with a good-humored laugh as they moved back into position to take the count. They moved, with gusto, on eight.
Reed watched with steadily growing astonishment. Over a floor shiny with sweat, the dancers sprang to life. Legs flashed, hips rolled. Men and women found their partners in what seemed to be a riot of churning bodies. There were lifts, jumps, spins and the soft stamp of feet. From his vantage point he could see the exertion, the drip of perspiration, the deep, controlled breathing. Then Maddy stepped out, and he forgot the rest.
The leotard clung to every curve and line of her body, with the dark patches only accentuating her shape. Her legs, even in battered tights, seemed to go all the way to her waist. Slowly at first, with her hands at the tops of her hips, she moved forward, then right, then left, always following the rotation of her hips. He didn’t hear the count being called now, but she did.
Her arm snaked across her body, then flew out. It didn’t take much imagination to understand that she had tossed aside some article of clothing. She kicked up, so that for a moment her foot was over her head. Slowly, erotically, she ran her fingertips down her thigh as she lowered her leg.
The pace picked up and so did her rhythm. She moved like a leopard, twisting, turning, sinuous and smooth. Then, as the dancers behind her went into an orgy of movement, she bent from the waist and used her shoulders to fascinate. A man broke from the group and grabbed her arm. With nothing more than the angle of her body, the placement of her head, she conveyed teasing, taunting acceptance. When the music ended, she was caught against him, arched backward. And his hand was clamped firmly on her bottom.
“Better,” Macke decided. The dancers sagged, unwilling to waste energy standing upright. Maddy and her partner seemed to collapse onto each other.
“Watch your hand, Jack.”
“I am.” He leaned over her shoulder just a little. “I’ve got my eye right on it.”
She managed a breathless laugh before she pushed him away. For the first time, she saw Reed standing in the doorway. He looked every inch the proper, successful businessman. Because she’d wanted to see him again, had known she eventually would, Maddy sent him an uncomplicated, friendly smile.
“Take lunch,” Macke announced as he lit a cigarette. “I want Maddy, Wanda and Terry back in an hour. Someone give Carter the word I want him, too. Chorus is due in room B at one thirty for vocals.”
The room was already emptying. Maddy took her towel and buried her face in it before she walked over to Reed. Several of the female dancers passed him with none-too-subtle invitations in their eyes.
“Hello again.” Maddy slung her towel around her neck, then gently eased him out of the way of the hungry dancers. “Did you see the whole thing?”
“Whole thing?”
“The dance.”
“Yes.” He was having a hard time remembering anything but the way she had moved, the sensuality that had poured out of her.
With a laugh, she hung on to the ends of the towel and leaned against the wall. “And?”
“Impressive.” Now she looked simply like a woman who’d been hard at work—attractive enough, but hardly primitively arousing. “You’ve, ah … a lot of energy, Miss O’Hurley.”
“Oh, I’m packed with it. Are you here for another meeting?”
“No.” Feeling a little foolish, he pulled out her hairbrush. “I think this is yours.”
“Well, yeah.” Pleased, Maddy took it from him. “I gave it up for lost. That was nice of you.” She dabbed at her face with the towel again. “Hang on a minute.” She walked away to stuff the brush and towel in her bag. Reed allowed himself the not-so-mild pleasure of watching her leotard stretch over her bottom as she bent over. She came back, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
“How about some lunch?” she asked him.
It was so casual, and so ridiculously appealing, that he nearly agreed. “I’ve got an appointment.”
“Dinner?”
His brow lifted. She was looking up at him, a half smile on her lips and laughter in her eyes. The women he knew would have coolly left it to him to make the approach and the maneuvers. “Are you asking me for a date?”
The question rang with cautious politeness, and she had to laugh again. “You catch on fast, Valentine Records. Are you a carnivore?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you eat meat?” she explained. “I know a lot of people who won’t touch it.”
“Ah … yes.” He wondered why he should feel apologetic.
“Fine. I’ll fix you a steak. Got a pen?”
Not certain whether he was amused or just dazed, Reed drew one out of his breast pocket.
“I knew you would.” Maddy rattled off her address. “See you at seven.” She called for someone down the hall to wait for her and dashed off before he could agree or refuse.
Reed walked out of the building without writing down her address. But he didn’t forget it.
* * *
Maddy always did things on impulse. That was how she justified asking Reed to dinner when she barely knew him and didn’t have anything in the house more interesting than banana yogurt. He was interesting, she told herself. So she stopped on the way home, after a full ten hours on her feet, and did some frenzied marketing.
It wasn’t often she cooked. Not that she couldn’t when push came to shove; it was simply that it was easier to eat out of a carton or can. If it didn’t have to do with the theater, Maddy always looked for the easiest way.
When she reached her apartment building, the Gianellis were arguing in their first-floor apartment. Italian expletives streamed up the stairwell. Maddy remembered her mail, jogged back down half a flight and searched her key ring for the tiny, tarnished key that opened the scarred slot. With a postcard from her parents, an offer for life insurance and two bills in hand, she jogged back up again.
On the second landing the newlywed from 242 sat reading a textbook.
“How’s the English Lit?” Maddy asked her.
“Pretty good. I think I’ll have my certificate by August.”
“Terrific.” But she looked lonely, Maddy thought, and she paused a moment. “How’s Tony?”
“He made the finals for that play off-Broadway.” When she smiled, her young, hopeful face glowed. “If he makes chorus, he can quit waiting tables at night. He says prosperity’s just around the corner.”
“That’s great, Angie.” She didn’t add that prosperity was always around the corner for gypsies. The roads just kept getting longer. “I’ve got to run. Somebody’s coming for dinner.”
On the third floor she heard the wailing echo of rock music and the thumping of feet. The disco queen was rehearsing, Maddy decided as she chugged up the next flight of steps. After a quick search for her keys, she let herself in. Sh
e had an hour.
She switched on the stereo on her way to the kitchen, then dropped her bag on the twelve-inch square of Formica she called counter space. She scrubbed two potatoes, stuck them in the oven, remembered to turn it on, then dumped the fresh vegetables into the sink.
It occurred to her vaguely that she might tidy the place up a bit. It hadn’t been dusted in … well, there was enough clutter on the tables to hide the dust, anyway. Some might call her rooms a shade messy, but no one would call them dull.
Most of her furnishings and decorations were Broadway surplus. When a show closed—especially if it had flopped—the markdown on props and materials was wonderful. They were memories to her, so even after the money had started to come in regularly, she hadn’t replaced them. The curtains were red and dizzily ornate—a steal from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. The sofa, with its curvy back and dangerously hard cushions, had been part of the refuse of a flop she couldn’t even remember, but it was reputed to have once sat on the parlor set of My Fair Lady. Maddy had decided to believe it.
None of the tables matched; nor did any of the chairs. It was a hodgepodge of periods and colors, a tangle of junk and splendor that suited her very well.
Posters lined the walls: posters from plays she’d been in, posters from plays where she hadn’t gotten past the first call. There was one plant, a philodendron that hovered between life and death in its vivid pot by the window. It was the last in a long line of dead soldiers.
But her most prized possession was a hot pink neon sign whose curvy letters spelled out her name. Trace had sent it to her when she’d gotten her first job in a Broadway chorus. Her name in lights. Maddy switched it on as she usually did and thought that while her brother might not often be around, he always made himself known.
Deciding not to spend too much time picking up when it would only be cluttered again in a couple of days, Maddy cleaned off a couple of chairs, stacked the magazines and the unopened mail and left it at that. More pressing was the task of washing out her dance clothes.