Once More With Feeling Read online

  mismanagement and his own see-if-I-care attitude. He had taken a few steps back, found a savvy manager, worked hard on arrangements and talked himself into another recording session.

  Two years later he had bought his family a house in the London suburbs, pushed his younger brother into a university and set off on his first American tour.

  Now, at thirty, there were times he felt he’d never been off the merry-go-round. Half his life had been given over to his career and its demands. He was tired of wandering. Brand wanted something to focus his life, something to center it. He knew he couldn’t give up music, but it wasn’t enough by itself anymore. His family wasn’t enough, and neither was the money or the applause.

  He knew what he wanted. He had known five years before, but there were times he didn’t feel as sure of himself as he had when he had been a fifteen-year-old punk talking his way past the back door of a third-rate nightclub. A capacity crowd had just paid thirty dollars a head to hear him, and he knew he could afford to take every cent he made on that two-week gig and throw it away on one roll of the dice. He had an urge to do it. He was restless, reckless, running on the same nerves he had felt the night he’d taken Raven home from their dinner date. He’d only seen her once after that—at Steve Jarett’s house. Almost immediately afterward he had flown to Las Vegas to begin polishing his act.

  It was catching up with him now—the tension, the anger, the needs. Not for the first time, Brand wondered whether his unreasonable need for her would end if he could have her once, just once. With quick, impatient movements, he thrust the tail of his shirt into the waist of his jeans. He knew better, but there were times he wished it could be. He left the dressing room looking for company.

  For an hour Brand sat at the blackjack table. He lost a little, won a little, then lost it again. His mind wasn’t on the cards. He had thought the noise, the bright lights, the rich smell of gambling was what he had wanted. There was a thin, intense woman beside him with a huge chunk of diamond on her finger and sapphires around her neck. She drank and lost at the same steady rhythm. Across the table was a young couple he pegged as honeymooners. The gold band on the girl’s finger looked brilliantly new and untested. They were giddy with winning what Brand figured was about thirty dollars. There was something touching in their pleasure and in the soft, exchanged looks. All around them came the endless chinkitychink of the slots.

  Brand found himself as restless as he had been an hour before in his dressing room. A half-empty glass of bourbon sat at his elbow, but he left it as he rose. He didn’t want the casino, and he felt an enormous surge of envy for the man who had his woman and thirty dollars worth of chips.

  When he entered his suite, it was dark and silent, a sharp contrast to the world he had just left. Brand didn’t bother hitting the switches as he made his way into the bedroom. Taking out a cigarette, he sat on the bed before lighting it. The flame made a sharp hiss and a brief flare. He sat with the silence, but the adrenaline still pumped. Finally he switched on the small bedside lamp and picked up the phone.

  Raven was deep in sleep, but the ringing of the phone shot panic through her before she was fully awake. Her heart pounded in her throat before the mists could clear. She’d grown up with calls coming in the middle of the night. She forgot where she was and fumbled for the phone with a sense of dread and anticipation.

  “Yes . . . hello.”

  “Raven, I know I woke you. I’m sorry.”

  She tried to shake away the fog. “Brandon? Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just unbelievably inconsiderate.”

  Relaxing, Raven sank back on the pillows and tried to orient herself. “You’re in Vegas, aren’t you?” The dim light told her it was nearing dawn. He was two hours behind her. Or was it three? She couldn’t for the life of her remember what time zone she was in.

  “Yes, I’m in Vegas through next week.”

  “How’s the show going?”

  It was typical of her, he mused, not to demand to know why the hell he had called her in the middle of the night. She would simply accept that he needed to talk. He drew on the cigarette and wished he could touch her. “Better than my luck at the tables.”

  She laughed, comfortably sleepy. The connection was clean and sharp; he didn’t sound hundreds of miles away. “Is it still blackjack?”

  “I’m consistent,” he murmured. “How’s Kansas?”

  “Where?” He laughed, pleasing her. “The audience was fantastic,” she continued, letting her mind wander back to the show. “Has been straight along. That’s the only thing that keeps you going on a tour like this. Will you be there in time for the show in New York? I’d love you to hear the warm-up act.”

  “I’ll be there.” He lay back on the bed as some of the superfluous energy started to drain. “Cornwall is sounding more and more appealing.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “I wasn’t; I am now. Raven . . .”

  She waited, but he didn’t speak. “Yes?”

  “I missed you. I needed to hear your voice. Tell me what you’re looking at,” he demanded, “what you see right now.”

  “It’s dawn,” she told him. “Or nearly. I can’t see any buildings, just the sky. It’s more mauve than gray and the light’s very soft and thin.” She smiled; it had been a long time since she had seen a day begin. “It’s really lovely, Brandon. I’d forgotten.”

  “Will you be able to sleep again?” He had closed his eyes; the fatigue was taking over.

  “Yes, but I’d rather go for a walk, though I don’t think Julie would appreciate it if I asked her to come along.”

  Brand pried off his shoes, using the toe of one foot, then the other. “Go back to sleep, and we’ll walk on the cliffs one morning in Cornwall. I shouldn’t have woken you.”

  “No, I’m glad you did.” She could hear the change; the voice that had been sharp and alert was now heavy. “Get some rest, Brandon. I’ll look for you in New York.”

  “All right. Good night, Raven.”

  He was asleep almost before he hung up. Fifteen hundred miles away, Raven laid her cheek on the pillow and watched the morning come.

  Chapter 7

  Raven tried to be still while her hair was being twisted and knotted and groomed. Her dressing room was banked with flowers; they had been arriving steadily for more than two hours. And it was crowded with people. A tiny little man with sharp, black eyes touched up her blusher. Behind her, occasionally muttering in French, was the nimble-fingered woman who did her hair. Wayne was there, having business of his own here in New York. He’d told Raven that he’d come to see his designs in action and was even now in deep discussion with her dresser. Julie opened the door to another flower delivery.

  “Have I packed everything? You know, I should have told Brandon to give me an extra day in town for shopping. There’re probably a dozen things I need.” Raven turned in her seat and heard the swift French oath as her partially knotted hair flew from the woman’s fingers. “Sorry, Marie. Julie, did I pack a coat? I might need one.” Slipping the card from the latest arrangement of flowers, she found it was from a successful television producer with whom she’d worked on her last TV special. “They’re from Max. . . . There’s a party tonight. Why don’t you go?” She handed the card to Julie and allowed her lip liner to be straightened by the finicky makeup artist.

  “Yes, you packed a coat, your suede, which you could need this early in the spring. And several sweaters,” Julie said distractedly, checking her list. “And maybe I will.”

  “I can’t believe this is it, the last show. It’s been a good tour, hasn’t it, Julie?” Raven turned her head and winced at the sharp tug on her hair.

  “I can’t remember you ever getting a better response or deserving one more. . . .”

  “And we’re all glad it’s over,” Raven finished for her.

  “I’m going to sleep for a week.” Julie found space for the flowers, then continued to check off thi
ngs in her notebook. “Not everyone has your constant flow of energy.”

  “I love playing New York,” she said, tucking up her legs to the despair of her hairdresser.

  “You must hold still!”

  “Marie, if I hold still much longer, I’m going to explode.” Raven smiled at the makeup artist as he fussed around her face. “You always know just what to do. It looks perfect; I feel beautiful.”

  Recognizing the signal, Julie began nudging people from the room. Eventually they went, and soon only Julie and Wayne were left. The room quieted considerably; now the walls hummed gently with the vibrations of the warm-up act. Raven let out a deep sigh.

  “I’ll be so glad to have my face and body and hair back,” she said and sprawled in the chair. “You should have seen what he made me put all over my face this morning.”

  “What was it?” Wayne asked absently as he smoothed the hem of one of her costumes.

  “Green,” she told him and shuddered.

  He laughed and turned to Julie. “What are you going to do when this one takes off to the moors?”

  “Cruise the Greek Islands and recuperate.” She pushed absently at the small of her back. “I’ve already booked passage on the ninth. These tours are brutal.”

  “Listen to her.” Raven sniffed and peered at herself critically in the glass. “She’s the one who’s held the whip and chair for four weeks. He certainly makes me look exotic, doesn’t he?” She wrinkled her nose and spoiled the effect.

  “Into costume,” Julie commanded.

  “See? Orders, orders.” Obediently Raven rose.

  “Here.” Wayne lifted the red and silver dress from the hanger. “Since I nudged your dresser along, I’ll be your minion.”

  “Oh, good, thanks.” She stepped out of her robe and into the dress. “You know, Wayne,” she continued as he zipped her up, “you were right about the black number. It gets a tremendous response. I never know if they’re applauding me or the costume after that set.”

  “Have I ever let you down?” he demanded as he tucked a pleat.

  “No.” She turned her head to smile at him over her shoulder. “Never. Will you miss me?”

  “Tragically.” He kissed her ear.

  There was a brief, brisk knock at the door. “Ten minutes, Ms. Williams.”

  She took a long breath. “Are you going to go out front?”

  “I’ll stay back with Julie.” He glanced over at her, lifting a brow in question.

  “Yes, thanks. Here, Raven, don’t forget these wonderfully gaudy earrings.” She watched Raven fasten one. “Really, Wayne, they’re enough to make me shudder, but they’re fabulous with that dress.”

  “Naturally.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “The man’s ego,” she said to Raven, “never ceases to amaze me.”

  “As long as it doesn’t outdistance the talent,” he put in suavely.

  “New York audiences are tough.” Raven spoke quickly, her voice jumping suddenly with nerves and excitement. “They scare me to death.”

  “I thought you said you loved playing New York.” Wayne took out a cigarette and offered one to Julie.

  “I do, especially at the end of a tour. It keeps you sharp. They’re really going to know if I’m not giving them everything. How do I look?”

  “The dress is sensational,” Wayne decided. “You’ll do.”

  “Some help you are.”

  “Let’s go,” Julie urged. “You’ll miss your cue.”

  “I never miss my cue.” Raven fussed with the second earring, stalling. He’d said he’d be here, she told herself. Why isn’t he? He could have gotten the time mixed up, or he could be caught in traffic. Or he could simply have forgotten that he’d promised to be here for the show.

  The quick knock came again. “Five minutes, Ms. Williams.”

  “Raven.” Julie’s voice was a warning.

  “Yes, yes, all right.” She turned and gave them both a flippant smile. “Tell me I’m wonderful when it’s over, even if I wasn’t. I want to end the tour feeling marvelous.”

  Then she was dashing for the door and hurrying down the hall where the sounds of the warm-up band were no longer gentle; now they shook the walls.

  “Ms. Williams, Ms. Williams! Raven!”

  She turned, breaking the concentration she’d been building and looked at the harried stage manager. He thrust a white rose into her hand.

  “Just came back for you.”

  Raven took the bud and lifted it, wanting to fill herself with the scent. She needed no note or message to tell her it was from Brand. For a moment she simply dreamed over it.

  “Raven.” The warm-up act had finished; the transition to her own band would take place on the darkened stage quickly. “You’re going to miss your cue.”

  “No, I’m not.” She gave the worried stage manager a kiss, forgetful of her carefully applied lipstick. Twirling the rose between her fingers, she took it with her. They were introducing her as she reached the wings.

  Big build-up; don’t let the audience cool down. They were already cheering for her. Thirty seconds; take a breath. Her band hit her introduction. Music crashed through the cheers. One, two, three!

  She ran out, diving into a wave of applause.

  The first set was hot and fast, staged to keep the audience up and wanting more. She seemed to be a ball of flame with hundreds of colored lights flashing around her. Raven knew how to play to them, play with them, and she pumped all her energy into a routine she had done virtually every night for four weeks. Enthusiasm and verve kept it fresh. It was hot under the lights, but she didn’t notice. She was wrapping herself in the audience, in the music. The costume sizzled and sparked. Her voice smoked.

  It was a demanding forty minutes, and when she rushed offstage during an instrumental break, she had less than three minutes in which to change costumes. Now she was in white, a brief, shimmering top covered with bugle beads matched with thin harem pants. The pace would slow a bit, giving the audience time to catch their breath. The balance was in ballads, the slow trembling ones she did best. The lighting was muted, soft and moody.

  It was during a break between songs, when she traditionally talked to the audience, that someone in the audience spotted Brand in their midst. Soon more people knew, and while Raven went on unaware of the disturbance, the crowd soon became vocal. Shielding her eyes, she could just make out the center of the commotion. Then she saw him. It seemed they wanted him up on stage.

  Raven was a good judge of moods and knew the value of showmanship. If she didn’t invite Brand on stage, she’d lose the crowd. They had already taken the choice out of her hands.

  “Brandon.” Raven spoke softly into the mike, but her voice carried. Though she couldn’t see his eyes with the spotlight in her own, she knew he was looking at her. “If you come up and sing,” she told him, lightly, “we might get you a refund on your ticket.” She knew he’d grin at that. There was an excited rush of applause and cheers as he rose and came to the stage.

  He was all in black: trim, well-cut slacks and a casual polo sweater. The contrast was striking as he stood beside her. It might have been planned. Smiling at her, he spoke softly, out of the range of the microphone. “I’m sorry, Raven, I should have gone backstage. I wanted to watch you from out front.”

  She tilted her head. It was, she discovered, more wonderful to see him than she had imagined. “You’re the one being put to work. What would you like to do?”

  Before he could answer, the demands sprang from the crowd. Once the idea formed, it was shouted over and over with growing enthusiasm. Raven’s smile faded. “Clouds and Rain.”

  Brand took her wrist and lifted the rose she held. “You remember the words, don’t you?”

  It was a challenge. A stagehand rushed out with a hand mike for Brand.

  “My band doesn’t know it,” she began.

  “I know it.” Marc shifted his guitar and watched them. The crowd was still shouting when he gave the openi
ng chords. “We’ll follow you.”

  Brand kept his hand on Raven’s wrist and lifted his own mike.

  Raven knew how it needed to be sung: face-to-face, eye to eye. It was a caress of a song, meant for lovers. The audience was silent now. Their harmony was close, intricate. Raven had once thought it must be like making love. Their voices flowed into each other. And she forgot the audience, forgot the stage and for a moment forgot the five years.

  There was more intimacy in singing with him than she had ever allowed in any other aspect of their relationship. Here she could not resist him. When he sang to her, it was as if he told her there wasn’t anyone else, had never been anyone else. It was more moving than a kiss, more sexual than a touch.

  When they finished, their voices hung a moment, locked together. Brand saw her lips tremble before he brought her close and took them.