Chapter 7

Doc and Doveman-they’d been talking about her, Phoenix could tell. They had that “male bonding” look-and how men managed it was a mystery to her-a look that was at the same time superior and guilty as hell.

In a way, she was glad to have an excuse to be annoyed. An excuse to ignore the leap of-Oh, God, what was it-joy? Excitement? Whatever this terrible thing was that made her stomach drop and her heart lurch headlong into a new tempo when she stepped out of the booth and saw the two of them standing together. How long had they been there in the shadows? she wondered. Watching her.

A shiver that was not all displeasure raced along her skin, rousing senses and awakening nerve endings. Muscles and tendons coaxed her body, almost against her will, into a new and more sensual alignment.

“Hey, Doc,” she said as she joined them. And she hid both the annoyance and excitement behind lowered lashes and a purr so blatantly sexy it could never be taken seriously. “So, you decided to come back and see me.”

Oh, but that little half smile of his…how could she stay mad when he looked at her like that? Suddenly feeling like a high school kid hoping this cute boy was about to ask her to the dance, she slapped on brusqueness to cover her vulnerability in much the same way she might put on a baseball cap to hide her hair. “Too bad-I don’t have any information for you-Patrick hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

The doc merely shrugged, no more affected by her curtness than by her come-on. “So, I guess I came for nothing, then.”

Panic and pride fought within her, anger hovering on the sidelines: What’s he going to do, walk out on me again? Well, God help him if he does. Nobody walks out on Phoenix twice. Nobody.

Panic won, though there was no sign of it in her voice when she purred, “Oh, I don’t think so, Doc.”

And after that there was silence. Phoenix realized all at once that they were alone, she and the doc, alone in the empty studio. At some point Doveman had faded into the shadows and left them there, and she hadn’t even noticed. She wondered if the doc had. In the stillness she could hear her own heart beating, feel his solid presence less than an arm’s length away. She felt a sudden and intense desire to reach out and touch him, to lay her hand on his chest, to feel the beating of his heart. She wondered if-oh, she wanted it to be-his heart was beating as hard and fast as hers.

She didn’t touch him. Instead she heard a scratchy voice say softly, “Where do we go from here, Doc?”

Even in the dim light she knew he’d narrowed his eyes in that way he had of doing when something had hit home. She knew, too, that his voice would be even quieter than usual when he answered. It was-she almost had to strain to hear it. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

She turned to stroll without intent across the empty rehearsal hall, and he kept pace with her. Her stomach felt like a lump of lead and her heart as though it was in her throat, so she took special care to make her voice airy, her tone light. “The last time you were here, I asked you to stay and have dinner with me. You turned me down, Doc.” She gave a low chuckle; he’d never know how it felt to her-like rocks tumbling in her chest. “That doesn’t happen to me too often. I guess I’d like to know why you did it.”

She could feel him there so close beside her, feel the heat of his body, his solid quietness. How strange, then, that when he spoke he seemed so far away, as if his voice had reached her from another dimension. “I guess I didn’t see any point in staying.”

“Any point?” She halted, and a beat later so did he. “For God’s sake, Doc, I like you.” Her voice was gravelly with irony. “Is that so strange? Call me crazy, but the other day I thought there was a chance you might like me, too.”

He nodded. “I might.” His face was turned toward her, but she couldn’t see his expression. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know whether I would or not. I don’t know you well enough.”

She laughed, a helpless little hiss of exasperation. “I thought that was the point in having dinner-to get to know each other. What is this, Catch-22?” She was trembling inside; never had she felt herself so far out on a slender, shaky limb.

His head was bowed, his arms folded across his body-the very picture of a kindly doctor intently listening while a patient tells him where it hurts. Again, in silhouette she saw him nod. “I guess it would be, except that, like I said the other day, I don’t think you really want me-or anyone else-to know you. You seem to try hard to make sure nobody can.”

Anger flared, and this time, because it felt so much better than that terrible trembling vulnerability, she didn’t try to hide it. “Why, because I don’t give out-”

“-personal information,” he finished with her, then nodded. “I’m no expert, but I imagine it’s pretty hard to get to know a person without it.”

“You asked about the past,” Phoenix said furiously. “The past has nothing to do with who I am. Hey-you want to know about me? Ask me anything. Now. Go ahead-I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Ask me, What do I like to do in my spare time? What’s my favorite comfort food? Do sad movies make me cry? Answers-take long walks and dance in the rain, root beer floats, and never-but when little kids sing it just destroys me. Want more? Come on-ask me, damn you!”

For a second or two her oath hung there in its own vibrating echo. Then there was a quickly indrawn breath, and the doc’s quiet voice. “All right, then, I’ll ask you one. Tell me this. Who are you, really? Are you Phoenix, or Joanna Dunn?”

Then it was she who caught a breath, as a familiar little draught of fear blew threw her. Who am I? She saw herself standing at the windows looking out upon the city that had haunted her nightmares for as long as she could remember…heard Doveman’s voice saying, “Maybe…you should just be yourself. Joanna Dunn.” And with a deep sadness she didn’t understand, heard herself answer, “Doveman, I haven’t been that person for so long, I don’t know who she is anymore.”

She found that she was rubbing her upper arms, and that her skin was rough with goose bumps. Leaving the doc standing there, she walked slowly toward the bandstand, dimly backlit from this angle, the bulky shapes of sound equipment and speakers, instruments and mikes looking mysterious and abandoned, like some electronic age Stonehenge.

“Tell me, Doc,” she said without turning, “what if I wasn’t…‘a rock-and-roll legend’? What if I was just some little ol’ girl named Joanna Dunn, and you…”

“If I weren’t…the First Son?” He said it without amusement, his voice harsh with unexpected emotion, and unexpectedly near.

She whirled to face him. “Yeah. Suppose you were just some guy named Brown-Bill, say, or Jim. Or…Leroy. What would you do? Right this minute-what would you do?”

The stage lights painted shadows across his face, then drew new ones as he smiled. “Bad Bad Leroy Brown? Me?”

“Hey-” she gave her head a defiant little toss, coaxing her self-confidence out from wherever it had been hiding “-where I live ‘bad’ is good. Answer my question, Leroy.”

He moved closer, two slow, rocking steps. “First of all, I’m having trouble seeing you as just ‘some little old’ anybody.”

She found that she was smiling, too, and bewilderingly at the same time felt an urge to cry. “Joanna, then.” She felt as if the word had been ripped from her throat. Oh, and damn you, Doc, for making me have to do this! “So, what would you do? If it was just us…”

What would I do? Ethan knew what he wanted to do. What probably any red-blooded male would have wanted to do under the same circumstances. And from the way she was smiling at him, he was pretty sure she knew exactly what that was. So it was probably not so much presence of mind as good old-fashioned macho pride that made him instead say, “What would I do? Okay…right now, I guess…I’d probably be trying to get up the nerve to ask you out.”

She gave a husky little chortle. “Nerve?”

“I’m known to be somewhat shy.”

“Uh-huh.” Her voice was rich with amusement. “Let’s assume, for the sake of discussion, you did get up the nerve to ask. And I said yes. So, where would you take me?”

Oh, Lord. Where would one take a Phoenix on a date? Then he reminded himself, No-not Phoenix, just…Joanna.

“Well,” he said, watching her, “after I showered for half an hour and about drowned myself in aftershave and cologne-”

“Uh-”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not crazy about men’s cologne.”

“Scratch the cologne, then…”

“And I rather like your beard.”

“Okay, scratch the aftershave, too-just lots of soap, mouthwash and deodorant, I guess. Man-you’re hard on a guy’s self-confidence, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” she murmured. There was a pause while she pulled the fantasy back into place, like the slipping pieces of a complicated costume. “Okay, so assuming your grooming passes muster, then what?”

“Then, since my finances-” and he cleared his throat delicately “-are a little tight-”

“You’re cheap, you mean.”

“-I guess I’d pick you up and take you somewhere for Chinese food-”

“Chinese!” He heard surprised approval in her voice.

“Yeah,” said Ethan, “because it’s cheap, and because I’m pretty good with chopsticks, and I’m trying to impress you.”

Her laughter was a delighted hiccup that invited him to join in. And there was something wickedly tempting about it, too, rather like being invited to go skinny-dipping, or sneaking a smoke-or a kiss-behind the school gym during recess. He felt prickles of response roll across his skin like a wave of static electricity, raising awareness like the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.