by Renee Ryan
As she edged behind a rack of costumes, one thought kept spinning around in her head. The charade was over. All because of the appearance of a single man. Not just any man.
Gigi stole another glance in his direction, felt her heart drop to her toes. He looked so very austere.
Some things never change.
He’d interfered in her life once before, to disastrous ends. And now, here he was again, when she was so close, a mere fifty dollars away from redemption.
Bitterness raced through her veins. Gigi glanced toward the exit again, back to Fitz, back to the exit. He continued to stand between her and the door.
No way out. Yet.
Perhaps if she kept out of sight until he left the theater. Surely, there was a nook or hidden alcove where Gigi could wait out the next hour or so without being seen.
Inching to her right, she glanced around the ornate theater, ablaze in light. The expert woodwork, elaborate chandeliers, and vibrant frescoes were too well lit.
A string of angry Italian came hot and fast over the sound of the orchestra. All other conversations halted. The musicians quit tuning their instruments. Gigi did not need fluency in Italian to recognize Esmeralda’s obvious displeasure.
The diva marched out on stage and began waving her arms while flinging out demands. No stranger to her mercurial moods, Maestro Grimaldi ascended from the orchestra pit and smoothed the singer’s ruffled feathers with softly spoken words meant only for her ears.
Almost immediately, Esmeralda’s mood grew less violent, her demands less vitriolic. A good sign. Rehearsal would begin soon.
Not soon enough.
Gigi took a step toward the backstage door. She looked to her left, to her right, back to her left. Her gaze brushed over Fitz. He still barred her way to the exit, his attention divided between the stage and . . . her.
Resentment flared. How Gigi hated skulking about.
With an impatient huff, she moved to a spot within the folds of the velvet curtain.
The opening notes of the prelude sounded from the orchestra pit, pulling Fitz’s gaze in that direction. The music besieged Gigi, urging her to forget his presence, begging her to stare in wide-eyed wonder at the stage, to sigh in pleasure and allow her mind to drift, to dream.
There’d been a time when she would have given in to the impulse. That sort of behavior belonged to another woman, from another place and time. Gigi was Sally Smith now. Her life was that of a servant to a young woman in need of her guidance.
Poor Sophie. She had looked so ill at ease when her half sister had arrived at the town house. Despite her half-sister Penelope’s attempts to make light conversation, Sophie had still appeared nervous.
The young woman had suffered a great deal for what she’d done in a smaller theater much like this one. At least her half siblings had forgiven her. Today’s luncheon was a solid step toward others forgiving her impulsive act as well.
Sighing, Gigi returned her attention to the stage.
Composed now, Esmeralda launched into the first verse of “Habanera,” the most famous aria from Carmen. Once upon a time, the operetta had been Gigi’s favorite.
No more. The lead character had no idea the pain she would soon suffer because of love. Gigi knew. Oh, how she knew.
She closed her eyes and counted to ten.
The strains of the aria flowed over her. Esmeralda was an unrivaled talent. She conquered the descending chromatic scale with practiced skill. What a joy it would be to sway to the music, Gigi thought, to indulge her senses in the lovely, perfectly pitched notes.
Gigi forced open her eyes.
Arms outstretched, Esmeralda glided across the stage, her voice expertly dipping through the verses.
“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle,” love is a rebellious bird, “Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,” that none can tame.
The heart-wrenching melody washed over Gigi, each note more superb than the last.
Fitz’s attention remained riveted on Esmeralda. Now or never. Gigi set out, moving quickly through the shadows. Whispers followed her, their content impossible to ignore.
“Who is he?” someone asked.
Gigi couldn’t fault the young women’s curiosity. Men with the kind of wealth and power Fitz possessed rarely lurked backstage during rehearsals.
“I hear he’s planning to buy the Summer Garden.”
Gigi found that hard to believe. Fitz and his cousin Connor were corporate financiers known for their ruthless business tactics. They stopped at nothing, acquiring large companies, then dismantling them for profit. No, Fitz wasn’t here to buy the theater.
He’d come for Gigi.
Renewed panic clogged her throat. She gritted her teeth and continued toward the backstage door. Almost there.
“They say he hails from Boston.”
They would be right.
Fitz’s family was one of the most established and respectable in Massachusetts. Gigi’s family was wealthier but lacked the same level of prestige among the Boston elite. Harcourt Wentworth’s greatest wish was to see one of his daughters married to a member of the Fitzpatrick clan.
“His name is Christopher Fitzpatrick.”
“He looks like a Christopher.”
Did he? He’d always been Fitz to Gigi, once a friend, a good friend, who’d become a stranger nearly overnight. She hadn’t understood the change in him, why he’d grown distant. She—
“Sally.” A hand closed over Gigi’s arm, making her jerk in surprise. “Sally! Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
Gigi gave a little jerk. “No, I . . .” She pulled in a shaky breath of air. “You startled me.”
“I know, dear.” With an apologetic grimace, the older woman patted Gigi’s arm. “You were caught up in the music again.”
Gigi opened her mouth to protest, then decided it was as good an excuse as any. “I suppose I was.”
Mentally shaking herself, she forced a smile for the theater’s premier wardrobe mistress.
Mrs. Llewellyn smiled back, adding another pat to Gigi’s arm. This time, Gigi’s smile was almost, nearly real.
The wardrobe mistress wore her mousy brown hair in an ordinary bun at the nape of her neck. She had sparkling hazel eyes, features that had aged quite well due to a set of high cheekbones, and an inner beauty that radiated out of her like a sunbeam splitting through a dingy cloud.
“Have you heard the news?” Before Gigi could respond, Mrs. Llewellyn continued, “The theater may be changing hands soon.”
Hoping to end the conversation before it started, Gigi made a noncommittal sound deep in her throat. The wardrobe mistress had given her part-time work as a finisher, paying her a fair wage for the detail work. She would never wish to insult Mrs. Llewellyn. But, oh, Gigi really—really, really—didn’t want to discuss the latest theater gossip.
Clearly undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm, the older woman peered around Gigi’s shoulder. “I tend to believe the rumors. Mr. Fitzpatrick spent most of the morning looking around the theater. He seems to be awfully—”
“Calculating?” Gigi suggested.
“Oh, no, dear.” Mrs. Llewellyn gave a little laugh. “I was going to say focused.”
Focused. Yes, Fitz was definitely that, more so in recent years since he and his cousin had taken over their family’s investment firm. The gossips claimed the “power duo” would stop at nothing to close a deal. There was even talk that they had pushed Fitz’s father out of the company for their own greedy purpose.
A shiver navigated up Gigi’s spine. She knew all about men who sought their fortune by violating another’s trust.
“He’s turned quite a few of the girls’ heads. There’s a wager as to which one will gain his attention first.”
Despite having every reason not to care, Gigi felt something move through her chest, something she couldn’t quite define. If Fitz were another man, and she another woman, she would call the sensation jealousy.
Ridiculous. Fitz was the last man Gig
i wanted for herself.
From what she’d gleaned in the society pages, he’d remained unattached since her departure from Boston. Not that she’d been looking for information about him.
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Llewellyn straightened, her hand reaching up to smooth her hair. “I believe he’s coming our way.”
Gigi chanced a glance over her shoulder. Her heart dipped to her toes. Fitz was, indeed, striding toward them. And he was looking straight at her.
Their gazes met, locked. Held.
Gigi nearly choked on her own breath.
Floodgates of emotion burst open, giving her no time to brace for the impact. Sensation after sensation rolled over her. Dread, fear, guilt. There was something else in the storm of feelings running through her, something truly terrible, a scorching pain in her heart. Fitz knows what I’ve done. He knows the source of my shame.
Did he also know she’d taken the pearls? Surely her father hadn’t brought Fitz into his confidence.
Run. The word echoed in her head.
As if sensing her desire to flee, he picked up his pace, determination in every strike of his heels to hard wood. Gigi pivoted toward the exit.
He moved directly in her path, his face devoid of emotion. She knew that look, had seen it once before. Unwavering purpose emanated off him, securing Gigi in place as if she were a small woodland creature caught in a cobra’s trance. Air tightened in her lungs.
Seconds ticked by, pounding in perfect rhythm with her accelerated heartbeats. Her hand flew to her throat. She took several hard swallows.
It’s over.
All the evasion, all the half-truths and attempts at subterfuge had been for naught.
The question remained. Had Fitz come to fetch her home? Or was he here to prevent Gigi from returning?
Chapter Three
Fitz calculated he had four, maybe five, seconds to close the distance between himself and Gigi before she made a break for the exit. He’d lost her once. He wouldn’t let her get away again.
As he continued holding her stare, moving purposefully toward her, something inside Fitz shifted, softened, and then resettled in a way that made him regret what he’d come here to do.
He swallowed back the uncomfortable sensation and kept striding in Gigi’s direction.
Moving closer, ever closer, he took in the straight spine, the square shoulders, the soft quiver of her chin before she firmed it. She was afraid. Of him? Or that her lies and deceit had come to an end?
He would find out soon enough.
With grim determination, Fitz kept his gaze locked with Gigi’s, willing her to understand he wasn’t here to hurt her. He didn’t want explanations or details of her ruin, and he certainly didn’t want an apology. What he wanted was far more tangible.
Hoping to ease her fears, he splayed his hands at his sides in a nonthreatening manner.
Her eyes widened. She looked at him the way a rabbit stared at a hawk swooping in for the kill. Evidently, he was to be cast in the role of villain yet again.
So be it.
Jaw tight, Fitz looked pointedly to the exit, then back to Gigi and gave a slow shake of his head. Try it, he silently challenged. See how far you get.
That impertinent chin lifted a fraction higher.
There she was. Same stubborn girl he’d always known. The spoiled heiress who took what she wanted, whether it belonged to her or not.
For months, Fitz had searched for her. He’d redoubled his efforts the morning after the official announcement of his cousin Connor’s engagement to Gigi’s sister. Fitz owed Connor a debt that could never be repaid.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Gigi held the key to Fitz’s success.
He came to a stop at a respectable distance from her, only then realizing the wardrobe mistress stood with her.
Patience, he told himself. He would get Gigi alone soon enough.
“Good day, ladies.” He divided a smile between the two women, his eyes lingering on Gigi a shade longer than polite.
Her flinch was nearly imperceptible, one he would have missed if he hadn’t been looking closely. When she didn’t quite meet his gaze, he felt oddly vindicated. Though she hid her reaction behind a benign smile, Fitz knew Gigi was nervous in his company. Good. He liked knowing he wasn’t alone in his struggle to remain indifferent.
Affecting a bland expression of his own, he gave her a short nod. Her shoulders grew unnaturally stiff. Fitz knew he was the cause of her tension, and he told himself he didn’t care. He wasn’t here to smooth away her anxiety.
He opened his mouth to speak, not sure what he meant to say. Mrs. Llewellyn broke the silence first. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, are you enjoying the rehearsal?”
Adopting a relaxed demeanor he didn’t quite feel, Fitz gave the older woman a short nod. “I am, very much.”
He was surprised to discover he meant every word. He rarely attended the theater. There simply wasn’t time, especially of late. Now that he’d seen behind the curtain, so to speak, he regretted skipping so many performances. Watching Esmeralda and the other cast members had kindled his interest. He found himself fascinated and somehow transported momentarily from the weight of his burdens.
Most who knew him would find this surprising, Gigi included. How many times had she accused him of lacking imagination? Too many to count.
“I find the process of putting together a production utterly captivating,” he admitted. “I had no idea how much went into preparing for opening night.”
Mrs. Llewellyn beamed at him. “Then it was fortunate you accepted Mr. Everett’s invitation to look around the theater this afternoon.”
For the next few minutes, the wardrobe mistress engaged Fitz in a conversation about what he found most intriguing (the staging) and the least (the creative arguments).
He glanced in Gigi’s direction, this time taking in the changes. He hardly recognized the woman she’d become. The high cheekbones and alabaster skin were the same. Her eyes were still a pale blue, the color of rain clouds shot through with threads of silver. But the pretty frocks were gone, as were the ready smiles and charming manner. And what had she done to her glorious, lush hair? She must have tried to bleach out the rich auburn that had once gleamed a pretty shade of red in the sun. The stringy, faded yellow ends were nearly colorless and clashed with her skin tone.
The drab black dress she wore now only added to the impression that she’d endured great suffering. The light had left her. Fitz detected the sadness. The wistfulness. As though she wanted for something so far out of reach she could no longer feel joy. Fury slithered through Fitz’s calm, making him burn with guilt and unexpected resolve. Nathanial Dixon would answer for what he’d done, once the investigator located the cad.
Mrs. Llewellyn paused. Fitz took advantage of the moment and addressed Gigi directly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
She opened her mouth, looking a little disconcerted, as if she’d expected him to reveal her identity right then and there. He was far savvier than that.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Mrs. Llewellyn’s hands fluttered at her face. “This is Miss Sally Smith. Sally, this is Mr. Christopher Fitzpatrick of Boston.”
Sally Smith. Fitz couldn’t stop himself from grimacing. The most sought-after debutante in Boston was masquerading as Sally Smith. Why that name?
The report had been unclear on that point.
The report had been unclear on many points, leaving Fitz with more questions than answers. Fitz would unravel the mystery of Gigi’s new life eventually.
For now, he schooled his features into a bland, nonthreatening expression. Unfortunately, his composure evaporated the moment Gigi’s gaze met his.
His heart slammed against his ribs; his breath hitched in his lungs. Even with the dramatic changes to her appearance, Gigi still held the power to make him a tongue-tied schoolboy.
He cleared his throat, twice. “A pleasure, Miss . . . Smith. I am—”
“Silenzio!” Esmeralda clapped her
hands over her ears and howled, “I cannot hear the music with all the chatter offstage.”
Duly chastised, Fitz closed his mouth.
Nose in the air as if she’d just gotten a whiff of something unpleasant, Mrs. Llewellyn snapped her back ramrod straight. “That’s my cue to get back to work.”
“I’ll join you,” Gigi said.
Mrs. Llewellyn lifted a hand. “No, dear, I’m not ready for you yet. I must take inventory of the costumes before I put you to work.”
“Oh, I . . .” Gigi’s gaze tracked to Fitz, then quickly away. “I can help you with that.”
“You will only be in my way. Stay.” The wardrobe mistress took Gigi’s shoulders and turned her in the direction of the stage. “Watch Esmeralda’s rehearsal. I know you have a fondness for the music.”
Gigi made a soft sound of protest in her throat, barely audible, but Fitz caught it. And so, it appeared, had Mrs. Llewellyn. “You don’t enjoy the music?”
Fitz waited to hear how Gigi would answer. The fact that she’d attempted to flee with the wardrobe mistress didn’t surprise him. No, what threw him off guard was the way she spoke in that bland Midwestern accent.
The changes in her appearance were disturbing enough, but to conceal her lovely, melodic voice in such an odd manner was, quite frankly, dumbfounding.
“No,” Gigi finally replied.
Mrs. Llewellyn lifted a skeptical eyebrow.
“That is to say . . .” Still speaking in that ludicrous voice, Gigi blessed the other woman with a sweet, sweet smile, all politeness and easygoing manner, a small glimpse of the woman she’d once been. “I do, just not this particular aria. It makes me sad.”
With the faintest trace of amusement, the older woman patted Gigi’s arm in a motherly gesture. “That is rather the point, dear. Stay, enjoy. I will send for you when I’m ready for your assistance.”
Having issued her command, Mrs. Llewellyn set out toward her part of the theater.
Gigi attempted another, less subtle escape. She stepped back, practically falling over her own two feet in her haste to get away from Fitz.
“Oh, no you don’t.” He moved directly in her path and took her hand. “You’re not going anywhere.”