Can't Stop Loving You (14 page)

Matt Rider stood in the dressing room
backstage feeling like a turkey getting trussed for somebody’s
Thanksgiving dinner.

“I look like a fool,” he added. “Nobody but a
wimp or a sissy would wear these things.”

Barb giggled, then bent over to run her hands
down his legs. Beneath the satin britches he was showing more leg
than most because of his height.

“I kinda like ‘em myself. Shows off your
gams.”

“That’s not all they show off.”

“That too.” Grinning, Barb stood up to adjust
his sword. “There now, you’re absolutely perfect.”

“This is a damned crazy idea, if you ask
me.”

“Brick and Helen
did
ask you, and
you said it was a great idea.”

“That’s because I didn’t want to hurt their
feelings.”

“You’re a sweet man, Matt Rider.” Standing on
tiptoe, Barb kissed his cheek.

“Don’t you go telling anybody. It would ruin
my reputation.”

“Seal my lips.”

He meant to give her a light kiss but once he
started, he couldn’t stop. If somebody hadn’t knocked on the door,
he
knew
what would have happened next.

“Matt... Barb.” It was Marsha, taking care of
business, ever vigilant. “Are you ready?”

Matt leaned back and wiggled his eyebrows at
Barb.

“If only she knew how ready I am,” he
said.

“Shhh. She’ll hear you.”

Marsha tapped on the door once more, sharper
this time.

“Anybody in there?”

“Yep.” Matt wiped lipstick off his chin.
“We’re here.”

“Everybody onstage in five minutes,” Marsha
called.

“Gotcha.” Barb fluffed out her skirts and
twirled around for Matt. “How do I look?”

“Good enough to eat.”

He took a step toward her, and she shook a
finger at him.

“Naughty boy.”

“Just going to take your arm.”

“Shucks. What a disappointment.” Barb laced
her arm through his. “Do you think anybody will know what’s going
on?”

“Nah. This is the world’s best kept
secret.”

Matt sneaked one last kiss before escorting
his
leading lady toward the stage.

o0o

Cramer Johnson considered himself damned
lucky. He hadn’t found out until the last minute, and he’d still
managed to snare a good seat. Third row. Center section.

A stream of sweat trickled down the side of
his face. He wished he could pull off his coat. Old Farnsworth must
have ice in his blood. He kept the theater hot as Hades.

Cramer wiped sweat with his handkerchief and
consulted his program. Intermission between acts 2 and 3. That was
good. At least he could step outside and cool off. Maybe take a
smoke.

He patted the bulge under his coat, grinning.
Thank the Lord for blabbermouths. It sure made his job easier.
Connections did too. If his aunt’s cleaning lady hadn’t been best
friends with the upstairs maid at Farnsworth Manor, he wouldn’t be
sitting where he was. He’d be off somewhere drinking a beer and
shooting pool.

He followed the action onstage. The Sullivans
were good. Better than good. Superb. Cramer was no fan of
Shakespeare, but he kept up. In his business, he had to. If he
didn’t, somebody else got the scoop.

Act 2 ended, and folks began to head for the
lobby. He waited until the aisles were clear before making his
exit.

It was hampered by two slow-moving little old
ladies who had their heads together, more interested in talking to
each other than in getting to the lobby for a breather. They were
talking in whispers, probably thinking no one could hear, but to
Cramer’s trained ears it sounded as if they were talking just for
his benefit.

“They say this is going to be the night,
Maudie.” The gray haired lady who addressed Maudie looked as if she
were too fragile to carry the many pounds of sequins on her
dress.

“It has to be, Mildred. This is the last
performance.” The one called Maudie flashed so many diamonds on her
fingers that she glittered more than the spotlights.

“How did you hear it?”

“The Bishop’s wife heard it from her aunt
whose best friend’s next-door neighbor knows the upstairs
maid.”

“Then it must be true.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d put money on it.”

“Pshaw, Maudie. You’re too tight to put money
on anything.” Mildred clutched her sequined bag to her sequined
breast. “Oh, I do hope it’s true. Just think. We’ll be
witnesses.”

Cramer was sweating in earnest by the time he
reached the lobby. If those two old ladies knew, how many other
people did?

He hurried through the glass double doors
into the New Hampshire night. A full moon sparkled on the snow.
Winter wonderland.

But not if he didn’t get an exclusive.

He had barely gotten out the door when he
spotted three gorgeous women in a huddle. One of them looked just
like the famous prima ballerina. Good lord, it
was
Kathleen Shaw!

He hustled over and held out his press card.
“Miss Shaw, could have a few words, please?”

“Not tonight.” She smiled to take out the
sting. “This is Helen and Brick’s night.”

“You’re here because of them.”

That radiant smile again. “All of us are.
We’re Helen’s Forever Friends, and we wouldn’t miss this.”

Thank the Lord she told him the names of the
other two, and even took the time to spell Corban.

They headed back inside and he sprinted
around them. Couldn’t take the chance of getting stranded while
somebody else got the story.

The curtain came up and act 3 proceeded on
schedule.

“‘I must, forsooth, be forc’d to give my
hand, oppos’d against my heart, unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of
spleen; who woo’d in haste, and means to wed at leisure.’”

Helen Sullivan had never looked more radiant
as she delivered Katharine’s pre-wedding speech.

Cramer felt all his muscles tense.

“‘I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,
hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour. And, to be noted for a
merry man, he’ll woo a thousand, ‘point the day of marriage, make
friends, invite them, and proclaim the banns; yet never means to
wed where he hath woo’d.’”

There was a stir in the audience as Brick
Sullivan entered from the wings riding on the most broken-down,
swaybacked horse Cramer had ever seen. They must have taken the nag
directly from the glue factory.

The horse was exactly as Shakespeare had
described it, as were the clothes Brick Sullivan wore—an old jerkin
that looked as if the mice had chewed it, britches with holes in
them, mismatched boots, one laced and one buckled, and an old rusty
sword with a broken hilt.

“Woo’d you I did, and wed you I will.”
Brick’s Petruchio dismounted his nag and swooped upon Helen like a
falcon diving for his prey. He circled her waist and swept her into
his arms. “Kiss me Kate, for I desire a taste of honey before I
wed.”

The lines he had quoted were not Shakespeare,
and the kiss he gave his ex-wife was
definitely
not a
stage kiss. Cramer stuck his hand underneath his coat to feel his
camera.

The kiss lasted so long that a murmur of
appreciation went up from the audience.

Brick Sullivan finally released Helen and
dazzled the audience with his famous grin.

“Come, come, sweet Kate,” he roared, “you
call that a kiss. ‘Tis but a slight sting of the bee.”

“Touch me again, and I’ll show you my
stinger.”

“Your stinger I’ll take, but later, sweet
Kate. Unless you desire an audience when you give me all?”

“I’ll give you nothing.”

“I take what I want, not ask. And sweet Kate,
I’m taking
you.”

Brick swept her into his arms once more, then
leaned her over backward until her hair was almost sweeping the
floor.

The audience sighed their approval. Cramer
listened for whispered comments about how the play had drastically
departed from the original, but there were none. No actors alive
could get by with rewriting Shakespeare except the Sullivans.

He pulled his notepad out and began to
scribble.

“‘Of all mad matches, never was the like!’”
One of the characters onstage spoke the line that sounded like the
real
Shakespeare, but Cramer was beyond caring. From
offstage came the sound of minstrel music. It grew louder and
louder, until finally the minstrels paraded onto the stage,
followed by a man in priest’s garb.

“I’ll be a son of a gun.” Cramer jerked out
his camera. The priest was no actor; he was Father Glenn O’Malley
from the St. James Catholic Church in nearby Concord.

“Come, come,” Brick said. “Don’t dawdle,
parson, for I would wed the wench.”

“No wench am I, and no wife I’ll be.”

Brick chucked Helen under the chin, then
kissed her thoroughly once more, much to the delight of the
audience.

“Some call you an irksome, brawling scold, a
waspish, ill-tempered wildcat.” Brick ran his hands the length of
Helen’s back, letting them come to rest on her derriere. “But I
call you sweeter than a honeycomb, and your nectar I’ll suck before
the day’s end.”

“Twill end before you wish if you don’t put
your hands in a proper place.”

“Nay, sweet Kate. All is proper for all will
be mine.” Brick clapped the priest on the shoulder. “On with the
wedding.”

Brick took Helen’s hand, and the two of them
stood before the priest.

Others in the audience recognized the
priest.

“That’s Father O’Malley,” one said.

“The wedding’s real.”

“Brick Sullivan’s going to remarry his
wife.”

Indeed, he was... and Cramer was going to
have the exclusive. Chortling with glee, he stood up to record the
event for the first page of the morning edition... and found
himself in the company of eight other newspapermen, popping up all
over the theater like toast.

“So much for an exclusive,” he muttered.

o0o

Onstage Brick was only vaguely aware of the
glare of flashbulbs. He had eyes only for Helen. She looked
beautiful and very, very vulnerable. Her hand trembled in his as
she said her vows.

Once again they had rushed to the altar
without spending much time in courtship. But they were older now,
and wiser. The second time around would be the charm. Wouldn’t
it?

Headlines around the nation carried the news
of their wedding. “Reunion of the Famous Sullivans Permanent.”

“Petruchio Weds Kate; Brick Weds Helen.”

“The Sullivans Exchange Vows Onstage.”

“Love Thaws in the Frozen North.”

“Shakespeare Rewritten by the Famous
Sullivans.”

The newspapers were scattered around their
honeymoon suite. After the play closed, they’d graciously granted
interviews, then ducked out to hop a private plane to New York.

They hadn’t even had a honeymoon the first
time. They’d both vowed to do everything right this time.

Brick came through the door softly,
determined to surprise his wife, then stood in the bedroom in rapt
silence, watching her. She was even more beautiful asleep than
awake, if that were possible. The bloom of their recent lovemaking
still colored her skin, and the peace of repose eased her entire
body in total relaxation.

One arm was curled under her pillow, the
other hanging over the bed. One leg was tucked securely under the
sheets, the other boldly sprawled in a position both provocative
and vulnerable. She still wore high heels and pearls.

To think that he’d once lost her. He batted
the wetness from the corner of his eyes.

Never again. He would do everything in his
power to keep her this time.

He approached the bed softly. She stirred,
sighing, then settled back with a smile on her face. He placed a
single long-stemmed red rose on her pillow.

One of her eyelids fluttered open. Then the
other.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead.” He bent to kiss
her lips.

“My, how time flies when you’re having fun.”
She gave him a dazzling smile.

“Did you have fun?”

“Fishing?”

“Yes. You know how actors are, always looking
for rave reviews.”

“Superb. Stupendous. Incredible. Awesome.
Miraculous... More.”

Laughing, he sat down beside her. The
mattress sagged under his weight, and the rose rolled off the
pillow. He picked it up and caressed her cheeks with the
petals.

“I like those reviews. Especially the last
one.” He moved the petals over her lips. They parted, and her
tongue darted out to taste the rose.

“Hmmm. Good. More.”

He trailed the rose down the side of her
throat, then pushed aside the sheet to tease her nipples.

“Does this rose have thorns?” she asked.

“I plucked them all off.” The rose slowly
circled her breasts. She arched into its velvety caress. “I’ve
banished thorns from your life forever.”

“My hero.”

He leaned down and followed the path of the
rose with his tongue. Shivers ran through her. Brick loved the way
she responded to his foreplay, loved watching her reactions.

“You are the most incredible woman in the
world. Did I ever tell you that?” He slid the rose over her flat
abdomen, pausing at the indention of her navel to twirl the petals
in a circular motion. Her shiver was his reward.

“About six times last night and in the wee
hours of the morning.”

Her hand moved to lower the sheet, but he
covered it with his. One of the best parts of loving was the
anticipation.

“Seven.”

He drew the rose back over her skin, slowly
caressing. Her hand trembled on the sheet.

“You counted?”

“A guy has to keep track of his
performances.”

He wet the rose with his tongue, then teased
her lips with the damp petals. A pink glow flushed her cheeks.

“Don’t expect me to help you keep track. I’m
too busy with other things.”