by Nora Roberts
"I know. I always do." She had to swallow, and that surprised her. Something in the way he'd been looking at her just now. Something in the tone of his voice, the set of his body. She could always be mistaken about a face, but not about a body. His was tensed, and so was hers. "I keep buying them, and keep killing them."
"Too much sun." He hadn't meant to, but brushed the back of her hand with his fingers. "And too much water. It's as easy to overlove as underlove."
"I hadn't thought of that." She was thinking about the tremors that were shooting up her arm, down her spine. "Your plants probably thrive with the perfect balance of attention.'' She caught herself wondering if it was the same with his women. Then she rose, because her system wasn't reacting as she'd expected it to. "I can offer you tea, but not coffee. I don't have any."
"No. I have to go." He didn't—there were no schedules to be met, no appointments to keep. But he was a survivor, and he knew when to back away. "I enjoyed the dinner, Maddy. And the company."
She let out a long breath, as if she'd just come down from a very high leap. "I'm glad. We'll do it again."
It was impulse. It was usually impulse with Maddy. She didn't think about it twice. With friendly warmth, she put her hands on his shoulders and touched her tips to his. The kiss lasted less than a second. And vibrated like a hurricane.
He felt her lips, smooth, curved a bit in a smile. He tasted the sweetness, fleeting, with a touch of spice. Her scent was there, hovering, light enough to tease. When she moved back, he heard her quick, surprised intake of air and saw the same surprise reflected in her eyes.
What was that? she thought. What in God's name was that? She was a woman who made a habit of light, friendly kisses, quick hugs, casual touches. None of them had ever rocked her like this. She felt hints of everything she'd ever imagined in that one brief contact. And she wanted more. Because she'd practiced self-denial all her life, it was easier to control the desire to touch the fire a second time.
"I'm glad you came." The tremor in her voice amazed her.
"So am I." It wasn't often he had to use restraint. It wasn't often he had to deny himself anything. In this case, he knew he had to. "Good night, Maddy."
"Good night." She stood where she was while he let himself out. Then, listening to her body, she sat down. Better to think this one through, she warned herself. Better to think long and hard. Then her gaze drifted over to the plant that was wilting and yellowing in the dark window. Strange, she hadn't realized she'd been in the dark herself for so long.
Chapter Three
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Her muscles warmed, her eyes dreamy, Maddy stretched at the barre with the line of dancers. The instructor called out every position, pile, tendu, attitude. Legs, torsos, arms responded in endless repetition.
Morning class was repetition, a continual reminder to the body that it could indeed do the unnatural and do it well time and time again. Without it, that same body would simply revolt and refuse to strain itself, refuse to turn the leg out from the hip as though it were on a ball hinge, refuse to bend beyond what was ordinary, refuse to stretch itself past natural goals. It would, in essence, become normal.
It wasn't necessary to concentrate fully. Maddy's body had built-in discipline, built-in instinct that carried her through the warm-up. Her mind floated away, far enough to dream, close enough to hear the calls.
Grand plié. Her knees bent, her body descended slowly until her crotch hovered over her heels. Muscles trembled, then acquiesced. She wondered if Reed was already in his office, though it was still shy of nine. She thought he would be. She imagined he would arrive as a matter of habit before his secretary, before his assistant. Would he think of her at all?
Attitude en avant. Her leg raised, holding at a ninety-degree angle. She continued to hold as the count dragged on. He probably wouldn't, Maddy concluded. His mind was so crowded with schedules and appointments that he wouldn't have time for a single wayward thought.
Battement fondu. She brought her foot under her supporting knee, which bent in synchronization. Gradually, slowly, she straightened, feeling the resistance, using it. He didn't have to think of her now. Later, perhaps, on his way home, over a quiet drink, his mind might drift to her. She wanted to think so.
Maddy's serviceable gray leotard was damp when she moved onto the floor for center practice. The exercises they had just practiced at the barre would be repeated again. On signal, she went into the fifth position and began.
One, two, three, four. Two, two, three, four.
It was raining outside. Maddy could watch the water stream down the small frosted windows as she bent, stretched, reached and held on command. A warm rain, she thought. The air had been steamy and heavy when she'd rushed to class that morning. She hoped it wouldn't stop before she got out again.
There hadn't been much time for walking in the rain when she'd been a child. Not that she regretted anything. Still, she and her family had spent more time at rehearsals and in train stations than in parks and playgrounds. Her parents had brought the fun with them—games, riddles and stories. Such high-flown, ridiculous stories, stories that were worlds in themselves. When you were blessed with two Irish parents who possessed fantastic imaginations, the sky was the limit.
She'd learned so much from them—more than timing, more than projection. Little formal education had seeped through, but geography had been taught on the road. Seeing the Mississippi had been more illuminating than reading about it. English, grammar, literature had come through the books that her parents had loved and passed on. Practical math had been a matter of survival. Her education had been as unconventional as her recreation, but she considered herself more well-rounded than most.
Maddy hadn't missed the parks or playgrounds. Her childhood had been its own carousel. But now, as a woman, she rarely missed a chance to walk in a warm summer rain.
Walking in the rain wouldn't appeal to Reed. In fact, Maddy doubted it would even occur to him. They were worlds apart—by birth, by choice, by inclination. Her right foot slid into a chasse, back, forward, to the side. Repeat. Repeat. He would be logical, sensible, perhaps a bit ruthless. You couldn't succeed in business otherwise. No one would consider it logical to stretch your body into unnatural positions day after day. No one would consider it sensible to throw yourself body and soul into the theater and subject yourself to the whims of the public. If she was ruthless, she was only ruthless in the demands she made on herself physically.
So why couldn't she stop thinking about him? She couldn't stop wondering. She couldn't stop remembering the way the dying sunlight had lingered on his hair; darkening it, deepening it—or the way his eyes had stayed on hers, direct, intrigued and cynical. Was it foolish for an optimist to be attracted to a cynic? Of course it was. But she'd done more foolish things.
They'd shared one kiss, and barely a kiss at that. His arms hadn't come around her. His lips hadn't pressed hungrily to hers. Yet she'd relived that instant of contact again and again. Somehow she thought—somehow she was sure—he hadn't been unmoved. However foolish it was, she dredged up that quick flood of sensation and reexperienced it. It added a fine sheen of heat to already-warmed skin. Her heartbeat, already thudding rhythmically with the demands of the exercise, increased in speed.
Amazing, she thought, that the memory of a sensation could do so much. Launching into a series of pirouettes, Maddy brought the feeling back again and spun with it.
With her hair still dripping from the shower, Maddy pulled on a pair of patched bright yellow bib overalls. The rehearsal hall showers themselves were ripe with the scents of splash-on cologne and powdered talc. A tall woman, naked to the waist, sat in the corner and worked a cramp out of her calf.
"I really appreciate you telling me about this class." Wanda, resplendent in jeans and a sweater as snug as skin, tugged her own hair back into a semiorganized bun. "It's tougher than the one I was taking. And five dollars cheaper."
"Madame has a soft spot f
or gypsies." Maddy straddled a long bench, bent over and began to aim a hand drier at the underside of her hair.
"Not everyone in your position is willing to share."
"Come on, Wanda."
"It isn't all a big sisterhood, sweetheart." Wanda jammed in a last pin and watched Maddy's reflection in the mirror. Even with the reddish hair curtaining her face, Wanda saw the faint frown of disagreement. "You're the lead, and you can't tell me you don't feel newcomers breathing down your neck."
"Makes you work harder." Maddy shook back her hair, too impatient to dry it. "Where'd you get those earrings?"
Wanda finished fastening on the fiercely red prisms, which fell nearly to her shoulders. A movement of her head sent them spinning. Both she and Maddy silently approved the result. "A boutique in the Village. Five-seventy-one."
Maddy got up from the bench and stood with her head close to Wanda's. She narrowed her eyes and imagined. "Did they have them in blue?"
"Probably. You like gaudy?"
"I love gaudy."
"Trade you these for that sweatshirt you've got with the eyes all over it."
"Deal," Maddy said immediately. "I'll bring it to rehearsal."
"You look happy."
Maddy smiled and rose on her toes to bring her ear closer to Wanda's. "I am happy."
"I mean, you look man happy."
With a lift of her brow, Maddy studied her own face in the mirror. Free of makeup, her skin glowed with health. Her mouth was full and shaped well enough to do without paint. It was a pity, she'd always thought, that her lashes were rather light and stubby. Chantel had gotten darker, longer ones.
"Man happy," Maddy repeated, enjoying the phrase. "I did meet a man."
"Shows. Good-looking?"
"Wonderful-looking. He's got incredible gray eyes. Really gray, no green at all. And a kind of cleft." She touched her own chin. "Let's talk body."
Maddy let out a peal of laughter and hooked her arm around Wanda's shoulders. Friendships, the best of them, are often made quickly, she thought. "Good shoulders, very trim. He holds himself well. I'd guess good muscle tone."
"Guess?"
"I haven't seen him naked."
"Well, honey, what's your problem?"
"We only had dinner." Maddy was used to frank sexual talk. A lot more used to the talk than to acting on it. "I think he was interested—in sort of a detached way."
"So you've got to make him interested in an attached way. He's not a dancer, is he?"
"No."
"Good." Wanda sent her earrings for a last spin, then began to unfasten them. "Dancers make lousy husbands. I know."
"Well, I'm not thinking of marrying him…" she began, then widened her eyes. "Were you married to a dancer?"
"Five years ago. We were in the chorus of Pippin. Ended up getting married on opening night." She handed the earrings over. "Trouble was, before the play dosed he'd forgotten that the ring on my finger applied to him."
"I'm sorry Wanda."
"It was a lesson," she said with a shrug. "Don't jump into something legal with a smooth-talking, good-looking man. Unless he's loaded," she added. "Is yours?"
"Is my—Oh." Maddy pouted into the mirror: "I suppose."
"Then grab ahold. If it doesn't work out, you can dry your eyes with a nice fat settlement."
"I don't think you're as cynical as you'd like to appear." Maddy gave Wanda's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Hurt bad?"
"It stung." Wanda found it odd that she'd never admitted that to anyone but herself before. "Let's just say I learned that marriage doesn't work unless two people play by the rules. How about some breakfast?"
"No, I can't." She glanced down to where her drooping philodendron sat under the bench. "I've got to deliver something."
"That." Wanda broke into a grin. "Looks like it needs a decent burial."
"It needs," Maddy corrected as she fastened on her new earrings, "the proper balance of attention."
He hadn't stopped thinking about her. Reed wasn't used to anything interfering with his schedule—especially not a flighty, eccentric woman with neon on her walls. They didn't have a thing in common. He'd told himself that repeatedly the night before, when he hadn't been able to sleep. She had nothing to attract him. Unless you counted whiskey-colored eyes. Or a laugh that came out of nowhere, and that could echo in your mind for hours.
He preferred women with classic tastes, elegant manners. The companions he chose wouldn't drive through Maddy's neighborhood with an armed guard, much less live there. They certainly wouldn't nibble at the meat on his plate. The women he dated went to the theater. They didn't act in it. They certainly wouldn't allow a man to see them sweat.
Why, after a few very brief encounters with Maddy O'Hurley, was Reed beginning to think the women he'd dated were raging bores? Of course they weren't. Reed began to study the sales figures in front of him again. He'd never dated a woman merely for her looks. He wanted and sought intelligent conversation, mutual interests, humor, style. He might want to discuss the impressionist show at the Metropolitan over dinner or the weather conditions in St. Moritz over brandy.
What he avoided—studiously avoided—was any woman connected with the entertainment field. He respected entertainers, admired them, but kept them at arm's length on a social level. As head of Valentine Records he dealt constantly with singers, musicians, agents, representatives. Valentine Records wasn't just a business. Not as his father had seen it. It was an organization that provided the best in music, from Bach to rock, and prized the talent it had signed and developed.
Reed had entertained musicians from childhood. He considered himself understanding of their needs, their ambitions, their vulnerabilities. In his free time he preferred the company of the less complicated. The less driven. His own ambitions were intense enough. Valentine Records was at the top of the heap and would remain there. He would see to that. Not only for his father, but for himself. If, as it often happened, he had to work ten hours a day for and with entertainers, he needed a breather from them when the day was over.
But he couldn't stop thinking of Maddy.
What made her tick? Reed pushed aside the sales figures and turned to look at his view of midtown. The rain turned it all into a misty gray fantasy. She didn't appear to have developed the protective shield that her profession seemed to require. She was rising to the top, like cream, but didn't seem awed by it. Could she really be as basic and uncomplicated as she seemed?
Why did he care?
He'd eaten dinner with her—one short, simple dinner. They'd had an interesting, somewhat intimate conversation. They'd shared a brief, friendly kiss. That had rocked him back on his heels.
So he was attracted. He wasn't immune to bright, vital looks or a firm, compact body. It was natural to be curious about the woman, with her odd philosophies and dangling thought patterns. If he wanted to see her again, there was no harm in it. And it was simple enough. He'd just pick up the phone and call her. They could have dinner again… on his terms. Before the evening was over, he'd discover what it was about her that nagged at him.
When his door opened, Reed's glance of annoyance turned into a warm smile few were ever treated to. "A little wet for golf?"
"Club's a tomb when it rains." Edwin Valentine walked into the room with the long, slow steps of a big man, then dropped heavily into a chair. "Besides, I
start to feel old if I don't make it in here every couple of weeks."
"Yeah, you look feeble." Reed leaned back in his chair and studied his father's ruddy, strong-featured face. "What's your handicap these days?"
"Four." Edwin grinned, pleased as a boy. "All in the wrist. Got wind you've all but signed Libby Barlow away from Galloway Records."
Cautious, always cautious, Reed merely inclined his head. "It looks that way."
Edwin nodded. The office had been his for nearly twenty years. The decisions had been his then. Still, he didn't feel any twinge of regret, any twist of envy at seeing his son behind the d
esk. That was what he'd worked for. "Great set of pipes on that little lady. I'd like to see Dorsey produce her first album with us."
Reed's lips curved slightly. His father's instincts were, as always, bull's-eye. "It's been discussed. I still think you should have an office here." He held up a hand before his father could speak. "I don't mean you should tie yourself down to regular hours again."
"Never had regular hours in my life," Edwin put in. "Well, irregular hours, then. I do think Valentine Records should have Edwin Valentine."
"It has you." Edwin folded his hands, and the look he gave his son was direct and calm. More, much more passed between them than the words. "Not that I don't think you could use some advice from the old man now and again. However, you're at the helm now. The ship's holding steady."
"I wouldn't let you down." Edwin recognized the intensity in his son's voice, and understood a portion of the passion behind it. "I'm aware of that, Reed. I don't have to tell you that of all the things that have touched my life, nothing's made me prouder than you."
Emotion rippled through him. Gratitude, love. "Dad—"
Before he could finish, or even properly begin, his secretary wheeled in a tray of coffee and sweet rolls. "By damn, Hannah, you're as sharp as ever."
"So are you, Mr. Valentine. Looks like you've dropped a pound or two." She fixed his coffee the way he preferred it. The flash of a wink she sent Reed was too quick to measure. She'd been with the company twelve years and was the only person on staff who would have dared the cheeky look.
"You witch, Hannah. I've gained five." Edwin heaped two rolls on his plate anyway.
"You wear it well, Mr. Valentine. You have a meeting at eleven-thirty with Mackenzie in Sates." She set another cup on Reed's desk. "Would you like for me to reschedule?"
"Not on my account," Edwin put in quickly.
Reed glanced at his watch and calculated the next thirty-five minutes. "I'll see him at eleven-thirty, Hannah. Thank you."
"Hell of a woman," Edwin said with a full mouth as the door shut behind Hannah. "Smart move, taking her on as your secretary when I retired."
"I don't think Valentine Records could run without Hannah." Reed glanced at the rain-drenched window again, thinking of another woman.
"What's on your mind, Reed?"
"Hmm?" Bringing himself back to the conversation, Reed picked up his coffee. "The sates figures look good. I think you'll be pleased with the results at the end of the fiscal year."
Edwin didn't doubt that. Reed was a product of his mind, of his heart. Only rarely did it concern him that he'd molded his son a little too closely after himself. "Doesn't look to me like you've got sales figures on the brain."
Reed nodded, deciding to answer the question while evading it. "I've been giving a lot of thought to the play we're backing."
Edwin smiled a little. "Still nervous about my hunch there?"
"No." He could answer that honestly enough now. "I've had several meetings with the producer and the director. I've even looked in on a couple of rehearsals. My guess is that the play itself will hit big. The score—more our concern, really—is wonderful. What we're working on now is promotion and marketing for the cast album."
"If you wouldn't mind, I might like to squirrel my way in on that end a bit."
"You know you don't have to ask."
"I do," Edwin corrected. "You're in charge, Reed. I didn't step down figuratively, but literally. As it happens, though, this is a pet project of mine. I've got a bit of personal interest."
"You've never explained why you do."
Edwin smiled a bit and broke off a corner of his second roll. "Goes back awhile. A long while. Have you met Maddy O'Hurley yet?"
Reed's brows drew together. Did his father read him that well?'' "As a matter of fact—" When the buzzer sounded on his desk, he accepted the interruption without heat. "Yes, Hannah."
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Valentine, but there's a young woman out here." Hannah could be tough as nails, but she found herself smiling at the drenched figure in front of her. "She says she has something to deliver to you."
"Take it, will you, Hannah?"
"She prefers to give it to you personally. Her name is, ah… Maddy."
Reed paused on the brink of refusal. "Maddy? Send her in, Hannah."
Dripping rain and carrying her dance bag and her dying plant, Maddy rushed into the office. "I'm sorry to bother you, Reed. It's just that I've been thinking and I decided you should have this before I murder it. I always get these spasms of guilt when I kill another plant and I figured you could spare me."
Edwin rose as she passed his chair, and she broke off her tumbling explanation. "Hello." She sent him an easy smile and tried to ignore the sweet rolls on the tray. "I'm interrupting, but it's really a matter of life and death." She set the wet, wilting plant on his spotless oak desk. "Don't tell me if it dies, okay? But if it survives, you let me know. Thanks." With a last flashing grin, she started to leave.
"Maddy." Now that she'd given him a moment to speak, Reed rose, as well. "I'd like you to meet my father. Edwin Valentine, Maddy O'Hurley."
"Oh." Maddy started to offer her hand, then dropped it again. "I'm soaked," she explained, smiling instead. "It's nice to meet you."
