by Nora Roberts
“Worried about your investment?” She ran her fingers down his shirt, unfastening buttons as she went.
“Yes.” He took her face in his hands. “Yes, I am.”
“You don’t have to be.” Watching him, she slid his shirt off his shoulders. “Trust me. At least for tonight, trust me.”
Chapter 11
He wanted to. Somewhere during the long, frustrating night, he’d realized that if he trusted her, what she was, what she said, what she felt, his life would turn around. He just couldn’t be certain the answers would be waiting for him if it did.
But her touch was so easy, and her eyes were so warm. For tonight, for just one more night, nothing else really mattered.
He brought her hands, both of them, to his lips, as if he could show her what he didn’t feel safe in saying, or feel safe in even thinking. She smiled at him, as always touched by the tenderness he was capable of.
Bright and steady, the light by the bed continued to burn as they lowered themselves onto already rumpled sheets.
Her eyes stayed open, darkening slowly, as he brushed kisses over her face. He stroked his fingers gently across her shoulder where her robe hung loose, up the long line of her throat and to her lips, where he traced the shape. With the tip of her tongue she moistened his skin, inviting, tempting, promising. Then she nipped, catching his fingertip between her teeth and holding it snug while her eyes dared him.
Watching her, he slid his hand up her leg, loitering on the tight, muscular calf, then lingering on the smooth, cool skin of her thigh. He felt her breath catch, then continued moving up, making her shudder once, twice, before he parted her robe and freed her body to his.
“I thought about touching you like this,” Reed murmured as he caressed one small, firm breast, “since the last time I touched you this way.”
“I wanted you to be here.” She let her hands make their own explorations. Slowly, wanting to see the fire leap into his eyes, she drew his slacks over his hips. “Every night when I closed my eyes, I pretended that you’d be here in the morning. Now you will be.”
She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, but her hands were never still. Nor were his.
They moved slowly, though not quite lazily, because the passion was too close to the surface. They savored, in silent agreement that they had all the time they needed. No rush, no hurry, no frantic, desperate merging that left the body and mind dazed. Tonight was a night for the soul first.
Desire me … but quietly. Long for me … but gently. Ache for me … but patiently.
The sheets were tangled beneath her, disturbed by the restless night she had barely begun, warmed now by the passionate night she hoped wouldn’t end. Their fingers linked, palm against palm, strength against strength, as their lips met for one more long, luxurious kiss.
Of all the food she had recklessly sampled that evening, there had been nothing to compare with the flavor of his kisses. The wine had lacked sparkle, the spices had been bland when compared with the taste of his lips on hers. He could indeed feed her soul. Somehow, in some way, she wanted to feed his. Her arms came around him as she sought to give back a portion of what she was given.
There seemed to be no limit to her generosity. He could feel it flow over him every time he held her. Now, even with the languorous, passionate movements of her body, he felt it pour out of her, quenching his soul’s thirst like something cool in the midday heat.
Her body responded with every move, with every request he made. She was there with him, as desirable and urgent a partner as a man could want. But she was also, he knew, there for him, something soft and giving a man could sink into and be soothed by. He didn’t know how to repay, to give back, what she so selflessly offered. He knew only to love her with infinite care.
If it had been possible, she would have told him that was enough, at least for now. There could be no more words when her mind and body were floating so freely. When he touched her skin, she felt ablaze. He murmured her name and her heart rejoiced. When they came together with all the fire and intensity of lovers reunited, love for him consumed her.
* * *
By midmorning, Maddy was up and restless, filled with nervous energy. In a matter of hours, it would be make-or-break time, win-or-lose, all-or-nothing. It simply wasn’t possible to stay away from the theater.
“I thought you didn’t have to be there until late this afternoon,” Reed commented as Maddy directed him down the shortcut she’d discovered from hotel to theater.
“There’s no rehearsal, but everything’s happening today.”
“I was under the impression that everything happens tonight.”
“Nothing happens tonight without today. The lights, the sets, the drops. Turn right, then right again.”
Through a thick stream of traffic, he eased over and followed her directions. “I didn’t think performers worried much about the technical points of a show.”
“A musical would lose a lot of its punch if it wasn’t trimmed properly. Try to picture The King and I without the throne room or La Cage without the nightclub. There’s a space.” Leaning out the window, she pointed it out to him. “Will this thing squeeze into that?”
Reed gave her a mild look, then, with a few turns of the wheel, maneuvered his BMW between two other cars parked at the curb. “Will that do?”
“That’s great.” She leaned over to kiss him. “You’re great. I’m glad you’re here, Reed. Have I mentioned that?”
“A few times.” He cupped a hand around the back of her neck to keep her close. Keeping her close was becoming a priority. “I should have worked harder to talk you into staying in bed. To rest,” he added when she lifted her brow. “You’re ready to jump out of your skin.”
“This is normal opening-night behavior. If I were relaxed, you could worry. Besides, I think you should see what you’re paying for. You’re not the kind of man who’s only interested in the end product. Come on.” She was out of the car and waiting on the sidewalk. “You should get a look at backstage.”
They went through the stage door together. Maddy waved to the guard, then followed the noise. The electric sound of a saw came briefly, then was gone. For the most part there were voices, some loud, some lowered, some complaining. Men and women, dressed for work, milled around. Some gave orders, others followed them, in what looked to Reed like quiet confusion.
If he had to take bets that they would be ready for curtain in a matter of hours, he’d have called it a long shot. There was no greasepaint here, no glitter. There was dust, a little grime and a lot of sweat.
A man in a headphone stood downstage with his arms spread over his head. He spoke into the mike as he brought his hands a little closer together. A square of light on the backdrop adjusted with the movement.
“You met the lighting director, didn’t you?”
“Briefly,” Reed said, and watched him move a few feet to stage right.
“All the lights have to be focused, one at a time. He’s doing the downstage lights, his assistant will take care of upstage.”
“How many lights are there?”
“Dozens.”
“The show starts at eight. Shouldn’t this have been done already?”
“We made some changes in rehearsal yesterday. Don’t worry.” She linked an arm through his. “Whether it’s done or not, the show will go on at eight.”
Reed cast another look around. There were big wooden crates on wheels, some opened, some closed. Coils of cable littered the floor, ladders were set up here and there. On a Genie Lift, a man fiddled with lights while another stood back, motioning down with his hands. A dark backdrop lowered slowly, then stopped on his signal.
“They’ve got to set the highs and lows on the drops,” she told him. “They’re all weighted, and the crew has to know how far to take them down, how far to bring them up. Come on, I’ll show you the fly floor. That’s where they make a lot of magic happen.”
Maddy weaved her way backstage, around crates and boxe
s, carefully skirting ladders rather than walking under them. There was more rope dangling, more cable coiled. Reed saw a rubber chicken hanging by a noose next to where two men taped what looked like an electrical box to a wood panel.
“Miss O’Hurley.” One of them turned to grin at her. “Looking good.”
“Just make sure you make me look good tonight.”
There were tall chests lined up along the back wall, most of them plastered with stickers from other shows. Maddy squeezed between the last drop and the chests.
“We have to cross underneath the stage in this theater,” she explained. “Not enough room back here. It’s better than having to run outside and around to make your next cue.”
“Would it be more organized if—”
“This is theater.” Maddy took his hand and led him through a narrow doorway. “This is as organized as it gets. Up here.” She climbed up a skinny, steep stairway and through another opening.
It looked to Reed like the deck of a ship—one that had weathered a heavy storm. Ropes were everywhere, some as thick as Maddy’s wrist, some thin and wiry. They hung from above and spilled out on the floor, without, it seemed to him, any rhyme or reason. A great many were grouped together, slanting up, then down over a long metal pole.
There was a small table wedged into a corner with papers tacked up around it and spread over it, with an overflowing ashtray on top of everything. A few men were tying ropes with the careless skill of veteran sailors. The place smelled of rope, cigarettes and sweat—the familiar scents that lingered in a theater.
“This is a hemp house,” she began. “There aren’t too many of them left in the States. It’s too bad, really. You have more flexibility with rope and sandbags than you do with counterweights. All the moving pieces are handled from up here. The beaded curtain.” She put a hand over a group of ropes that was bound together and labeled with a tag. “It weighs over five hundred pounds. When it’s time to let it down in the third act, the stage manager cues the flyman verbally through the intercom. The lighting director backs it up with a light cue.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“Sure. Unless you’ve got two or three cues on top of each other or a drop that’s so heavy it takes three men on the ropes. This is a big show. The guys up here won’t be taking many coffee breaks.”
“I don’t understand why you know so much.”
“I’ve been in theater all my life.” A man came through the doorway, muscled his way around them and began talking to two men who were tying off rope. “Come out on the paint bridge. It’s quite a view.”
She made her way around the various ropes, hunched under a steel bar and stepped out on a narrow iron platform. Below, stagehands were spread out. Though it looked no more organized from this angle, Reed began to sense a spirit of teamwork.
“If anything up here has to be painted, this is where they do it.” She glanced down and shook her head. “Not my kind of job.”
A stream of four-letter words rose up from below. A drop descended silently. Then a spotlight began to play on it, widening, then narrowing, then holding steady. Maddy ran her hands back and forth over the rail.
“That’s my spot in act one, scene three.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”
“No, I’m not nervous. I’m terrified.”
“Why?” He put a hand over hers. “You know what you can do.”
“I know what I have done,” she corrected. “I haven’t done this yet. Tonight, when the curtain goes up, it’s the first time. There’s your father.” Looking down, Maddy let out a long breath. “It looks like he’s talking to the general manager of the theater. You should be down there with them.”
“No, I should be here with you.” He was just beginning to realize how true that was. He hadn’t driven to Philadelphia in the middle of the night because he mistrusted her. He hadn’t come with her that morning because he didn’t have anything better to do. He’d done both because wherever she was, he belonged. She danced to the piper. And, perhaps, so did he. It scared the hell out of him.
Thirty feet above the stage, on a narrow iron platform, he experienced the fear of falling—but not fear of falling physically onto the floor below. “Let’s go down.” He wanted people around, strangers, noise, anything to distract him from what was blooming inside.
“All right. Oh. It’s my family. Look.” Nerves were gone, and the pleasure was so deep that she slipped an arm around Reed’s waist without being aware that he stiffened. “There’s Pop. See the skinny little man who’s kibitzing with one of the carpenters? He could run any part of this show—lights, drops, props. He could direct it or choreograph it, but that’s never been for him.” She beamed down, all admiration and love. “Spotlight, that’s for Pop.”
“And for you?”
“I’m told I take after him the most. My mother’s there. See the pretty woman with the little boy? That’s my youngest nephew, Chris. He decided yesterday he wanted to be a lighting man because they get to ride up in the lift. And my sister Abby. Isn’t she lovely?”
Reed looked down, focusing on a slender woman with wavy blond hair. There was an air of contentment around her, though she stood in the midst of chaos. She put her hand on the shoulder of another boy and pointed to the house.
“She’s showing Ben where they’ll be sitting tonight, I imagine. He’s really more excited about going to New York tomorrow. Dylan has meetings with his publisher.”
Reed watched Dylan reach down, then heft Chris onto his shoulders. The little boy’s squeals of delight bounced up to them.
“They’re great kids.” Because she heard the wistfulness in her own voice, she shook it away. She had enough, Maddy reminded herself. “Let’s go say hello.”
Back down onstage, she skirted around a row of colored lights bolted to the floor. Later that night they would shine for her. Hearing the signal, she took Reed’s hand and drew him aside as the beaded curtain made its glittery descent.
“Pretty terrific, isn’t it?”
Reed studied the thousands of beads. “It certainly makes a statement.”
“We use this during my dream sequence, when I imagine I’m a ballet dancer instead of a stripper, and of course I pirouette right into Jonathan’s arms. The nice thing about theater—and about dreams—is you can make anything you want happen.”
As they walked around another drop, she heard her father’s voice ring out.
“Valentine, I’ll be damned.” Frank O’Hurley, wiry and small, grabbed the huge, husky man in a rough embrace. “My girl told me you’d sprouted wings to back this play.” Delighted, Frank drew back and grinned at him. “How many years has it been?”
“Too many.” Edwin pumped Frank’s hand enthusiastically. “Too damn many. You don’t look any older.”
“That’s because your eyes are.”
“And Molly.” Edwin bent down to kiss her cheek. “Pretty as ever.”
“There’s not a thing wrong with your eyes, Edwin,” she assured him, and kissed him again. “It’s always good to see an old friend.”
“I never forgot you. And I never stopped envying you your wife, Frank.”
“In that case, I can’t let you kiss her again. You might have a harder time remembering my Abby.”
“One of the triplets.” He took Abby’s hand between his meaty ones. “Incredible. Which one—”
“The middle one,” she answered easily.
“Maybe it was your diaper I changed.”
With a laugh, Abby turned to Dylan. “My husband, Dylan Crosby. Mr. Valentine is obviously an old, intimate friend of the family.”
“Crosby. I’ve read some of your work. Didn’t you work with my son on one of your books?”
“Yes, I did.” Dylan felt Ben’s hand slip into his and linked fingers with him. “You were out of town at the time, so we never met.”
“And grandchildren.” Edwin sent another look at Frank and Molly before he hunkered down to t
he boys’ level. “A fine pair. How do you do?” He offered his hand formally to each boy. “Here’s something else I covet, Frank.”
“I’ve got a soft spot for the little devils,” Frank admitted, winking at them. “Abby’s going to give us another one next winter.”
“Congratulations.” It was envy; he couldn’t prevent it. But he felt pleasure as well. “If you don’t have plans, I’d like for you all to join me for dinner before the show.”
“We’re the O’Hurleys,” Frank reminded him. “We never have plans that can’t be changed. How’s your boy, Edwin?”
“He’s fine. As a matter of fact, he … Well, here he is now. With your daughter.”
When Frank turned, a light went on in his head. He saw Maddy with her hand caught in that of a tall, lean man with sculpted features. And he saw the look in her eyes, warm, glowing and a little uncertain. His baby was in love. The quick twist in his heart was part pleasure, part pain. Both feelings softened when Molly’s fingers linked with his.
Introductions were made again, and Frank kept his eyes sharply on Reed. If this was the man his baby had chosen, it was up to him to make sure she’d chosen well.
“So you’re in charge of Valentine Records.” Frank began. He didn’t believe in subtle probing. “Doing a good job of it, are you?”
“I like to think so.” The man before Reed was like a bantam rooster—small but scrappy. Frank’s hairline was receding and his eyes were a stunning blue, and Reed wondered why, when he looked at Frank O’Hurley, he saw Maddy. There was little or no resemblance on the surface. If it was there—and somehow it was—it came from inside. Perhaps that was why he felt himself so drawn to the man and why he worked so hard to keep his distance.
“A lot of responsibility, a record company,” Frank went on. “Takes a clever hand at the wheel. A dependable one. Not married, are you, boy?”
Despite himself, Reed felt a smile tugging. “No, I’m not.”
“Never have been?”
“Pop, did I show you how we changed the timing for the finale?” Taking his hand, Maddy dragged him into the wings at stage left. “What do you think you’re doing?”