A Dangerous Dance (2 page)

She wasn't the Wizard, the long years in exile had taught her that again and again, but she was his daughter—with the inalienable right to bestow his power where she wished. They'd find it out soon enough.

As for Remy Mistral, that he'd once been contemptuous of her probably wasn't a good reason for setting him up. But it was a reason.

* * * *

Remy stopped in front of the plantation house and shut off his engine. The sudden silence resolved itself into the barely perceptible shrill of a thousand and one insect chorus beneath the green cathedral that pressed in around the house, the rustle of larger life in the underbrush, and the fleeting trill and flutter of birds.

Remy opened the door, the creak of the metal a welcome imposition in the reverential hush. The Wizard's wake was long over. It was time his ghost realized that. He slammed the door and turned to study Magus Merlinn's Oz.

At least he'd resisted the obvious green. To Remy's surprise, it was a smaller, far less pretentious version of a plantation house. It had been built in an era when homes were more serviceable and still likely to be flooded by the nearby Mississippi River. The line of columns marching sternly down the front veranda only hinted at grandeur to come and the peaked roof boasted a mere three gables. The raised veranda that circled the house, left visible the enclosure of the ground level, a modification possible only after the river had been tamed. A plain rectangle of a house with nature as its main adornment didn't seem right for the man Remy had known as the Wizard.

“Not exactly the Emerald Palace, is it?”

He looked, and found the owner of the voice echoing his thoughts. She was standing in the shadow of a towering oak tree, much like she'd stood in Magus's shadow back then. She lifted the baseball cap from her head, ruffled her titian hair into a fluffy halo around the thin oval of her face, and replaced it with the brim toward the back as she strolled toward him.

It took a few moments for Remy's brain to grapple with the differences between what he remembered about the Wizard's Dorothy—which wasn't that much—and what she'd become.

She seemed taller and as thin as he remembered, though her figure had filled out more than memory recalled. Time and—he thought cynically—thirty million dollars, had produced more assurance. A shorter haircut exposed more of her face, revealing the strength of her pointed chin. Her nose was narrow, well aligned and dusted with freckles and she had calm, violet eyes. Her mouth was full and lightly sensual.

She'd never be beautiful, but she had achieved striking. Magus would have been proud, Remy decided, and his enemies will be—surprised. She was graceful in movement, but her body turned vaguely awkward and coltish when still. The yellow sheath sundress she wore suited her. The clean scent of her perfume joined the flower drenched air in assaulting his senses and he felt the jolt of desire in his mid-section before he could rein it in.

“No,” Remy said, pleased he sounded matter-of-fact. “It's not the Emerald Palace, but I like it.”

“Magus liked to tell people he brought here that he was a simple man.” Beneath the auburn veil of her lashes, she slanted him a look that might have been ironic.

He laughed, short and sharp. “Right.”

Trouble was he could almost hear Magus saying it. He might even have believed he was a simple man. No one really knew what Magus believed. He was too much in motion, the pattern of his face shifting too fast for analysis—though many had tried since his death, including him. They all agreed he lived and died an unsolvable puzzle.

Her mouth thinned, stretching into a smile that lit her face with a hint of her father's charm.

“I'm glad you weren't blinded by his light.” She stepped past him, crossing to the wooden steps that led up the veranda. One foot on the first step, she paused, and arched her brows. “Coming?”

The angle of leg and body was sharply pure and a heady enticement in the sultry air—air that made her dress cling to her skin. She was a different kind of dangerous than Magus, but still...dangerous. Not that he'd let that stop him.

Determined, but casual, Remy followed her up the steps and into the house through wide and tall double doors. He looked around him with interest, but felt his gaze drawn toward Dorothy, who was turning out to be as enigmatic as her father. What was going on? Why hadn't she been surprised to see him? What was she thinking?

Dorothy knew he followed, felt his confusion, but didn't look back as she led him through the wide, central hall past elegant salons that opened off either side, past the period antiques that broke the long sweep, to the circular stair spiraling down to an old-fashioned kitchen with brick floor and a fireplace.

He hesitated in the doorway, his dark eyes wary, until she nodded towards the straight-backed chairs that circled the scrubbed, wooden table. “Grab one of those.”

With the warm, yeasty smell of cooking bread filling the air, she took an inventory of the refrigerator's contents, and then looked at him over the open door. “Cold drink or milk?”

“Diet Coke if you have it.” The chair scraped briefly on the uneven floor, then creaked as he settled himself on the bare, wooden surface.

She set a cold can down in front of him, feeling the echoes of her pre-Wizard life call to her. She'd spent most of her life without money or a father, waiting tables with her mother and eventually, when her mother became too ill, by herself. It wasn't until her mother died, that Magus appeared in her world.

She turned from Mistral and the memories, opening the top of her bread machine and set about releasing the loaf inside. Behind her, she heard a pop and a hiss as he opened his cold drink. She hacked off a couple of thick slices as fragrant steam rose around her, piled them on a plate and set it in front of him.

“Help yourself.” She pushed the pale yellow stick of butter and a knife toward him and she saw a brief, quickly hidden flicker of confusion in his eyes. Yes, she'd been right to bring him here, rather than to one of the elegant, formal rooms upstairs, as they made the first move in their wary dance. She was stronger here, more herself, less Magus. She needed to hang on to who she was if she was to survive this foray into Magus's world.

I'm not the Wizard
, she told him with her eyes,
but I'm still dangerous
, and felt a surge of satisfaction at the wariness that lit his eyes again. Like the East's wicked witch, did he recognize Dorothy as a force to be reckoned with? If he didn't yet, he soon would, she vowed.

* * * *

“That was better than the bread my mother never made me,” Remy said, wiping his fingers on the towel she tossed him. He took his time, then leaned back in his chair, thrusting his feet out. If she thought standing gave her the power position, it was time to prove her wrong. It was also time to take back control of this strange meeting.

She smiled coolly, her lids drooping sleepily over her startling eyes and wiped her hands. “I'm glad you liked it, Remy Mistral.”

So she did remember him. He'd wondered, and yet how could she not? He'd been around a lot back in the old days and these days, his radio show was inching its way across the South. There was talk of it going into wider syndication—talk that Remy kept a tight rein on while he tested the political waters. Talk was cheap, as some of his listeners were quick to point out. All it changed was minds, not policies. Louisiana was long overdue for a change in policy. Business as usual wasn't working. He wanted to change that.

“I didn't think you're remember me, you've been gone a long time, Ms—”

“This is Oz. Call me Dorothy.”

“Dorothy.” He frowned, not because he minded the theatrical, but because he preferred to initiate it himself. The situation reminded him of one of those old dances, the kind where the couple moved together, then apart in a stylized tease.

She gave him that cool, cutting smile again. “You could call me Anna, if you don't mind messing with the mystique.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “I never mind messing with anyone's mystique.”

Their gazes clashed as she pushed away from the counter, pulled out a chair across from him and dropped into it. Chin on her hands, elbows propped on the wooden surface, like an inquiring child, she asked, “What brings you to Oz, Remy Mistral?”

He wanted to tell her to call him Remy, but it felt like it would weaken his position for some reason. Instead he straightened, equalizing their positions again. Did she know what she was doing? He couldn't tell by looking into her eyes, but his gut said yes, she knew, in spades. He studied her face for a long moment, letting the silence draw out between them until he could hear the steady tick, then tock of a clock somewhere in the room.

Her gaze didn't falter or her body shift.
One to you
, he thought. “I was hoping for an interview.”

“I'm hardly breaking news.”

“Verrol Vance was killed in prison yesterday. That makes you news.”

For a second her lashes swept down across her pale cheeks in a fan of auburn silk. When they lifted, her expression was oddly blank. “So I heard.”

“You have good contacts. Mine said they were trying to keep it quiet.”

She shrugged, without breaking eye contact. “Magus always did.”

And she'd kept those contacts up? Or reactivated them? “It's been a long time.”

“Yes.” She relaxed back in her chair. “Which should make me...old news. Or at best, a sound bite—which you could have gotten on the phone.”

Remy smiled. “Your number is unlisted—and you haven't been answering it.”

Her chin lifted, her answering smile tightened his gut. “True.” She stood up, studying him for a long moment. “So, you're still a reporter and not just a personality.”

He stood up, too. “Did you doubt it?”

A short silence. “I...wondered.”

“You don't have to anymore.”

“I guess not.” She stared at him, but Remy had the odd impression it wasn't him she saw. He opened his mouth to ask—what? Before he could figure it out, she turned and started for the door.

“It's too late for you to drive back to New Orleans tonight. I'll have a room made up for you.” She paused and turned back. “We don't dress for dinner.”

It was what he wanted, but getting it didn't feel as good as he thought it would. It was too easy, too...something.

“Thank you.” She was in motion again, and what a motion it was. Her body was almost liquid, the gentle sway of her hips...heady. Made it hard to focus on her words.

“If it's a story you want, not just a sound bite, then you'll want to see it, I suppose.”

“It?” He shook his head to clear it. He wasn't here to play side kick.

“Magus's study.” She stopped, turned and gestured toward the stairs.

Remy hesitated, then nodded, as if it didn't matter all that much.

It was only as they wound back up the iron stairway, paced back down the wide hall, that it occurred to him to wonder why she was so willing to accommodate him. His defenses up, his gaze firmly avoiding her hips, he watched her stop in front of tall, narrow doors with big, ornate knobs. She twisted both knobs at once and pulled the doors toward her. Half turning, she gave him a look that was almost a warning.

“Welcome to the heart of Oz, Remy Mistral. I hope you find what you're looking for.”

She looked so ordinary, yet...not. She was the gatekeeper to her father's power, but did she know it? She stepped back, with a gesture towards the dim interior and he felt his awareness of her fade as the magic that had been Magus reached out to draw him into the room. He was only vaguely aware of her crossing the room to the floor-to-ceiling curtains and throwing them back to reveal long, narrow windows and let in the last, golden rays of evening light.

Above the desk, set between the long windows, was a portrait of Magus, part in shadow, partly touched with gold. From it, the power radiated, growing stronger with each step he took toward it. It wasn't gone. It hadn't died with him. It lingered here, waiting for the right person to take it and shape it into a weapon of power again.

All he had to do was convince the wizard's daughter that he was the man to wield it. He looked at her and found her watching him, her face an enigmatic mirror of her father's looking down from the wall.

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TWO

* * * *

“So which do you prefer?”

Dorothy looked at Remy through the lit candles Titus had set on the table between them. They made the shadows on the wall behind him twist and dance, but they also helped to clear the staleness from the air. Opening the house hadn't just been about opening the past. They'd be hiring staff, if her plan worked, but for now, they were keeping things simple.

“Excuse me?” She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.

“Dorothy or Anna?”

“Oh.” She lay the fork down as she considered the question. No one had ever asked it before. “My mother called me Anna.”

“And Magus called you Dorothy.”

“Yes.” She used the fork to push her food from one side of her plate to the other. Who was she? Did she even know? Her mother had kept the secret of her paternity to the end, a fact Dorothy was still trying to forgive her for. She hadn't even known her legal name, had never seen her birth certificate, until Magus showed up to take her to Oz. It was an Anna world, one of making do and trying to make ends meet—and often failing. Her mother had kept her in school, but it hadn't been easy. There'd been days they'd gone to bed hungry. How could her mother let them live like that? How could Magus let them live like that?

Neither one had seen fit to share their story, its beginning or its end.

“I've been Dorothy for the last twelve years,” she said, finally. “It works for me.” She'd needed it in the beginning, to keep reminding all the people who thought she couldn't handle anything, that she was Magus's heir, in fact and deed. It had consumed her, leaving her little to think about who she was or what she wanted. In that interesting way life had of bringing a person full circle, she'd solidified her position just in time for the upcoming election. She'd proved to them, and to Magus's ghost, she could do it. That left only one task and then she'd be free to live her own life. Find Magus's killer and put his ghost to rest. Maybe then she'd know who she was and what to call herself.