A Swan's Sweet Song

by J. Arlene Culiner

  A sarcastic smile slid over her beautiful lips. “That’s why you were sneaking out the door?”

  Her words pulled him up short, shoved soft, sensual thoughts to the back of his mind. So she’d seen what he’d been up to? He felt himself squirm and sensed he had to justify himself for some crazy reason.

  He shook his head. “Fatigue. That’s why I wanted to get away. What I need right now is a nice big bed with crispy sheets, just like the one waiting in my hotel room. Believe me, I know how good those sheets will feel when they slide over my skin tonight.” He stopped, shocked by his own words. Was he crazy? Talking about a bed, sheets, skin? He’d intended to keep the conversation on neutral ground—then had dropped into the trap. Reacted the way all men would. Did Sherry Valentine now expect him to pull out the big guns? Invite her back to that bed of his for a torrid night?

  But she ignored the innuendo. Her lips crooked up into a smile of complicity. “A comfortable bed? Sounds heavenly. Just add a glass of wine and a good book to that picture.”

  Carston stared. Had she just suggested they crawl into bed together? With a book? She must be having him on. She didn’t look like the sort of woman who’d spend her bedtime hours indulging in literature. “You read a lot?” He sounded arrogant again.

  Her amiable expression faded, became something warlike. “I actually liked reading Eye of the Storm.”

  He stared at her with astonishment. “You read my play?” Few enough people even went to see live theater these days.

  “Oh yes, Mr. Hewlett.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I can assure you we singers do know how to read.” She opened her eyes wide. “Guess what else? Way back when, I even went to school.”

  He was ashamed of himself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that people very rarely read plays.”

  She observed him thoughtfully for a few seconds. “You weren’t by any chance thinking that as a singer of country music, I spend all my time posing for gossip magazines and chewing hay?”

  He couldn’t deny she’d put her finger on it. He felt like a squirming eel. “I also find my own arrogance intolerable.”

  Defiance disappeared from her face, was replaced by amusement. He might be out of the eel category now, but before he could confirm it, Carston felt his shoulder clapped by another over-enthusiastic hand.

  “Well, folks. How’s Midville treating you?” It was the mayor again.

  Carston sighed. Since arriving in town, some four thousand people had grinned at him and said: “You’ll like Midville, Mr. Hewlett. It’s a friendly little place.”

  And then there’d been all those banners strung up across the streets:

  Welcome to Midville

  The friendliest town this side of the Rockies

  Clearly, all the citizens took that message seriously.

  The mayor was still leering at them—no, Carston had to revise that thought: he was being ignored. The leer was reserved for Sherry Valentine. “Pleased to have you with us for the festival. You’ll like Midville. It’s a friendly little place.” He slapped Carston on the shoulder again before moving off.

  Carston watched him malevolently. “Why did I leave my porcupine quill suit at home?”

  He heard Sherry laugh, a rich, throaty sound. His heart grew lighter, left the sea of despair, and began floating. Because he’d made a woman called Sherry Valentine laugh? He felt his skin tighten and his muscles expand. Words vanished; ideas disappeared. The reception room, the crowd, the throb of bad music, all receded. He examined her aquiline nose and arching brows.

  She stared back at him in the same dazed way, eyes liquid, pupils widening, and he knew they’d both been snagged by a primitive reaction: the call of male to female, female to male.

  “Carston? Sherry?” Emmanuel Werner’s cooing voice seemed to come from a great distance away. “Let’s go. We’re on the air in two minutes. But there’ll be plenty of time after the show for all of us to get to know each other better.”

  Carston blinked. Came skiddering back to reality. Slightly embarrassed, he glanced at Sherry, but the sensuality and interest had vanished. Now her expression was neutral.

  Chapter Two

  The Midville Assembly Hall and Cultural Center had been decorated with colored streamers, exotic plants in plastic, and the inevitable banner:

  Welcome to Midville

  The friendliest town this side of the Rockies

  Carston leaned against a pillar and wondered where the hell Sherry Valentine was, then wondered why the hell he was even wondering. Did it matter? It did, although he couldn’t have explained why. Or maybe he could: desire. Idiot, he chided himself. He stared around the hall again, scanning every hairstyle, every dress, and every pair of legs. So, she wasn’t here. Not yet. A begrudging flash of intuition told him she’d make a late arrival, one calculated to catch eyes. Isn’t that what flashy stars did? Of course. Hadn’t he seen that yesterday at the radio station?

  Only, for some reason, the idea didn’t irritate him this evening. No, he thought with surprise. Her entrance could be as dazzling and tardy as she chose. Just as long as she got here.

  Last night, after the radio program—a program dull enough to send a stadium of insomniacs into deep sleep—he’d hoped to resume conversation with the intriguing Sherry Valentine. No such luck. Emmanuel Warner had taken his arm and tried to possess him. He’d caught Sherry looking at him with what he’d interpreted as mockery, then could only watch as she and her agent strode out of the station door. Later, alone in his hotel room, Carston hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her despite his fatigue. How had she managed to get under his skin like that?

  And what did he want from her? All the pleasures a one-night stand could bring? That would spice up the days and nights here at the Culture Festival. But the more he thought about a possible fling, the more he knew he didn’t want something so banal: he’d left that stage behind him many years ago. These days, older and wiser, he liked taking his time, getting to know a woman, and finding out what made her tick. Relationships no longer had to do with conquest, with seeing how little time it took before rolling onto a bed together. As for Sherry, well…he still doubted they had much in common, but she’d read his play, and that showed there was an unexpected side to her. He wanted to know more.

  Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by a cluster of people. A nervous-looking man announced they were the coordinators of the local drama group.

  “How wonderful it is to meet you, Carston Hewlett. To talk to you in person.”

  “And it will be so exciting to see your play here in Midville,” added a woman in a green hat. “Of course, our group doesn’t perform your work. It’s just a bit too sophisticated for our audience.”

  Before he could open his mouth to reply, the nervous man intervened. “Although we do put on famous plays. Last year it was Macbeth, and we managed to cut it down to three quarters of an hour, songs and dances included.”

  Carton’s eyes scanned the room again. If Sherry Valentine were standing here beside him, he might even enjoy this sort of conversation. So where the hell was she?

  ****

  A glowing evening sun streaked the sky above suburban Midville. Sherry, the five boys of her band, and Charlie Bacon crossed the parking lot of the Midville Cultural Center, their multi-colored cowboy boots sending gravel spinning. As usual, their fringes shivered, sequins sparkled, and the tight white jeans they all wore were almost iridescent.

  “Budget Magnificent Seven,” muttered Sherry to no one in particular.

  “Just a foretaste of that long and tedious Hollywood career in B films.” Charlie smirked.

  “Oh, come on,” Sherry countered. “This is singing? We’re here in Midville to do a concert, right? Not to go to cocktail parties. Yet here we are. On our way to a cocktail party. This is the limit, the absolute limit. I hate cocktail parties.”

  “I know what you’re going to say next too.” Charlie nodded complacently. “Know it all by heart. Yo
u’re going say you’re firing me and going back to Dog’s Pass to marry the boy next door.”

  “And live happily ever after,” added Sherry while chucking Charlie a look meant to terrify. But he and the five boys only guffawed.

  “Once a day.”

  Sherry didn’t look at Charlie. “Once a day what?”

  “At least once a day, every day of the year, you mention Dog’s Pass and that creep next door. I’ve been your manager for the last seventeen years, so that makes what? At least 6,205 times I’ve heard it.”

  Sherry tried not to laugh. Then stopped walking, stared up at the Cultural Center, an inauspicious building in gray cement. Grimaced. “Now, isn’t this a fine example of architecture. Something between a warehouse and a bus depot. Circa 1963. Then they talk about culture?”

  “Didn’t your mother tell you if you made faces like that, they’d be permanent one day?”

  “My mother was too busy falling in love with whichever new male came to town to worry about what her daughter would look like in the old folk’s home.”

  “Then forget about going back to Dog’s Pass. I’ll bet the guy next door had a family that never did approve of you and yours. And still wouldn’t, big star or not.”

  Sherry grinned sheepishly. “Bingo, Charlie. The kids next door weren’t even allowed to breathe the same air I did, much less look at me. I bet the ban’s still on.”

  ****

  As absorbed as everyone was in chitchat and fake champagne, it still would have been difficult, if not impossible, to miss the arrival of Sherry Valentine and her boys in the Cultural Center.

  “Grin, folks. All eyes are on you.”

  They paused in the entrance, just the way Charlie had trained them to do. Glowed. Even Sherry gave her most dazzling, show business smile: being on stage (to quote Charlie) was a full time job.

  Entrance ritual over, Sherry’s eyes roved over the crowd. She picked out several familiar faces and had to admit that, despite its geographic distance from anywhere important, Midville had made an effort with the festival. “I see a few jazz musicians I know. And a pianist—but he’s into classical.”

  “Figure we’ll see Hewlett, too.” said Charlie. “You know. From last night.”

  Oh yes, she knew, all right. Last night she’d been more than aware of Carston Hewlett’s eyes tracking her every move. Clear, unwavering, gray, they’d seemed to caress her and had sent her blood running hot, cold, then hot again. The man had thrown her off her usual confident stride, had pulled in warm, lazy, sensual thoughts—and the mindless gut reactions she didn’t want. So what if he possessed an irresistible masculine aura, and that his voice was rich, deep? That his smile was so wonderful, it gave her an incredible jolt? That her fingers had itched with the urge to run themselves through his gray-speckled hair? So what, all of that? Those reactions signaled lust, nothing else.

  She’d also seen the speculative looks Emmanuel Werner, the radio announcer, had given him. Hungry looks. And she’d seen the way Emmanuel had monopolized him after the show. Then, just this morning, she’d seen Carston Hewlett in the hotel lobby, although he hadn’t noticed her. He’d been too deep in conversation with yet another infatuated female: a journalist. Well, Emmanuel, that journalist, and all the other women on earth could have Carston Hewlett on a plate, salt, pepper, and parsley included. A man like that would have so many women throwing themselves at his feet, he’d never worry about shoe polish. Some women. Not Sherry Valentine. And the last thing she needed was for Charlie Bacon to suspect her attraction. Charlie was such a manipulator; he’d exploit the information in some awful way.

  “You notice that moderator drooling over Hewlett last night?” Charlie chuckled with satisfaction.

  “Who could have missed it?”

  “But he didn’t even give her a glance. There was only one woman in the room he had eyes for. You.”

  “Oh?” She tried to sound vague. Damn! So he had noticed. From now on, she’d definitely be on shaky ground…although it was very nice indeed, to hear Carston Hewlett’s interest in her had been so obvious.

  “Yup. He was like a hungry cannibal doing a little pre-lunch dance,” Charlie continued inexorably. “Which is good, very good.”

  Sherry’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why good? What are you getting at now?”

  He looked chuffed. “Seems to me even a cannibal has to like the meal he’s being served before gobbling it up. Stop fretting. Things will work out fine.”

  Sherry almost hissed. “Things?”

  But Charlie was silent: he wouldn’t reveal his evil plans this early in the game. Perhaps she could avoid meeting Carston Hewlett again and circumvent disaster. And why worry? She had a concert to do, interviews to give, and contacts to make so her name stayed in the forefront. And when this festival was over, she’d climb back into the bus with Charlie and her boys and ride away. Perhaps head for the new career she’d been dreaming about—because, according to Charlie, there was serious talk of a role in a television series...

  Yes, she had enough on her agenda. No room for a temporary fling. A fling at a conference like this? That had become so commonplace, it was positively banal. And, at this stage of her life, it would also be undignified.

  “There he is now,” said Charlie, ripping into her thoughts. “Right over there. On the left. You see?”

  Of course, she saw. How could she miss him? Tall, mighty easy on the eye, he leaned, glass in hand, against a plaster pillar, listening to the dozen people surrounding him.

  “Don’t make plans,” she warned Charlie. Yet she couldn’t avoid looking in Carston’s direction again and noticed he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. Oh, he nodded politely at what was being said, but his eyes had that vague glazed look that comes just before sinking to the floor with boredom. But didn’t he look delicious in that brown silk shirt and elegant tweed jacket; look how those jeans hugged his long legs. He was just the way she’d always imagined a successful playwright should be: cool, intelligent, strong, and sexy.

  As if aware she’d been watching him, Carston turned slightly, caught her eye. She tried forcing herself to look away. And failed. For an eternity, their gaze held over the space separating them. Then detaching himself from the surrounding group, he headed in her direction.

  She commanded herself to pretend indifference, but her pulse accelerated, and her heart thumped a sensual jungle beat. Was this supposed to be pleasure? Something closer to pure panic. She swallowed, tried to summon up some zen-like calm…then realized she didn’t have any available. She needed help. Fast.

  “Charlie?” she gasped. Looked around. Damn! Where had that man gone now that she needed him? The only thing left to do was run. Except she was incapable of movement. Fool. The reprimand didn’t get escape muscles into moving order.

  Why come over here anyway? What would they talk about? They had nothing, absolutely nothing, in common. She had to stop staring at him like this.

  Here he was now, tiny inches away, his jaw a hard definite line, his body that tight, sinewy stretch she’d thought about too many times during the night. But it was the expression in his eyes, warm eyes, humorous eyes, that confirmed her instinct: the immediate, deep reaction was mutual. Try as hard as they could to avoid it, something would happen. It was inevitable.

  And for once, she, Sherry Valentine, a woman with a smart answer, a flippant remark for everything, everyone, and every occasion, was tongue-tied.

  “Champagne?”

  She let out her breath and nodded gratefully. At least he seemed to be able to maintain a certain presence of mind. His eyes traced her mouth, a glance that sent shivers to all parts of her body, before he turned and smoothly, elegantly, strode in the direction of the table laden with Midville’s party snacks. When he returned, she took the icy sparkling drink from his hand. Briefly, their fingers met, and a searing purl of electricity shot up her arm and directly into her heart.

  This was ridiculous. She wasn’t an adolescent with a first c
rush or a young woman overwhelmed by a potential mating partner. She was supposed to be worldly wise, aloof, and far beyond such hormonal chaos. She had to cut this out. Her body had to cut it out. She felt his gaze play over her again, strong, intense, skimming her cheekbones and tracing her skin, her mouth. A gaze almost tactile.

  “Do you know Midville well?” he asked, idly.

  At least her stunned mental powers could cope with that one. “Never been here in my life.” She smiled up at him, relieved at this unexpected offer of simple, mindless conversation. Silence was dangerous, too strained, too filled with innuendo.

  “But you go everywhere on tour with your concerts?”

  She nodded, flicked her hand back with a dismissing movement. “Everywhere and all the time. I’ve spent the last twenty years living on planes, in our bus, and in hotel rooms that all look the same: with white walls, framed pictures painted by computers, and furniture made out of material created by extra-terrestrials. Let’s not get onto the subject of plastic road food.”

  He laughed. “Don’t you mind any of that?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I don’t let myself think about whether I mind or not. What’s been important up until now is making sure each concert is as good as it should be.”

  “Up until now?” He raised his brows questioningly, but the smile still played on his lips.

  Damn, he looked wonderful. The strange, deep feelings his presence evoked had caused those few traitorous words to pop out of her mouth. A faint giveaway flush crossed her cheeks, but she certainly wouldn’t reveal her acting dreams to an incredibly sexy and very successful playwright. He’d probably think she’d glom onto him for his influence, for a foot in the door, for a casting couch entry into stardom. “What I meant was, I’m at that point in my career where I can afford to slow down a little.” She hoped she’d covered her tracks adroitly enough.

  His voice was gentle. “And what will you do with the free time?”