Men In Uniform: Captivated By The Prince. Lynn Raye Harris
said doubtfully.
‘Well, I can assure you there is,’ Emily insisted. ‘What else would you call uninvited gentleman callers who won’t take no for an answer?’
‘Depends on who’s doing the calling, I suppose,’ Miranda conceded, blasting out another sneeze. ‘Why don’t you just take a look at him first, before you decide?’
‘No way! That’s never been part of our agreement.’
‘But if he looks like Herman Munster you can send him packing…and if he’s a babe, pass him on to me. He’d never know the difference. If Mum and Dad can’t tell us apart, what chance does this man stand? What have you got to lose?’
‘Look, I’ll have to go,’ Emily said as another rap, far more insistent than the last, bounced off the walls around her head. ‘I told his messenger I couldn’t see anyone I didn’t know immediately after a show—pleading artistic temperament. He still hasn’t taken the hint.’
‘He sent someone round first?’ Miranda cut in, her voice taut with excitement. ‘He sounds interesting. He might be a VIP.’
‘I doubt it,’ Emily said as she peered into the mirror to peel off her false eyelashes. ‘Though when I said I wouldn’t see him I thought his representative muttered something about Prince being disappointed—’
‘Emily, you dope,’ Miranda exclaimed through another bout of sneezing.’ Prince Records is the recording company my band’s been hoping to sign with. And you’ve just turned away their scout.’
‘Can’t I get one of the boys to see him?’ Emily suggested hopefully. After all, there were five male members in Miranda’s band.
‘Are you kidding?’ Miranda exclaimed. ‘First of all they’ll be in the pub by now…and secondly, do you seriously think I’d trust them to discuss business without my being there?’
Remembering the dreamy idealism of Miranda’s fellow musicians, Emily could only respond in the negative. ‘It might have helped if you had warned me this might happen,’ she protested reasonably. ‘Have to go,’ she finished in a rush, wiping her hands on the towel across her lap as another flurry of raps hit the door. ‘Whoever this is, he’s not about to give up.’
Cutting the connection, Emily grabbed a handful of tissues as she shot up from her seat in front of the brilliantly lit mirror. Then, scooting behind a conveniently placed screen, she called out, ‘Come in.’
This was the craziest thing she had ever done, Emily thought nervously as she swiped off the last of her make-up and stuffed the used tissues into the pocket of her robe. She tensed as the door swung open.
‘Hello? Miss Weston? Miss Weston, are you there?’
She had heard male voices likened to anything from gravel to bitter chocolate, but this one slammed straight into her senses. Italian, she guessed, and with just the hint of a sexy mid-Atlantic drawl. She pictured him scanning the cluttered space, hunting for her hiding place, and felt her whole being responding to some imperative and extremely erotic wake-up call.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she sang out, relieved she was hidden away. ‘I’m getting changed.’
‘Thank you, Miss Weston,’ the voice replied evenly. ‘Please don’t hurry on my account.’
Just the authority in the man’s voice made the hairs stand on the back of her neck. And there was a stillness about it that made her think of a jungle cat, lithe, impossibly strong—and deadly.
It was in her nature to confront threats, not hide from them. So why was she skulking behind a screen? Emily asked herself impatiently. Could it be that the force of this man’s personality had taken possession of what, in Miranda’s absence, was her territory?
‘Can I help you?’ she said, struggling to see through a tiny crack in the woodwork.
‘I certainly hope so.’
There was supreme confidence and not a little amusement in the response, as well as the type of worldliness that had Emily mentally rocking back on her heels. It was almost as if the man had caught her out doing something wrong—as if she had no right to be looking at him.
Drawing a few steadying breaths, she tried again. But all she could see through the crack in the screen was the broad sweep of shoulders clad in a black dinner jacket and a cream silk evening scarf slung casually around the neck of an impressively tall individual. A man whose luxuriant, dark wavy hair was immaculately groomed and glossy…the type of hair that made you want to run your fingers through it and then move on to caress—She pulled herself up short, closing her eyes to gather her senses…senses that were reacting in an extraordinary manner to nothing more than a man’s voice, Emily reminded herself. She spent her working life objective and detached…yet now, when it really mattered—when Miranda’s recording contract was at stake—she was allowing herself to be sideswiped off-beam by a few simple words. ‘I’m sorry, Mr…er—’
‘Bussoni,’ he supplied evenly.
‘Mr Bussoni,’ Emily said, her assurance growing behind the protection of the screen. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t give the gentleman who works for you a very warm welcome—’
‘Really? He said nothing of it to me.’
She was beginning to get a very clear picture of the man now. The image of a hunter sprang to mind…someone who was waiting and listening, using all his senses to evaluate his quarry. ‘I understand you’d like to discuss the possibility of signing the band?’ she said carefully.
There was another long pause, during which Emily formed the impression that the man was scanning all her neatly arranged possessions, gathering evidence about her and soaking up information—drawing conclusions. And from his position in front of the mirror he could do all of that—and still keep a watch on her hiding place.
Taking over last minute from Miranda meant she had been forced to come straight from work. There had been no time to find out about the event, let alone who might be in the audience. She had certainly not anticipated the need to be on her guard—to hide everything away. ‘You are from Prince Records?’ she prompted in a businesslike tone, hoping to bounce the man into some sort of admission.
‘Do you think you could possibly come out here and discuss this in person?’
It was a reasonable enough suggestion. But Miranda was never seen without full war paint, and after liberal applications of cold cream Emily’s own face had returned to its customary naked state. If she hoped to impersonate her twin an appearance right now was out of the question.
‘I know this must sound rude, after you’ve taken the trouble to come backstage, but I’m rather tired this evening. Do you think we could talk tomorrow?’ she said, knowing Miranda should have recovered and taken her rightful place by then.
‘Tomorrow afternoon, at three?’
Emily’s hearing was acutely tuned to his every move. He was already turning to go, she realised. Suddenly she couldn’t even remember what she had on the following day, let alone specifically at three o’clock in the afternoon. The only thing she was capable of registering—apart from an over-active heartbeat—was that the recording contract for Miranda’s band was vital.
‘OK. That’s fine,’ she heard herself agreeing. ‘But not here.’
‘Anywhere you say.’
Possibilities flooded Emily’s mind. She dismissed each one in turn…until the very last. ‘Could you come out to North London?’ Her mother and father had insisted that if Miranda’s cold had not improved by tomorrow she should be brought home to recuperate. Emily knew she could rely on her parents to fill in any awkward gaps…smooth over the cracks when she changed places with her twin.
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘That’s if you’re still interested?’
Interested?