Passion and Peril. Suzanne Brockmann
be if you sing a duet with me.”
She just laughed. “Not a chance. I, for one, worked hard to prepare a song.”
“Then let me use you as a prop.”
Maggie crossed her arms. “Come again?”
Ooh, he loved it when she put on a little attitude. Sweet Maggie had a backbone beneath that soft outer layer. “A prop,” he repeated, working hard not to smile. “You know, a warm body to sing to. I always do much better when I’m not up onstage all alone.”
She laughed in his face. “Tough luck. That’s what an audition is all about—being onstage all by your little old self. You can sing to me all you want, but I’m going to be right down here.” She shook her head in disgust. “Prop.”
“Okay,” Matt said.
“That’s it? No fussing? No begging? No whining? Just, okay?”
He tipped his head back and smiled up at her. “It’s only an audition.”
“I hate you,” she said, and walked away.
Ten minutes later, the first trembling victim stepped onto the stage, and Matt joined Maggie at the back of the room.
“I’m up twentieth,” she whispered. “You’re twenty-first. Have you decided what to sing?”
He nodded yes. “I’m doing something from my favorite show.”
“What is your favorite show?”
“West Side Story. It was the most fun I’ve had onstage in my entire life.”
Maggie looked at him, perplexed. “You mean, back in high school?”
“Yup.”
He looked up at the stage, watching as the director cut the singer off midsong. Maggie studied his profile, remembering the turmoil of his senior year.
Another singer mounted the stage and made it through about sixteen bars before being stopped and thanked for coming.
“Sheesh.” Matt glanced at her. “This director is brutal. They’re dropping like flies. He doesn’t give anyone time to warm up. At this rate, you’re going to be up there in less than a minute.”
“He is pretty harsh,” Maggie agreed, then asked, “How could West Side Story be your favorite show? You were miserable the entire time. You had that big fight with Angie....”
“As Matthew I was miserable,” he told her. “But I sure loved being Tony.”
He had a funny little half smile on his face and a look in his eyes that made her heart beat faster.
He looked back at the stage, and Maggie watched him watch the auditions.
“Maria was a great part,” she told him softly. “But it was very hard each night to watch you die.”
He glanced at her, and the look on his face was one she absolutely couldn’t read.
“Maggie Stanton,” a stout woman with cat-eyed glasses and a clipboard finally called. “You’re next.”
Yikes.
Matt caught her arm as she started for the stage, pulling her into his arms for a hug. “Break a leg, Mags.”
She looked up at him and the realization hit her hard, leaving her feeling weak. She wanted him to kiss her.
He was handsome and vibrant and so very alive and she wanted him to kiss her.
He wasn’t Angie’s boyfriend anymore and she wanted him to kiss her.
And he did.
On the cheek.
She swallowed her disappointment as she walked down the theater aisle toward the stage. Those sparks she’d thought were flying all over the place must’ve been only in her mind.
Or else he would have really kissed her, wouldn’t he?
He saw her as a friend, a buddy to hang with.
Which was a good thing. Matt had never been cut out for anything but short-term, intensely passionate flings. True, they wouldn’t leave his bedroom for a week, but after that week, it would probably be over. Any kind of romance with him would definitely be a mistake—particularly since she was going to be working with him.
She was going to work with him.
She’d called her boss at A&B this morning and he’d accepted her resignation gracefully. In fact, he’d told her he didn’t even need the usual two-weeks’ notice. Times were tough all over, Maggie knew, and business had been off lately, even at the big law firms.
She just had to go in some time next week, clean out her desk and drop off the company cell phone.
She handed her music to the accompanist with a smile, moved center stage and nodded to the director. He was someone she’d never worked with before, someone who didn’t know her from Eve. She could see him glancing through her resume, and she turned back to the piano player and nodded.
As the first strains of music surrounded her, Maggie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting herself become the character—a thirtysomething dancer pleading for a second chance on the stage.
As Maggie started to sing, Matt looked up from his search through the piles of sheet music that had been tossed on a table in the back of the auditorium. God, she was good. He’d forgotten how good. He’d never understood why she hadn’t studied acting, gone professional.
He had to laugh. Yeah, he’d met her parents many times. He did understand. And it was a shame.
She sang the first part of the song standing absolutely still, but with tension in every part of her body. When she reached the refrain, she exploded, both in volume and movement. She was fantastic, her voice clear and true, her body graceful.
Matt moved closer to the stage and sat on the arm of a chair. He could see the back of the director’s head, and the man hadn’t moved once since Maggie started singing. He grinned as the director let her sing the entire song, right down to the very last note.
The entire room burst into applause, and Maggie—typically—actually looked surprised. She blushed—also typical—and bowed.
“Very nice,” the director called, his usually bored voice actually showing interest. “Don’t go anywhere. I want you to read for me.”
She collected her music from the piano player and went down the stairs as Matt went up. He gave her a high five.
“Your turn to break a leg,” she said.
“You’re a hard act to follow.”
Maggie sat down in the front row, feeling the last surges of adrenaline leaving her system. Matt came center stage and looked down at her and smiled, and somehow the adrenaline was back, making her heart flip-flop.
The music started and Maggie recognized the song instantly. “Something’s Coming.” Of course. Matt had always loved that song. It was all about hope and excitement and limitless possibilities. She had to smile. It was practically his theme song.
“Hold it,” the director called, and the accompanist stopped. “Matthew Stone?”
“That’s me,” Matt said.
“From Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, I lived there for a while.” Matt squinted slightly, looking past the bright lights at the director. “Dan Fowler? Is that you?”
“Yes. Thank you. Next,” the director said in a bored voice.
Matt’s eyes flashed. “What, you’re not even going to hear me sing?”
“I don’t want you on my stage,” Fowler said.
The room was dead silent. No one so much as