by Nora Roberts
He gave a cackling laugh and released her for the next sequence. The music built, but it no longer seemed too loud. The tempo increased, but she could’ve danced faster and faster. When it was over, she had her hands linked around Cliff’s neck and was laughing.
There was no tension in her now, but there had been. He thought he understood the reason. Deliberately, he steered her away from the Agees and Louella. “I could use a beer.”
“Sounds perfect. I’d like to watch another one, anyway. It’s the best show in town.”
“You want a beer?”
Maggie glanced up, brow lifted. “Aren’t I allowed?”
He shrugged and passed a man in overalls a dollar. “You just don’t look like the beer type.”
“You type too easily,” Maggie countered, watching as beer was tapped from a wooden keg into paper cups.
“Maybe,” he murmured as she sipped at the froth. “You’re having a good time?”
“Yes.” She laughed over the rim. The beer was lukewarm, but it was wet. Her foot was already tapping. They’d added a mandolin, she noticed. The sound was sweet and old-fashioned. “Didn’t you think I would?”
“I thought you’d enjoy the music.” He leaned against the wall so that he could see her with the dancers at her back. “I thought you needed to get out. But I didn’t expect you to take to all this as if you’d been born doing it.”
She lowered her half-empty cup and gave him a solemn smile. “When are you going to stop putting me in that shiny glass cage, Cliff? I’m not a delicate hothouse flower or a spoiled Hollywood bitch. I’m Maggie Fitzgerald, and I write music.”
The look held for a long time while the music pulsed around them. “I think I know who you are.” Lifting a hand, he ran the back of it down her cheek. “I think I know Maggie Fitzgerald. It might’ve been safer for both of us with you in that glass cage.”
She felt the heat rise. It only took a touch. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” With one brow still lifted in question, she touched her cup to his. “To new understanding?”
“All right.” He cradled her chin in his hand before he kissed her. “We’ll give it a shot.”
“Miss Fitzgerald?”
Maggie turned to see a short man in his early twenties running a felt hat around and around in his hands. Until that moment, she’d been so intent on Cliff that she hadn’t noticed the music had stopped. “You’re the piano player.” Her eyes lit, and the smile that could stun so unexpectedly curved on her lips. “You’re wonderful.”
He’d been nervous before; now he was overwhelmed. “I just— Thank you,” he managed, staring at her with his soul in his eyes.
She doesn’t even know it, Cliff realized. She wasn’t aware that she could make a man want to grovel. Sipping his beer, he watched the piano player try to find his voice again.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were here.”
“I live here,” she told him simply.
The way she said it, so matter-of-factly, had Cliff looking at her again. She’d said it before, countless times in countless ways, but he realized now he hadn’t listened. Yes, she lived here. She’d chosen to live here just as he had. It hardly mattered where she’d lived or how she’d lived before. She was here now because she’d chosen to be. And she was staying. For the first time, he fully believed it.
“Miss Fitzgerald …” The piano player crushed the brim of his hat in his fingers, torn between pleasure and anxiety. “I just wanted you to know it’s great having you here. We don’t want to push you into anything, but if you’d like to play anything, anything at all—”
“Are you asking?” she interrupted.
The boy stumbled over uncertain ground. “We just wanted you to know that if you’d like—”
“I don’t know any of the songs,” she told him, taking a last sip of beer. “Do you trust me to improvise?”
His mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding?”
She laughed and handed her cup to Cliff. “Hang on to this.”
He shook his head, leaning back against the wall as she walked to the stage with the piano player. She had a habit of giving orders, he mused. Then he thought of the look of stunned admiration in the boy’s eyes. Maybe it was worth it.
She played for an hour. It was, she discovered, as much fun making the music as it was dancing to it. She enjoyed the challenge of the unfamiliar music and the freewheeling style. Before she’d gone through the second number, Maggie had decided to write one of her own.
From the vantage point of the stage, she could see the dancers. She saw Louella again, partnered by Stan. Automatically, she searched the crowd for Joyce and found her, facing Cliff. As if she’d known he’d be there, her gaze was drawn to the left. Reiker leaned against a post, smoking, watching the dancers.
Who? Maggie wondered. Who is he watching? As the lines merged and shifted, she couldn’t be sure, only that the direction of his gaze rested on where Stan danced with Louella and Cliff with Joyce.
If he saw one of them as a murderer, it didn’t show in his eyes. They were calm and steady and made Maggie’s stomach queasy. Deliberately, she turned her head and concentrated on the music.
“I didn’t expect to lose my partner to a piano,” Cliff said when the music paused again.
Maggie sent him an arch look. “You didn’t appear to lack for any.”
“A lone man’s easy prey around here.” Grabbing her hand, he drew her to her feet. “Hungry?”
“Is it midnight already?” Maggie pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’m starving.”
They piled their plates high, though the light was so dim it was impossible to tell what they were eating until it was tasted. They sat on the grass under a tree and chatted easily to the people who passed by. It was easy, Maggie thought. They were just people drawn to one place by music. Again she felt a sense of camaraderie and connection. Leaning back, Maggie scanned the crowd.
“I don’t see Louella.”
“Stan would’ve taken her home,” Cliff said between bites. “She never stays past midnight. He’ll come back.”
“Mmm.” Maggie sampled what turned out to be Waldorf salad.
“Miss Fitzgerald.”
Maggie set down her fork as Reiker crouched down beside her. “Lieutenant.”
“I enjoyed your playing.” He gave her the quiet smile that had her cursing her reaction to him. “I’ve listened to your music for years, but I never expected to be able to hear you play.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” She knew she should leave it at that, but felt compelled to go on. “I haven’t noticed you dancing.”
“Me?” The smile turned sheepish. “No, I don’t dance. My wife, now, she likes to come.”
Maggie felt herself relax. So the explanation had been a simple one, an innocent one. “Most people who appreciate music like to dance.”
“I’d like to. My feet don’t.” His gaze shifted to Cliff. “I want to thank you for your cooperation. It might help us tie up a few loose ends.”
“Whatever I can do,” Cliff said briskly. “We’d all like this business tied up.”
Reiker nodded, then, with some effort, rose. “I hope you’ll play some more before the night’s over, Miss Fitzgerald. It’s a real pleasure listening to you.”
When he was gone, Maggie let out a long breath. “It isn’t fair that he makes me uncomfortable. He’s only doing his job.” She began to pick at her food again when Cliff remained silent. “What did he mean by cooperation?”
“I contacted my mother. She’s coming up Monday to give a statement.”
“I see. That must be difficult for her.”
“No.” Cliff shrugged it off. “It was ten years ago. It’s behind her. It’s behind all of us,” he added quietly, “but one.”
Maggie closed her eyes on a shudder. She wouldn’t think of it now, not tonight. “Dance with me again,” she insisted when the musicians began to tune. “There are hours yet before dawn.”
She n
ever tired, even after the moon began to set. The music and the movement gave her the release she needed for nervous energy. Some dancers faded; others became only more exuberant as the night grew later. The music never stopped.
As the sky began to lighten, there were no more than a hundred dancers left on their feet. There was something mystical, something powerful, in watching the sun rise from behind the mountains while the music poured onto the air. As the light grew rosy with the new day, the last waltz was called.
Cliff folded Maggie in his arms and circled the floor. He could feel the life vibrate from her—exciting, strong. Once she’d stopped, he thought as he gathered her closer, she’d sleep for hours.
She moved with him, snug against him. Her heartbeat was steady, her hair soft. He watched the colors spread over the mountains to the east. Then she tilted back her head and smiled at him.
And when he realized he was in love with her, Cliff was stunned and speechless.
Chapter Twelve
Maggie might’ve noticed Cliff’s abrupt withdrawal if she hadn’t been so full of the night and the music. “I can’t believe it’s over. I’ve hours more dancing in me.”
“You’ll be asleep before you’re home,” Cliff told her, but made certain he wasn’t touching her. He must be crazy, falling in love with a woman like her. She couldn’t decide whether to hang wallpaper or lay tile. She gave orders. She wore silk under her jeans. He must be crazy.
But she could dance with him through the night. There was a ridge of strength and courage under the delicate features. She made music that was part heaven and part sin. Hadn’t he known, and hadn’t he fought so hard, because he’d known almost from the first that she was a woman he’d never get out of his mind?
Now she was climbing into the cab of his pickup and resting her head against his shoulder as if it belonged there. It did belong there. Though the acceptance didn’t come easily to him, Cliff put his arm around her, drawing her closer. She belonged there.
“I don’t know when I’ve had such a good time.” The energy was draining out of her swiftly. Through sheer will, Maggie kept her eyes open.
“The music’s still running around in your head.”
She tilted her head so that she could see his profile. “I think you are beginning to understand me.”
“Some.”
“Some’s enough.” She yawned hugely. “It was fun playing tonight. You know, I’ve always avoided performing, mainly because I knew it would only open the door for more comparisons. But tonight …”
Cliff frowned, not certain if he liked the drift. “You’re thinking of performing?”
“No, not on a regular basis. If I’d had a drive to do it, I’d have done it long before this.” She shifted into a more comfortable position. “But I’ve decided to take C.J.’s advice and do the title song for Heat Dance. It’s a compromise, a recording rather than a performance. And I do feel rather personally toward that song.”
“You decided this tonight?”
“I’ve been leaning toward it for quite a while. It seems foolish to live by rules so strict you can’t do something you really want to do. I really want to do that song.” As her head began to droop, she noticed they were turning into her lane.
“It’ll mean flying back to L.A. for a few days for the taping, which’ll thrill C.J.” She gave a sleepy laugh. “He’ll pull out every trick in the book to keep me from coming back.”
Cliff felt the panic in his chest. He pulled the truck up at the end of the drive and set the brake. “I want you to marry me.”
“What?” Half asleep, Maggie shook her head, certain she’d misunderstood.
“I want you to marry me,” Cliff repeated, but this time he took her shoulders so that she wasn’t slumped down in the seat any longer. “I don’t care if you record a dozen songs. You’re going to marry me before you go back to California.”
To say she was stunned would’ve been an immeasurable understatement. Maggie stared at him as if one of them had lost his mind. “I must be a little foggy at the moment,” she said slowly. “Are you saying you want to marry me?”
“You know damn well what I’m saying.” It was too much to know the fear of losing her just when he’d realized he couldn’t live without her. He couldn’t be calm; he couldn’t be rational; he couldn’t let her go without a pledge that she’d come back. “You’re not going to California until you marry me.”
Trying to clear her mind, Maggie drew back. “Are you talking about my doing a recording, or are we talking marriage? One has to do with my business, the other with my life.”
Frustrated that she was calm when he couldn’t be, Cliff dragged her back. “From now on, your life is my business.”
“No.” That sounded too familiar. “No, I don’t want someone looking out for me, if that’s what you mean. I won’t take that kind of responsibility again, or that kind of guilt.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Cliff exploded. “I’m telling you you’re going to marry me.”
“That’s just it—you can’t tell me!” She jerked away from him, and the sleepiness in her eyes had turned to fire. “Jerry told me we were getting married, and I went along because it seemed like the thing to do. He was my best friend. He’d helped me get over the death of my parents, encouraged me to write again. He wanted to take care of me.” Maggie dragged a hand through her hair. “And I let him, until things started going downhill and he couldn’t even take care of himself. I couldn’t help him then. The pattern had been set, and I couldn’t help him. Not again, Cliff. I won’t be put in that glass cage again.”
“This has nothing to do with your first marriage and nothing to do with cages,” Cliff tossed back. “You can damn well take care of yourself, but you’re going to marry me.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits as she held down her own uncertain temper. “Why?”
“Because I’m telling you.”
“Wrong answer.” With a toss of her head, she was out of the truck and had slammed the door. “You can go cool off or go sleep it off or whatever you want,” she told him coldly. “I’m going to bed.” Turning on her heel, she strode up the shaky front steps to the door. As she turned the handle, she heard the sound of his truck descending the hill. Let him go, Maggie told herself before she could turn around and call him back. You can’t let yourself be pushed around that way. When a man thinks he can order a woman to marry him, he deserves exactly what she’d given him, Maggie decided. A good swift kick in the ego. Imagine bringing up marriage out of the blue that way, she thought as she shoved open the front door. Marriage, not love. He dangled marriage at her as though it were a carrot at the end of a stick. She wasn’t biting. If he wanted her, really wanted her, he’d have to do a hell of a lot better.
I love you. She leaned her head against the door and told herself she wouldn’t cry. That’s all it would’ve taken; that’s all he’d needed to say. Understanding. No, she decided as she straightened again, they were still a long way from understanding each other.
Why wasn’t the dog barking, she wondered grumpily as she pushed the door shut again. Terrific watchdog he’d turned out to be. Annoyed, she turned toward the steps, planning on a hot bath and a long sleep, when a scent stopped her. Candle wax, Maggie thought, puzzled. Roses? Odd, she thought. Her imagination was good, but not good enough to conjure up scents. She crossed toward the living room and stopped in the doorway.
Louella sat very straight and very prim in a high-backed chair. Her hands were neatly folded in the lap of the same misty-gray dress she’d worn for dancing. Her skin was so pale that the shadows under her eyes looked like bruises. The eyes themselves seemed to stare straight through Maggie. On the table beside her there were candles burning, the tapers hardly more than stubs now, with the wax pooled heavily on the base of the holders. A vase of fresh roses sat nearby, so that the breeze through the open window carried the scent through the room.
After the first shock, Maggie tried to b
ring her thoughts to order. It had been obvious from the first that Louella wasn’t completely well. She’d have to be handled gently, Maggie thought, and so she approached her as one might a wounded bird.
“Mrs. Morgan,” she said quietly, then cautiously touched a hand to her shoulder.
“I’ve always liked candlelight.” Louella spoke in her calm, soft voice. “So much prettier than a lamp. I’d often burn candles in the evening.”
“They’re lovely.” Maggie kept her tone gentle as she knelt beside her. “But it’s morning now.”
“Yes.” Louella looked blankly at the sun-filled window. “I often sit up through the night. I like the sounds. The woods make such music at night.”
Perhaps if she’d thought it through, Maggie wouldn’t have questioned. She would simply have led Louella out to her car and driven her home. But she didn’t think it through. “Do you often come here at night, Mrs. Morgan?”
“Sometimes I’ll drive,” she said dreamily. “Sometimes, if the night’s as clear and warm as this, I’ll walk. I used to walk a
