Awaken the Devil Page 6

  After all, there had been plenty of other men to make up for whatever else she felt her husband lacked. Why should she not be in good humor? She had a huge ancestral mansion in which to throw lavish parties, an endless source of funds in which to take an endless stream of holidays, a high title to give her prestige, a husband who would not divorce her no matter what she did, beauty enough to keep her supplied with lovers, and a charming young daughter for whom the trial of being raised correctly had been passed on to someone else. It was the life she had always dreamed of, worked very hard at getting. She had been determined to enjoy it.

  And she had until the very end. No, it was obvious that he had done very little to end up the way he had. Except be conditioned by his environment. But maybe that was not fair to say either. Much like himself, Anne had grown up in a home with a hard father, although he could take or leave both horses and politics and was open about his affection for her, and a philandering mother who wanted nothing at all to do with her.

  She'd had a long line of disciplinarian nannies, the only kind there seemed to be in England despite the impression that had been given to the mass populous via Mary Poppins, and the same sort of honor-grubbing teachers at her schools, although they were schools she had picked out herself and chosen to attend despite the fact that he had wished her to remain in his care. Yet she had turned out to be lively and amusing. She was as fresh as spring and impossible to dislike, and that was not just from a father's perspective.

  So it would appear that it was, indeed, some default of his own that had led him to this place, not the circumstances of his childhood. That was all right, too. He had learned long ago that there was every truth in the maxim "If you make your bed, you'll have to sleep in it." The people with whom he worked, Miss French with her pale, questioning green eyes included, would just have to learn to deal with him as he was. He was too old and hard now to try and make a turn around. No. Life was what it was. One endured it until one died, some sooner than others. It was his experience that the happy ones went first, by some cruel twist of fate. At the rate in which he was progressing, it was conceivable that he might live forever.

  Fielding was as surprised as the others when eight members of the line were asked to stay after rehearsal one afternoon almost a month in. She needed to get out of the theater so she and Josh could go visit Mac, but she wanted to know what this was about. They speculated wildly among them what the subject could be. Leslie, who was petrified of Chandler, was sure that he was going to fire them all. Charlotte was smoking a cigarette in the theater, which she knew very well was against the law in New York. Kelly pretended like she wasn't interested. Or maybe she really wasn't. She seemed much more interested in trying to get Bob's attention. Bob, Kyle, Dwight, and Lyle were too busy conversing nervously about the possible nominations for next year's Tony awards to pay any attention.

  If it had been herself alone, she would easily have been able to attribute Chandler's probable anger to her continued quest to make nice with him. It now worked on an almost everyday basis. She would see him alone, say something friendly, always a question, because he would just ignore her if given the opportunity. If she was lucky, she would catch him completely off guard, and he would give her an honest answer. It was by no means the beginning of a beautiful friendship, however.

  After they had waited long enough to work most of them into a frenzy, they were finally greeted by Chandler and his entire professional entourage. Armand gave them a rundown of a new number that he wanted them to be in, Liz had forms for all them to sign for confidentiality, and Chandler stood around giving them all the evil eye. Armand described the number as sensual and erotic and explained a few of the moves, but Fielding was hardly paying attention. She would take any extra number she could get if she thought it might give her another chance to get an in with Chandler. It probably wouldn't make a difference, but that wasn't a chance she could take.

  "Sorry, Mandy." Charlotte cut in, her rudely casual nickname for Armand slipping easily off her tongue. Charlotte had a ridiculously shortened moniker for everyone, lest she be forced to actually pronounce someone else's entire name. "But why do we get this special treat? Not that I'm complaining I get a little extra exposure."

  Armand, Chandler, Liz, Sara, and Lynette all stared at each other, and a massive sigh passed between them. Armand spoke for all of them. "There is much argument about this number. All of you are decided to be attrayant. How you say, attractive. We don't agree all the time about any of you. Except Mademoiselle French who is recommended by all but Chandler."

  Fielding felt every eye on her, except Chandler's. For once he was quiet on a subject pertaining to his musical. She felt herself flush, stupidly injured that he had objected to her presence here. What else had she expected? He didn't like her. And apparently, he also didn't think she was sexy. Not that there was any reason why he should.

  Suddenly gleaning that what he had said might be hurtful, Armand rushed to correct himself. "He say you are trop court, très court. You know how I say?" He held his hand out to barely above waist level. "Uh, he say you are little."

  Too short. In a way it was a relief. The entire theater world knew that Chandler objected to shortness as though it were a contagious disease. Of course he would think she was too small for a special number like this. She was ridiculously relieved that there was at least an outward excuse that she could use to comfort herself.

  "Can we please just move on?" Chandler's growl made almost every one of them jump.

  With a sense of giddy relief that they were not to be on the receiving end of a walking order, every dancer took Liz's forms, suddenly full of smiles and laughter. There was a party mood, with much ribbing coming in Fielding's direction for being both unanimously sexy and far too short. She was treated to musical renditions of both I'm Too Sexy and Short People Got No Reason to Live. By the time that everyone else had left, she had barely had time to complete half her forms, distracted as she was by all the attention. It took so long for her to finish that everyone else had gone home.

  She took the completed forms out to the stage expecting to find Armand. Instead she found Chandler. The theater was otherwise empty, and he was a lone figure standing under the stage lights, staring at the ceiling. She wondered what he was doing and whether it would be best to give the forms to him or just wait until the morning and give them to a safer figure. Like Armand or Liz. Suddenly she heard a rhythmic tapping and realized it was his toe against the hard wood. He was wearing taps.

  She concluded with delighted surprise that he was finding a rhythm since he had no music. Abruptly, he started to tap. She was dumbstruck by the both the man and the dance. He tapped from the same place she did—another plane where the only things that really mattered were the moves, the rhythm, and the sounds of metal hitting wood.

  She had an almost uncontrollable urge to go out and join him. Her feet itched to learn his moves. Suddenly, the answer became clear. Aside from his obvious affection for his daughter, the only other real affinity he seemed to have was for dancing. Perhaps the way into his good graces was dance.

  She stayed back, away from the stage, hidden in shadows, but he felt her presence anyway. He must have, because he stopped and looked right at her although he would not have been able to see her. At least, she didn't think he could, but she apparently was wrong about that.

  "Can I help you with something, Miss French?"

  With a sigh, there was no point in hiding herself now, she crossed the expanse of the stage and handed the bundle of papers to him. "I just wanted to give these to someone."

  "You appear to have quite a tendency to voyeurism." He took the pile.

  She felt heat surface on her cheeks. She had not blushed since she was a child, and yet here she was. Because she had been staring at him like a peeping Tom. Enjoying the show while it lasted.

  For all that she had been doing and feeling about the dance, she should be giving him fifty cents and going out into the main room to rent a
dirty video. But he didn't know that. He didn't know that she had fantasies about his lean, graceful body. He was just commenting on her propensity towards staring. But she was embarrassed anyway.

  "I just didn't want to disturb you while you were dancing."

  "Much obliged, I'm sure." The corners of his lips turned up in the slightest hint of a smile. The dimples she had known would be there somewhere peeked out of his cheeks. Who said that blond men didn't have five o'clock shadows? She could see the rough hairs individually. She wished that there were some way she could have gotten the papers to him without getting close enough to touch. Then maybe she would not have had to put her hands in her pockets to avoid reaching up and feeling the coarse indentations of his cheeks.

  "Okay." She murmured. "Well…okay." Then she fled while she still had any brains left at all, those little bits of gray matter that had survived the blast of his potent smile. When she left, he was still standing on the stage staring after her.

  Overnight, while she was barely sleeping, she devised a plan. She would ask him to teach her the number he had been dancing. If she could keep up with him, she would at least earn his respect, if not his confidences. She thought she could keep up. It looked hard, but she was good.

  After the idea was hatched, she should have been able to sleep, should have been able to drift off to dreamland, confident that she was step one closer to letting Mac die in peace. Instead, the only thing in her head was the subject of the story.

  His mysterious hazel eyes that seemed to look right through her, his small secret smile, his peek-a-boo dimples and his lips…oh, his lips. No man who wasn't going around kissing any woman who asked had a right to have lips like that. They should have been a public commodity. She rolled over in her bed and pressed her pillow over her head. She was such a moron.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At the theater, Fielding tried to ignore the general feeling of malaise that had overtaken her during her mostly sleepless night and now refused to go away. Just one little touch, her body was working hard to convince her, it won't hurt. Go over and touch Chandler's arm or run your fingers through his hair or press your mouth to his. He won't mind. Which was not the slightest bit true, of course, but she'd thus far had no success in telling her body so.

  She decided to wait until lunch to set her plan in effect so that there would be a minimum number of people around at its induction. The less people who were present, the more likely he would be to indulge her request.

  After everyone else had left the building or at least melted into the wings she cornered Chandler in his seat.

  "Did you want something?" He requested, looking part bored and part irritated. Such a portent for the success of her venture.

  "Yes, I do. I want you to teach me that number you were doing last night." She refused to be daunted by his bad attitude. If she were, she would never get anywhere.

  "I have neither the time, nor inclination, to give private lessons to every person in the line."

  "I'm not talking about everyone, I'm talking about me. I'm an extremely proficient tapper. Right here, right now. Everyone else is gone. You just show me, and I can do it."

  He raised one eyebrow curiously. "Why?"

  "Because I love to dance, and what you were doing last night spoke to me. I want to do it."

  He seemed to consider her words, staring around the empty theater. Already this was more than she could have hoped for. She had expected, at best, that he would dismiss her rudely. "If you can't keep up, lesson is over."

  "Fair enough." She agreed grimly. She hoped that if this really were her last, best chance to make a connection with him she would be able to match his pace. Another moment of truth. If she had known the kind of reserves that this scheme would take she might have hesitated before embarking on it. But it was far too late now. She was in it for the long haul.

  He started off purposely trying to confuse her, not even bothering to break it down. He would do roughly thirty seconds of moves and then wait impatiently for her to mimic them. So she did.

  Focusing her attention completely inward she learned this way for nearly fifteen minutes. They didn't even speak. Just tapped. He was pushing her harder than he had pushed himself when first she had seen him do it, but they both knew that this was a test, and she had no choice but to pass. Not if she ever wanted to earn his respect, even grudgingly.

  Dimly she became aware that there were people in the wings. Either they had just returned from lunch or they had never gone far and had been attracted by the noise. She couldn't afford to concentrate on them. She couldn't afford to concentrate on anything but the moves. When he finished his training, they started at the top and together they ran through the entire number.

  She had never danced so hard in her life. She did miss a couple of beats, and the click of her missteps echoed through the entire theater. But she was pleased. Even impressed with herself. Whether she had found her in with Chandler or not was momentarily forgotten. She had kept up with the best tapper that she had ever met.

  After the last step was made, they halted, both of them exhausted and neither willing to admit it. She could barely breathe. He actually seemed to be faring a little better than she but there was no denying that he had been working hard. Good. She had given him a run for his money. Suddenly, applause exploded from the wings and both of their heads jerked to the side. Among their audience was Daphne looking strangely disapproving. Fielding turned back to him. "Thank you." She spoke quietly

  He nodded. "You're a very gifted dancer." It was a grudging admission, spoken in nearly a whisper. He stared at her for a moment, and the buzz along her skin she'd felt the first time she saw him returned in force. The beaded sweat on her body seemed to turn cold, raising goose bumps against her skin. It became even more difficult for her to draw a breath. Her lips parted, desperately trying for enough air to make her sudden dizziness go away. His eyes darkened, and he took a step closer to her. There was an instantaneous answering ache in her womb.

  "Fielding, you have a phone call." She turned to Daphne, her pulse beating wildly in her throat.

  "What?" Her voice was thick.

  "Phone." Daphne handed over her cell phone. It had been attached to her bag.

  She told herself that the hand she used to grab it was only so shaky because of exertion. "Hello?"

  "Hello, my dear. Daphne tells me that you're getting into trouble."

  "What?" She repeated stupidly.

  "I guess Daphne didn't tell you," Josh continued, "that she's been initiated into our little Scooby club."

  "Don't tell me that." Dread snaked up her spine.

  "Sorry, but she knows. She's on to us. She came over yesterday night to see you when I was down in the lobby. I left the door open, and she just walked right in. It doesn't take a genius to figure out there's no girl at my place. Believe me if Every-Cloud-Has-a-Silver-Lining Barbie over there figured it out, it doesn't take a genius." Josh sighed. "I had to let her in on it. She asked me too many questions, and I was drunk. I'm sorry. But she swears she'll help you. She seems to think that your life is in danger."

  "Josh!" Fielding cried, forgetting that people were listening.

  "I'm sorry, okay? I can't be everywhere, and I worry about you. Even though you're sure he's innocent, which is of course proof positive to the rest of us."

  "Don't invite other people into my business!"

  "Your business is my business since you asked me to help you. Remember that night? It was approximately three weeks ago. You told me your completely nutty idea to respond to Mac's completely nutty wishes and asked me to dig up everything I could about Helena Bentley née Dorsey. I remember that night."

  "I'm working okay. Just don't call me at work."

  "Okay. Be good, Fielding. We have eyes everywhere." She hung up on him without saying goodbye. She turned, but Chandler was gone. Giving Daphne, who seemed to be her new partner in crime whether she wanted it or not, a dirty look she turned and stalked off the stage taps c
licking loudly with every angry step.

  Over another sleepless night Fielding formulated her new plan. Not only had he responded to her attempt to reach him through dancing, he had responded very favorably. He appeared to have enjoyed dancing with her. Or at the very least, it hadn't angered him, which seemed a record. She was not stupid. She would clasp onto anything that wasn't instantly out, let alone something that seemed almost, well, good. It wasn't exactly the straight road to a deep heart-to-heart, but it was better than anything she'd found thus far.

  She waited until after rehearsal let out for the day and cornered him again in almost the exact same spot. "Look." She jumped right in before he could say something rude. "I know that you have a lot of important things to do with your time, and there really isn't anything that I could give you that would make it worth your while, but I wondered if…maybe you could take me on as your protégée."

  Chandler smiled slightly. The second one in just a few days, likely a record for him. "You want me to help you get better parts?"

  She was taken aback. She hadn't meant for it to be interpreted that way. "Of course not. I want you to help me dance. I mean I want you to dance with me."

  "I assure you that you are quite proficient enough a dancer." He started to walk away.

  Desperately she grabbed his arm and then wished she hadn't when her fingers curled around his hard bicep. The heat of his skin was intensely discomforting. She pulled her hand away. "I don't want to be proficient, Mr. Bentley. I want to be great. You know as well as I do that the great golden era of the musical is over. There aren't a lot of Gene Kelly's and Fred Astaire's any more. But you're one."

  He seemed slightly surprised by her words, which she hoped was a good sign. Especially since every word that she'd said was the truth. "I suspect the other members of the cast will not likely care that I gave you a lesson yesterday, but I suspect some of them might feel a little different if I decided that you were, to use your own analogy, Ginger Rogers."