Dance to the Piper (8 page)

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Reed wondered if she was playing tricks with his mind. Maddy O'Hurley didn't look like most people's idea of a witch, but that was certainly the most reasonable explanation for the fact that he was loitering around Rockefeller Center at seven on a humid Friday evening. He should have been home by now, enjoying a quiet dinner before diving into the mass of paperwork he carried in his briefcase.

Traffic streamed along Fifth, bad-tempered from heat and noise. Those lucky enough to have a place to go and the time to spare were heading out of town, hoping the heat wave would ease by Monday. Pedestrians hurried by, ties loose, shirts wilting, looking like desert nomads in search of an oasis—an air-conditioned lounge and a long, cold drink.

He watched without interest as a few children, their eyes shrewd enough to mark out-of-towners, tried to push stiff red carnations for a dollar each. They did a fair trade, but not one of them bothered to approach Reed. He looked neither generous nor naive.

Though he caught snippets of conversation as people shuffled past, he didn't bother to wonder about them. He was too busy wondering about himself.

Why had he agreed to meet her? The answer to that was obvious enough. He'd wanted to see her. There was no use picking at that bone again. She aroused his… curiosity, Reed decided, unable to find a better term. A woman like her was bound to arouse anyone's curiosity. She was successful, yet she shrugged off the trappings of success. She was attractive, though she rarely played on her looks. Her eyes were honest—if you were the type who trusted such things. Yes, Maddy was a curiosity.

But why in hell hadn't he been able to pull his thoughts together and suggest some place more… suitable, at least?

A group of teenage girls streamed past, giggling. Reed sidestepped in lieu of being mowed down. One of them glanced back at him, attracted by the aloof expression and lean body. She put her hand over her mouth and whispered urgently to her companion. There was another round of laughter, and then they were lost in the crowd.

A sidewalk vendor hawked ice-cream bars and did a thriving business with a pack of office workers who hadn't escaped the heat of the city for the weekend. A panhandler milled through the crowd and was far less successful. Reed brushed off a scalper who promised the last two tickets for the evening show down the street at Radio City, then watched him pounce on an elderly pair of tourists. A block away, a siren began to scream. No one even bothered to look.

Reed felt perspiration trickle down his collar and ease down his back. His watch showed 7:20.

His temper was on its last notch when he saw her. Why did she look different, he wondered, from the dozens of people churning around her? Her hair and clothes were bright, but there were others dressed more vividly. She walked with a relaxed sort of grace, but not slowly. It seemed she did nothing slowly. Yet there was an air of ease about her. Reed knew that if he bothered to look he could find five women in that many minutes who had more beauty. But his eyes were fixed on her, and so was his mind.

Sidetracked by the panhandler, Maddy stood near the curb and dug into her purse. She pulled out some change, exchanged what appeared to be a few friendly words, then slid through the crowd. She spotted Reed a moment later and quickened her pace.

"I'm sorry. I'm always apologizing for being late. I missed my bus, but I thought I'd be better off going home and changing after rehearsal because you'd probably be wearing a suit." She looked him over with a bright, satisfied smile. "And I was right."

She'd traded the overalls for a full-skirted dress in a rainbow of colors that made her appear to be the gypsy she claimed she was. Everyone on the sidewalk seemed to fade to gray beside her.

"You might have taken a cab," he murmured, keeping that short but vital distance between them.

"I've never gotten in the habit. I'll spring for dinner and make up for it." She hooked her arm through his with such quick, easy camaraderie that his normal hesitancy toward personal contact never had a chance. "I bet you're starving after standing around waiting for me. I'm starving, and I didn't." She shifted her body to avoid a collision with a woman in a hurry. "There's a great pizza place just down—"

He cut her off as he drew her through the crowd. "I'll buy. And we can do better than pizza."

Maddy was impressed when he caught a cab on the first try, and she didn't argue when he gave the driver an upscale address off Park Avenue. "I suppose I can switch gears from pizza," she said, always willing to be surprised. "By the way, I like your father."

"I can tell you the feeling was mutual."

Maddy didn't blink when the cab was cut off at a light and the driver began to mutter what might have been curses in what might have been Arabic. "Isn't it odd about him knowing my parents? My pop loves to drop names until they bounce off the walls—especially if he's never met the person. But he never mentioned your father."

Reed wondered if her scent would linger in the stale, steamy air of the cab after they left. He thought somehow it would. "Perhaps he forgot."

Maddy gave a quick, chuckling snort. "Not likely. Once Pop met the niece of the wife of a man whose brother had worked as an extra on
Singin' in the Rain.
He never forgot that. It does seem odd that your father would remember, though, or that it would matter, one night on a cot in a hotel room."

It had seemed unlikely to Reed, as well. Edwin met hundreds and hundreds of people. Why should he remember so clearly a pair of traveling entertainers who had given him a bed one night? "I can only guess that your parents made an impression on him," Reed answered, thinking aloud.

"They are pretty great. So's this," she added as the cab pulled up in front of an elegantly understated French restaurant. "I don't get up this way very often."

"Why?"

"Everything I need's basically concentrated in one area." She would have slid from the cab on the street side if Reed hadn't taken her hand and pulled her out with him onto the curb. "I don't have time to date often, and when I do it's usually with men whose French is limited to ballet positions."

She stopped herself when Reed opened the door for her. "That was a remarkably unchic thing to say, wasn't it?"

They stepped inside, where it was cool, softly scented and quietly pastel. "Yes. But somehow I don't think you worry about being chic.''

"I'll figure out whether that was a compliment or an insult later," Maddy decided. "Insults make me cranky, and I don't want to spoil my dinner."

"Ah, Monsieur Valentine."

"Jean-Paul." Reed nodded to the maitre d'. "I didn't make a reservation. I hope you have room for us."

"For you, of course." He cast a quick, professional look at Maddy. Not the
monsieur's
usual type, Jean-Paul decided, but appealing all the same. "Please, follow me."

Maddy followed, wondering what kind of juggling act the maitre d' would have to perform. She didn't doubt that Reed would make it worth his while.

It was precisely the sort of restaurant Maddy had thought he would patronize. A bit staid but very elegant, quietly chic without being trendy. Floral pastels on the walls and subdued lighting lent an air of relaxation. The scent of spice was subtle. Maddy took her seat at the corner table and glanced with frank curiosity at the other patrons. So much polish in one small place, she mused. But that was part of the charm of New York. Trash or glitz, you only had to turn a corner.

"Champagne, Mr. Valentine?"

"Maddy?" Reed inclined his head, holding the wine list but leaving the decision to her.

She gave the maitre d' a smile that made his opinion of her rise several notches. "It's always difficult to say no to champagne."

"Thank you, Jean-Paul," Reed said, handing back the list after making his selection.

"This is nice." Maddy turned from her study of the other diners to smile at Reed. "I really hadn't expected anything like this."

"What did you expect?"

"That's why I like seeing you. I never know what to expect I wondered if you'd come by rehearsals again."

He didn't want to admit that he'd wanted to, had had to discipline himself to stay away from something that wasn't his field. "It's not necessary. I have nothing creative to contribute to the play itself. Our concern is the score."

She gave him a solemn look. "I see." Slowly she traced a pattern on the linen cloth. "Valentine Records need the play to be a hit in order to get a return on its investment. And a hit play sells more albums."

"Naturally, but we feel the play's in good hands."

"Well, that should be a comfort to me." But she had to drum up enthusiasm when the champagne arrived. Because rituals amused her, Maddy watched the procedure—the display of the label, the quick, precise opening resulting in a muffled pop, the tasting and approval. The wine was poured in fluted glasses, and she watched the bubbles rise frantically from bottom to top.

"I suppose we should drink to Philadelphia." She was smiling again when she lifted her glass to his.

"Philadelphia?"

"Opening there often tells the tale." She touched her glass to his, then sipped slowly. She would limit her intake of wine just as religiously as she limited her intake of everything else. But she'd enjoy every bit of it. "Wonderful. The last time I had champagne was at a party they threw for me when I left
Suzanna's Park,
but it wasn't nearly this good."

"Why did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Leave the play."

Before she answered, she sipped again. Wine was so pretty in candlelight, she mused. It was a pity people stopped noticing things like that when they could have wine whenever they liked. "I'd given the part everything I could and gotten everything I could out of it." She shrugged. "It was time to move on. I have restless feet, Reed. They dance to the piper."

"You don't look for security?"

"With my background, security doesn't come high on the list. You find it first in yourself, anyway."

He knew about restlessness, about women who moved from one place to the next, never quite finding satisfaction. "Some might say you bored easily."

Something in his tone put her on guard, but she had no way of answering except with honesty. "I'm never bored. How could I be? There's too much to enjoy."

"So you don't consider it a matter of losing interest?"

Without knowing why, she felt he was testing her somehow. Or was he testing himself? "I can't think of anything I've ever lost interest in. No, that's not true. There was this calico-cat pillow, an enormous, expensive one. I thought I was crazy about it, then I bought it and got it home and decided it was awful. But that's not what you mean, is it?"

"No." Reed studied her as he drank. "It's not."

"It's more a matter of different outlooks." She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. "A man like you structures his own routine, then has to live up to it every day because dozens of people are depending on you. A great deal of my life is structured for me, simply to keep me on level ground. The rest has to change, fluctuate constantly, or I lose the edge. You should understand that, you work with entertainers."

His lips curved as he lifted his glass. "I certainly do."

"They amuse you?"

"In some ways," he admitted easily enough. "In others they frustrate me, but that doesn't mean I don't admire them."

"While knowing they're all a little mad."

It took only an instant for the humor to spread from his mouth to his eyes. "Absolutely."

"I like you, Reed." She put her hand over his, friend to friend. "It's a pity you don't have more illusions."

He didn't ask her what she meant. He wasn't certain he wanted to know. Conversation stopped when the waiter arrived with menus and a list of specials delivered in a rolling French accent Maddy decided was genuine.

"This is a problem," Maddy muttered when they were alone again.

Reed glanced up from his menu. "You don't like French food?"

"Are you kidding?" She grinned at him. "I love it. I love Italian food, Armenian food, East Indian food. That's the problem."

"You suggested pizza," he reminded her. "It's hard to believe you're worried about calories."

"I was only going to have one piece and inhale the rest." She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and knew she could have eaten anything on the menu. "I have two choices. I can order just a salad and deny myself. Or I can say this is a celebration and shoot the works."

"I can recommend the
cotelettes de saumon"

She lifted her gaze from the menu again to study him very seriously. "You can?"

"Highly."

"Reed, I'm a grown woman and independent by nature. When it comes to food, however, I often have the appetite of a twelve-year-old in a bakery. I'm going to put myself in your hands." She closed the menu and set it aside. "With the stipulation that you understand I can only eat this way once or twice a year unless I want to bounce around stage like a meatball."