She moistened her lower lip with her tongue. "Because I assumed our discussion was over. You made an offer and I refused."
"It's not over. It's only just begun." He took a step back and obviously tried to temper the fierceness in his voice. "Let me take you out to dinner and well talk some more."
She shook her head. "It would be futile. I won't change my mind."
He gazed at her a moment, his blue-green eyes fixed intently on her face. Then he smiled again, not mockingly or cynically but warmly. "Then I suppose I'll have to change it for you. I won't give you up."
The phrasing was strangely possessive, and she again experienced a great surge of wariness. "You can't give up what you don't have."
"A slip of the tongue." His eyes twinkled. "Naturally, I meant I won't give up my Desdemona."
"Naturally." She relaxed. Of course that was what he meant. "Now, if youll excuse me, I want to go home and get to bed. I live outside Geneva, and it's a long drive."
"I'll take you."
"No," she said firmly.
His smile remained in place, but she was conscious of a subtle tensing of his muscles. "I'm not giving up. You were born to sing Desdemona."
She said with forced lightness, "Perhaps someday you'll let me star in one of the touring companies here in Europe."
He shook his head. "I want you to create the role. I want you on Broadway." He turned and opened the door. "Good night, Daisy."
He had used her first name, and for some reason the sudden drop in formality added to her uneasiness. "Good night, Mr. Hayes."
He glanced over his shoulder and again corrected her. "Jason."
Before she could answer he had shut the door behind him.
"So what do we do now?" Eric asked Jason as he got out of the taxi at the Hilton. "We can't force her to come with us."
"No." Jason paid the taxi driver and turned and strode toward the front entrance of the hotel. "But we can find an edge and use it."
"What edge?"
"Whatever it takes." Jason entered the lobby. "But there's no need for both of us to cool our heels here. Take a plane to London tomorrow and
see what you can do about signing Colin Bartlin for Iago. Ill handle everything here."
Eric frowned. "You're sure?"
Jason nodded. "It may take a while to get him. I hear Bartlin's got a long-term contract with Phantom. Why don't you call Peg and have her meet you there?"
"I may do that." He brightened and fell into step with Jason as they crossed the lobby toward the bank of elevators. "She's never been to London, and she needs a break. The kids have been driving her crazy lately." He pressed the button for the elevator. "If you're certain you don't mind becoming involved in the Justine negotiations."
He was already involved, Jason thought grimly. It wasn't just the music. He had only touched her and his body was still aching and aroused. She had felt the chemistry, too, in spite of her devotion to that damn lover who seemed to hold her in thrall.
He felt a surge of red-hot fury at the thought and drew a steadying breath. It was only sex. It wasn't uncommon for a man to feel an obsessive sexual attraction—and control it. There would be no danger to her. He would sign her. They might have a few nights together to rid themselves of their shared lust, then he would go back to New York.
The doors slid open and he stepped into the elevator. "Don't worry. I have nothing better to do right now. I don't anticipate any problem with eventually persuading Daisy Justine to sign with us."
Though it was well after midnight, her father was still up when Daisy arrived at the cottage.
She hadn't expected him to be asleep, though. Lately he was totally wrapped up in his work. He had gotten into the habit of rising at dawn and continuing to paint until well after midnight. She shut the door. "Hi, Charlie." "Hi," he said absently.
She shook her head resignedly as she saw his tall, gawky frame hunched before the easel standing across the large room that was their living and studio space. The strong lights picked up the gray streaks in Charlie's disheveled brown hair and the paint splotches on his favorite blue chambray work shirt. "It's after midnight. Time for bed."
"In a minute. I want to get the hue of this bowl just right. ..." His gaze narrowed on the canvas. "How did it go tonight?"
"Pretty well. The audience seemed to think I was okay." She strolled over to the canvas and laid her head against his arm as she studied the painting. "I like this one. That banana looks real enough to eat."
He grimaced. "As an art critic once told me, I have a great grasp of texture and no grasp of soul."
"Which just goes to show you what an idiot he was. How can a banana have a soul?"
He chuckled. "That's what I thought at the time. I remember how outraged I was ..." He trailed off as he became lost in his painting again. "Did you eat supper?"
"What?" He glanced down at her. "I think so. Chili or something."
"That was yesterday." Her worried gaze ran over him. He had always been slender, and his tall, spare frame was now growing thinner every day,
she noticed uneasily. The feverish energy he was injecting into his work was taking its toll
"Was it?" He added a little gray to the coba the bowl containing the fruit. "Well, I'm sure I had something."
"Ill make some soup for us." She threw her purse on the couch and moved toward the tiny kitchenette across the room. "And then well go to bed."
"After I finish." He hesitated. "I thought maybe, if you weren't too tired, you'd pose for a little while for me. The portrait has something—it feels good, Daisy."
"Then why won't you let me see it?"
"It's a surprise."
"I'm not tired, but you have to rest. You know what the doctor said about—" She stopped. He had turned to look at her and was smiling gently as he slowly shook his head. They both knew it was only a matter of time, but he had made her promise to tell no one and live each minute to the hilt. She didn't have the right to lecture him about how he should spend his last days simply because she wanted to keep him with her a little longer. She felt the tears rise to her eyes and quickly turned away so he wouldn't see them. "We'll talk about it later. I'll make the soup."
Charlie worked on her portrait until after three in the morning and stopped then only because Daisy firmly sent him off to bed on the pretext that she was too tired to pose any longer. He carefully draped the portrait before he left the room. After the door of his bedroom shut behind him, she got up and returned to the canvas of the still life her father had been working on earlier.
It wasn't really a very good painting. Just a still life like a dozen others that were displayed by hopeful artists in the colony. It wasn't fair, dammit. All Charlie had ever wanted was to create something wonderful. He had worked hard all his life to achieve that goal. Why couldn't the muse have blessed her father with just one work that he could be justifiably proud of before he died?
She wearily turned away and switched off the lights before moving toward her own small bedroom. Life wasn't always fair, but one had to make the best of it. They had these last few months together, and maybe tomorrow Charlie would paint his masterpiece.
She took off the sky-blue eighteenth-century gown in which Charlie had insisted on painting her and carefully hung it in the closet. The first time he had seen her play Fantine he had said that she was born to wear a period costume, and when he had decided to paint her portrait, nothing would do but that she buy this gown from the company.
She put on her nightgown and went to the window and threw it open. There was no use trying to go to sleep until she wound down a little. Tco many things had happened tonight, and the adrenaline was still flowing. The Alps looked austere in the moonlight, and she shivered a little as she gazed at them. She much preferred the view in the sunlight, when she could see the lush grass on the foothills. Then she was always reminded of that wonderful scene in The Sound of Music. Now all the softness was gone and the mountains seemed only to exude hard, craggy po
wer.
Like Jason Hayes, she thought suddenly. He possessed the same air of bold, irresistible power as the mountains. Yet there was nothing cold about the man. She had been conscious of volcanic heat underlying his rugged exterior.
Night Song.
Her throat tightened painfully and she swallowed with difficulty. She couldn't let herself think about Jason Hayes or his play. She had turned down other offers in these last few years. The pain would go away in time. It was the joy of singing that was important, not her career itself.
But, dear heaven, how she would have loved to be the first one to sing his songs for Desdemona.
Two
At two-thirty the next afternoon there was a knock on the front door of the cottage.
"I'll get it." Daisy stood up from the huge thronelike chair, jumped down from the platform, and quickly moved across the room toward the door. "Keep immortalizing me. I want to look at least as appetizing as your banana. I think I deserve that for—"
She stopped as she threw open the door.
Jason Hayes stood on the doorstep. His gaze wandered over her in the square low-necked blue gown, and he smiled faintly. "You really believe in living a part, don't you? Very nice. May I come in?"
Panic raced through her. "No."
His brows lifted. "I beg your pardon?"
She glanced hastily over her shoulder. Charlie was absorbed in the painting in front of him, but there was no telling when he might glance up. "Go away. I can't talk to you now."
"Is your lover so jealous?" His lips tightened. "I thought you lived with your father."
"I do." She stepped closer and half closed the door to block Charlie's view of Jason Hayes. "Go away," she snapped. "I told you that I—"
"I have no intention of going away." He paused. "Until I get what I want."
"I'm not going to—" She broke off as she saw his determined expression. He wasn't going to give up. "You can't come in. I'll change and meet you at the Zeider Cafe down the street in an hour."
She shut the door in his face and turned around just as Charlie glanced up inquiringly.
She shrugged casually as she strolled back toward the platform. "Someone collecting for a charity. Nothing important."
Jason Hayes stood outside the cafe, his expression distinctly revealing how displeased he was as he watched Daisy walk toward him. She could scarcely blame him, she thought ruefully. It. had been closer to two hours than one before she had been able to get away without arousing Charlie's suspicion. Half the musical world kowtowed before Jason Hayes, and her rudeness must be disconcerting, to say the least.
"At last," he said caustically. "I was afraid the local gendarmes were going to arrest me for loitering."
"Why didn't you go inside and have a cup of coffee?"
"I didn't want coffee." He took her arm and started down the shop-lined street. "Let's walk. My temper's a little ragged, and I need to work it off."
"You have no right to be angry. I didn't invite you here." The light touch on her arm was sending the same electrical awareness through her that she had experienced the night before. She casually disengaged herself and edged away from him. "In fact, I thought I'd made my feelings very clear."
"I didn't expect to have the door slammed in my face."
"That was rude." She didn't look at him. "I didn't want my father to know about your offer." "Why not?"
"It would have made him unhappy. He would have felt he was keeping me from an opportunity." "And is he?"
"Perhaps." Her gaze flew anxiously to his face. "But he mustn't know that."
He went still. "It's your father who's keeping you here? I thought you said your lover—"
"That's what you said." She shook her head. "When would I have time for a relationship? When I'm not in the theater, I'm here."
"Good," he said with satisfaction. "A father should be much easier to deal with than a lover.
At least the element of jealousy would be removed."
"A man-woman relationship needn't contain jealousy."
"It needn't, but it often does." He smiled crookedly. "As Shakespeare well knew."
She shivered. "Jealousy is a terrible emotion. I don't understand it."
"I had a few problems with it myself while I was writing Night Song." He looked away from her. "I'm beginning to comprehend it a little better now." He changed the subject. "Your father should want the best for you. What kind of a selfish bastard is he to keep you from a chance like this?"
She rounded on him. "He's not selfish," she said fiercely. "Charlie would never keep me from anything I wanted to do. He's kind and generous and—"
"Easy." He held up his hand to stop the flow of words. "Sorry. I'm sure he's everything you say he is."
She drew a deep breath. "It's my choice. I can't leave him."
"You're that close?"
She nodded jerkily.
"Charlie?"
"He's actually my stepfather. My mother d.td when I was five and since then we've had only each other." Her eyes were blazing. "And he's not selfish. He's done everything for me. He loves his work more than anything in the world, but he even gave up painting for five years and took a regular job to be able to afford to have my voice trained by Stoloni."
Jason pounced. "Then he wouldn't want you to sacrifice this chance. He set it up for you."
"Or course not." She looked straight ahead. "And that's why he's not going to know about it."
His gaze was fastened on her face. "I think I may have to have a talk with your father."
"No!" Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Haven't you been listening to me? I'd never forgive you if you told him you made me this offer."
"But I might still get what I want," he said coolly. "If your father is as unselfish as you say, he might force you to accept the offer."
She gazed at him, stricken. "You wouldn't do that."
"I want you for Desdemona."
"And it doesn't matter what I want?"
"You want it too." His tone lowered to passionate intensity. "You were meant to play that role. Ill make you want it as much as I do."
She stared at him in fascination, captured in the web he was weaving. At that moment she could almost believe that he could make her do anything he wished her to do.
She laughed shakily. "My Lord, are you always this determined?"
When something is important to me." His demeanor changed as if he had thrown a cloak over that passionate intensity and he grimaced ruefully. "Eric says I'm driven."
"I can believe it. You're very . . . hard."
"And you're very soft." He studied her features. "Idealism and self-sacrifice. You're an anachronism in this world. I think you need someone to save you from yourself."
"By destroying my father's peace of mind?"
"Perhaps we can come to a compromise." Jason smiled faintly. "Suppose we strike a bargain. Give me two weeks."
She gazed at him in bewilderment.
"Let me come here every day and tell you about Night Song and my plans for it. In return, I'll give you my promise not to mention my offer to your father."
"It's a waste of time. You won't be able to convince me."
"It's my time." He shrugged. "I can be fairly convincing."
She didn't doubt it. She had already found the force of his personality nearly irresistible. "What if I still say no at the end of that period?"
"Then we're back to square one." He met her gaze. "I won't lie to you. I have no intention of giving up, but you'll have had a two-week grace period."
And two weeks might be enough to convince him she meant what she had said. A man as important as Jason Hayes must have many demands on his time. He might grow bored and impatient long before two weeks and fly back to New York to find another Desdemona.
The sudden pang she experienced at the thought was not pain but relief, she assured herself. "I can't convince you how useless this will be?"
He shook his head.
"All right." She gave
in abruptly. "Two weeks." She met his gaze. "But you're not to tell my father your name or anything about who you are. I'll introduce you as a friend I met in Italy. Well tell him you're connected with the play. You've got to give me your word he won't suspect anything."
His expression was arrested. "And would you trust my word?"
"Yes," she said simply. "You're a hard man, but I don't believe you'd lie to me."
"I see." He held her gaze for a moment. "Trust too. Definitely an anachronism. I think I'll have to hire a bodyguard for you when I get you to New York."
"I'm not going to—"
He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. "We can work that out later. I'll be at your cottage tomorrow morning at ten to—" He stopped, frowning. "No, on second thought, 111 pick you up tonight after the performance. I don't like you driving all this way alone."
"IVe done it since the play opened," she reminded him dryly.
"But these are my two weeks. Well do it my way." He turned her around and started briskly back the way they had come. "Now, I'll take you back to the cottage to rest. Fantine is a difficult role and it must be taxing."
"Not physically."
"Emotional roles can be even more wearing." He glanced thoughtfully at her. "And you're clearly a woman who gives everything to whatever she does."
There was no hint of sexual innuendo in his tone, and yet she felt a sudden tingling awareness ripple through her. Perhaps she was making a mistake to agree to see him for the next two weeks. She had never experienced this reaction to a man before, and she was going through a vulnerable time.
"You're having second thoughts." He was scanning her face. "Will it help if I tell you that I don't break my promises?"
The knowledge that he had read her so effortlessly only increased her uneasiness.
"Give me my chance." His words came with an odd awkwardness. "It means a hell of a lot to me."
She felt warmth surge through her as she looked at him. She had an idea he wasn't accustomed to pleading for anything, and the expression on his face was endearingly boyish. Who would have guessed she would feel this crazy maternal tenderness for a man like Jason Hayes?
She looked away from him and her pace quickened. "I told you that I'd do it, didn't I?"