Where the Heart Leads (11 page)

Electricity shimmered in the air between them.

Moira gloried in the feel of him—his warmth, his solidity. This was what she wanted, what she'd come here for. Lunch didn't matter, the poster didn't matter, the play didn't matter. All she wanted was Rafe.

He kissed her until she was dizzy, playing with her lips and exploring her mouth, at the same time holding her against himself with one hand and caressing her hip with the other. He was moving her toward the daybed in the corner of the room, she knew. Her knees bent by reflex against the edge of the cushion.

They sank down together on the soft cushions. The smell of sex was in the air. She was going to do it, do it with Big Red, and Colin be damned. She covered Rafe's face with fierce, defiant kisses, then threw her head back in ecstasy as his lips moved down past her throat.

He unlatched the top of her dress and unclasped her bra. His tongue wet her nipples with moisture and his mouth worried them into tight nubs of sensation.

Yes! This was what she wanted! Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!

A lightning bolt of desire shot through her, and she let her legs fall open. He ran a hand up under her too-short skirt and pulled down her tights. She arched and squeezed her inner thighs in anticipation.

His other hand went up inside the loose sleeve of her dress and stroked her arm up and down. Everywhere he touched, she caught fire. She was in a haze of sensation. A haze she wanted to stay in forever.

He moved his hand around to the tender underside of her arm, up past her elbow, and paused, then circled her scar with a light finger.

She froze.
No, no, no!

The hazy heat evaporated. She turned away and pushed down her skirt.

Rafe sat up. “What's wrong? Did I hurt you?

She shook her head. Her voice wasn't working right, but she had to say something. “You didn't hurt me. It's that, just that…I'm sorry…I can't do it.”

She hiked her tights back up, didn't even try to rehook her bra, and latched her dress closed.

“What was that I touched? A scar?”

“Yes, yes. It's a scar, and it still hurts.” But it was more than a scar, and he would never know how much it hurt. “I have to go now.”

She reached for her portfolio and headed for the door, grabbed onto the banister, and went down the steps as fast as she could.

Pausing at the street door, she ran her hand through her hair and stretched her mouth into a confident smile. Maybe then no one would notice that her lipstick was long gone and her bra was hanging loose. She'd go home and change into something else—a nice suit of armor would do.

And she'd have to remember to tell Astrid that she'd be staying home for Halloween after all.

R
afe leaned back into the couch, spread his arms, and threw his head back.

Good job, cowboy. She bolted on you before you got your belt unbuckled.
He ran his hand through his hair, then massaged his face.

What the hell happened? She'd been as hot as he was, then suddenly, she was running out the door. Was it a tease, some kind of sick Hollywood game? Everything had been moving along until he touched that scar, the one on her underarm. Damn thing was just a slight ridge about the size of a half-dollar, but he'd been surprised to find it on skin as baby smooth as hers.

Was that what had spooked her, him touching the scar? Was it an alarm button?
Danger, danger
—redheaded cowboy getting too close for comfort?

Anger rushed through him.

Goddamn if he was gonna let a fucking scar stop him.

He walked into the outer office and slammed the door shut, then filed the master flyer for
Gift of the Magi
till Sissy got back on Monday.

There'd be other days. And Moira wasn't going to get rid of him as easily as she seemed to think she would. There was no way he was gonna write her off. In fact, he wanted her more than ever.

He needed her.

The children's rehearsal ran over so Moira made it to the auditorium for the adult rehearsal a little late. A quick glance around told her that Rafe hadn't arrived yet.

Phil, Travis, and Sergio were sitting down front, and Billie Joe stood beside the piano, talking to Vashti. The Fontaines were up onstage, chalking a grid on the floor similar to the one they'd taped on the floor of their studio, but with different references and guides.

This was another choreography night. Xandra and Fleurette would work out the Dreamer's big number, Billie Joe's mirror scene, and Rafe's march. And when the chorus showed up about eight thirty, she'd run them through the entire street scene—song, choreography, and action.

And if Rafe didn't appear, she'd give his time slot to Billie Joe, who was not a natural dancer.

Taking her usual seat in the middle of the auditorium, she watched as Xandra led Travis, then Sergio, through what was basically a solo waltz. Travis's performance had a sexy edge, just like his voice, while Sergio's movements were as clean and graceful as his ballerina sister's.

Next came Billie Joe.

Halfway through her number, there was a murmur of interest from the chorus members who were sitting in the back of the auditorium and Moira knew without looking that Rafe had walked in.

The blood rushed to her head and her brain went blank.
Escape, escape!

She scrambled out of her row and hurried up to the area below the stage as though she wanted a close-up view of the rehearsal.

Focus on Billie Joe and pretend you don't know Rafe's coming down the aisle.

And Billie Joe did need help. The Milliner's dance was simple—two-steps and twirls as she took hats on and off—but no matter how many times Vashti rehearsed her, Billie Joe got her feet mixed up and couldn't keep up with the beat.

Moira jerked around as Xandra, schedule in hand, sidled over to her. “Make Vashti quit hounding Billie Joe,” Xandra hissed. “Fleurette and I will work with her at our studio. She needs to start slowly and build up.” She tapped the page. “And besides, we're supposed to have started on the street scene by now. Fleurette and I have classes to teach tomorrow morning and need to get home at a decent time tonight.”

Moira arranged her face to register chagrin and sympathy. “I'm so sorry we're running late, Xandra, and I can't tell you how much appreciate your willingness to work with Billie Joe privately. By the way, I love the way you've choreographed the mirror sequence—it will probably be the hit of the show.”

Xandra gave her another one of her tight smiles and returned to her seat.

Moira gritted her teeth. The Fontaines would never be in her corner, she'd probably pissed Vashti off, and she'd run out on Rafe. Was there any way she could have made a bigger wreck of the day? She might as well pack up her bags and move back to Pasadena.

Rafe wasn't surprised when the second he arrived, Moira ran as far away from him as she could get. Judging by her costume change, she was really spooked. But if she thought razor-pleated slacks, a tailored shirt, and a man-cut jacket would put him off, she had another think coming. A butch outfit on a very feminine female of the heterosexual persuasion was more of a come-on than a put-off.

The room went silent as he walked up onto the stage and waited for Fleurette to show him the tap-step march she'd devised.

This was a moment of high drama, and the actor in him was enjoying every minute of it. The chorus was frozen in place, the Fontaines were leaning forward like hungry vultures, and Vashti was looking back and forth from him to Moira like she was watching a tennis match.

He narrowed his eyes.

Moira's move down front had been a tactical error because now he was standing center stage, and she was on the floor directly below him. The only thing she could do was retreat back to her usual chair and call for the street scene.

Moira stuffed her script in her portfolio and stood up. The rehearsal was finally over and she could go home.

The chorus came off the stage without the usual murmur of small talk and joined Phil, Sergio, Vashti, and the Fontaines as they hurried up the aisle for a swift exit. Travis lingered behind for an extra second, then gave his brother a salute and walked out the door.

Rafe was still here, on the floor.

And they were alone.

He gave her one of his easy smiles and started toward her, as if expecting her to walk out with him, but she ran up the steps at the other side of the stage and tried for a bright, sunny voice.

“Don't wait for me tonight. I'll be here a while longer yet.”

Rafe looked up at her one long second, then shrugged as if it didn't matter, lifted his hand, and gave her another one of those damn smiles of his. “See you later.”

Moira watched him leave, allowed him five minutes by her watch to clear the museum, then, her heart beating in her ears, peeked out the auditorium door to be sure the coast was clear.

As she stepped out into the hall, the old building heaved a groan like Dracula's tomb cracking open.

The dim overhead cast a dismal pall down the hall that left the corners in shadow, and she palmed her keys so they stuck out between her fingers like claws. Her heart thudding in the silence, she hurried down the stairs, then out the front door.

The knot in her chest dissolved. The sidewalk was shining wet under the blessed full moon.

Across the street, she saw Sammy Schuler leaning against the floodlight, alone.

He threw his cigarette into a puddle, sauntered across the street, and met her at the curb. Neither of them spoke.
Fine.
Moira didn't want to talk. She didn't even want to think.

A light breeze rattled the trees, and Sammy shivered, then coughed.

Moira looked him over.

Good grief
—and she thought she had troubles. That felt jacket of his was soaked through and through. The whole time she'd been cozy and dry inside the museum, Sammy had been waiting outside in the rain in case she didn't have an escort.

“You know, you can come into the auditorium on nights like this. The door is unlocked while we're rehearsing. We don't allow smoking, but you'd be warm and dry.”

Sammy shivered again.

“Maybe.”

Moira closed her iPad. She'd spent all afternoon in the library across from the Fontaines' dance studio, leafing through period fashion books, jotting down costume ideas, and working up a color palette.

Now to grab a bite to eat across the river and drive back here for the children's rehearsal.

She glanced toward the Fontaine sisters' lair as she walked to her car, putting a pleasant smile on her face in case any of the cast members were hanging around. And that smile was damn well going to stay on her face all during the adult rehearsal tonight too. The cast didn't need the distraction of her soap-opera life.

Backing out of her parking space, she headed toward G&G Chicken across the river. Not that she felt much like eating, but she didn't want to faint dead away from hunger and have everyone think it was because she was heartsick about the breakup with Rafe.

Her smile faded as she stopped at a red light.

Oh, crap
. She
was
heartsick about it.

She missed his cowboy drawl, his easy smile, those stupid sparkling eyes. She missed talking to him and laughing with him. She missed his arm around her shoulders. She missed his lips on hers. And, yes, she missed his hands going wherever they wanted to go.

But it was all for the best, she reminded herself, reasserting her smile. She was in Bosque Bend to direct the theater guild, not to have a love affair with the chairman of the board.

Correction—a
sexual
affair. No
love
involved.

As if to put an exclamation point on the end of her pronouncement, a spate of fat raindrops splashed onto her windshield. She glowered at the sky and turned on her wipers. The weather would not give her a break, although it wasn't as if she was wearing anything perishable. Her jeans and turtleneck pullover were comfort clothes she'd had since college.

At least she didn't have on a man-suit this evening. And why in the hell did she think dressing like George Clooney would put Rafe off? Every time she'd sneaked a glance in his direction—which was far too often—he was watching her, studying her, maybe trying to figure out what made her tick.

But she had news for him. She wasn't going to let Rafe McAllister or anyone else root around in her psyche. Her past was a closed door.

The light changed and she drove a couple more blocks, then turned in at the sign of the crowing rooster and ordered at the drive-thru window.

Mrs. Loughlin would take care of everything with the children's chorus tonight, but the adult rehearsal was another matter. She may have screwed herself. After all, Rafe was a son of Bosque Bend, and she was the new girl on the block. Would the other actors give her a hard time because she'd publicly rejected him? Maybe sabotage the play?

Most of the chorus members had already arrived and taken their places onstage when she arrived. They didn't seem as upbeat as usual, but nobody hissed or threw rotten fruit in her direction so she guessed she'd survive.

After reviewing the initial “Street Song,” Vashti introduced the minor key version, which ended the first act. Then the Fontaines, who'd driven over with Billie Joe, choreographed the mob scene in the milliner's shop when the customers ended up having a melee while they were trying on hats, which the cast seemed to have a lot of fun with.

All in all, it was turning out to be the best chorus rehearsals yet. Everyone paid close attention and the horseplay was kept at a minimum. Apparently her personal drama had a sobering effect on them.

Now for the principals. She'd work Travis and Sergio into Phil's dream sequence first, then look at Desdemona's ballet. Let's hope Xandra's request to slow down the tempo of “Della's Prayer” didn't set Vashti off. Xandra was right. The dream sequence should be—well—dreamy.

She stood up to get a better view of the stage as Travis and Sergio mounted the steps, then turned as she heard Desdemona greet someone who had just come in.

It was Sammy, and he was taking a seat by the ballerina and her beau.

Moira smiled.

Good.
They were all about the same age. Maybe Buck and Desdemona could convince Sammy to come in out of the rain on a regular basis.

Moira turned back to the stage, where Travis and Phil waited for her direction while Sergio, as the understudy, observed from the wings.

“What I'm after is a weaving in and out of Jim and the Dreamer. Phil, you start out in the spotlight, then retreat as the Dreamer comes forward and takes the spotlight from you. At the same time, your voice will get softer, and Travis's will gain strength. Play with it, guys—but Travis, remember, when you get to the song's climax, Phil's voice must predominate, even though he'll be a couple of yards behind you. Got it?”

Travis saluted, and Phil gave her a thumbs-up as the soft, open chords that introduced the Dreamer sequence filled the auditorium.

Moira's eyebrows went up—Phil was really into the song. So why was he such a cucumber with Micaela?

The second time through, Travis echoed the last couple of words of each line in falsetto, then moved forward as he took over the song, with Phil providing the echoes.

Vashti stopped playing and looked up at the stage, her forehead knit with concern.

Travis shook his head. “Sorry. Let's take it from the top.”

He began again, flubbed a line, then frogged out.

Moira stood up.

Travis cleared his throat, put his hands on his knees, and took several loud breaths, like he couldn't get any air.

Oh God!
He'd turned pale, and there were sweat circles under his arms. Moira hurried out of her row and made for the stage as he groaned and clutched at his belly.