Command Performance

by Nora Roberts

  anything but distant. There was so much she knew, so much she’d yet to understand. “Once I believed you wanted me because you thought Bennett and I were lovers.”

  “Once I despised myself for wanting you because I thought you and Bennett were lovers.”

  The cool, matter-of-fact tone had her pressing her lips together. Yes, he would have hated himself. She’d been a fool not to understand that. He had suffered. She no longer had to ask how. “And now?”

  “I could say I’m relieved to know it’s not so, but it would make no difference. Even honor suffers.”

  Honor. With him it would be as vital as the blood in his veins. She had the power to make him compromise it. She had enough love to see that he didn’t. She rose then, but even with her hands still folded, looked anything but meek. “I can’t take that as flattery, Alexander.”

  “It wasn’t meant to flatter. I could tell you that you’re beautiful.” His gaze roamed over her face. “More beautiful to me than any other woman. I could tell you that your face haunts my dreams and troubles my days, and that yearning for you empties me. None of it would be meant to flatter.”

  At each word her heartbeat accelerated, until now it echoed in her ears. With an effort she stayed where she was, when her heart urged her to open her arms and offer everything. Equal ground, she reminded herself. Honor for both. There was no talk of love.

  “Maybe it’s best if you said nothing.” She managed to smile, and even tilted her head. “Except to tell me why you’ve come.”

  “I need you.”

  The words rocked her no less than they rocked him. There was silence while the air seemed to absorb them. He saw it in her eyes, the astonishment, the softening, the acceptance. Moonlight shot through the glass at her back, so that she looked as though she might be a part of it—and still out of reach.

  Then she held out her hand.

  Their fingers met, steadied, then curled into one another. Contact was made, and the time for words was over.

  Her eyes on his, she lifted his hand and touched her lips where their fingers joined. Silence.

  His gaze remained locked on hers as he turned their joined hands over and pressed his lips to her palm. Still no words.

  With her fingertips she traced the line of his jaw, touching now what she’d never felt she’d had the right to touch. His skin was warm, warmer than the breeze that stirred at the curtains. There was no need to speak.

  He used his knuckles to trace the curve of her cheek to her temple, then his fingers spread to comb through her hair, lingering—lingering over it as he had once dreamed of doing. The clock struck the hour. It was midnight.

  No words, but feelings nurtured in secret for so long bloomed at last in the first moments of the new day. Desires, refused, denied, were now accepted in the shadowed moonlight of a day just ended.

  There were things he wouldn’t ask, and more she couldn’t admit. So they came together without questions, emotions only, as the bravest of lovers do.

  Her arms opened. Her mouth lifted. His arms encircled. His mouth lowered. Body to body, they drew out and drew on the first kiss of the morning.

  The tenderness remained somehow, though the excitement thrummed just beneath. There was more than just desire now—a breath of completion for something started long before. Tonight. At last.

  The air sweetened with her sigh as she allowed herself the freedom of a wish. The kiss was deep, thorough, awash with the anticipation that poured from each. Then his lips brushed hers lightly, not teasing but promising of delights and demands yet to come. When she trembled as he’d once predicted she would, he felt not the thrill of victory but a gratitude that her need was as sharp as his own.

  He ran his hands over the silk on her shoulders, her arms, her back, tormenting himself with visions of what was concealed beneath. So many times he had imagined her. When he drew the silk aside, letting it slither and whisper and pool at her feet, he discovered his imagination was no match for the reality of her, naked and close with moonlight cloaking her.

  A poet would have had the words. A musician could have played the tune that streamed inside his head. But he was a prince who had never felt himself more of a mortal man than now, watching his woman shimmer in moonbeams before him.

  She didn’t need poems or a song. What she saw in his eyes told her she more than pleased him. He would never give her beautiful, melodious words, but a look from him said so much more. With a smile, she stepped into his arms again and pressed her lips to his heart.

  It beat so fast, so strong. For a moment she closed her eyes tightly, as if to capture the feeling inside her. His skin was bronze against her ivory. Fascinated with the contrast, she stroked her fingers over him, then spread her palm wide on the plane of his chest. His fingers closed over her wrist as her touch sent arrows of need through him. He felt the trip-hammer of her pulse before she drew her arm away to lock both hands behind his head.

  Flesh heated against flesh; mouth hungered against mouth. Her tongue skimmed over his lips, then dipped inside for the darker, richer tastes.

  More. Again the craving for more tore at her. But this time she would have it. She found the clasp of his slacks, delighting in the quiver of his stomach as her fingers brushed his skin. The moment hung, then raced by. And he was naked with her.

  She, too, had dreamed of this, and now discovered that dreams would never be enough.

  He gathered her up and held her in his arms, just held her as she pressed her face to his throat, wound her arms around his neck. The wind shivered at the windows as they lowered themselves to the bed.

  The mattress gave beneath them with only a whisper. The sheets rustled. He buried his face in her hair and let her scent slice holes in his control. She flowed against him, not just pliant but willing.

  A touch and a tremor. A taste and a sigh. Slowly, savoring, shivering, they discovered each other. She was so soft here, so firm there. The strength in someone so small never failed to astonish him. Fragrant. Her skin was a garden of delight to all his senses. If he ran his tongue over it, he could taste both passion and delicacy.

  How was it she had never understood the compassion, the gentleness, the goodness in him? Yet she’d loved him, anyway. Discovering it all now, she was swamped by feelings deeper than she had believed herself capable of. Here was a patience she’d never seen. A sweetness she had never dreamed of. He gave it all to her, without her ever having to ask. He gave her touches of romance she thought herself too wise to need.

  It wouldn’t always be like this. No, she knew that. There would be demands, greed, recklessness. That she could accept when the time came. But this time, this first time, he seemed to know she wanted gentleness. More, much more important, he seemed to want it, too.

  So her hands caressed. Her lips lingered. She showed him she could cherish as well as be cherished. Even when their breath began to merge together in shudders, there was no rage to complete. Prolong. Only to prolong.

  When he filled her, they moved together without the haste of first passions. This was a hunger that had waited seven years to be sated. Together they burrowed in a beauty that came as quietly and as inevitably as a sunrise.

  The moonlight still glowed. The curtains still billowed. Apparently the world had decided to go on with routine though everything had changed. The sheets were rumpled at the base of the bed, untended and unneeded as the man and woman fed off each other’s warmth.

  Eve lay with her head on Alexander’s shoulder, a place that seemed to have been reserved for her. A place she’d never thought she would claim. His heart beat, still far from steadily, under her hand. His arm was around her, holding her close, and though she knew he was as awake and aware as she, there was a peace between them that had never existed before.

  Had love done it, or the act of love? She didn’t know, and wondered if it should matter. They were together.

  “Seven years.” Her sigh was long and shimmered through the silence. “I’ve wanted this for sev
en years.”

  He lay still a moment while her words were slowly absorbed. His fingers trailed over her face, then under her chin so that he could lift her face to his. His eyes were so dark, and this time the caution in them made her smile. “All along? From the beginning?”

  “You were dressed like a soldier, an officer, and the room was filled with beautiful women, dashing men, just like a dream. But I kept seeing you.” She wasn’t ashamed of it, nor did she regret not telling him before. They had needed the years between. “There were flowers. The room smelled like springtime. And there were those dazzling lights from the chandeliers. Silver platters, wine in crystal, violins. You had a sword at your side. I wanted so badly for you to ask me to dance. For you to notice me.”

  “I noticed you,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to her brow.

  “You did scowl at me once, now that you mention it.” She smiled and shifted so that she ranged just above him. “And you waltzed with that lovely blond woman with the English complexion. I’ve hated her ever since.”

  He grinned and traced Eve’s smile with his fingertip. How incredible it was to be relaxed, to be alone, to be only a man. “I don’t even remember who she was.”

  “I do. It was—”

  “But I remember that you wore a red dress with the back draped low and your arms bare. You wore a bracelet here.” He brought her wrist to his lips. “A thick gold band with a smattering of rubies. All I could think was that one of your lovers had given it to you.”

  “My father,” she murmured, stunned to learn he had noticed, had felt something. “In gratitude and relief when I graduated. You do remember.” Her breath came out on a laugh as she tossed her hair back. “You did notice.”

  He no longer felt the weight, the twist of guilt or the denial. There was only pleasure, with himself, with her. “And from the moment I did, you’ve never been out of my mind.”

  She hoped it was true. Reckless, she didn’t care if it wasn’t. “You never asked me to dance.”

  “No.” He twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “I’d already decided that if I touched you it might be the end of my sanity. I saw you leave the ballroom with Bennett.”

  “Were you jealous?” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to try to suppress the smile.

  “Jealousy is a very low and common emotion.” He slipped a hand down to the curve of her hip. “I was eaten with it.”

  Her laughter was rich and full. “Oh, Alex, I’m so glad. There was never any need, but I’m so glad.”

  “I nearly followed you.” He said this quietly as his expression turned inward. “I told myself I’d be a fool, but if I had—”

  “No.” She laid her fingertips on his lips. “You couldn’t know what would happen.”

  He brushed his lips over her fingers, then took them in his. “I saw you come back in, alone, pale. You were trembling. All I could think was that Bennett had upset you. I reached you just as you were telling Reeve and my father what was happening on the terrace upstairs. You were as white as a sheet and trembling, but you led us back to them.”

  “When we got there and I saw the blood and Ben lying on the ground … I thought he was dead.” She closed her eyes a moment, then lowered herself to Alexander. “All I could think was that it wasn’t right, wasn’t fair. He’d been so much alive.” Even with her eyes closed she could see, so she opened them and watched the moonlight. “So long ago, but I’ve never forgotten any of it. When Janet Smithers and Loubet were arrested, I thought it was over and everyone would be safe. And now—”

  “Everyone is safe.”

  “No.” She lifted her head again and shook it fiercely. “Alex, don’t shut me out of this. The phone call came to me, and the warning. I was there seven years ago to see what Deboque can do from his prison cell. I’m here now.”

  “It’s not for you to worry about Deboque.”

  “Now you’re treating me like a child, the way you think a woman should be treated.”

  He couldn’t prevent his lips from curving. “You can accuse me of that when I have such a sister as Gabriella? Eve, I learned as a child not to expect a woman to like to be coddled. I only mean that you can do nothing about Deboque and that worrying about him is useless.” He ran a fingertip down the side of her face. “If it makes you easier, I can tell you that Reeve is working on a solution.”

  “It doesn’t. Every time you leave the palace to perform some duty I’m afraid.”

  “Ma belle, I can hardly remain in the palace until Deboque is dead.” Seeing the expression on her face, he kept his voice quiet. It was best she understood, and understood now before they took another step. “Do you think it will end before that? As long as he lives he’ll seek his revenge. It is in Cordina he’s imprisoned.”

  “Then have him transferred to another prison.”

  “It’s not so simple as that. Deboque knows how long and hard my father worked to put him behind bars.”

  “But Reeve said it was Interpol.”

  “And it was, but without my father’s cooperation, without the information gathered by our own security, Deboque might still be free. My life, my family’s lives can’t be run on the fear of what one might do.”

  But hers could. Eve gathered him close again. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

  “Then you’ll have to trust me to see that nothing does. Chérie, where did you learn to fence?”

  He was trying to distract her. And he was right. The night was theirs. It would be wrong to let Deboque spoil even that. “In Houston.”

  “Fencing masters in Houston?”

  She was amused, and looked it. “Even America has room for elegant sports. You don’t have to be embarrassed that I beat you.”

  “You didn’t beat me.” He rolled her onto her back. “The match was never completed.”

  “I scored the only hit. But if it tramples on your ego, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I can see we have to finish what we started.”

  She smiled slowly. In the moonlight her eyes were dark and lustrous. “I’m counting on it.”

  * * *

  The alarm clock shrilled. Groggy, Eve groped for the button, then shoved it in with enough force to make the clock shudder. She could be late, she decided sleepily. This one morning they could get started without her. She rolled over to cuddle in Alexander’s arms.

  He wasn’t there.

  Still groggy, she pushed the hair out of her eyes as she sat up. The top sheet was draped over her, but it was cool, just as the sheet beneath was cool. The breeze still tapped at the hem of the curtains, still smelled of the sea, but now sunlight poured through. And the room was empty.

  He’d picked up her robe and had put it at the foot of the bed. The bed they had shared. All traces of him were gone. Just as he was gone.

  Without a word, Eve thought as she sat alone. She didn’t even know when he had gone. It hardly mattered when. She reached for her robe before she rose, then slipped it on, belting it as she walked to the window.

  Boats were already on the water, casting out for the day’s catch. The cool white yacht was still anchored, but she could see no one on deck. The beach was deserted but for gulls and the little sand crabs she was too far away to see. The gardener was below her window, watering. The sound of his tuneless whistle reached her and quieted the birds. A trio of pale yellow butterflies rose up, fluttering away from the spray of water, then settling on already dampened bushes. Wet leaves glimmered in the sunlight, while the mixed scent of flowers trailed its way up to her window.

  The day was in full bloom. The night was over.

  She couldn’t be sorry. There was no room in her heart for regrets. What she had shared with Alexander had been magic, a wish come true. She had found him gentle, caring and sweet. The glory of that still remained with her. Briefly he had held her to him as though nothing and no one mattered as much as she. Now that the night was over, there were responsibilities neither of them could ignore.
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br />   He would never ignore them, not for her, not for Deboque, not for anyone. She could stand at the window, struggling against the fear of what might be, but he would do whatever his duty demanded. How could she fault him for being what he was, if she loved him?

  But, oh, how she wished he could be there with her, watching the morning.

  Turning away from the window, Eve prepared to face the day on her own.

  Chapter 9

  From the fly gallery above the stage, Eve had a bird’s-eye view of rehearsal. It was in its sixth hour, and there had only been two bouts of temper. Things had settled down since the meeting she had called the afternoon before, but she continued to make notes on the yellow pad secured to her clipboard.

  She’d been right about the casting, she thought smugly as she watched Russ and Linda run through a scene as Brick and Maggie. The spark was there, and the sex. When they were onstage the temperature rose ten degrees. Linda played Maggie the Cat to the hilt, desperate, grasping and hungry. Russ’s Brick was just aloof enough without being cold, his needs and turmoils raging under the surface.

  They were a constant contrast to the second leads, with the nastiness and rivalry not so much obvious as natural. She couldn’t help but be pleased with herself, especially since they were going to bring the production in under budget.

  The director took them back, and Linda repeated the same line for the fifth time that hour. Both she and Russ went through the same moves. The patience of actors, Eve mused, and wondered at herself for ever believing she could have thought to be one. She was much better here, supervising, organizing.

  But the set … she tapped her pencil against her lips. The set wasn’t quite right. Too shiny, she realized. Too new, too staged. She narrowed her eyes and tried to see it her way. It needed to be a bit more wilted, used, even decaying under a sheen of beeswax and lemon oil. With a focal point, she realized with growing excitement. Something big and brash and shiny that would show up the rest. A vase, she decided, oversize and ornate in some vivid color. They’d fill it with flowers that Big Momma could fuss with while she was trying to ignore the disintegration of her family.

  She scribbled hurriedly as she heard the director call for a break.

  Maneuvering over ropes, she started down the winding stairs that would take her to the stage. “Pete.” She cornered the property master before he could light his cigarette. “I want a few changes.”

  “Aw, Ms. Hamilton.”

  “Nothing major,” she assured him, putting a hand on his shoulder and walking out onto the set. “Pete, we need to age things a bit.”

  He was a small man, hardly taller than she was, so that their eyes were level when he turned and began to scratch at his chin. “How old?”

  “Ten years?” She smiled in lieu of an order. “Look, the family’s lived here awhile, right? They didn’t buy all this stuff yesterday. I think if the couch were faded—”

  A long, suffering sigh. “You want me to fade the couch.”

  “Upholstery fades, Pete. It’s one of those unavoidable facts of life. I think if you took off the cover and had wardrobe wash it a half-dozen times that would do it. And dull the gilt on a couple of the paintings. I don’t want any scratches on the furniture, but … Doilies.” Inspiration hit and she began to scribble again. “We need some doilies.”

  “And you want me to find them.”

  “Didn’t you once mention that you were a scavenger when you were in the service?” She said it mildly as she moved to a different angle.

  “You’d have made general,” he muttered. “Okay, faded couch, dulled gilt and doilies. What else?”

  “An urn.” She narrowed her eyes as they swept the set. It had to be just the right place, not center stage, not too far downstage, but— “Right there,” she decided, pointing to the table beside a wing chair. “A big one, Pete, with some carving or a pattern. And I don’t want anything too tasteful. Red, really red, so it stands out like a beacon.”

  He scratched his chin again. “You’re the boss.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Ms. Hamilton, none of us has a choice.”

  She accepted this without a blink. “Don’t spend over thirty for the vase. We’re not looking for an heirloom.”

  He’d been waiting for her to get to the bottom line. “You want cheap, you’ll get cheap.”

  “I knew I could count on you. Now on the bedroom set, I think it would be effective if we had some jewelry, gold and a little tacky, left on Cat’s vanity.”

  “Already got the bottles and that big box of dusting powder.”

  “Now we’ll have the jewelry. If wardrobe doesn’t have anything suitable, we can pick up something. Why don’t you check with Ethel? I’ll be in my office for the next twenty minutes or so.”

  “Ms. Hamilton.”

  Eve turned at the leg on stage right. “Yes?”

  “I never did care much for extra work.” He took out his cigarette again while she waited for him to go on. “Problem here is, I can see you’ve got a feel for it—the stage, I mean.”

  “I appreciate that, Pete.”