This Magic Moment Page 4

  Even as she spoke, Pierce lifted the cylinder. There, where she had just seen the bottle, stood the glass. Charmed despite herself, Ryan laughed. “You’re very good, Mr. Atkins.”

  “Thank you.”

  He said it so soberly, Ryan looked back at him. His eyes were calm and thoughtful. Intrigued, she tilted her head. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me how you did it.”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She lifted the handcuffs. The briefcase at the foot of the stage was, for the moment, forgotten. “Are these part of your act, too? They look real.”

  “They’re quite real,” he told her. He was smiling again, pleased that she had laughed. He knew it was a sound he would be able to hear clearly whenever he thought of her.

  “There’s no key,” Ryan pointed out.

  “I don’t need one.”

  She passed the cuffs from hand to hand as she studied him. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

  “Yes.” The hint of amusement in the word made her wonder what twist his thoughts had taken. He held out his hands, wrists close. “Go ahead,” he invited. “Put them on.”

  Ryan hesitated only a moment. She wanted to see him do it—right there in front of her eyes. “If you can’t get them off,” she said as she snapped the cuffs into place, “we’ll just sit down and talk about those contracts.” She glanced up at him, eyes dancing. “When you’ve signed them, we can send for a locksmith.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need one.” Pierce held up the cuffs, dangling and open.

  “Oh, but how . . .” She trailed off and shook her head. “No, that was too quick,” she insisted, taking them back from him. Pierce appreciated the way her expression changed from astonishment to doubt. It was precisely what he had expected from her. “You had them made.” She was turning them over, searching closely. “There must be a button or something.”

  “Why don’t you try it?” he suggested and had the cuffs snapped on her wrists before she could decline. Pierce waited to see if she’d be angry. She laughed.

  “I talked myself right into that one.” Ryan gave him a good-humored grimace, then concentrated on the cuffs. She juggled her wrists. “They certainly feel real enough.” Though she tried several different angles, the steel held firmly shut. “If there’s a button,” she muttered, “you’d have to dislocate your wrist to get to it.” She tugged another moment, then tried to slip her hands through the opening. “All right, you win,” she announced, giving up. “They’re real.” Ryan grinned up at him. “Can you get me out of these?”

  “Maybe,” he murmured, taking her wrists in his hands.

  “That’s a comforting answer,” she returned dryly, but they both felt her pulse leap as his thumb brushed over it. He continued to stare down at her until she felt the same draining weakness she had experienced the night before. “I think,” she began, her voice husky as she struggled to clear it. “I think you’d better . . .” The sentence trailed off as his fingers traced the vein in her wrist. “Don’t,” she said, not even certain what she was trying to refuse.

  Silently, Pierce lifted her hands, slipping them over his head so that she was pressed against him.

  She wouldn’t allow it to happen twice. This time she would protest. “No.” Ryan tugged once, uselessly, but his mouth was already on hers.

  This time his mouth wasn’t so patient or his hands so still. Pierce held her hips as his tongue urged her lips apart. Ryan fought against the helplessness—a helplessness that had more to do with her own needs than the restraints on her wrists. She was responding totally. Under the pressure of his, her lips were hungry. His were cool and firm while hers heated and softened. She heard him murmur something as he dragged her closer. An incantation, she thought dizzily. He was bewitching her; there was no other explanation.

  But it was a moan of pleasure, not of protest, that slipped from her when his hands trailed up to the sides of her breasts. He drew slow, aching circles before his thumbs slipped between their bodies to stroke over her nipples. Ryan pressed closer, nipping at his bottom lip as she craved more. His hands were in her hair, pulling her head back so that his lips had complete command of hers.

  Perhaps he was magic. His mouth was. No one else had ever made her ache and burn with only a kiss.

  Ryan wanted to touch him, to make him hunger as desperately as she. She fretted against the restraints on her wrists, only to find her hands were free. Her fingers could caress his neck, run through his hair.

  Then, as quickly as she had been captured, she was released. Pierce had his hands on her shoulders, holding her away.

  Confused, still aching, Ryan stared up at him. “Why?”

  Pierce didn’t answer for a moment. Absently, he caressed her shoulders. “I wanted to kiss Miss Swan. Last night I kissed Ryan.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.” She started to jerk away, but his hands were suddenly firm.

  “No. Miss Swan wears conservative suits and worries about contracts. Ryan wears silk and lace underneath and is frightened of storms. The combination fascinates me.”

  His words troubled her enough to make her voice cool and sharp. “I’m not here to fascinate you, Mr. Atkins.”

  “A side benefit, Miss Swan.” He grinned, then kissed her fingers. Ryan jerked her hand away.

  “It’s time we settled our business one way or the other.”

  “You’re right, Miss Swan.” She didn’t like the hint of amusement or the way he emphasized her name. Ryan found she no longer cared whether or not he signed the papers she carried. She simply wanted to shake loose of him.

  “Well, then,” she began and stooped to pick up her briefcase.

  Pierce laid his hand over hers on the handle. His fingers closed gently. “I’m willing to sign your contracts with a few adjustments.”

  Ryan schooled herself to relax. Adjustments normally meant money. She’d negotiate with him and be done with it. “I’ll be glad to discuss any changes you might want.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll want to work with you directly. I want you to handle Swan’s end of the production.”

  “Me?” Ryan’s fingers tightened on the handle again. “I don’t get involved with the production end. My father—”

  “I’m not going to work with your father, Miss Swan, or any other producer.” His hand was still gently closed over hers, with the contracts between them. “I’m going to work with you.”

  “Mr. Atkins, I appreciate—”

  “I’ll need you in Vegas in two weeks.”

  “In Vegas? Why?”

  “I want you to watch my performances—closely. There’s nothing more valuable to an illusionist than a cynic. You’ll keep me sharp.” He smiled. “You’re very critical. I like that.”

  Ryan heaved a sigh. She would have thought criticism would annoy, not attract. “Mr. Atkins, I’m a businesswoman, not a producer.”

  “You told me you were good at details,” he reminded her amiably. “If I’m going to break my own rule and perform on television, I want someone like you handling the details. More to the point,” he continued, “I want you handling the details.”

  “You’re not being practical, Mr. Atkins. I’m sure your agent would agree. There are any number of people at Swan Productions who are better qualified to produce your special. I don’t have any experience in that end of the business.”

  “Miss Swan, do you want me to sign your contracts?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Then make the changes,” he said simply. “And be at Caesar’s Palace in two weeks. I have a week’s run.” Stooping, he lifted the cat into his arms. “I’ll look forward to working with you.”

  Chapter 4

  When she stalked into her office at Swan Productions four hours later, Ryan was still fuming. He had nerve, she decided. She would give him top of the list for nerve. He thought he had her boxed into a corner. Did he really imagine he was the only name talent she could sign for Swan Productions? What outrageous conc
eit! Ryan slammed her briefcase down on her desk and flopped into the chair behind it. Pierce Atkins was in for a surprise.

  Leaning back in her chair, Ryan folded her hands and waited until she was calm enough to think. Pierce didn’t know Bennett Swan. Swan liked to run things his own way. Advice could be considered, discussed, but he would never be swayed on a major decision. As a matter of fact, she mused, he would more than likely go in the opposite direction he was pushed. He wouldn’t appreciate being told who to put in charge of a production. Particularly, Ryan thought ruefully, when that person was his daughter.

  There was going to be an explosion when she told her father of Pierce’s conditions. Her only regret was that the magician wouldn’t be there to feel the blast. Swan would find another hot property to sign, and Pierce could go back to making wine bottles disappear.

  Ryan brooded into space. The last thing she wanted to do was worry about rehearsal calls and shooting schedules—and all the thousands of other niggling details involved in producing an hour show—not to mention the outright paranoia of it being a live telecast. What did she know about dealing with technical breakdowns and union rules and set designing? Producing was a complicated job. She had never had any desire to try her hand at that end of the business. She was perfectly content with the paperwork and preproduction details.

  She leaned forward again, elbows on the desk, and cupped her chin in her hands. How foolish it is, she mused, to lie to yourself. And how fulfilling it would be to follow through on a project from beginning to end. She had ideas—so many ideas that were constantly being restricted by legal niceties.

  Whenever she had tried to convince her father to give her a chance on the creative side, she had met the same unyielding wall. She didn’t have the experience; she was too young. He conveniently forgot that she had been around the business all of her life and that she would be twenty-seven the following month.

  One of the most talented directors in the business had done a film for Swan that had netted five Oscars. And he’d been twenty-six, Ryan remembered indignantly. How could Swan know if her ideas were gold or trash if he wouldn’t listen to them? All she needed was one opportunity.

  No, she had to admit that nothing would suit her better than to follow a project from signing to wrap party. But not this one. This time she would cheerfully admit failure and toss the contracts and Pierce Atkins right back in her father’s lap. There was enough Swan in her to get her back up when given an ultimatum.

  Change the contracts. With a snort of derision, Ryan flipped open her briefcase. He overplayed his hand, she thought, and now he’ll . . . She stopped, staring down at the neatly stacked papers inside the case. On top of them was another long-stemmed rose.

  “Now how did he . . .” Ryan’s own laughter cut her off. Leaning back, she twirled the flower under her nose. He was clever, she mused, drawing in the scent. Very clever. But who the devil was he? What made him tick? Sitting there in her tailored, organized office, Ryan decided she very much wanted to know. Perhaps it would be worth an explosion and a bit of conniving to find out.

  There were depths to a man who spoke quietly and could command with his eyes alone. Layers, she thought. How many layers would she have to peel off to get to the core of him? It would be risky, she decided, but . . . Shaking her head, Ryan reminded herself that she wasn’t going to be given the opportunity to find out, in any case. Swan would either sign him on his own terms or forget him. She drew out the contracts, then snapped the briefcase shut. Pierce Atkins was her father’s problem now. Still, she kept the rose in her hand.

  The buzzer on her phone reminded her she didn’t have time for daydreaming. “Yes, Barbara.”

  “The boss wants to see you.”

  Ryan grimaced at the intercom. Swan would have known she was back the moment she passed the guard at the gate. “Right away,” she agreed. Leaving the rose on her desk, Ryan took the contracts with her.

  Bennett Swan smoked an expensive Cuban cigar. He liked expensive things. More, he liked knowing his money could buy them. If there were two suits of equal cut and value, Swan would choose the one with the biggest price tag. It was a matter of pride.

  The awards in his office were also a matter of pride. Swan Productions was Bennett Swan. Oscars and Emmys proved he was a success. The paintings and sculptures his art broker had advised him to purchase showed the world that he knew the value of success.

  He loved his daughter, would have been shocked if anyone had said otherwise. There was no doubt in his mind that he was an excellent father. He had always given Ryan everything his money could buy: the best clothes, an Irish nanny when her mother had died, an expensive education, then a comfortable job when she had insisted on working.

  He had been forced to admit that the girl had more on the ball than he had expected. Ryan had a sharp brain and a way of cutting through the nonsense and getting to the heart of a matter. It proved to him that the money spent on the Swiss school had been well spent. Not that he would begrudge his daughter the finest education. Swan expected results.

  He watched the smoke curl from the tip of his cigar. Ryan had paid off for him. He was very fond of his daughter.

  She knocked, then entered when he called out. He watched her cross the wide space of thick carpet to his desk. A pretty girl, he thought. Looks like her mother.

  “You wanted to see me?” She waited for the signal to sit. Swan wasn’t a big man but had always made up for his lack of size with expansiveness. The wide sweep of his arm told her to sit. His face was still handsome in the rugged, outdoorsy manner women found appealing. He had put on a bit of flesh in the last five years and had lost a bit of hair. Essentially, however, he looked the same as Ryan’s earliest memory of him. Looking at him, she felt the familiar surge of love and frustration. Ryan knew too well the limitations of her father’s affection for her.

  “You’re feeling better?” she asked, noting that his bout with the flu hadn’t left any mark of sickness on him. His face was healthily ruddy, his eyes clear. With another sweeping gesture, he brushed the question aside. Swan was impatient with illness, particularly his own. He didn’t have time for it.

  “What did you think of Atkins?” he demanded the moment Ryan was settled. It was one of the small concessions Swan made to her, the asking of her opinion on another. As always, Ryan thought carefully before answering.

  “He’s a unique man,” she began in a tone that would have made Pierce smile. “He has extraordinary talent and a very strong personality. I’m not sure that one isn’t the cause for the other.”

  “Eccentric?”

  “No, not in the sense that he does things to promote an eccentric image.” Ryan frowned as she thought of his house, his life-style. Face value. “I think he’s a very deep man and one who lives precisely as he chooses. His profession is more than a career. He’s dedicated to it the way an artist is to painting.”

  Swan nodded and blew out a cloud of expensive smoke. “He’s hot box office.”

  Ryan smiled and shifted the contracts. “Yes, because he’s probably the best at what he does; plus he’s dynamic on stage and a bit mysterious off it. He seems to have locked up the beginnings of his life and tossed away the key. The public loves a puzzle. He gives them one.”

  “And the contracts?”

  Here it comes, Ryan thought, bracing herself. “He’s willing to sign, but with certain conditions. That is, he—”

  “He told me about his conditions,” Swan interrupted.

  Ryan’s carefully thought out dissertation was thrown to the winds. “He told you?”

  “Phoned a couple of hours ago.” Swan plucked the cigar from his mouth. The diamond on his finger shot light as he eyed his daughter. “He says you’re cynical and dedicated to details. That’s what he claims he wants.”

  “I simply don’t believe his tricks were anything but clever staging,” Ryan countered, annoyed that Pierce had spoken to Swan before she had. She felt, uncomfortably, as if she were playing
chess again. He’d already outmatched her once. “He has a habit of incorporating his magic into the everyday. It’s effective, but distracting at a business meeting.”

  “Insulting him seems to have turned the trick,” Swan commented.

  “I didn’t insult him!” At that Ryan rose with the contracts in her hand. “I spent twenty-four hours in that house with talking birds and black cats, and I didn’t insult him. I did everything I could to get his name on these except letting him saw me in half.” She dropped the papers on her father’s desk. “There are limits to what I’ll do to humor the talent, no matter how hot they are at the box office.”

  Swan steepled his fingers and watched her. “He also said he didn’t mind your temper. He doesn’t like to be bored.”

  Ryan bit off the next words that sprang to mind. Carefully, she sat back down. “All right, you told me what he said to you. What did you say to him?”

  Swan took his time answering. It was the first time anyone connected with the business had referred to Ryan’s temper. Swan knew she had one and knew, too, that she kept it scrupulously controlled on the job. He decided to let it pass. “I told him we’d be glad to oblige him.”

  “You . . .” Ryan choked on the word and tried again. “You agreed? Why?”

  “We want him. He wants you.”

  No explosion, she thought, not a little confused. What spell had Pierce used to manage this one? Whatever it was, she told herself grimly, she wasn’t under it. She rose again. “Do I have any say in this?”

  “Not as long as you work for me.” Swan gave the contracts an idle glance. “You’ve been itching to do something along these lines