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CHAPTER FOUR
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"Ready?"
Harley finished closing her guitar case and looked up. Duncan Lang's black eyes smiled down at her. "Yes," she said, hastily standing up.
She bent over her Maxi-Mouse, focusing all of her attention on the amplifier so she wouldn't have to notice that Duncan Lang really was amazingly, disconcertingly, gorgeous. Then her brain started working again. "Wait a minute," she said, puzzled. "What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at—" Then she saw the tiny electronic square on the back of the amp. "What's this?" she said, pulling it off. She straightened up and studied it a moment. Then it hit her. "This is a tracker. You bugged me!"
"Well…" Duncan said, looking ill at ease.
Righteous fury swelled within her. "I gave you my word I'd meet you at dusk and you bugged me?"
"I'm not in the most trusting of professions," he explained, turning his winsome smile on her.
"Get away from me!" she yelled, shoving at his broad chest and making him stumble back a few steps.
"Put yourself in my shoes, Miss Miller—"
"No!"
"I saw a very determined and very desperate young woman," he persisted, "who might very easily have decided that her promise to me had been extracted under duress, making that promise null and void. You could have flown off to Brazil the minute my back was turned."
"You really are the most despicable," Harley seethed, picking up her guitar case, "horrible"—she grabbed the Maxi-Mouse and tape recorder—"detestable man I've ever met!" She began to stalk from the park.
"Actually," he said, trotting up to her side, "I'm a charming, even entertaining, kind of guy once you get to know me."
"I have no intention of getting to know you!"
"People have actually been known to cheer when I walk into a party."
"Looking forward to playing pin the tail on the ass, no doubt."
"The interviews you've given haven't done you justice," Duncan said admiringly as he followed her toward Sixth Avenue
. "You really have got some kind of mouth on you."
Vibrating with fury, Harley stopped stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, took a deep breath, and screamed. Passersby looked at her curiously, but didn't stop.
"Feel better?" Duncan politely inquired.
"Lots," she growled, starting to walk again. The problem was, venting some of her frustration had helped. "Okay, we've checked in, I'm still in New York, your precious case is safe. You can go off and harass some other poor slob now."
"No can do, Princess."
"Why the hell not?" Harley demanded, glaring up at the hunk.
"Because you object to electronic surveillance," he blandly replied.
"So?"
"So, remove the technology and what have you got? The personal touch."
"Oh, for crying out—"
"Besides, I agreed to give you until midnight so I could do a little digging and satisfy my curiosity on a few subjects. One of those subjects happens to be you. How can I dig if you're nowhere around to be dug into?"
"That wasn't part of our deal!"
"It is now."
Harley was feeling a little naked. She didn't have a single bargaining chip to her name. "I suppose I'm stuck with you for the rest of the night."
"That's the general idea."
"Swell," she muttered. Her last few hours of freedom and she had to spend them with a maggot like Duncan Lang.
"What's on the tape recorder?" he asked. "Death threats?"
"New music."
"You're kidding! So soon?"
She looked up at him, nonplussed. He actually seemed happy for her. "I guess I lucked out," she replied. "It's probably because of the guitar."
"Or your new wardrobe, or seeing The Pinnacle at the Richard Rodgers last night, or having a cheeseburger whenever you damn well please."
Harley stopped and studied him a moment. "You have kept good tabs on me."
"That's why I make the big bucks."
"So why didn't you accost me yesterday?"
"Because you were always one step ahead of me yesterday. You really did a very good job of hiding yourself, Miss Miller. The switch at the RIHGA was nothing short of brilliant."
An odd little pleasure burrowed into her heart. "Thank you. What made you look for me at Manny's?"
"The theme of your escape seemed to be music, you didn't have your guitar with you, and you love rock and roll." He shrugged. "It added up to Manny's."
He had puzzled her again. "Most people wouldn't think so."
"I'm not most people."
"That's an understatement."
He smiled down at her, and Harley realized her first impression of him was right: he really did have the loveliest smile. It drew her in and asked her to share in his amusement. It was also the most amazingly seductive smile, because, for a moment, she almost did smile back at him. She caught herself just in time.
"Hungry?" Duncan asked as they reached Sixth Avenue
.
Harley's stomach gurgled loud enough for half of New York to hear.
Duncan laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."
"I didn't have lunch," Harley said, hating her blush. "I was distracted."
Duncan took the Maxi-Mouse and the tape recorder from her right hand. "Let's drop this stuff off at your hotel, then, and go have some dinner. My treat."
"And that's supposed to make up for having to spend my last few hours of freedom with you?"
"No. But no one should have to face Boyd Monroe on an empty stomach."
He had disconcerted her again. For a moment there, the man who had been sent to clip her wings had felt almost like … an ally. At the least, he had a commanding way with taxis. He raised one hand, whistled, and a yellow streak barreled to a stop beside them at the curb. Duncan opened the door for her and then loaded her equipment into the trunk of the cab, handling the Stratocaster as gently as even she could wish. Then he slid onto the back seat beside her, and they charged toward the New York Hilton and Towers.
"That Stratocaster and you seem made for each other," he said.
"Oh yeah." An old familiar heaviness weighed her down again. "Only Boyd won't let me keep it."
"You're twenty-six years old and legally independent. Tell Boyd to lump it."
Startled again, Harley looked up into his face. She saw anger there, and something else she couldn't quite read. "You don't have to take me back tonight."
"Yes I do."
"Why?" Harley cried.
"Because it's my job and because I have something to prove."
"To whom?"
"To everyone," he replied bitterly.
They were silent as the cab swung around in front of the Hilton lobby. Duncan paid the driver, then slid out of the cab and unloaded Harley's equipment from the trunk. "I'll wait for you here," he said, not quite looking at her.
Harley carried her things through the lobby and onto the elevator. She stared up at the mini-TV monitor. CNN was on, reporting on the stock market as the elevator sped upward. There was nothing to distract her from the tension blanketing her and the hunk in tight-fitting jeans waiting for her.
He had put a tracker on her amp, and now he trusted her not to escape through one of the Hilton's many other exits? The man did not make sense.
Even though he waited seventeen floors below, she could still feel his presence as she walked into her room. It actually made her nervous as she looked through her packed closet for something to wear on her last night of freedom. He was dressed casually, so sequins were out. She finally chose a dress she was certain Boyd wouldn't let her keep: a neon pink off-the-shoulder minidress with matching stockings and shoes. She pulled off black and put on pink, slid the slim gold chain holding her pendant back over her head, and then stood in front of the dresser mirror brushing her hair, still surprised at the brunette who stared back at her and how quickly and easily the brush slid through her hair.
&nbs
p; Back in Sweetcreek, there had never been enough money for her to get her hair cut every month. It grew fast and she liked it short, so she had learned to cut it herself. That skill hadn't left her. She had chopped off her long strawberry blond hair an hour after she had escaped the Ritz-Carlton and she'd been luxuriating in two-inch-long hair ever since. Boyd would be horrified when he saw her again, and that made Harley smile.
Short hair was something she would not give up when she went back to him. She'd find a way to get her hands on a pair of scissors every four weeks, and there was nothing he could do to stop her.
She shoved some money and her room card key into a tiny pink purse and rode the elevator back down to the lobby.
"Whoa."
Harley faltered to a stop just outside the Hilton's main entrance. Duncan Lang was leaning against a cab opposite her and staring at her in open admiration. A blush heated her face. A man hadn't looked at her like that since she was in high school. Unfortunately, she had lost her teenage aplomb long ago. She wasn't quite certain where to look or what to say.
"It is absolutely criminal of Boyd Monroe to hide you in those damn sack dresses he insists you wear," Duncan stated. He opened the cab door. "How do you feel about Italian?" he asked, as if he hadn't just scorched her body with his hot gaze.
"That would be great," Harley said as she ducked into the cab, disconcerted by his sudden shift into cool waters. "Boyd won't let me eat pasta. He says it's fattening."
"No wonder your music dried up," Duncan said, sliding onto the seat beside her. "You've been denied even the most basic of pleasures. Let's order you every pasta ever made."
For the first time since she had met him, Harley grinned. "I like the way you think, at least sometimes, Mr. Lang."
"Please," he said with a pained expression, "call me Duncan. Mr. Lang sounds like my father, and there's no better way to take the fun out of an evening than to bring him into the conversation. I called and made reservations at Torre di Pisa. I hope that's all right."
"It's fine," Harley assured him. "Travel & Leisure gave it a good review last month. I had even thought about putting it on my itinerary."
Duncan gave the driver the address and then looked at her. "What itinerary?"
Harley pulled the small notebook from her tiny purse and handed it to him as the cab pulled out. He idly thumbed through the pages, dark eyes beginning to glow with badly suppressed amusement and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. All she had done was write down what to do in Manhattan and when to do it for every day of the next two weeks. "You are very … organized," he said.
"I learned from the best," she said, taking back the notebook and putting it in her purse. "Boyd's maniacal about scheduling. And I wanted to pack as much fun into my boll-day as I could."
"I have never equated schedules with fun before."
"Oh, really?" she said, feeling testy. "And what do you do for fun?"
He looked away. "I've forgotten."
Ten minutes later they were sitting across from each other in flowing, curved-back dining chairs opposite the open kitchen of Torre di Pisa on West Forty-fourth Street
. Harley was more than a little uncomfortable. The last time she had had dinner alone with a man she had been seventeen. Ed Broderick had taken her to Bubble's Diner for a burger and shake before driving her to the Sweetcreek Drive-In for a movie and some halfway decent necking.
This midtown Italian restaurant with its skewed interior perspectives and bright red clock tower was hardly Bubble's Diner, and Duncan Lang was the farthest thing from being gangly, nineteen, and sunburnt. She got the distinct impression that he had a wealth of experience in the delicate art of necking and other, more advanced, activities. She hurriedly raised her menu to hide the soft blush creeping into her cheeks. Almost twenty-seven and a virgin, seated across from a probable Don Juan. There was no way to balance those scales back into comfort and ease.
"So, why Harley?" he asked.
"Hmm?" she said, lowering her menu in confusion.
"Why did your folks name you Harley?"
"Oh. Daddy named me after his favorite motorcycle. I've always been grateful he didn't call me Hog instead."
Duncan chuckled, adding to her unease. She had just discovered that laughter and sensuality were a lethal combination.
Having struck out with pre-dinner libations, their waiter—in black slacks, white shirt, and burgundy vest—returned to their table and took their orders, keeping his face expressionless as Harley went on and on. If this was the last meal of the condemned, she intended to make the most of it. She wanted to start with the deep-fried artichokes and cardoons with shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano and the exotic field greens salad with lemon-mustard dressing, followed by the mussel soup with toasted croutons and saffron. With Duncan grinning at her and egging her on, she ordered the rigatoni, and the Fettuccine Rusticana, and the chicken and sun-dried tomato ravioli. She even agreed to a bottle of Italian red wine, although she hadn't had a sip of alcohol in nine years. Purity was the hallmark of the Jane Miller image.
"So," Duncan said, leaning back in his chair once their bemused waiter had left, "tell me all about yourself."
"You're the Great Detective," she retorted. "Aren't you supposed to know everything about me already?"
"Oh, I know all the facts," Duncan blithely replied. "They' just don't add up to the woman sitting in front of me now."
"Don't they?" Harley said coolly.
"Nope. Tell me some more about your father. I know he split when you were two. Was it hard not having him around?"
"No. It was for the best. He was no account."
"Did you ever see him again?"
The pain of that single meeting awoke in Harley. She hid from Duncan's X-ray eyes by taking a sip of water. "Once," she casually replied. "I was eighteen. My second album had just hit the charts. He came around to see what I could do for him. I refused to give him a dime. I haven't seen him since."
"I wish I could say the same about most of my relatives," Duncan said feelingly.
That chased most of the pain away and made Harley grin. "I haven't heard you say one nice thing about your family. Don't you like them?"
"They don't make it easy," Duncan said with a sigh. "My brother is a paragon, my mother is a social doyenne, and my father treats me like an eight-year-old who should be spanked every day. They are neither loving nor lovable."
"You have had it rough," Harley said sincerely. "I mean, that was something I could always count on: my mother loved me. A lot of times she didn't particularly like me, but she did love me."
"Why didn't she like you?"
"Oh, I was just such a huge disappointment to her."
"How could you be?"
"I wasn't the daughter—I wasn't the girl—she wanted me to be."
"She wanted Jane Miller," Duncan said quietly.
Harley looked up from the slice of bread she was buttering to find warm black eyes regarding her. He did understand! "Yes. The irony is, she finally got her."
"It's odd," Duncan said after a long moment of silence. "We both seem to be the black sheep of our respective families."
"Ye gods, what did you do? Become a Grateful Dead groupie?"
He shook his head. "Worse. I had this strange belief that life was to be enjoyed and chances were there to be taken. So I took them. I turned my life into one continual party. You don't realize, Princess, that you are sitting with the self-appointed Playboy of the Western World."
"Actually," Harley said modestly, "I'd guessed."
"Did you? How?"
There was that damn blush again. "Woman's intuition. So let me see if I've got this right: while I was slaving away in recording studios and on concert tours, you were doing your level best to have as much fun as humanly possible?"
"Yep. I even thought I'd succeeded"—he was looking at her strangely—"but it seems I was wrong." He grabbed a breadstick and began breaking it into bite-size pieces. "It turns out that even a life of continua
l pleasure can pall after a while."
"No challenge," Harley said, nodding.
He looked startled. "Exactly. So I returned to the family fold and the family business and I've been doing penance ever since. So you see, you're not the only black sheep at this table."
"But I've been whitewashed," Harley pointed out.
"Have you?"
"Sure. I'm Jane Miller now, remember?" Harley unconsciously clenched her right hand on the table. "There's no one whiter than Jane. Boyd is satisfied. The record-buying public is thrilled. My mother is thrilled." Harley's clenched fist began to throb. "And it's getting harder and harder to hold back the scream that's been building in my throat these last nine years."
"Why don't you just let it out?" Duncan asked quietly. "You made a good start on West Fortieth Street
."
"It wasn't supposed to be like this!" Harley said ferociously. "I never wanted to be a pop star. Rock and roll was my life. I ate, breathed, and slept it. How in God's name did I become Boyd Monroe's doormat?"
"The man bears a striking resemblance to a bulldozer. That's a pretty hard thing to stand up to when you're a seventeen-year-old green girl from a small town."
Harley blinked back sudden tears. The last thing she had expected from the man hired to return her to Boyd was gentleness and understanding.
Their waiter returned and began setting dishes on their table: salad and soup and fried artichokes for Harley, grilled calamari and red onions topped with pesto and a watercress salad for Duncan. The waiter poured dark red wine into their goblets and then headed off to the rest of his customers.
"This looks fantastic," Harley murmured, breathing in the luscious aromas.
"It is," Duncan assured her.
"You've been here before?"
"With a trust-fund female from Long Island. The food made it bearable. Dig in."
They both dug in with gusto.
"You know, I don't think you give yourself enough credit," Duncan said, waving a speared calamari at her. "You're practically Rapunzel, the way Boyd Monroe has kept you locked up in his ivory tower all these years. But you ventured out into the Big Apple all on your lonesome anyway. Most women, especially the whitewashed ones, wouldn't have that kind of pluck."
STOLEN MOMENTS Page 7
