Dance to the Piper (9 page)

"Understood." He decided, for reasons he didn't delve into, to give her the meal of her life.

He wasn't disappointed. Her unabashed appreciation for everything put in front of her was novel and somehow compelling. She ate slowly, with a dark, sensual enjoyment Reed had forgotten could be found in food. She tasted everything and finished nothing, and it was clear that the underlying discipline was always there, despite her sumptuous appreciation.

She teased herself with flavors as other women might tease themselves with men. She closed her eyes over a bite of fish and gave herself to the pleasure of it as others gave themselves to the pleasures of lovemaking.

Champagne bubbles exploded in their glasses, and the scents rising up were rich.

"Oh, this is wonderful. Taste."

Wanting to share her pleasure, she held her fork out to him. His body tightened, surprising him. He had been aroused just by watching her, but he discovered in that instant that what he really wanted was to sample her, slowly, as she sampled the tastes and textures on her plate.

He opened his mouth and allowed himself to be fed. As he savored the bite, he watched her eyes and saw they were aware. Mixed with that awareness was a curiosity that became intensely erotic.

"It's very good."

She knew she was getting in over her head, and she wondered why the feeling was so alluring. "Dancers think about food too much. I suppose it's because we watch so much of it pass us by."

"You said once that dancers are always hungry."

He wasn't speaking of food now. To give herself a moment, Maddy picked up her glass and sipped. "We make a choice, usually in childhood. We give up football games, TV, parties, and go to class instead. It carries over into adulthood."

"How much do you sacrifice?"

"Whatever it takes."

"And it's worth it?"

"Yes." She smiled, more comfortable now that she could feel her body pull away from that trembling edge of tension. "Even at its worst, it's worth it."

He leaned back just enough to distance himself from her. She sensed it and wondered whether he had felt the same intensity between them. "What does success mean to you?"

"When I was sixteen, it meant Broadway." She looked around the quiet restaurant and nearly sighed. "In some ways, it still does."

"Then you have it."

He didn't understand, nor did she expect him to. "I feel successful because I tell myself the show's going to be a smash. I don't let myself think it might flop."

"You wear blinders, then."

"Oh, no. Rose-colored glasses, but never blinders. You're a realist. I suppose I like that in you because it's so different from what I am. I like to pretend."

"You can't run a business on illusions."

"And your personal life?"

"That either."

Interested, she leaned forward. "Why not?"

"Because you can only make things work your way if you know what's real and what's not."

"I like to think you can make things real."

"Valentine!"

Reed's considering frown lingered as he glanced up at a tall, lanky man in a peach jacket and a melon tie. "Selby. How are you?"

"Fine. Just fine." The man sent Maddy a long look. "It looks like I'm interrupting, and I hate to use a tired line, but have we met before?"

"No." Maddy extended her hand with the easy friendship she showed everyone.

"Maddy O'Hurley. Allen Selby."

"Maddy O'Hurley?" Selby cut into Reed's introduction and squeezed Maddy's hand. "This is a pleasure. I saw
Suzanna's Park
twice."

She didn't like the feel of his hand, but she always hated herself when she made snap judgments. "Then it's my pleasure."

"I'd heard Valentine was dipping into Broadway, Reed."

"Word gets around." Reed poured the last of the wine into Maddy's glass. "Allen is the head of Galloway Records."

"Friendly competitors," Selby assured her, and Maddy got the distinct impression that he'd cut Reed's professional throat at the first opportunity. "Have you ever considered a solo album, Maddy?"

She toyed with the stem of her glass. "It's a difficult thing to admit to a record producer, but singing's not my strong point."

"If Reed doesn't convince you differently, come see me." He laid a hand on Reed's shoulder as he spoke. No, she didn't like those hands, she thought again. It couldn't be helped. Maddy noticed that Reed's eyes frosted over, but he merely picked up his glass. "Wish I could join you for some coffee," Selby went on, ignoring the fact he hadn't been asked, "but I'm meeting a client for dinner. Give my best to your old man, Reed. Think about that album now." He winked at Maddy, then sauntered off to his own table.

Maddy waited a beat, then finished off the rest of her wine. "Do most record producers dress like they're part of a fruit salad?"

Reed stared at her a moment, seeing the bland, curious smile. The tension dissolved into laughter. "Selby's one of a kind."

She took his hand again, delighted to have made him laugh. "So are you."

"Do I need time to decide if that was a compliment or an insult?"

"A definite compliment." She glanced over to where Selby was signaling a waiter. "You don't like him."

He didn't pretend not to understand who she was referring to. "We're business rivals."

"No," Maddy said with a shake of her head. "You don't like
him
. Personally."

That interested him, because he had a well-earned reputation for concealing his emotions. "Why do you say that?"

"Because your eyes iced over." Involuntarily she shivered. "I'd hate to be looked at that way. Anyway, you won't gossip, and you're annoyed that he's here, so why don't we go?"

When they walked outside again, the heat of the day had eased. Traffic had thinned. Hooking her arm through his, Maddy breathed in the rough night air that was New York. "Can we walk awhile? It's too nice to jump right into a cab."

They strolled down the sidewalk, past dark store windows and closed shops. "Selby had a point, you know. With the right material, you could make a very solid album."

She shrugged. That had never been part of her dream, though she wouldn't completely dismiss it. "Maybe someday, but I think Streisand can steep easy. You never see enough stars," she murmured, looking up as they walked. "On nights like this I envy Abby and her farm in the country."

"Difficult to sit on the porch swing and make the eight-o'clock curtain."

"Exactly. Still, I keep planning to take this wonderful vacation some day. A cruise on the South Seas where the steward brings you iced tea while you watch the moon hovering over the water. Or a cabin in the woods—Oregon, maybe—where you can lie in bed in the morning and listen to the birds wake up. Trouble is, how would I make it to dance class?" She laughed at herself and moved closer. "What do you do when you have time off, Reed?"

It had been two years since he'd taken anything more than a long weekend off, and even those were few and far between. It had been two years since he'd taken over Valentine Records. "We have a house in St. Thomas. You can sit on the balcony and forget there is a Manhattan."

"It must be wonderful. One of those big, rambling places, pink-and-white stucco with a garden full of flowers most people only see in pictures. But you'd have phones. A man like you would never really cut himself off."

"Everyone pays a price."

She knew that very well every time she placed her hand on the
barre.
"Oh, look." She stopped by a window and looked in at an icy-blue negligee that swept the mannequin's feet and left the shoulders bare but for ivory lace. "That's Chantel."

Reed studied the faceless mannequin. "Is it?"

"The negligee. It's Chantel. Cool and sexy. She was born to wear things like that—and she's the first one to say so." Maddy laughed and stepped back to make a note of the name of the shop. "I'll have to send it to her. Our birthday's in a couple of months."

"Chantel O'Hurley." Reed shook his head. "Strange, I never put it together. She's your sister."

"Not so strange. We're not a great deal alike on the surface."

Cool and sexy, Reed thought again. That was precisely Chantel's image as a symbol of Hollywood glamour. The woman beside him would never be termed cool, and her sexuality wasn't glamorous but tangible. Dangerously so. "Being a triplet must be a very unique sensation."

"It's hard for me to say, since I've always been one." They began to walk again. "But it's special. You're never really alone, you know. I think that was part of the reason I had enough courage to come to New York and risk it all. I always had Chantel and Abby, even when they were hundreds of miles away."

"You miss them."

"Oh, yes. I miss them dreadfully sometimes, and Mom and Pop and Trace. We were so close growing up, living in each other's pockets, working together. Yelling at each other."

She chuckled when he glanced down at her. "It's not so odd, you know. Everyone needs someone they can yell at now and then. When Trace left, it was like losing an arm at first. Pop never really got over it. Then

Abby left, and Chantel and I. I never thought how hard it was on my parents, because they had each other. You must be close to your parents."

He closed up then, instantly; she thought she could feel the frost settle over the heat. "There's only my father."

"I'm sorry." She never deliberately opened old wounds, but innate curiosity often led her to them. "I've never lost anyone close to me, but I can imagine how hard it would be."

"My mother's not dead." He didn't accept sympathy. He detested it.

Questions sprang into her head, but she didn't ask them. "Your father's a wonderful man. I could tell right away. He has such kind eyes. I always loved that about my own father—the way his eyes would say 'Trust me,' and you knew you could. My mother ran away with him, you know. It always seemed so romantic. She was seventeen and had already been working clubs for years. My father came through town and promised her the moon on a silver platter. I don't think she ever believed him, but she went with him. When we were little, my sisters and I used to talk about the day a man would come and offer us the moon."

"Is that what you want?"

"The moon?" She laughed again, and the sound of it trailed down the sidewalk. "Of course. And the stars. I might even take the man."

He stopped then, just outside the beam of a streetlight, to look down at her. "Any man who'd give it to you?"

"No." Her heart began to thud, slowly at first, then faster, until she felt it in her throat. "A man who'd offer it."

"A dreamer." He combed his hand through her hair the way he'd wanted to, though he'd told himself he wouldn't. It spread like silk through his fingers. "Like you."

"If you stop dreaming, you stop living."

He shook his head, moving it closer to hers. "I stopped a long time ago." His lips touched hers, briefly, as they had once before. "I'm still alive."

She put a hand on his chest, not to keep him away but to keep him close. "Why did you stop?"

"I prefer reality."

This time, when his mouth came to hers, it wasn't hesitant. He gathered and took what he'd wanted for days. Her lips were warm against his, exotic in flavor, tempting in their very willingness to merge with his. Her hand pressed against the back of his neck, drawing him nearer, eagerly accepting the next stage of pleasure as their tongues met and tangled.

The streetlight washed the sidewalk beside them, and the buildings blocked out most of the sky. They were alone, though traffic shuttled by on the street. His fingers spread against her back, bringing enough pressure to align her body with his, hard and firm. The scent she wore made the musky smell of the city disappear, so there was only her.

Trapped in his arms, she was already soaring up so that in a moment she could touch the chilled white surface of the moon and learn its secrets. She hadn't expected to be breathless, but she swayed against him with a helplessness neither of them could comprehend.

He tasted of power and ruthlessness. Her instinct for survival should have had her turning away from it, even scorning it. Yet she remained as she was, wound around him in the warm evening air. The hand at the back of his neck stroked to soothe a tension she sensed intuitively.

He knew better. From the first moment he'd seen her, Reed had known better. But he'd continued to take steps toward her rather than away. He was no good for her, and she could only mean catastrophe for him. There would be no casually complementary relationship here, but something that would draw you farther and farther into a slowly burning fire.

He could taste it. The frank surrender that was seduction. He could hear it in her quiet sigh of acceptance. With her body hugged tightly against his, he could feel the need expand beyond what should, what must, be controlled. He didn't want it. Yet he wanted her more than he'd wanted anything that had come into his life before.

He drew away. Then, before he could stop himself, he framed her face in his hands to kiss her again. He wanted to be sated by her, done with her. But the more he took, the more he wanted.

A woman like this could destroy a man. Since childhood his life had been based on the premise that he would never allow a woman to be important enough to hurt him. Maddy was no different, he told himself as he all but drowned in her. She couldn't be.

When he drew away again, Maddy's legs were rubber. She had no flip remark, no easy smile. She could only look into his eyes, and what she saw wasn't passion now, wasn't desire. It was anger. She had no answer for it.

"I'll take you home," he told her.

"Just a minute." She needed to catch her breath, needed to feel firm ground under her feet again. He released her, and she stepped to the street lamp and rested a hand on the solid metal surface. Light washed white over her and left him in shadow. "I get the feeling that you're annoyed at what happened."

He didn't respond. When she studied him, she saw that his eyes could be colder than stone. It made her hurt, as much for him as for herself. "Since I'm not, I'm left feeling like a fool." Tears came to her easily, as easily as laughter, but she wouldn't shed them now. She'd inherited a good deal of pride as well as quick emotions from her parents. "I'd just as soon see myself home, thanks."