"I have connections," Brent said, with the warm smile she'd already become accustomed to in the half hour since he'd rung her doorbell.
Her pals hadn't been lying. Brent Radley was personable, relaxed and definitely—how had Amanda put it?—a stone hunk. Dark hair, blue eyes, six feet tall or a little over, lean and fit. He had the air of a man who knew he was attractive—usually a guaranteed turnoff. But he was also friendly and attentive, and Raven figured that was what really mattered.
She'd come to a decision as she'd changed outfits three times in nervous anticipation, finally settling on a long, pimento-colored silk dress topped by a beige crocheted vest. She'd decided that if her best friends in the world had gone to all this trouble for her sake, the least she could do was give the Wedding Ring scheme a chance. She'd worn a little makeup and carefully finger-styled her dark blond hair. Nowadays she wore it in a layered, chin-length cut with bangs, and cm good days it framed her face in feathery, flattering waves.
The waitress stopped by their table, handed them menus and exchanged greetings with Brent, who was obviously a regular. She took their drink order and moved on.
The interior of Stitches was a delight. The dark-paneled walls were covered with framed story-magazine covers dating back to the 1920s. All genres were represented, from lurid detective rags to science fiction, adventure, western, and even confession magazines. An eclectic mix of tablecloths and mismatched dishes lent an air of homey mayhem. Soft bluegrass music underscored the burble of conversation and laughter. Tantalizing aromas drifted to Raven's nose: hot garlic bread, rich tomato sauce, fried calamari…
"I recommend the pizza rustica," Brent suggested, leaning forward to point it out on the menu. "It's called a personal pizza, but it's about the size of a hubcap." He spread his arms in illustration.
"Sold." Raven slapped her menu shut. The waitress returned with Brent's draft beer and Raven's mineral water, and took their dinner order.
"You said you have connections here." She sipped her bubbly mineral water. "Do you know the owner?"
"You might say that." Brent caught someone's eye and waved. "He's my brother."
Raven looked up to see a young man weaving among the tables toward them. He carried himself with smooth masculine grace and a proprietary air that told her who he was even before he stopped at their table and soundly thumped her date on the shoulder.
Without waiting for an introduction, Brent's brother turned to Raven and said with grave sincerity, "I want you to know how much our parents appreciate your agreeing to date this pitiful specimen."
She didn't skip a beat. "It was the least I could do after they posted bail for me."
An appreciative glint came into his eye, and Raven had the impression she'd passed some test. "You have his tranquilizers?" he asked. "Drool bib?"
"My trusty cattle prod's al I need." She patted the large shoulder bag hanging on her chair back. "That and a few brightly colored toys with round edges."
"Nothing with small pieces, I hope. You ever see a grown man cough up Barbie shoes? It's not a pretty sight."
Grinning, shaking his head, Brent said, "Are you two finished?" but his brother didn't even glance at him.
"I'm Hunter Radley." He extended his hand, and she shook it.
"Raven Muldoon." She was acutely conscious of the texture of his skin, the repressed strength in his firm grip. After a moment she made herself pull away. The physical resemblance between the brothers was immediately apparent, although Hunter was obviously much younger. Both men had dark, wavy hair, but while Brent's was short and neatly trimmed, Hunter's brushed the collar of his ivory twill shirt. The shirt looked soft with wear, and the top couple of buttons were undone, revealing a V of skin dusted with dark hair. The same dark hair was visible on the forearms revealed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves. She noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding band.
"How did you get to be called Raven?" Hunter asked. "With a name like that, I would have expected black hair." He reached out to rub a strand of her honey-blond hair between his fingers. If any other man she'd just met had done that, she would have bristled at his impertinence. Somehow, though, she didn't feel as if she'd just met Hunter.
"My mother was a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe," she said, and waited to see if he'd get it.
He did, in record time. "'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…'" His voice took on a hushed urgency. "'Suddenly there came a tapping.'"
"You skipped part."
"'As of someone gently rapping.'" His knuckles thumped the table "'Rapping at my chamber door.' Uh, something, something… 'Quoth the raven—'"
The three of them finished in unison: "'Nevermore.'"
Brent said, "Isn't there a Lenore in that poem? 'The lost Lenore?' Why didn't your mother name you after her?"
"My older sister beat me to that one. I'm not complaining."
Hunter's gaze lit on her hair, her eyes, her mouth. "I'm surprised she didn't name you Annabel." He said it quietly, his deep, mellifluous voice wrapping itself around the name in a way that raised gooseflesh all over her. In the mellow light of the club, she struggled to divine the color of his eyes. Blue or brown? They seemed to change with each breath.
Brent said, "Annabel? Now you've lost me."
Raven swallowed hard and dragged her attention back to her date. "'Annabel Lee.' Another of Poe's poems." A heartbreaking love poem.
Hunter shoved his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans, looking suddenly ill at ease. He seemed almost relieved when the waitress materialized with the appetizer assortment Brent had ordered. "Lisa," he told her, "no check for this table. It's on the house."
"I could pretend to argue with you," Brent said as he offered Raven the serving tongs, "or we could just skip over that part."
Hunter's grin was back in place as he told Raven, "Keep that cattle prod handy."
Then he was gone.
Brent launched into a lively discussion of Raven's work, asking how she'd come to be a hypnotherapist, what kind of training she'd received, what kind of problems she saw, proving that he wasn't the kind of self-absorbed make who only wanted to talk about himself. Raven found that gratifying, but it didn't help her concentrate on the conversation.
Brent hadn't noticed. Thank God. He'd been blessedly oblivious to what had been happening between his date and his brother.
And what exactly had been happening between his date and his brother? she asked herself. The proverbial once-in-a-lifetime meeting of soul mates? Or simple sexual awareness?
As if sexual awareness, once acknowledged, could ever be simple. Whatever it was, it hadn't been one-sided, that was for certain. Hunter had felt it, too. And it had made him as uncomfortable as it had made her.
With good reason, she thought, as she listened to the man her friends had chosen as suitable husband material praise her entrepreneurial initiative and order another Bass ale. Brent was a great guy, if first impressions were worth anything. She was committed to seeing him exclusively for three months, provided he was interested, and from the way he looked at her, the things he said, she was pretty sure he was interested.
Lord knew, she'd never willingly come between brothers by encouraging the attentions of one while dating the other. And if she read Hunter accurately, he wouldn't be party to something like that, either.
The meal progressed uneventfully. The club lights dimmed and the stage lights sprang on just as their dessert dishes were being cleared. Hunter leaped onto the stage and grabbed the mike off the stand.
Something banged inside Raven's chest.
Damn! she thought. Why can't anything be simple?
Hunter welcomed the audience to Stitches and threw out a couple of one-liners to get them primed. He was so relaxed up there that even when his second gag bombed, he made a joke about that. Raven watched in awe, partly because she'd never in her life be able to do what Hunter was doing, and partly because there he was, standing a
few feet away, on a stage, under bright lights, and she could look at him all she wanted.
She was supposed to look at him. It would have been considered rude not to look at him! Greedily she followed every sexy, loose-limbed movement as he worked the crowd, drank her fill of that sheets-and-champagne voice.
"We have a special guest in the audience tonight," Hunter announced, prompting her to turn and scan the darkened club for a celebrity face. "The one and only Annabel Muldoon!"
Raven's head snapped around as a spotlight found her. She heard a few dubious responses—"Annabel who?"—and more than a few gasps of recognition, which should have struck her as hilarious. Brent obviously found the whole thing funny as hell; he was making a conspicuous effort not to crack up.
And everyone stared.
Hunter beckoned her onstage. "Come on up and say hi to your fans, Annabel! How about it, folks? Let's get Annabel Muldoon up here!"
The crowd by this time had decided Raven was Somebody, and responded with thunderous applause, punctuated by whoops and whistles of encouragement.
It was her worst nightmare.
Raven was breathing fast, trembling all over. Her hands were numb, rubbery lumps in her lap. She knew if she attempted to stand, her legs would never hold her. All she could manage was a little head shake.
Brent gave her a friendly shove. "Go on," he chuckled. "The crowd's going crazy. Have some fun."
"Come on, Annabel, don't be shy!" Hunter said, standing on the edge of the stage now, not eight feet away.
She looked up at him, struggling to govern her expression, praying that her misery wasn't there on her face for all to see. She wanted to say something, anything that might put an end to this torture, but her mind had seized up, and her tongue along with it.
Hunter's grin faltered for a fleeting instant as he stared at her. He backed away, signaling to the stagehand working the lights. The spotlight blinked off.
"Oh well, you know how skittish celebs are," Hunter told the audience, who sent up a collective groan of disappointment. Someone booed. "Next time I'll go through her agent. Now let's have a big hand for Richie Finley."
The crowd complied, and Hunter relinquished the stage to a massively obese man in an argyle sweater and corduroy slacks. "My name is Richard Finley," he began, deadpan, "but most folks cal me Big Dick." One patron in back chortled at this lame opener.
Raven's panic attack began to subside. She rubbed warmth back into her hands and concentrated on breathing slowly through her nose.
Onstage, Finley plodded through his act. The audience wasn't very responsive, even when he got off one or two good lines, and Raven felt a stab of pity mixed with sheer awe at his audaciousness. Where, she wondered, did he find the courage? What wellspring of self-confidence allowed this man to walk out onstage under the glare of the spotlight and open his mouth?
Finley was followed by a black comedienne about Raven's age, whose routine focused on growing up in her dysfunctional extended family. She fared better than her predecessor, thanks to flawless timing and eloquent facial expressions. By the time she gave a little wave and walked off the stage, the audience was howling for more.
As a therapist, Raven was impressed by the way this woman had taken a painful episode in her life—her wretched upbringing—and turned it into something positive. It was as much a healing process as what Raven's phobia clients experienced when she helped them face their fears and learn to control them.
Raven hoped her clients never found out what a hypocrite she was. She knew she'd never find the inner fortitude to confront her own crippling fear. Tonight was just one more reminder of her failure, and a particularly humiliating one at that.
The audience laughed uproariously at everything uttered by the third and final comic, a grizzled middle-aged guy with a foul mouth and a sack of dopey props. He was funny, but he wasn't that funny. It slowly dawned on Raven that there were advantages to performing last. The audience had been loosened up by the first two acts and, most especially, by the liquor they'd consumed.
Several times patrons had approached her table, shoving paper and pen under her nose, requesting an autograph, much to Brent's amusement. "My girlfriend's a big fan of yours," they'd say, or "I saw you on Letterman. When did you get out of rehab?" Raven had found the easiest course was to simply give them what they wanted, and by the end of the evening, she'd turned "Annabel" into a distinctive, flowing signature.
After the show, Brent excused himself to visit the men's room. Within seconds, Hunter materialized in the vacated seat, making her wonder if he'd been waiting to catch her alone.
She'd hoped she wouldn't have to face him. He knew. She'd seen it in his eyes, for that scant breath of time before he literally took her out of the spotlight
Before she could think of some way to make light of the incident, he looked her straight in the eye and said, "I'm sorry."
She took a deep breath. "Let's not have this conversation."
Hunter leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. He looked down a moment, then back up at her, searching her eyes. "Raven. If I'd had an inkling that would make you uncomfortable, I never would've—"
"I know." She felt her composure slipping.
"I figured, after all that kidding around we did…"
"But that was just you and me." She twisted the napkin in her lap.
"Well, I really thought you'd enjoy getting up there and goofing around—a little Sonny and Cher stuff. You're funny. And quick with a comeback."
"This is just … something I've always had a problem with."
When she didn't elaborate, he said, "Performing in front of a crowd?"
"Well, public speaking. I've never even considered the idea of performing."
He cocked his head, giving her a speculative look. "You should, you know. You're a natural." Despite everything, that preposterous statement drew a chuckle from her. "Not in this lifetime."
"Now you've done it. I can't resist a challenge."
The slow grin that accompanied this statement brought a return of those shivery goose bumps. Then the grin faded and he said quietly. "I really am sorry. It was presumptuous of me."
"Yeah, it was." She flashed a reassuring smile. "But no lasting damage was done. And anyway, it just reinforced what I already know—I have work to do."
"On what?"
"On myself. It's high time I learned to deal with this problem. Lalophobia, it's called. Fear of public speaking. I can't even give informal presentations, or talk to schoolkids on career day."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a hypnotherapist."
Hunter blinked. "No kidding."
"Not as much fun as a comedy club, but it's personally rewarding and it pays the bills." Raven scanned the club, looking for Brent.
Watching her, Hunter leaned back in his chair. "If you're serious about working on your public speaking, every Wednesday is open-mike night here."
"Open mike?"
"Amateur night. Anyone can go up onstage and play stand-up comic."
"Thanks, but I don't think I'm ready for the major leagues. I think I'll start with something easier—like the State of the Union Address."
He came to his feet. "Well, you have an open invitation, if you change your mind."
Suddenly Brent was there. "An open invitation for what? What are you doing, making time with my date behind my back?" he joked.
"I'm trying to persuade Raven to work up some material for open-mike night."
"Great idea," Brent said, apparently oblivious to her earlier panic attack. "Listen, Raven, you ever go cross-country skiing?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I have skis and boots, but I haven't had a chance to use them so far this winter."
"There's this beautiful wooded park where I love to ski. I'm going out there on Sunday. You interested?"
"Sure, I'd love to."
"Why don't you join us, Hunter? Bring a date. After, maybe we can catch some dinner."
Bring a date. From w
hich she deduced that Hunter had no steady girlfriend. Raven cursed the glimmer of satisfaction she felt. She had no business thinking of him that way.
Hunter's eyes flicked to Raven; she looked away quickly. "I guess so," he said, "if it doesn't get too late. I have to open the club Sunday evening."
Brent asked, "Don't you have someone who can do that for you?"
"Uh, yeah, maybe," Hunter said, and Raven suspected he was as conflicted about this double date as she was.
"What the hell, I'll let Matt open up on Sunday." He smiled at her. "What's the worst that can happen?"
* * *
Chapter 2
«^»
Hunter watched his show-off of a brother put even more distance between them as his skis streaked over the snow. That was what came of having your weekends free, he supposed—you got to be good at stuff that had nothing to do with booking comedians and supervising help and teetering on that scary tightrope between black ink and red. Hunter wouldn't trade Stitches for anything, but sometimes he envied Brent his job at that children's magazine, Grasshopper, and the regular paycheck that went with it.
The envy didn't stop there, he thought, glancing over his shoulder as Raven slid to a stop next to him. She was a graceful, competent skier, but not particularly fast. She'd unzipped her yellow down anorak halfway, revealing a black silk turtleneck tucked into faded jeans. She'd twisted that beautiful honey-colored hair back into a clip, but plenty of it was left loose to tumble around her face.
She smiled, breathing fast, her cheeks rosy from cold and exertion. It was a clear day, the late morning sun high in the sky, turning her pale brown eyes to burnished gold. Her hair and eyes were practically the same color, he noted. A twenty-four-karat lady.
Yesterday's snowstorm had dumped a good six inches on top of the previous accumulation, and they were breaking trail through white-clad trees and the occasional wide-open clearing. The light had that winter-pure clarity, and the air was sharp and cleansing. Hunter was glad he'd come.
"Brent is quite a skier," Raven said, peering through the trees. "I've lost sight of him already."
LOVE'S FUNNY THAT WAY Page 2
