Harley almost clapped a hand to her mouth. Years ago Boyd had forbidden Jane Miller to swear in public or private.
"A reasonable plan," Lang agreed.
"Then let me go!" Harley said, her hand clutching his arm. "Let me have my two weeks. No one will be hurt. I'll come back and fulfill all of my obligations, I promise."
"Sorry, Princess, that's not part of the plan."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Harley exploded. "You're not God. You have no right to tell me where to go or what to do. I'll fly off to Brazil if I feel like it and you can't stop me."
"Oh yes I can," he retorted.
"How?"
"By physical force if necessary."
He looked like he could do it too. "Oh, I hate men," Harley seethed. "The arrogance. The stupidity."
"I'm actually pretty intelligent," Duncan Lang retorted, dark eyes glittering. "Don't forget, I found you."
"If you found me, you can lose me."
"No."
"Dammit, Lang—"
"I signed a contract, Princess. I am obligated to fulfill it."
"But not today," Harley pleaded. "You don't have to fulfill it today, or tomorrow, or even a week from tomorrow. Give me back my holiday, Mr. Lang."
"It won't do you any good. Boyd would just fire me—"
"I'll pay you whatever fee your firm wants!"
"—and he'd hire some other private detective who would find you like I did and turn you over to Boyd," Lang concluded gently.
Harley felt bloodless. "But at least I'd have a few more days of freedom."
"I'm sorry, Miss Miller, I can't help you. I have a responsibility to my client and to my company, and I've been given something of a deadline."
Harley's gaze locked on his surprisingly sympathetic eyes. "I have never begged for anything in my life, Mr. Lang, but I'm begging you now. Let me at least have until midnight tonight and then you can take me back to Boyd."
"Sorry, Miss Miller. If I return you to Mr. Monroe now, you've got enough time to catch a one o'clock flight to L.A. today so you'll only be one day late to the recording studio."
"What are you talking about? I'm not scheduled to start working again until the middle of next week."
She had surprised him. "Then why is Boyd Monroe so desperate to get you back and get you back fast?" he demanded.
She shrugged, antipathy welling once again. "Beats me. You're the great detective, you figure it out."
He was staring at her Maxi-Mouse. "Why do I get the feeling that there's more going on here than even you know about?" he murmured.
At first she was puzzled—what on earth was he talking about?—and then she realized that opportunity was banging on her door. "If you think there's something wrong," she said eagerly, "don't you think you ought to check it out before blithely throwing me back into what could be a lion's den? There are many different kinds of results, Mr. Lang. Shouldn't you protect your company's sterling reputation by investigating anything that seems off-kilter?"
Knowing dark eyes smiled down at her. "You just want another day of freedom."
"Of course I do!" Harley exploded. "But aren't I also right?"
It occurred to Duncan that she just might be. He realized now that his intuition had been bothering him during his initial interview with Mr. Monroe. Why had Boyd kept him from interviewing Annie Maguire? Why had he lied about who Harley was and what she was capable of doing? Why had he lied about the recording date? Why was he sweating? Could he be hiding something, and could it endanger Harley?
He looked down at her. A gamine with breasts, dressed all in black. He'd known an odd kind of fascination as he'd surreptitiously watched her in Manny's Music. She had a quality … like Sleeping Beauty just waking up from a hundred years' sleep and discovering the world anew. Her thoughts and her feelings had been right there on her slightly freckled face for all the world to see. No makeup. No masks. She had looked like she was in nirvana, and Duncan had wanted nothing more from life than to join her.
He'd never felt that kind of immediate attraction to a woman in his life. Oh sure, he'd been drawn to beautiful women, and voluptuous women, and even bewitching women. Harley was none of those things. She was just somehow … familiar.
No, wait, stop, Duncan ordered himself. Harley Jane Miller was a job and nothing more. She was Boyd Monroe's meal ticket and Duncan's chance to prove once and for all to his family that he wasn't a lazy, womanizing disaster waiting to happen. He would satisfy his curiosity about Boyd Monroe's ulterior motives and then turn in his report to his father—job completed in only thirty-six hours—and he would finally be accorded at least some of the respect he deserved. He would no longer be a drain on the company's overhead. He would get the more important jobs. He would finally carve his niche in the family firm.
"Okay, Princess, here's the deal," he said with sudden decision. "I'll do a little digging while you make like a tourist or a musician or whatever the hell it is you want to be today. But at midnight I put you back in your pumpkin and return you to Mr. Monroe." Duncan held out his hand. "Deal?"
Faux brown eyes stared up at him a moment. Then Harley Jane Miller's slim fingers slid across his hand, clasping it firmly, disconcerting him with a sudden feeling of connection. "Deal."
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
« ^ »
The light changed and Harley started across Sixth Avenue
with a clutch of other tourists and two men in suits who actually looked as though they belonged in New York.
She could feel Duncan Lang watching her, his gaze unsettling to her back. And she could still feel his large warm hand enfolding hers as she had promised her holiday away. She wanted to turn around and ask him how he'd done it. How had he enfolded all of her body in his just by clasping her hand?
Why, in the midst of despair, did she still feel the imprint of his heat?
She reached the curb and continued walking down West Forty-eighth Street
, wanting to weep. Her holiday. Her poor, dead holiday.
What was she to do? Run away and try to hide? She'd given her word not to and Harley had never broken a promise in her life. Besides, she'd tried that plan and Duncan Lang had found her anyway.
Should she find a bar and get drunk? That had a certain appeal. Numbing out while breaking one of Boyd's taboos in a major way. The rebellion alone would be worth it.
Should she try to cram two weeks of sightseeing into twelve hours? No, there would be no satisfaction in that.
Harley stopped at the corner of West Forty-Eighth Street
and Fifth Avenue
and slowly looked at the people and buildings all around her. She could fulfill one fantasy at least and window-shop. But her heart complained.
She looked down at the guitar case she held in her left hand. A Fender Stratocaster. She had bought a black Fender Stratocaster, and for the next twelve hours—if only for the next twelve hours—it was hers, truly hers. Or rather, it would be truly hers if she and it made some music together.
In that moment, Harley knew that was what she wanted to do most in the world. Weeping and raging, drinking and window-shopping, were nothing compared to the hours of music—other people's music—waiting to be played.
She took a shaky but full breath. There, that felt better. Lots better. Every little gray cell in her brain focused on finding some place safe where she could play her Stratocaster. Her Stratocaster. Central Park was too far away. She pulled her map from her purse. There! Bryant Park was just six blocks away, behind the New York Public Library. She started walking down Fifth Avenue
, feeling her strength and her confidence return with each step she took.
She turned right on to West Fortieth Street
and walked through a black wrought-iron entrance into Bryant Park. It was a surprise. It was big and green and lush, denying the very existence of the shadowed commercial streets that bordered it. To her left stretched two long rows of mature London plane trees shading neatly
arranged wooden benches with dark green painted metal arms. In the center of the park was a huge square of green lawn, with a band shell at the far end. To the right she saw another allée of trees and benches.
It was lovely. She walked halfway down a row of benches and sat down. She lifted her Stratocaster reverently from its guitar case, plugged it into the mini-amp, set the sound on its lowest setting, slipped the guitar strap over her neck, and hugged the guitar against her body.
Oh yeah. Much better than chocolate mousse.
She slowly placed her fingers along the frets and then, heart beating fast, she strummed first one chord, and then another, and another. She started breathing again. Here, now, in this park, on this bench, the music she had always longed to play began to transfer from her fingers to her Stratocaster and out into the afternoon air. All the rock-and-roll classics she had loved back home in Sweetcreek. But what was this one? It sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't remember the song's title, the artist who had recorded it, anything. Her fingers suddenly froze on the guitar strings.
It was new music. Her music!
She wanted to weep. She wanted to scream. She wanted to dance wildly through the park and hug everyone in sight. Her music was back!
Paper! She needed some way to write down her music so it wouldn't be lost. Music sheets, paper bags, anything! She looked wildly around and suddenly saw a discount audio store across the street from the park. Perfect!
Ten minutes later, she was back on her bench, her Stratocaster resting on her thighs, a handheld recorder sitting beside her, music welling from her soul, through her fingers, and into the guitar. There was no time or park or sky while she played. Only a joy so intense, her eyes continually welled with tears. The world only impinged when she accidentally dropped her guitar pick and a young man picked it up and handed it to her.
"Here you go."
She looked around in amazement. There were nearly two dozen people sitting or standing around her. Where had they come from? "Was I playing too loudly?" she asked, badly embarrassed.
"No," said the young man with the rainbow-striped hair who had handed her the pick, "not loudly enough."
The others laughed and smiled and slowly moved away.
Ye gods, she'd had an audience and hadn't even known it! But even worse, it was already dusk. She had promised to meet Duncan Lang at the Hilton at the end of the day. He'd be coming for her soon. In just a few hours, she'd be locked back in her own personal little hell.
* * *
With a little help from his old friends at the Ritz-Carlton, Duncan procured a desk clerk uniform for Emma and sent her in undercover to contact Annie Maguire and arrange a rendezvous without Boyd Monroe finding out. There was a lot about Harley Jane Miller, and her holiday, and Mr. Monroe that he did not understand. He wanted some answers. An hour later he stood near the stone ticket booth at the Fifth Avenue
and West Sixty-fourth Street
entrance to the Central Park Wildlife Center and Zoo. He didn't wait long. A plump woman with graying red hair and large gray eyes strode toward him. She bristled with self-confidence and the air of a mother hen ready to do battle for her chick. It was all a little disconcerting, because Annie Maguire was only Harley's maid, her tenth in nine years.
"Mr. Lang?" she said with a faint Irish brogue.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Miss Maguire," Duncan said, holding out his hand.
She considered it a moment and then shook it. "Anyone who wants to avoid Boyd Monroe interests me."
"You don't like him?" Duncan asked as he led her a few feet away from the ticket booth and they sat down on a wooden bench.
"No."
"But you work for him."
"I work for Harley. There's a difference."
Duncan considered her a moment. She had said Harley, not Jane. Interesting. "You seem unusually protective of a young woman who goes through maids like tissues."
"Boyd fires them, not Harley."
"Just a string of incompetent help, then?"
"No, a string of women who became Harley's friends. Boyd objects to her being close to anyone."
"You seem close and you're still employed," Duncan pointed out.
"That's because Harley and I agreed from the start to play it cool in public. It's worked so far. Boyd hasn't suspected a thing."
So, the Princess was sneaky. Very interesting. Duncan sat back and felt several pieces fall into place in his brain. "Miss Miller has been spending your money, hasn't she?"
Annie smiled. "Just a loan. She's good for it."
Duncan smiled back. "More than good for it. Do I understand you right? The escape wasn't as impromptu as it seemed?"
"Yes, and no. I was hired seven months ago. It was just a few weeks after that that Harley started talking about needing to take some of her life back from Boyd. A few months later she was talking about having a holiday, just her, the kid herself, on her own in the big wide world for a little while. Then, about two months ago, her music well dried up and she panicked. I wish you could have seen her, Mr. Lang. You wouldn't be trying to haul her back to Boyd now. All of the light in her soul just started fading away. She plotted a dozen different escapes, figuring out how to evade Boyd, how to pay for her holiday, what she wanted to do."
"Only she didn't do anything."
"You've got to understand," Annie said, leaning toward Duncan, "that Boyd Monroe has spent the last nine years trying to destroy every ounce of self-confidence Harley ever had. He wants her to be completely dependent on him, and that has meant making her afraid of being out in the world alone."
"That's not the woman I met today."
"Really?" Annie said eagerly. "How is she?"
Memory of that brief moment in the doorway of Manny's Music when he had held Harley Jane Miller in his arms warmed Duncan's skin. "Delicious," he almost said, but caught himself just in time.
"Butch and belligerent and in love with her new guitar," he said instead.
"Ah, now that's hopeful."
Duncan began to think so too. "So what made her finally fly the coop?"
"She was teetering on the edge, just about to take the plunge because she had to do something to find her music again," Annie's smile was darkly humorous, "and then Boyd went and pushed her too far."
Duncan loved it when he was right. "The final concert at the Garden?"
"That's right. He wouldn't let her send that audience home satisfied by giving a third encore on the last night of a grueling world tour. He wouldn't let her go to the end-of-the-tour party the band and the roadies were throwing at the Radisson. He wouldn't even let her thank them for all their hard work."
"And then the cheeseburger made her snap."
"You know about that?"
"Enough."
"Well, you're right. The minute Boyd walked out of the suite, she was pacing like a wild animal, scared and determined all at once. It took under five minutes to get her into my coat, hat, and shoes, hand her the three hundred dollars I had on me and my Visa card, and watch her walk out that door."
"You risked losing your job to help her like that?"
"I'd help Harley fly to the moon if that's what it took to escape Boyd Monroe. Besides," Annie said with a grin, "I figured she'd just hire me back."
"Over Boyd's certain objections?"
"You've got to understand, Mr. Lang, that it takes an incredibly strong woman to survive Boyd Monroe for nine long years. I figured a few weeks of freedom would make Harley realize that and give her the courage she needs to take a final stand with the miserable tyrant."
Duncan liked the woman more and more. Smart and loyal, a wonderful combination. The fact that she was so fiercely devoted to the Princess of Pop said a lot for Miss Miller. Annie was nobody's fool, nor was she the type to suffer doormats gladly. "You could be right," he said. "I think a week or two away from Mr. Monroe would have her making him dance to her tune."
"Is that why you're talking to me instead of collecting your blood mone
y?"
Duncan cringed. For a moment there, they had been getting along so well. "Not at all," he replied. "It's just that Boyd bothers me, and not simply because he has a stranglehold on Harley."
"Aye, I thought you liked her."
"I do not like Miss Miller," Duncan testily retorted. "I simply dislike seeing any human being locked in a cage, no matter how golden. My interest in Miss Miller is purely professional."
"Of course it is," Annie said soothingly.
"What I'm really interested in," Duncan grimly continued, "is finding out what's going on in Boyd Monroe's cramped little world. Something's got my antennae up and vibrating all over the place. I don't know what it is, so I'm not entirely eager to throw Miss Miller back into the lion's den, as she calls it, until I know she'll be safe."
"Boyd has never hit her," Annie said, puzzled.
"I didn't think he had. But there's something going on under his surface concern for Harley's well-being and his fear of losing his control over her. I thought you might be able to help me figure it out."
"Why the devil should I?" Annie demanded. "That girl doesn't need a few days of freedom, she needs a lifetime of it, and I won't be the one to help put her back in Boyd's cloister."
The word bothered Duncan, because it was too accurate. He tried to shake off his discomfort. He had a job to do, no matter who or what Harley Jane Miller was, but the word still chilled his hands. "It could go the other way, you know," he said smoothly. "You might have just the information to prove I shouldn't fulfill my contract. You might be just the one to keep her out of that … cloister."
"Where is she now?" Annie demanded mulishly.
"Bryant Park with her new Fender Stratocaster."
"Her what?"
"It's an electric guitar."
STOLEN MOMENTS Page 5
