Awaken the Devil Page 7

  She tried to smile encouragingly but was afraid it fell a little short. "They would never have to know. I can meet you anytime. Anywhere that's good for you." She lowered her voice slightly when Kyle passed behind them. "Dancing is everything to me." She admitted the truth that Mac had never wanted to see. "If you'll work with me, I'll do anything it takes to make it work for you."

  He sighed heavily and raked his hand through his wheat-colored locks. She could tell he was waging a deep inner war as to whether or not to indulge her request. She wished she knew what to say to push him in the right direction, but in the end, she was afraid to say anything at all. She could never be sure how he would react. "There's a theater off of Forty-Second and Broadway that I own the lease on for another month and a half. Meet me there at nine thirty."

  "Tonight?" She didn't dare believe in her good luck yet in case he changed his mind.

  "I suppose so."

  "You won't regret this." She promised, smiling brightly.

  "Alas, Miss French," he gathered up his papers, "I already do." Then without sparing her as much as a glance he headed back stage toward his office.

  She wanted to be his protégée. Chandler had never heard such an absurd thing in his entire life. No, that wasn't true. The most absurd thing he had ever heard was the sound of his own voice agreeing to do it. Was he mad? He had to be, agreeing to give lessons to a girl in the line.

  No, not just any girl. Fielding French with her honey-colored curls and her mysterious green eyes and her sweet mouth turned up in a smile when he had agreed. He was not sure that he had ever wanted to kiss someone so much in the whole of his entire life, even Helena in her glory days before he had learned what she really was, as he had wanted to press his mouth to Fielding's then.

  It had come upon him as quickly and unexpectedly as a punch in the gut from someone he'd never even met. Wanted to still. The craving for it was haunting him even as he went about his business. That wasn't exactly an accurate example of what he was doing, after all, as he was actually getting very little business done. It haunted him while he attempted to get anything even remotely accomplished. That was more the truth.

  As the day progressed, he told himself that he would cancel with her. That he would tell her it was out of the question. But he could not bear to see her disappointed, which was the most rubbish of all. He was hardly affected anymore when he had to disappoint Anne. Surely he could not be wasting the emotional energy of conscience over a woman he barely knew, even if she was the center of every fantasy he'd had since she'd walked across that stage with her music.

  Indeed, because she was. That made her even more dangerous than another young chorus girl with her eye on getting her name in lights. Dangerous for her, too. Lord knew that he was aware of the effect his presence seemed to have on the lives of chorus girls. Or the short duration thereof. He would just cancel.

  But as the day progressed, he was lulled into a false sense of security by the complete lack of change in her behavior. She was not interested in him. That was plain to see. Aside from his Gene Kelly feet, of course. Her treatment of him was not at all altered from how it had been before he'd agreed to her mad request. She was not afraid of him, but it was clear she had not been before.

  She never would have had the emotional fortitude to even approach him with such a request if she was. And, strangely, that was the thing that he admired about her the most. In the end he just let her leave without saying anything. He would just call the number from her folder—he had not memorized it, he was merely good with numbers—and tell her not to come.

  But at nine, he was still at the theater, and she would have already gone by then. Everyone else on his own staff had gone home except Sara, Liz, and Lynette who were having a costume powwow in Liz's office. Liz had been absurdly demanding since this show had started. She'd capped off the week by giving him several lists, dancers, costumes, costs, details he could handle without her, mostly in regard to Armand's special number. But then again she was not the only one.

  Every person on his permanent staff had an idea, or several, and usually bad ones, about that number. And every list contained the name Fielding French. All the more reason not to meet her; other people were noticing her. So he would merely not show up. He just wouldn't go to the theater. She wouldn't wait around forever in the brutal early November weather. She would just go home.

  But at nine fifteen, he found himself packing his bag. It was early for him. He would usually not be leaving so soon. He was just going home early. That was all. He was tired. It had been a trying day. He would just go out to the street, hail a taxi, go back to the hotel, and go to sleep. He deserved an early night once in a while. He finished the job, threw his bag over his shoulder and headed over to Liz's office. "I'm leaving."

  "So early?" Lynette looked up from the sketches in front of them.

  "I'm tired. Can I not have an early night every once in awhile? Am I to assume this is not okay with you?" He snapped even though it was not her fault.

  "Honestly, Chandler." Sara rolled her eyes. "Do us all a favor, and do go home early. We shall endeavor to survive without your pleasant countenance to uplift us."

  His response was a growl, no doubt they were not expecting anything more, and he stomped out of the office. Then out of the theater. Then into a taxi where he very belligerently ordered the man to take him to Forty-Second and Broadway. He would tell her tonight that he couldn't give her any more lessons. One couldn't hurt. No, he had already given her one. Okay, one more couldn't hurt. No one would ever know.

  He would simply dance with Fielding just this once, and then he would tell her that was all. He would not dance with her again. It didn't matter how obvious it was that the moves spoke to her in the same manner that they did to him.

  There were other dancers in the world who loved to dance in a way that was soul deep. If he felt compelled to find a partner, he would just search out one of them. One that didn't have huge, luminescent mossy eyes and full, soft cherry-scented lips.

  She was waiting at the theater, tucked into the doorway for shelter against the cool drizzle he had left her standing in during his inner argument. When she saw him getting out of the cab, her mouth was a perfect O of surprise.

  "I didn't think you were coming." She recovered herself. "I figured you'd changed your mind."

  "Then why are you still standing in the rain?" He used his key to open the rickety old stage door. This sight had been his second choice when he thought he would not be able to get the theater he wanted until nearly time for the show. He had planned to rehearse here and perform there. At the last minute, the other producer had let the lease go. He had thus far been unsuccessful in pawning the lease for this old monster off on someone else.

  She smiled. "What can I say? I'm an optimist."

  Despite himself, he laughed slightly. The sound was unfamiliar even to him, and she was staring at him as though he had grown another head. He gave her a dark look and went to turn on the lights.

  Fielding couldn't believe that he had shown up. She had given up all hope of his arrival and was merely waiting for the rain to let up a little so she could hail herself a cab, and then there he was. Her good luck was holding. That had to be a first in her life. She was not known for things going the way she had planned.

  Look at her wedding to Dale. She had spent almost two years planning the thing. It had been orchestrated down to the last pastel rose petal. She had intended it to be a grand moment. Instead, it had ended up with the groom jumping into bed with a woman the bride hated two weeks before the blessed event and the embarrassed, but strangely not terribly heartbroken, bride fleeing to Europe. Not exactly one for the annals of Modern Bride.

  Yet here Chandler Bentley was standing with her in a dark, empty building his back to her turning on the lights. Just like she had planned. She just hadn't planned, when she started this grand adventure, on his animal appeal. The way his broad shoulders filled out the gray trench coat he was wearing, alm
ost identical to the one he wore in the picture. She hadn't counted on the way he smiled, when he did, touching her somewhere inside her that she hadn't even suspected existed. She had not counted on having erotic designs on him even if she would never dare act on them. She sighed. The best laid plans of mice and men…

  "I only have time for three quarters of an hour so we had better get started." He was already changing his shoes using the wall for support.

  "Oh, of course. Sorry." She changed her own shoes and then stretched enthusiastically. If his last lesson was any indication, she would need it.

  In the end, it was indeed an indication. He worked her so hard that at the end of forty-five minutes, she was more winded than she had ever been in all of her years performing. The man was like a personal trainer gone mad. He just kept pushing and pushing. But to give him due credit, he stayed with her.

  It was probably not all her imagination that he was trying to make her regret asking, but she didn't. Aside from the fact he didn't seem any more disposed toward talking then he had been before, the session had turned out exactly as she had wanted it. If he would only do this for another six weeks, she would be a machine.

  As if reading her mind, he wiped his face with a towel and grimaced at her. "I don't know if I can do this again."

  She couldn't help the expression that fell on her face. "You mean you're not going to teach me again? But…I really enjoyed it. I mean, I thought it went so well. I was just thinking a little more of this, and I'll be in the best shape of my life."

  He cursed under his breath. A word she had not heard in polite company in a while but had heard just a couple hours ago from a cabbie out in the Village. Then she recalled he had used the same word at the beginning of their phone call at the beginning of this mess. Had that only been a month ago? It felt like years.

  He sighed. "I merely meant that in the future I'll be unable to make it so early. The best I can do is half after ten. But I do hope you realize that you'll still be expected to be on time for rehearsals."

  "Of course. Sure. Ten thirty is great. Anytime is great. I really appreciate you doing this for me."

  "Don't mention it." He followed her outside. "Really, don't mention it."

  Fielding hailed a taxi from the curb. "I wouldn't. Believe me, I wouldn't." Next to him, it was possible she was the last person in the cast who wanted attention to come her way.

  When a car pulled, up he opened the door for her out of long ago bred manners, she was sure. "I shall see you in the morning, Miss French."

  "Will you do this for me every day, the lessons I mean?"

  He sighed heavily. "I suppose so. For a few weeks at least. Unless something comes up."

  "Well then, I wish you'd call me Fielding when we're dancing. I hate being called Miss French. I can't stand hearing it a dozen and a half times a night."

  "I suppose I will have to endeavor to remember not to call you by it unless absolutely necessary. Don't be late tomorrow, Miss French." She stared at him. "Give me time if you please."

  "Where to, lady?" The cabbie demanded rapping his fingers against the glass.

  "Sixty-ninth and Central Park West." She turned back to Chandler. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome." His words were gruff as though he wasn't used to saying them. He closed the door for her and stood on the sidewalk watching her taxi as they drove away.

  Chandler was as good as his word. Every day at ten thirty he appeared at the rickety theater like clockwork. He never seemed to be very happy to do it, but he always showed. And after four days, the weekend was coming on. It was Friday night, and there would be three long nights before she would be able to get him alone again.

  She had to get some information out of him. She'd tried to press harder. But that didn't work either. He just evaded her until she pushed too hard, and then he cut her off rudely. She would just have to get him out of the work environment. Dancing was a start, but she needed to get him loosened up or she would never make any headway.

  So Friday night, when it was too late to do anything except go bar hopping or to a dance club, she irrationally rushed him on their way out the door. "Look, I'm really hungry. Do you want to go get something with me?"

  He raised both eyebrows causing an almost comical lift to his already sharply arched eyebrows. "Something?"

  This was not working out as smoothly as she might have hoped. If she had bothered to think of his reaction at all before spitting out the words, she would have expected him to deny her immediately. Maybe she would have spent a small moment fantasizing that he would agree without any argument and then tell her who was on his short list of suspects for his wife's homicide. What she had not expected is that he would incredulously repeat her invitation with a completely bewildered expression on his face.

  "Like food. You know, something to eat?" She felt like the biggest idiot in the Continental United States. No, Alaska and Hawaii, too. Oh, forget it. She was the stupidest person walking the earth. "I'm hungry."

  The corners of his lips folded up in the tiniest smirk. "Are you asking me out on a date?" He also thought she was an idiot. That much was obvious.

  "No." Too close to the truth and totally without the realm of possibility. "I just wanted to eat, and I thought I would invite you. You don't have to go."

  He looked at his watch. "Yes, alright. Where do you wish to consume this something?"

  She shrugged awkwardly, very much sorry that she had asked despite the apparently favorable results. "Do you like Italian? I have a friend who owns an Italian place uptown."

  A look of contemplation flashed across his features. He was actually considering what he wanted to eat with her! It was beyond comprehension. Maybe, just maybe, after tonight, she would be one step closer to proving him innocent. "I suppose I could eat Italian."

  "Good. Let's go. I'm starving." She tried to pretend lightness, but in truth she was nervous. What if she said or did the wrong thing? It was very possible that this was her last chance. If she could not convince him he wanted her as a friend after a night on the town, then she probably never would. And she so needed to convince him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On the cab ride over to the restaurant, they talked mostly about the musical. About where Chandler had gotten the script and why he had chosen it. It was nothing important, and yet it was much more information than she was sure he had given anyone else in the line.

  "When I was a boy, I loved pirates. Before I discovered dancing I used to spend hours in the hills behind my house plotting the demise of people who crossed me by making them walk the plank or what not."

  He smiled slightly, and Fielding wondered if he had any real smiles in him at all.

  "I even made my own black flag to fly from my pirate ship," he continued, seemingly lost in a memory. "I was quite sure that once they discovered that I was not really an angry five-year-old but, in reality, the dread pirate Golden Eye, before the movie you know, they would be sorry."

  She laughed because she couldn't help it and hoped fervently that he wasn't sensitive about the thing. "And I'm sure they would have been had you made any of them walk the plank." She decided to test the waters. "Who did you dream of the most? Walking the plank, I mean."

  "I had one terribly mean-spirited nanny. Nanny Allerd. She was quite the most horrible person that I've ever met. She used to dunk me under the bath water, hold me under until I panicked, and then pull me out."

  "Good Heavens." Fielding was horrified. "That's awful…and illegal."

  He shrugged. "She did a good many illegal things. Including theft for which she was eventually incarcerated. She was always very annoyed with my inclination toward being dispassionate. She devised games to try and upset me."

  "Why didn't your parents fire her right away?"

  "Well, they didn't know. I never told them, and it's unlikely that she would have."

  "But why not?" She demanded as they pulled in front of the restaurant. "What would make you keep something like that a secret
?"

  "My parents were not terribly interested in whether or not my nannies were taking loving care of me. They would have been furious had she killed me, I was the heir after all, but they would have been furious at me had I made it necessary for them to engage the services of a new nanny."

  His jaw clamped tightly shut, and she knew that he had suddenly realized how chatty he was being and was not thrilled about it. He couldn't stop now! She was finally getting somewhere. "My parents weren't real interested in me either. Luckily, I had my Uncle Mac. He took care of me when they were off somewhere, which was all the time. When I turned six, they forgot my birthday."

  They went inside and were seated immediately. As soon as she placed her napkin on her lap, he asked, "With whom did you spend it?"

  "My birthday? My uncle, of course."

  "The one who raised you?" He clarified.

  "Yes, that's the one. He's the only uncle I have."

  "I have none. No aunts either." He looked at the menu and then back up at her. "You remember so well after all these years that your parents forgot your sixth birthday?"

  She fiddled with her own menu. She supposed that life was take a little, give a little. She hated talking about her parents in this particular respect. Not the fact that they were dead, which she had explained in detail a half a million times, but how they had treated her. But if she expected him to tell her all about his murdered wife the least she could do was tell him about her dead parents. "It was my last birthday before they died. Mac had organized this big party with all my friends from school. My parents were supposed to be there. It was my first real party, and they had missed all my other birthdays.

  "I don't remember that, but Mac says they would always say I was too little to remember anyway so why did they need to be there? I guess they were right because I don't remember. But I do remember that I was very excited about this particular party. But when the day came, they both called and cried off to fly out of town on some…business. I was so upset I threw up."