by Amanda Quick
“Ah, but I’m not an assistant. We’re partners.”
“All the more reason why you should know some of the magician’s secrets.”
She smiled. “In that case, I’d love to know how the Lady Vanishes in the Mirror works.”
He was pleased that he had managed to distract her, however briefly. In the few days they had known each other, her smiles had rarely lightened the shadows in her eyes. But at that moment her curiosity had temporarily overridden her fears.
He turned away before he was utterly lost in the magic, and pulled off three more tarps, revealing three more tall mirrors.
“In the illusion the lovely assistant—in this case the magician’s lovely partner—stands in front of one of the mirrors,” he said. “Right about where you’re standing now, in fact.”
She met his eyes in the looking glass.
“Shouldn’t I be wearing a skimpy costume?” she asked.
He was almost certain that she was flirting with him. It was both encouraging and unnerving. In the old days he had been very good when it came to doing a cold read on a person from the audience. But Irene was still very much a mystery in so many ways.
He gave her clothes an appraising look. Her menswear trousers defined her small waist and flowed gracefully around her legs. The pale yellow blouse with its feminine bow at the neck and long, full sleeves made her look both innocent and seductive.
“The skimpier the better,” he said. “After all, the assistant’s main job is to distract the audience. But what you have on will do for now.”
“What happens next?”
“Good question,” he said.
He did not realize he had spoken aloud until he saw that she was watching him with faintly raised eyebrows.
Each of the four mirrors was mounted on a set of wheels. He rolled three of them into position around Irene. She was now surrounded on three sides.
“Notice that all of the mirrors have reflective surfaces on both sides,” he said. “When properly illuminated onstage, all the mirrored surfaces tend to dazzle the audience.”
“More distraction.”
“Right. It’s one of a magician’s most valuable tools. Now, note that three of the mirrors are mounted on narrow frames. When they are turned sideways to the audience, it’s obvious that there is no room for even a very slender assistant to be concealed inside.”
“Aha. But the other one has a hidden compartment?”
“Yes.” He opened the mirror and showed her the long, narrow box inside. “It’s just wide enough to allow a slim assistant to stand upright. Next, I position the fourth mirror in place. She is now surrounded on all four sides and concealed from the audience.”
He pushed the fourth mirror into position.
“The assistant opens the mirrored box and gets inside, right?” Irene said from the interior of the mirrored chamber.
“Yes, she does.”
He heard a hinged door open and close. In the old days the hinges would not have squeaked. Chester had kept them well oiled.
“Are you inside?” he asked.
“Yes. This is really a very small space, isn’t it?”
“The boxes are always small, which is, of course, why magicians’ assistants are usually small, slender people. If we were doing this onstage, a large curtain would descend at this point, covering the four mirrors. The entire assembly, including the mirrored box with the assistant inside, would be hoisted off the ground to show the audience that there is no secret hiding place beneath the mirrors. The whole thing is then lowered back to the stage. I pull one of the mirrors aside and the audience sees that there is no assistant inside the chamber.”
He rolled one of the mirrors out of the way. Irene had vanished.
“Nicely done,” he said.
He pushed the mirror back into position. “Now the process is repeated. The curtain is lowered and all four mirrors are hoisted off the floor. The assembly is lowered back down to the floor. The assistant steps out of the concealed box. One of the mirrors is rolled aside and we see that our lovely assistant is back, having just magically emerged from a mirror.”
He rolled one of the framed mirrors aside. Irene smiled at him.
“It’s all so simple,” she said.
“Most of the really dramatic illusions are fairly simple, at least technically speaking. The trick with this one is to make sure the lighting is right so that the audience never sees the wide sides of the mirrored box that conceals the compartment.”
“So the real skill is in the sleight-of-hand work.”
“Always,” Oliver said. “In this case, the magician’s job is to shuffle the four mirrors on the stage in such a way that the audience thinks they’ve seen all of them from every angle. But the truth is, they’ve only seen three of the mirrors from all sides.”
“What happens if you have an assistant who gets extremely nervous in small, enclosed spaces?”
“Assistants who suffer from claustrophobia don’t last long in the magic business.”
“I can understand that.” Irene shuddered. “I think you would have had to fire me by the end of the first performance.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. I just wouldn’t want to have to climb in and out of those boxes for a living.”
“As it turns out, I’m not hiring any box jumpers these days.”
“What happened to the ones who used to work for you?” Irene asked. She sounded curious.
“Some went their own way after I closed the show. But most of the people who worked for me in the old days decided to go into a new field.”
“What field?”
“The hospitality business.”
Irene gave him a knowing look. “You took care of your crew by giving them jobs here at the hotel.”
“As I told you, the hotel business and the magic business have a lot in common. The skills required to keep both operating are very similar.”
Irene searched his face. “Do you miss it a lot?”
“The magic business? Sometimes. But not as much as I did at first. Things change. I’ve changed. But, yes, occasionally I miss that moment when you know you’ve pulled off the perfect illusion and the audience is thrilled by the effect.”
“Of course you’re bound to miss it sometimes. Magic was your passion. Your art.” She started to stroll slowly through the jumble of covered props, pausing here and there to peek beneath the canvas. “What will you do with these things?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” He watched her lift the cover off a stack of neatly coiled ropes. “I told you, there’s not much of a market for any of this stuff. One of these days I’ll have it hauled away.”
“No.” She turned quickly. “You shouldn’t destroy it. You should save it.”
“For what?”
She spread her hands. “For your children or your grandchildren. Who knows? One of them might inherit your passion. At the very least, they will be curious about your life as a magician.”
“I don’t have any plans to have children.”
“You don’t?” She looked surprised at first, and then she gazed at him with what could only have been described as compassion. “I’m so very sorry. I should never have said anything about children. Please forgive me.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t realize the full extent of your injury.” She glanced down at his leg and then hastily raised her eyes. “I had no idea it was so severe.” She broke off, floundering wildly. “It hadn’t occurred to me. I never gave it any thought, actually. Not after that kiss at the beach. I just assumed . . . Please, let’s change the subject. Can’t you see I’m absolutely mortified?”
Understanding finally dawned. He walked toward her and came to a halt a few inches away. He set the cane aside and very deliberately framed her face
between his hands.
“I’d like to make one thing clear,” he said. “I’m somewhat damaged but the damage was not that extensive.”
“Oh. I see.” She swallowed hard and came up with a shaky smile. “I’m so glad.”
“So am I. And never more so than right now.”
He closed the last bit of distance between them, giving her plenty of opportunity to slip away. She did not step back. Instead she gripped his shoulders with both hands as though to keep herself upright.
“Oliver,” she whispered. “This probably isn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
And then, in a rush of heat and sensual energy, she released his shoulders, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him with dizzying urgency, kissed him as if she wanted him—craved him—more than she wanted anything or anyone else in the world.
As if she wanted him almost as much as he wanted her.
The fire roared through him, hot, fierce, soul-stirring. The ice that had formed a protective shield around him during the past two years thawed. The glacier melted and became an avalanche of desire.
The eternal gloom in the storage locker was transformed into a hidden world made to welcome lovers.
Magic, Oliver thought. The real thing.
Somehow he managed to get both of them down onto one of the tarps that he had pulled off the mirrors.
“Oliver,” Irene said.
His name was a breathless whisper on her lips, filled with wonder and amazement.
He did not even try to speak because he knew that if he did, whatever he managed to say would sound incoherent. Instead he kissed her again, drinking in the hot, sweet taste of her.
And then he was fumbling with her clothing. An eon passed before he got the fastening of her silky brassiere undone. Another wave of hunger crashed through him when he finally cupped the sweet, gentle curves of her breasts. He kissed one tight, firm tip. She made a soft, desperate sound, arched against him, and sank her nails into his back.
He unfastened her trousers and pushed them down over her hips. She slipped her feet out of her shoes, and then the trousers were gone and she was left wearing only a pair of panties.
She started to undo his shirt but her fingers trembled. He lost patience and levered himself to a sitting position for long enough to get rid of his shoes and his trousers.
He was wearing briefs, the new style of men’s underwear. The garment did little to conceal his rigid erection. But it was the wicked scar on his thigh that Irene reached out to touch, not the portion of his anatomy that ached to be clasped in her fingers.
“You could have been killed,” she said. She sounded stunned. “I mean, I knew your wound must have been bad, but I didn’t realize—”
The shocked sympathy in her words was maddening.
He captured her hand and very deliberately moved it from the scar to the front of his briefs, making her aware of his need.
“I could have been killed, but as it happens, I wasn’t,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather move on to a more interesting subject.”
She blinked and then, tentatively, her palm closed over him. She explored him gingerly, cautiously, as though she was unsure of herself. He groaned.
Hastily she withdrew her hand.
“Aren’t I doing it right?” she said anxiously.
“Irene,” he got out between clenched teeth. “You have done this before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, a few times, but I don’t think I was very good at it.”
“I’m going to faint.”
“What?” Horrified, she sat up very fast. “Lie down.”
“I am lying down.”
“Shall I get a cold compress?”
“I don’t think that will do any good.”
“Do you need a doctor?”
She started to reach for her blouse.
“I don’t need a doctor.” He imprisoned her hand again and pulled her gently down on top of his chest. “I need you. Tell me, what went wrong when you tried this before?”
“He was a lying, cheating bastard.”
“That explains it.”
“It turns out that I wasn’t the first secretary in the history of modern business to make a fool of herself with her boss.”
“I get the picture.” He cradled her face between his palms. “I want to make this special for you.”
“Trust me, this is special,” she said.
She kissed him and he was lost. Desire heated his senses until all he could think about was sinking himself into her soft, supple body.
The surroundings were hardly romantic but he had one thing going for him—he was very good with his hands.
When she came for him, breathless, shuddering in his arms, then and only then did he allow himself to thrust into her.
She gasped, wound herself around him, and held on with all of her strength.
His release pounded through him, and the world outside the storage locker disappeared, taking the past with it—at least for a time.
Magic.
Chapter 38
Luther Pell propped one forearm on the bar and considered the earthshaking news that Willie had just delivered in a very low voice and with all the drama suited to the announcement.
“He took Miss Glasson into the prop storage locker?” Luther said. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“That’s straight from Hank’s lips.” Willie polished a wineglass with a white towel. “Hank got it from one of the gardeners, who saw the boss unlock the door himself.”
Luther whistled softly. “Big news, all right.”
Willie raised her brows. “What’s more, they’re still inside, according to Hank. He says they’ve been in there nearly an hour.”
“Evidently Miss Glasson is very interested in a certain magician’s props.”
“If you ask me, the most fascinating aspect of the situation is that a certain magician seemed keen to take Miss Glasson on a tour of his props.”
“You’re right,” Luther said. “As a matter of fact, I can’t recall the magician in question ever having escorted any lady into the prop locker for a private tour.”
“Neither can I.” Willie slotted the wineglass into the overhead rack. “You heard what happened at the warehouse fire last night?”
“The story is all over town.”
Willie smiled. “The boss ordered ice from room service. Rick in room service made the delivery. The boss explained what had happened at the warehouse. Rick told the kitchen staff, who passed the story on to housekeeping and security, and the next thing you know, it’s all over town.”
“Small town,” Luther reminded her.
He swallowed some of the sparkling water that Willie had poured for him and thought about the meaning of it all. One thing was clear: Irene Glasson was different, and not just because she had refused to abandon Oliver in a burning building.
It wasn’t that Oliver didn’t like women. Oliver had escorted other ladies to the Paradise Club, and he had indulged in a couple of short, discreet affairs since arriving in Burning Cove.
But Irene Glasson was different, Luther reflected.
He and Oliver had known each other ever since Oliver purchased the hotel. In spite of the age difference between them, they had become friends from the start. Luther figured it was because each of them had recognized a kindred soul in the other—or maybe just another lost soul traveling the same path. Whatever the case, it was the kind of soul you wanted at your back in a bar fight. A soul you could trust with your secrets.
Both of them had been damaged when they arrived in Burning Cove. Each of them had made a fresh start in a town that encouraged reinvention. Each had done a good job of concealing the damage, but neither of them tried to pretend to the other that th
e damage didn’t exist. Maybe that was the real reason for their friendship.
“Looks like the private tour is over,” Willie said, glancing past Luther’s shoulder. “Here comes the boss. He’s alone. Wonder what happened to Miss Glasson?”
“Let’s assume he didn’t leave her in the prop locker.”
“Probably a safe assumption.”
Luther swiveled the bar stool around a quarter turn and saw Oliver coming toward them through the lightly crowded bar.
“It strikes me that Ward’s bad leg doesn’t seem to be bothering him as much as usual,” he said.
“I do believe you’re right,” Willie said.
Oliver was dressed, but his shirt was open at the collar and his hair looked like it had been combed with his fingers. Aside from that, he appeared in rare good spirits.
“Afternoon, Boss,” Willie said. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks,” Oliver said. He looked at Luther. “Front desk told me you were here. Let’s go back to the villa. We can talk there.”
Oliver started to turn away.
Luther stood. “Where is Miss Glasson?”
“She’s at the villa,” Oliver replied. “Said she wanted to freshen up.”
Luther glanced at Willie. Willie suddenly became very busy polishing the already glowing top of the bar.
“Heard you took Miss Glasson on a tour of those old props you’ve got stored out back,” Luther said.
Oliver’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Word travels fast around this hotel.”
“I can understand why Miss Glasson would want to freshen up,” Luther said.
“Is that so?” Oliver said evenly.
“Those old props have been stored in that locker for quite a while now. Probably dusty from lack of use.”
Chapter 39
Irene heard Oliver and Luther arrive just as she finished running a brush through her hair. She put on some lipstick and checked her image in the mirror. She was feeling oddly cheerful and she thought she looked unusually bright and vivacious for a woman who had just engaged in hot, sweaty sex in a storage locker.
