Once More With Feeling (2 page)

The room was silent for nearly a full minute before Julie spoke. “What are you going to do?”

“Do?” Raven spun back to her. Her hair flew out to follow the sudden movement. “I'm not going to
do
anything. I'm not a child looking for happy-ever-after anymore.” Her eyes were still dark with emotion, but her voice had grown gradually steadier. “I was barely twenty when I met Brandon, and I was blindly in love with his talent. He was kind to me at a time when I badly needed kindness. I was overwhelmed by him and with my own success.”

She lifted a hand to her hair and carefully pushed it behind her shoulders. “I couldn't cope with what he wanted from me. I wasn't ready for a physical relationship.” She walked to the brass unicorn and ran a fingertip down its withers. “So he left,” she said softly. “And I was hurt. All I could see—maybe all I wanted to see—was that he didn't understand, didn't care enough to want to know why I said no. But that was unrealistic.” She turned to Julie then with a frustrated sigh. “Why don't you say something?”

“You're doing fine without me.”

“All right, then.” Raven thrust her hands in her pockets and stalked to the window. “One of the things I've learned is that if you don't want to get hurt, you don't get too close. You're the only person I've never applied that rule to, and you're the only one who hasn't let me down.” She took a deep breath.

“I was infatuated with Brandon years ago. Perhaps it was a kind of love, but a girl's love, easily brushed aside. It was a shock seeing him today, especially right after I finished that song. The coincidence was . . .” Raven pushed the feelings away and turned back from the window. “Brandon will come over tomorrow, and he'll say whatever it is that he has to say, then he'll go. That'll be the end of it.”

Julie studied Raven's face. “Will it?”

“Oh, yes.” Raven smiled. She was a bit weary after the emotional outburst but more confident. She had regained her control. “I like my life just as it is, Julie. He's not going to change it. No one is, not this time.”

Chapter 2

R
aven had dressed carefully, telling herself it was because of the fittings she had scheduled and the luncheon meeting with her agent. She knew it was a lie, but the smart, sophisticated clothes made her feel confident. Who could feel vulnerable dressed in a St. Laurent?

Her coat was white silk and full cut with batwing sleeves that made it seem almost like a cape. She wore it over matching pants with an orchid cowlneck blouse and a thick, gold belt. With the flat-brimmed hat and the carefully selected earrings, she felt invulnerable. You've come a long way, she had thought as she had studied herself in the bedroom mirror.

Now, standing in Wayne Metcalf's elaborate fitting room, she thought the same thing again—about both of them. Wayne and Raven had started the rise to fame together, she scratching out a living singing in seamy clubs and smoky piano bars and he waiting tables and sketching designs no one had the time to look at. But Raven had looked and admired and remembered.

Wayne had just begun to eke out a living in his trade when plans had begun for Raven's first concert tour. The first professional decision she made without advice was the choice of her costume designer. She had never regretted it. Like Julie, Wayne was a friend close enough to know something about Raven's early personal life. And like Julie, he was fiercely, unquestionably loyal.

Raven wandered around the room, a much plusher room, she mused, than the first offices of Metcalf Designs. There'd been no carpet on that floor, no signed lithographs on lacquered walls, no panoramic view of Beverly Hills. It had been a cramped, airless little room above a Greek restaurant. Raven could still remember the strange, heavy aromas that would seep through the walls. She could still hear the exotic music that had vibrated through the bare wood floor.

Raven's star had not risen with that first concert tour, it had rocketed. The initial taste of fame had been so heady and so quick, she had hardly had the time to savor it all: tours, rehearsals, hotel rooms, reporters, mobs of fans, unbelievable amounts of money and impossible demands. She had loved it, although the traveling had sometimes left her weak and disoriented and the fans could be as frightening as they were wonderful. Still she had loved it.

Wayne, deluged with offers after the publicity of that first tour, had soon moved out of the one-room office above the
moussaka
and
souvlaki.
He'd been Raven's designer for six years, and although he now had a large staff and a huge workload, he still saw to every detail of her designs himself.

While she waited for him, Raven wandered to the bar and poured herself a ginger ale. Through all the years of luncheon meetings, elegant brunches and recording sessions, she had never taken more than an occasional drink. In this respect, at least, she would control her life.

The past, she mused, was never very far away, at least no while she still had to worry about her mother. Raven shut her eyes and wished that she could shut off her thoughts as easily. How long had it been that she had lived with that constant anxiety? She could never remember a life without it. She had been very young when she had first discovered that her mother wasn't like other mothers. Even as a little girl, she had hated the oddly sweet smell of the liquor on her mother's breath that no mints could disguise, and she had dreaded the flushed face, the first slurred, affectionate, then angry tones that had drawn mocking stares or sympathetic glances from friends and neighbors.

Raven pressed her fingers against her brow. So many years. So much waste. And now her mother had disappeared again. Where was she? In what sordid hotel room had she holed herself up in to drink away what was left of her life? Raven made a determined effort to push her mother out of her mind, but the terrible images, the frightful scenes, played on in her mind.

It's my life! I have to get on with it,
Raven told herself, but she could feel the bitter taste of sorrow and guilt rise in her throat. She started when the door across swung open and Wayne walked in.

He leaned against the knob. “Beautiful!” he said admiringly, surveying her. “Did you wear that for me?”

She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob as she moved across the room to hug him. “Of course. Bless you!”

“If you were going to dress up for me, you might at least have worn something of mine,” he complained but returned the embrace. He was tall, a thin reed of a man who had to bend over to give her the quick kiss. Not yet thirty, he had a scholarly attractive face with hair and eyes the same rich shade of brown. A small white scar marred his left eyebrow and gave him, he preferred to think, a rakish profile.

“Jealous?” Raven grinned and drew away from him. “I thought you were too big for that.”

“You're never too big for that.” He released her, then made his way across to the bar. “Well, at least take off your hat and coat.”

Raven obliged, tossing them aside with a carelessness that made Wayne wince. He gazed at her for a long moment as he poured out a Perrier. She grinned again and did a slow model's turn. “How am I holding up?” she demanded.

“I should have seduced you when you were eighteen.” He sighed and drank the sparkling water. “Then I wouldn't be constantly regretting that you slipped through my fingers.”

She came back for her ginger ale. “You had your chance, fella.”

“I was too exhausted in those days.” He lifted his scarred brow in a practiced gesture that always amused her. “I get more rest now.”

“Too late,” she told him and touched her glass to his. “And you're much too busy with the model-of-the-week contest.”

“I only date all those skinny girls for the publicity.” He reached for a cigarette and lit it elegantly. “I'm basically a very retiring man.”

“The brilliance of the pun I could make is terrifying, but I'll pass.”

“Wise,” he concluded, then blew out a delicate trail of smoke. “I hear Brand Carstairs is in town.”

Raven's smile fled, then returned. “He never could keep a low profile.”

“Are you okay?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “A minute ago I was beautiful, now you have to ask if I'm okay?”

“Raven.” Wayne laid a hand on top of hers. “You folded up when he left. I was there, remember?”

“Of course I remember.” The teasing note left her voice. “You were very good to me, Wayne. I don't think I would have made it without you and Julie.”

“That's not what I'm talking about, Raven. I want to know how you feel now.” He turned her hand over and laced his fingers through hers. “I could renew my offer to go try to break all his bones, if you like.”

Touched and amused, she laughed. “I'm sure you're a real killer, Wayne, but it isn't necessary.” The straightening of her shoulders was unconscious, a gesture of pride that made Wayne smile. “I'm not going to fold this time.”

“Are you still in love with him?”

She hadn't expected such a direct question. Dropping her gaze, she took a moment to answer. “A better question is, did I ever love him?”

“We both already know the answer to that one,” Wayne countered. He took her hand when she would have turned away. “We've been friends a long time. What happens to you matters to me.”

“Nothing's going to happen to me.” Her eyes were back on his, and she smiled. “Absolutely nothing. Brandon is the past. Who knows better than I that you can't run away from the past, and who knows better how to cope with it?” She squeezed his hand. “Come on, show me the costumes that are going to make me look sensational.”

After a quick, final glance at her face, Wayne walked over to a gleaming Chippendale table and pushed the button on an intercom. “Bring in Ms. Williams's designs.”

Raven had approved the sketches, of course, and the fabrics, but still the completed designs took her by surprise. They had been created for the spotlights. She knew she'd sparkle on stage. It felt odd wearing bloodred and silver sequins in Wayne's brightly lit, elegant room with mirrors tossing her image back at her from all angles. But then, she remembered, it was an odd business.

Raven stared at the woman in the mirrors and listened with half an ear to Wayne's mumbling as he tucked and adjusted. Her mind could not help but wander. Six years before, she'd been a terrified kid with an album shooting off the top of the charts and a whirlwind concert tour to face. It had all happened so fast: the typical overnight success—not counting the years she had struggled in smoke-choked dives. Still, she'd been young to make a name for herself and determined to prove she wasn't a one-shot fluke. The romance with Brand Carstairs, while she had still been fresh, hot news, hadn't hurt her career. For a brief time it had made her the crown princess of popular music. For more than six months their faces appeared on every magazine cover, dominating the newsstands. They'd laughed about it, Raven remembered, laughed at the silly, predictable headlines: “Raven and Brand Plan Love Nest”; “Williams and Carstairs Make Their Own Music.”

Brand had complained about his billing. They had ignored the constant flare and flash of cameras because they had been happy and saw little else but each other. Then, when he had gone, the pictures and headlines had continued for a long time—the cold, cruel words that flashed the intimacies of private hurts for the public eye. Raven no longer looked at them.

Over the months and years, she had grown from the crown princess to a respected performer and celebrity in her own right. That's what's important, she reminded herself. Her career, her life. She'd learned about priorities the hard way.

Raven slipped into the glistening black jumpsuit and found it fit like a second skin. Even her quiet breathing sent sequins flashing. Light streaked out from it at the slightest movement. It was, she decided after a critical survey, blisteringly sexy.

“I'd better not gain a quarter of an ounce before the tour,” she remarked, turning to view her slim, sleek profile. Thoughtfully, she gathered her hair in her hand and tossed it behind her back. “Wayne . . .” He was kneeling at her feet, adjusting the hem. His answer was a grunt. “Wayne, I don't know if I have the nerve to wear this thing.”

“This thing,” he said mildly as he rose to pluck at the sleeve, “is fantastic.”

“No artistic snub intended,” she returned and smiled as he stepped back to survey her up and down in his concentrated, professional gaze. “But it's a bit . . .” She glanced at herself again. “Basic, isn't it?”

“You've got a nice little body, Raven.” Wayne examined his creation from the rear. “Not all my clients could wear this without a bit of help here and there. Okay, take it off. It's perfect just as it is.”

“I always feel like I've been to the doctor when I've finished here,” she commented as she slipped back into her white slacks and orchid blouse. “Who knows more about our bodies' secrets than our dressmakers?”

“Who else knows more about
your
secrets, darling?” he corrected absently as he made notes on each one of the costumes. “Women tend to get chatty when they're half-dressed.”

“Oh, what lovely gossip do you know?” Fastening her belt, Raven walked to him, then leaned companionably on his shoulder. “Tell me something wonderfully indiscreet and shocking, Wayne.”

“Babs Curtin has a new lover,” he murmured, still intent on his notes.

“I said shocking,” Raven complained. “Not predictable.”

“I've sworn an oath of secrecy, written in dressmaker's chalk.”

“I'm very disappointed in you.” Raven left his side to fetch her coat and hat. “I was certain you had feet of clay.”

“Lauren Chase just signed to do the lead in
Fantasy.
”

Raven stopped on her way to the door and whirled. “What?” She dashed back across the room and yanked the notebook from Wayne's hand.

“Somehow I thought that would get your attention,” Wayne observed dryly.

“When? Oh, Wayne,” she went on before he could answer. “I'd give several years of my young life for a chance to write that score. Lauren Chase . . . oh, yes, she's so right for it. Who's doing the score, Wayne?” Raven gripped his shoulders and closed her eyes. “Go ahead, tell me, I can take it.”

“She doesn't know. You're cutting off the circulation, Raven,” he added, disengaging her hands.

“Doesn't know!” she groaned, crushing the hat down on her head in a way that made Wayne swear and adjust it himself. “That's worse, a thousand times worse! Some faceless, nameless songwriter who couldn't possibly know what's right for that fabulous screenplay is even now sitting at a piano making unforgivable mistakes.”

“There's always the remote possibility that whoever's writing it has talent,” he suggested and earned a lethal glare.

“Whose side are you on?” she demanded and flung the coat around her shoulders.

He grinned, grabbed her cheeks and gave her a resounding kiss. “Go home and stomp your feet, darling. You'll feel better.”

She struggled not to smile. “I'm going next door and buying a Florence DeMille,” she threatened him with the name of a leading competitor.

“I'll forgive you that statement,” Wayne said with a hefty sigh. “Because along with my feet of clay I've a heart of gold.”

She laughed and left him with her rack of costumes and his notebook.

***

The house was quiet when Raven returned. The faint scent of lemon oil and pine told her that the house had just been cleaned. As a matter of habit, she peeked into her music room and was satisfied that nothing there had been disturbed. She liked her disorganization just as it was. With the idle thought of making coffee, Raven wandered toward the kitchen.

She had bought the house for its size and rambling openness. It was the antithesis of the small, claustrophobic rooms she had grown up in. And it smelled clean, she decided. Not antiseptic; she would have hated that, but there was no lingering scent of stale cigarettes, no sickly sweet odor of yesterday's bottle. It was her house, as her life was hers. She'd bought them both with her voice.