by Nora Roberts
Wanda. When she did, the other's dancer's eyes glittered with a combination of appreciation and approval that had Maddy's adrenaline soaring higher.
She was all over the stage during the chorus, interacting with the other dancers, moving so quickly that the intense control she kept on her breathing went unnoticed. She whirled to stage center, threw out her arms—selling it, as her father had shown her years before—and let the last note ring out.
Someone threw her a towel.
They went over the scene again and again, sharpening, making a few changes in the blocking. The lighting director and the stage manager went into a huddle, and then they went through it again. Satisfied—for the moment—they walked through the next scene. Maddy took a break, downed a pint of orange juice and a carton of yogurt, then went back for more.
It was twilight when she left the theater. A group of dancers were going to a local restaurant to unwind and recharge. Normally Maddy would have tagged along, content to remain in their company. Tonight, she felt she had two choices. She could go home and collapse in a hot tub, or she could get in Reed's way.
Going home was smarter. The last run-through had drained her store of energy. In any case, a woman who pursued an uninterested man—or a man who pursued an unwilling woman—showed a remarkable lack of good sense.
There were plenty of other people, people who had her own interests and ambitions, who would make less complicated companions. It wasn't as though men looked at her and ran in the other direction. She was well liked by most, she was usually appreciated for what she was, and if she really wanted to she could find an easy dinner partner and while away an enjoyable evening.
She went to five phone booths before she found one with its phone book still attached. Just checking, she told herself as she looked up Reed's name. It never hurt to check.
More than likely he lived way uptown. She'd just have to forgo her impulsive visit until she wasn't so tired. Her heart sank just a little when she found his address. He lived uptown, all right. Central Park West. There were nearly fifty blocks between them, fifty blocks that meant a great deal more than linear distance.
When she closed the phone book, it didn't occur to her that she could have lived there as well. She couldn't live there because she didn't understand Central Park West. She understood the Village, she understood SoHo, she understood the lower forties and the theater district.
She and Reed had nothing in common, and it was foolish to think otherwise. She began to walk, telling herself that she was going home, getting into the tub, climbing into bed with a book. She reminded herself that she'd never wanted a man in her life anyway. They expected things. They complicated things. She had dozens of dance routines filed in her head. There wasn't enough room left to let her think about a relationship.
Maddy went down into the subway, merging with the crowd. After a search, she unearthed a token from the bottom of her bag. Still lecturing herself, she went through the turnstile that would take her to the uptown train.
It would have been smarter to call first, Maddy decided as she stood on the sidewalk in front of the tall, intimidating building where Reed made his home. He might not be there. She paced down the sidewalk and back again. Worse, he might be there, but not alone. A woman in raw silk slacks strolled by with a pair of poodles and never gave Maddy a glance.
That was what this neighborhood was, she thought. Silk slacks and poodles. She was a mongrel in denim. She glanced down at her own roomy jeans and worn sneakers. At least she should have had the foresight to go home and change first.
Listen to yourself, Maddy ordered. You're standing here complaining about clothes. That's Chantel's line, it's never been yours. Besides, they're good enough for you. They're good enough for the people you know. If they're not good enough for Reed Valentine, what are you doing here?
I don't know, she mused. I'm an idiot.
No argument there.
Taking a deep breath, she walked forward through the wide glass doors into the quiet, marble-floored lobby.
She'd been an actress for years. Maddy put on an easy smile, tossed back her hair, then strolled over to the uniformed man behind the oak counter. "Hello. Is Reed in? Reed Valentine?"
"I'm sorry, miss. He hasn't come in yet this evening."
"Oh." She struggled not to let the depth of her disappointment show. "Well, I just dropped by."
"I'd be happy to take a message. Miss—" When he looked at her, really looked, his eyes widened. "You're Maddy O'Hurley."
She blinked. It was a very rare thing for her to be recognized outside the theater. Maddy knew better than anyone how different she appeared onstage. "Yes."
She offered her hand automatically. "How do you do?''
"Oh, what a pleasure this is." The man, not much taller than she and twice as wide, took her hand in both of his. "When my wife wanted a treat for our anniversary, the kids got us two tickets for Suzanna's Park. Orchestra seats, too. What an evening we had."
"That's lovely." Maddy glanced at his name tag. "You must have wonderful children, Johnny."
"They're good sports. All six of them." He grinned at Maddy, showing one gold tooth. "Miss O'Hurley, I can't tell you how much we enjoyed watching you. My wife said it was like watching a sunrise."
"Thank you." Compliments like that one made the years of classes, the days and weeks of rehearsals, the cramped muscles, worthwhile. "Thank you very much."
"You know that part—Lord, my wife cried buckets—when you think Peter's gotten on the train, you think he's gone, and all the lights come down, with just that pale, pale blue one on you. And you sing, ah…" He cleared his throat. "How can he go," he began in a shaky baritone, "with my love wrapped around him?"
"How can he go," Maddy continued in a strong, vibrant contralto, "with my heart in his hand? I only know that I gave him a choice. And he didn't choose me."
"That's the one." Johnny shook his head and sighed. "I have to admit it brought a tear to my eye, too."
"I'm in a new musical that's scheduled to open in about six weeks."
"Are you now?" He beamed at her like a proud father. "We won't miss it, I promise you."
Maddy took a pencil from the counter and scrawled the name of the theater and the assistant stage manager on a pad. "You call this number, ask for Fred here and give my name. I'll see to it that you have two tickets for opening night."
"Opening night." His look of astonished pleasure was enough to warm Maddy all over. "My wife's not going to believe me. I don't know how to thank you, Miss O'Hurley."
She grinned at him. "Applaud."
"You-can count on that. We'll—Oh, good evening, Mr. Valentine."
Maddy straightened from the counter like a shot, feeling guilty for no reason she could fathom. She turned and managed a smile. "Hello, Reed."
"Maddy." He'd come in during the brief duet, but neither of them had noticed.
When he only stared at her, she cleared her throat and decided to wing it. "I was up this way and decided to drop in and say hello. Hello."
He'd just come out of a long meeting where thoughts of her had distracted him. He wasn't pleased to see her. But he wanted to touch her. "Are you on your way somewhere?"
She could try being casually chic and lie about a party around the corner. She could just as easily grow a second head. "No. Just here."
Taking her by the arm, Reed nodded at Johnny, then led her to the elevators. "Are you always so generous with strangers?" he asked as they stepped inside.
"Oh." After a moment's thought, she shrugged. "I suppose. You look a little tired," And wonderful, she added silently. Just wonderful.
"Long day."
"Me too. We had our first full rehearsal today. It was a zoo." Then she laughed, nervously dipping her hands in her pockets. "I guess I shouldn't say that to the man with the checkbook.''
With an unintelligible mutter, he led her out into the hallway. Maddy decided silence was the best tack. Then he unlocked his door and brought h
er inside.
She'd expected something grand, something elegant, something tasteful. It was all that and more. When the lights were switched on, there was a feeling of space. The walls were pale, set off by vibrant impressionist paintings and three tall, wide windows that let in a lofty view of the park and the city. The pewter-toned rug was the perfect contrast to the long, spreading coral sofa. Two lush ficus trees stood in the corner, and set in two wall niches were the Ming vases she'd once imagined. A curved, open staircase led to a loft.
There wasn't a thing out of place, but she hadn't expected there to be. Still, it wasn't cold, and she hadn't been sure about that.
"It's lovely, Reed." She crossed to the windows to look down. If there was a problem, she felt it was here. He kept himself so aloof, so distant from the city he lived in, away from the sounds, the smells, the humanity of it. "Do you ever stand here and wonder what's going on?"
"What's going on where?"
"Down there, of course." She turned back to him with a silent invitation to join her. When he did, she looked down again. "Who's arguing, who's laughing, who's making love. Where's the police car going, and will he get there in time. How many street people will sleep in the park tonight. How many tricks turned, how many bottles opened, how many babies born. It's an incredible place, isn't it?"
She wore the same scent, light, teasing only because it was so guileless. "Not everyone looks at it the way you do."
"I always wanted to live in New York." She stepped back so that there were only lights, just the dazzle of them. "Ever since I can remember. It's strange how the three of us—my sisters, I mean—seemed to have this gut instinct where we belonged. As close as we are, we all chose completely different places. Abby's in rural Virginia, Chantel's in fantasyland, and I'm here."
He had to stop himself from stroking her hair. There was always that trace of wistfulness when she spoke of her sisters. He didn't understand family. He had only his father. "Would you like a drink?"
It was in his tone, the distance, the formality. She tried not to let it hurt. "I wouldn't mind some Perrier."
When he went to the compact ebony bar, she moved away from the window. She couldn't stand there, thinking about people milling around together, when she felt so divorced from the man she had come to see.
Then she saw the plant. He'd set it on a little stand where it would get indirect sunlight from the windows. The soil, when she tested it with her thumb, was moist but not soaking. She smiled as she touched a leaf. He could care, if only he allowed himself to.
"It looks better," Maddy said as she took the glass he offered.
"It's pitiful," Reed corrected, swirling the brandy in his snifter.
"No, really, it does. It doesn't look so, well… pale, I guess. Thank you."
"You were drowning it." He drank, and wished her eyes weren't so wide, so candid. "Why don't you sit down, Maddy? You can tell me why you came."
"I just wanted to see you." For the first time, she wished she had some of Chantel's flair with men. "Look, I'm lousy at this sort of thing." Unable to keep still, she began to wander around the apartment. "I never had time to develop a lot of style, and I only say clever lines when they're fed to me. I wanted to see you." Defiantly she sat on the edge of the sofa. "So I came."
"No style." It amazed him that he could be amused when this unwanted need for her was knotting his gut. "I see." He sat, as well, keeping a cushion between them. "Did you come to proposition me?"
Temper flared in her eyes and came out unexpectedly as hauler. "I see dancers don't have a patent on ego. I suppose the women you're used to are ready to tumble into bed when you crook your finger."
The smile threatened again as he lifted his brandy. "The women I'm used to don't sing duets in the lobby with the security guard."
She slammed down her glass, and the fizzing water plopped dangerously close to the rim. "Probably because they have tin ears."
"That's a possibility. The point is, Maddy, I don't know what to do about you."
"Do about me?" She rose, completely graceful, totally livid. "You don't have to do anything about me. I don't want you to do anything about me. I'm not an Eliza Doolittle."
"You even think in plays."
"What if I do? You think in columns." Disgusted, she began to pace again. "I don't know what I'm doing here. It was stupid. Damn it, I've been miserable for a week. I'm not used to being miserable." She whirled back, accusing. "I missed my cue because I was thinking about you."
"Were you?" He rose, though he'd promised himself he wouldn't. He knew he should see to it that she was angry enough to leave before he did something he'd regret. But he was doing it now, moving closer to brush his thumb over her cheek.
"Yes." Desire rose and anger drained. She didn't know how to make room for both. She took his wrist before he could drop his hand. "I wanted you to think of me."
"Maybe I was." He wanted to gather her close, to feel her hard against him and pretend for just a little while. "Maybe I caught myself looking out the window of my office and wondering about you."
She rose on her toes to meet his lips. There was a storm brewing in him, she could feel it. She had storms of her own, but she knew his would be for different reasons and have different results. Was it necessary to understand him, when being with him felt so right? It was enough for her. But even as she thought it, she knew it would never be enough for him.
"Reed—"
"No." His hands were hard and tense on her back, in her hair, as he pulled her closer. "Don't talk now."
He needed what she could give him, with her mouth, with her arms, with the movement of her body against his. His home had never seemed empty until she had come into his life. Now that she was here, with him, he didn't want to think about being alone again.
Her mouth was like velvet, warm and smooth, as comforting as it was arousing. When she touched him, it felt as though she wanted to give, rather than take. For a moment he could almost believe it.
How easily he could lure her under. A kiss had always been a simple thing to her. Something to show affection to a loved one with, something to be given casually to a friend, even something to be played up onstage for a theater full of people. But with Reed, the simplicity ended. This was complex, overwhelming, a contact mat shot sparks through every nerve ending. Passion wasn't new to her. She experienced it every day in her work. She'd known that it was different when it involved a man and woman, but she hadn't realized it could turn her muscles to water and cloud her brain.
He ran his hands through her hair. She wished he would move them over her, over every inch of the body that throbbed and ached for him. He wanted her. She could taste the frenzied desire every time his mouth met hers. Yet he did nothing more than hold her dose against him.
Make love with me, her mind requested, but her lips were captured by his and couldn't form the words. She could picture candlelight, soft music and a big, wide bed with the two of them tangled together. The image made her skin heat and her mouth more aggressive.
"Reed, do you want me?"
Even as her mouth skimmed over his face, she felt him stiffen. Just slightly, but she felt it. "Yes."
It was the way he said it that cooled her blood. Reluctance, even annoyance, glazed over the answer. Maddy drew away slowly. "You have a problem with that?"
Why couldn't it be as simple with her as it was with other women? Mutual enjoyment, rules up front, and nobody's hurt. He'd known from the first time he'd touched her that it wouldn't be simple with her. "Yes." He went back for his brandy, hoping it would steady him. "I have a problem with that."
She was going too fast, Maddy decided. It was a bad habit of hers to move at top speed without looking for the bumps in the road. "Would you like to share it with me?"
"I want you." The statement wiped away what she'd hoped was a casual smile. "I've wanted to take you to bed since I watched you gathering up loose change and sweaty clothes off the sidewalk."
She took a step c
loser. Did he know that was what she'd wanted to hear, even though it frightened her a little? Did he know how much she wanted him to feel some portion of what she felt? "Why did you send me away the other night?"
"I'm no good for you, Maddy."
She stared at him. "Wait a minute. I want to be sure I understand this. You sent me away for my own good."
He splashed more brandy into the glass. It wasn't helping. "That's right."
"Reed, you make a child wear scratchy clothes in the winter for her own good. Once she gets past a certain age, she's on her own."
He wondered how in the hell he was supposed to argue with an analogy like that. "You don't strike me as the kind of woman interested in one-night stands."
Her smile chilled. "No, I'm not."
"Then I did you a favor." He drank again because he was beginning to despise himself.
"I guess I should say thank you." She picked up her dance bag, then dropped it again. It just wasn't an O'Hurley trait to give up easily. "I want to know why you're so sure it would have been a one-night stand."
"I'm not interested in the long term."
She nodded, telling herself that was reasonable. "There's a big difference between one night and the long term. I get the feeling that you think I'm trying to put a cage around you."
She didn't know that the cage was half formed already, and that he'd built it himself. "Maddy, why don't we just leave it that you and I have nothing in common."
"I've thought about that." Now that she had something solid to dig her teeth into, she relaxed again. "It's true to a point, you know, but when you really think about it, we have plenty in common. We both live in New York."
Lifting a brow, he leaned back against the bar. "Of course. That wipes everything else out."
"It's a start." She caught it, that faint glimpse of amusement. It was enough for her. "We both, at the moment, have a vested interest in a certain musical." She smiled at him, instinctively and irresistibly charming. "I put my socks on before my shoes. How about you?"
"Maddy—"
"Do you stand up in the shower?"
"I don't see—"
"Come on, no evasions. Just the truth. Do you?"
It was useless. He had to smile. "Yes."
"Amazing. So do I. Ever read Gone with the Wind?"
"Yes."
"Ah. Common ground in literature. I could probably go on for hours."
"I'm sure you could." He set his brandy down and went to her again. "What's the point, Maddy?"
"The point is, I like you, Reed." She put her hands on his forearms, wishing she could ease the tension and keep that smile in his eyes just a bit longer. "I think if you'd loosen up, just a little, we could be friends. I'm attracted to you. I think if we take our time we could be lovers, too."
It was a mistake, of course. He knew it, but she looked so appealing just then, so honest and carefree. "You are," he murmured as he toyed with a strand of her hair, "unique."
"I hope so." With a smile, she rose up on her toes and kissed him, without heat, without passion. "Is it a deal?"
"You might regret it."
"Then that's my problem, isn't it? Friends?" She offered her hand solemnly, but her eyes laughed at him, challenging.
"Friends," he agreed, and hoped he wouldn't be the one to regret it.
"Great. Listen, I'm starving. Have you got a can of soup or something?"
Chapter Six
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On the surface, it appeared to be every bit as simple as Maddy had said it could be. For a great many people it would have been simple beneath the surface, as well. But not everyone wanted as deeply as Reed or pretended as well as Maddy.
They went to the movies. Whenever their schedules meshed and the weather cooperated, they had lunch in the Park. They spent one quiet Sunday afternoon wandering through a museum, more interested in each other than in the exhibits. If Reed hadn't known himself better, he would have said he was on the brink of having a romance. But he didn't believe in romance.
Love had brought his father betrayal, a betrayal Reed himself lived with every day. If Edwin had put it behind him, Reed had not, could not. Fidelity, to the majority of the people he worked with, was nothing if not flexible. People had affairs, not romances, and they had them before, during and after marriage, so that marriage itself was a moot point. Nothing lasted forever, particularly not relationships.
But he thought of Maddy when he wasn't with her, and he thought of little else when they were together.
Friends. Somehow they'd managed to become friends, despite their differing outlooks and opposite backgrounds. If the friendship was cautious on his part and careless on hers, they'd still found enough between them to form a base. Where
