by Peggy Webb
"Brick."
Was that panic he heard in her voice… or longing?
"I didn't mean to scare you."
"I wasn't scared, just startled."
She lifted her hair off her neck in an unconsciously seductive gesture. Or perhaps it was calculated. He didn't know Helen anymore, hadn't known her since she'd left him.
In order to keep his thoughts from taking dangerous dips and turns, he studied her. She was no more dressed for walking in a cold New Hampshire night than he. Her sweatshirt was cotton, and her anorak was much too lightweight to do more than break the wind.
In the old days he'd have offered her his coat, then wrapped his arms around her so his body heat would warm her.
The old days were dead. He had to keep reminding himself of that fact.
"You picked a strange time to go walking, Helen. Was an evening in my company that disturbing for you?"
He hoped it was. He wanted to see her suffer.
"How like you to take credit for everything, Brick. My walk has nothing whatsoever to do with you."
"That's good to know. I wouldn't want us to start rehearsals with any misunderstandings between us."
"You've made your position perfectly clear, and now I'll state mine. Miss Thirty-eight, twenty-six, thirty-eight can have you. I'm clearly not interested."
"Clearly."
He cast a significant glance at their surroundings. For a moment the unflappable Helen was flustered, then she quickly recovered her composure.
"I don't know what you're thinking…"
"You don't?" Full of memories and unable to help himself, he caught her wrists in a tight grip. "You never could lie well, Helen."
"No, I never could lie well."
With her chin tilted at a stubborn angle and her eyes sparking fire, she challenged him.
"You remember…"
"Don't." She jerked out of his grasp. "I remember every detail, including the way you taste. But that doesn't mean I want to taste you again."
He tried to hide his wounded male pride as well as his disappointment, though what he had to be disappointed about was beyond him. Hadn't he hired Barb Gladly for the specific purpose of keeping Helen at a distance?
"First the red dress, then the seventh green. You could have fooled me, Helen."
"You always did have an overactive imagination, Brick. I suggest you put it to good use studying your lines."
In the regal manner that had captivated fans the world 'round, Helen Sullivan left him standing on the golf course with nothing but the cold wind for company. The moon glinted on her hair and reflected off the pale silk of her anorak. When she turned toward the house, it illuminated her profile, face, and body, which were every bit as perfect as he remembered.
Rocking back on his heels, he stuffed his hands into his pockets.
"I'd rather study your lines, Helen," he said.
When she disappeared into the house, he shook himself. Helen Sullivan was a witch. He'd fallen under her spell once; he had no intention of doing it again.
Ever.
"Then what am I doing standing out here freezing my butt off?"
Brick hastened to the house and mounted the stairs two at a time. When he strode past Helen's door, he didn't even glance to see if her light was on.
In his room he got out his script and perused the familiar lines. As he read he began to grin.
Tomorrow Helen Sullivan would rue the day she ever agreed to share a stage with her ex-husband.
THREE
Helen told herself she was ready for rehearsals with her ex-husband. She had her entire crew backstage. Matt and the animals were stationed near the curtain so they could see all the action, and Marsha was stationed at her elbow. Brick would easily get past the Abominables, but he would never make it beyond Matt Rider, and if he did, he wouldn't get past Marsha.
Of course, he'd made it perfectly clear he didn't want to get past anybody, but that small fact did nothing to calm her.
"Act two, scene one!" the director called. "We'll take it from Katharina's entrance."
"He did that deliberately," she said, turning toward her secretary.
"Who?" Marsha held out a glass of water with a slice of lemon.
"Brick. He's been over there for the last thirty minutes plotting with the director."
"What's wrong with act two, scene one?"
Instead of answering, Helen narrowed her eyes in the direction of her ex-husband.
"If he thinks he's going to intimidate me, he has another think coming."
With that parting shot she tossed back her hair and marched onto the stage.
Marsha joined Matt near the curtain.
"Looks as if there's a storm brewing," she said.
"It's long overdue," he said.
Brick knew that look of Helen's, that walk, that stubborn chin. Adrenaline pumped through him. He felt exhilarated, challenged, ready for battle.
He watched through lowered lids as she took the opposite side of the stage.
"What's the matter, Helen? Afraid of this scene?"
"No. Nor any other scene in this play." He could feel the sparks as she marched across the stage and faced him nose to nose. "You might as well get this straight right from the beginning, Brick Sullivan. Anything that takes place on this stage is strictly a part of the theater. Including the sizzling kiss in act two, scene one."
"You've thought about it, have you?"
"Not at all. I just happen to know my Shakespeare."
"Places!" the director called.
Brick snaked his arm around Helen's waist as she turned to leave.
"Ready to be wooed, wildcat?"
She whirled on him.
"If you make one more move that's not in this script, you'll feel more than the sting of my tongue."
"I've felt it all before, Helen."
Her color came up. Mesmerized, he kept a tight grip on her waist.
They struck sparks off each other that could be seen even at the back of the auditorium where Barb Gladly was stationed.
"Hmmm," she said, drumming her long red fingernails on the top of her purse. When Brick finally let Helen go, Barb slid from her seat unnoticed and quietly made her way backstage. She had seen things that threw a whole new light on the carefully laid plans of Brick Sullivan.
Barb Gladly was nobody's fool. And besides that, she was the world's biggest romantic.
"It's time to make a few plans of my own." She knew just the person who would help her. Grinning like a cat in a cream factory, she headed straight to Matt Rider.
Clifford Oates had directed some of the finest Shakespearean actors in modern times, but he had never directed a pair as charismatic as Brick and Helen Sullivan. They were virtual giants on the stage, filling it with a presence that almost overwhelmed an audience.
Sitting on the front row watching Helen take her place, Clifford felt the skin along the back of his neck prickle.
Helen didn't merely act Katharina; she became Katharina. She was fire and suppressed sexuality as she made her entrance.
Brick's Petruchio was arrogant, bold, and outrageous as he watched his ex-wife make her way toward him.
Clifford leaned forward in his seat. Something was happening onstage that was not due to mere presence, something electric, something magical. The voices of the great actors filled the room. By the time they got to lines that earned Shakespeare the reputation of being a bawdy bard, Clifford had almost forgotten that his job was to direct.
He had become a captive audience.
" 'Come, come, you wasp, i'faith, you are too angry'."
As he spoke Petruchio's lines, Brick moved so close to Helen that his thigh touched hers. She didn't acknowledge by so much as a blink of the eye that he had done anything except what the script called for.
" 'If I be waspish, best beware my sting'," she said.
There was the reaction he'd hoped for. It was in her voice, that high, bright edge that meant he'd disturbed her.
&nb
sp; He pressed his advantage, moving closer still, so close, he felt the stiffening in her spine.
" 'My remedy is then, to pluck it out'."
Ever the consummate professional, she didn't miss a cue.
" 'Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies'." Her eyes warned him not to try.
" 'Who knows not where a wasp doth wear his sting? In his tail'."
Boldly Brick snaked his arm behind her back and firmly planted his hand on her backside.
She stiffened as if she'd been shot. Giving him a scathing look, she marched to the proscenium and leaned toward the director.
"That's not in the script," she said.
Clifford roused himself like a man who had been drugged.
"It looked good to me," he said. "Natural."
"I don't care how it looked. It's not in the script. This is Shakespeare, not the Playboy channel."
"Brick and I discussed this before rehearsals…"
Helen whirled toward her ex-husband. "I'll just bet you did."
Brick sauntered toward her, walking in that maddening way he always used when he wanted to placate her. Instead of placating, his arrogance only fed her flame.
"Don't you take another step, Brick Sullivan."
"I'm the other star in this production, Helen. Any major dispute regarding stage directions will be overseen by me."
"This is not about stage directions; it's about mutiny."
Brick grinned. "Whose? Yours or mine?"
"Mine. I'm walking if you don't stick to the script." She placed her hands on her hips. "And it does not call for you to maul my butt."
"What makes you think I'd want to do a thing like that, Helen?"
His innocent posture enraged her. She stamped down on his foot. Ever the actor, Brick pretended more pain than he felt.
"Helen, why would you want to go and do a thing like that?"
"Because you deserve it, you wretched cad."
Clifford saw his entire production unraveling before his eyes. He hurried from his seat and joined them onstage. Placing one hand on Helen's arm and the other on Brick's, he mediated.
"Now, Brick… Helen. I know this is your first time onstage together in a while."
"Two years," she said.
"Two and a half," he said.
"Two."
"You left in April."
"It was August."
"I know because the forsythia was in bloom."
"It wasn't forsythia; it was marigolds."
Clifford had the sinking feeling that he was on a runaway train headed straight for the ravine of failed directors.
"Why don't we all take a break?" he said.
His suggestion was met with a hoot of laughter from Brick and a smile of derision from Helen.
"Who needs a break," Brick said. "This is merely a professional argument."
"Strictly professional," Helen agreed.
Clifford swallowed hard. "All right. Then let's start at the top of that scene."
"No need to waste time." Brick sauntered back to his place. "Let's just take it from where we left off."
"Good." Clifford took his seat once more, thinking that there was nothing good about it. "Now, where were we?"
"I had just discovered the stinger in her tail."
"Discovery, my foot." Helen crossed her arms and glared at him. "It was more like an invasion."
"Was it, now?" Brick stalked her, his voice silky and deadly. "An invasion, you say? That can be arranged."
"Not in this lifetime, Brick Sullivan."
Clifford smote his forehead. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered.
In the wings, Marsha whispered to Matt, "What did I tell you?"
"It's better than I expected," he said. "Those two are still madly in love." He winked at Barb Gladly, who had her arms wrapped around the necks of the Abominables.
"If they get any madder, they're going to kill each other." Marsha grabbed a glass of water, threw in a slice of lemon, and marched onstage.
"Break time," she announced.
Clifford groaned. Now he was taking directions from Godzilla the secretary.
Helen took a long, slow drink from the glass. The more she looked at Brick's maddeningly insolent smile, the madder she got. With careful deliberation she upended the glass over his head. Water drenched his hair, ice cubes slid into the neck of his shirt, and the wedge of lemon landed in the crook of his ear.
Dead silence filled the rehearsal hall. Brick and Helen stared at each other as if they were two gladiators prepared to fight to the death. Then suddenly Brick laughed. His hearty roar broke the tension, and soon everybody was chuckling and patting each other on the back and making their way to the break room for a fortifying cup of coffee.
"How do you want yours, Mr. Oates?" the girl at the coffee pot asked. "Cream? Sugar?"
"With a little TNT," the director said. "They say the only way to control a raging fire is to apply a little dynamite."
Break time did wonders to cool hot tempers. Or so Clifford thought.
They had started all over with act 2, scene 1, and Helen and Brick were sailing through their lines. Just as the director sank back into his chair and was starting to relax, they came to the deadly scene that had lately resulted in Helen cooling Brick off with a glass of ice water over his head.
" 'Who knows not where a wasp doth wear his sting? In his tail'."
Clifford breathed a sigh of relief. This time Brick was being good. No hands on Helen's backside.
" 'In his tongue'," she replied, every bit of Kate's tartness evident in her voice and her stance.
"Good… good," Clifford said.
He bragged too soon.
" 'Whose tongue'?" Brick's line. Spoken with a dangerous glint in his eye.
" 'Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewell'."
" 'What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, Good Kate; I am a gentleman'—"
Suddenly Brick caught Helen around the waist, sank onto a low bench, and tipped her over his lap.
Her roar of outrage filled the stage. She came out of his grasp flailing and kicking.
" 'That I'll try'." Her line was served up with a stinging wallop that clipped Brick's jaw and knocked him backward across the bench.
"Cut… cut…" Clifford yelled.
Offstage the Abominables broke loose from Matt and galloped onto the stage. Straddling Brick, they licked his face, his ears, his hands.
Helen tugged at their leashes, trying to get them under control.
"Stop it," she said.
"Don't stop them. I'm a dying man."
"You're a conniving man. Get up off that floor."
"No. I want to lie here and wallow in my pain."
"You want to lie there and gloat in your victory. You meant to cause mayhem, and you did."
Helen did some fancy sidestepping to keep from getting tangled in the dog leashes.
"Now stop that," she said to her pets.
But they would have none of her commands. Giddy with joy, they gave their former master a tongue bath that showed they at least were delighted with the game he was playing.
The combined weight of the Great Danes was too much for Helen to handle. She went down in a heap, landing sprawled on top of Brick with her face merely inches from his.
"You insufferable rake," she said. "You blackguard. You… you…"
Helen sputtered to a stop, trapped not by anger but by emotions much deeper, much more disturbing. The gleam in Brick's dark eyes was the one she'd seen so many times before, the unmistakable gleam of passion… and the feelings that coursed through her were the unmistakable ones of response.
It had been so long. Two years. Two years without the quick, hot flash of desire, the endless delight, the joy of rushing into the arms of a man she had loved more than life itself.
Had loved, she kept reminding herself. She no longer loved Brick Sullivan. Couldn't afford to love him. Wouldn't let herself love him.
His eyes were black and deep and l
it from the inside by the glow that had been only for her. Her lips trembled.
Lord, don't let me cry. Not here. Not now.
"Helen."
His whisper stirred the hair at her temple as he reached to touch her cheek.
"Helen."
Again, he whispered her name. There was wonder in his voice, wonder and a terrible pain. She closed her eyes, allowing herself the small forbidden luxury of his touch. His touch was light, exquisite, the stuff of dreams. His fingertips skimmed across her cheekbones, down the side of her throat, then back up to her lips.
A small tear slid from underneath her eyelid, unaware. She heard his quick intake of breath, felt the tremble in his hand.
His body was long and lean and hard, perfectly fitted to hers. They had always said so. Late at night cuddled together in the middle of their curtained bed, they used to marvel at their perfect fit, marvel and laugh, then love again just to be sure they hadn't been mistaken.
How beautiful their love had been, how magical, that combination of love and laughter that lingered in the heart and spirit and soul even when they were separated, that wonderous bonding destined by fate and smiled upon by the gods.
Brick slipped his finger between her lips and brushed lightly against the moist, satiny inner lining. The pleasure was almost more than she could bear.
Run, her mind said, even while her heart said stay.
Powerful currents raced between them. The tempo of their breathing changed.
Lord, don't let me fall in love with this man again.
But she knew it was useless to pray for the impossible. She had always been in love with Brick, from the beginning of time, through wars and holocausts and whirlwinds, from ancient Rome to the courts of French kings, from the savage frontier to the far eastern boundaries of the world. He was her heart and she was his. Wherever they were, whatever they did, they would recognize each other… and yearn.
Memories of their love filled her so that she could not move. The people standing around them ceased to exist. There was only the two of them and the explosions of love they detonated in each other.
From a far-off place she heard Marsha giving commands, felt the movement of the Abominables as they were led away, heard the shuffle of feet as the stage cleared. Clifford's statement, "That's enough for today," seemed redundant.