Wyne and Song Page 2

  Bellandini’s definitely beckoned.

  “Have fun, but not too much.” Niles frowned. “Watch for cameras. Now that we know Hollywood is interested in you, they’ll also be watching.”

  With a salute to her agent, she pivoted, as much as the tight hallway allowed, and headed to her dressing room to shed her stage persona. The sooner she slipped back into Phoebe, the sooner she could eat.

  In an attempt to hasten her steps, she grasped a handful of her long skirts and lifted them off the floor as she scurried around a handful of cast and crew still lingering backstage. After exchanging a few more congratulatory remarks along the way, she finally made it to her door. Her blocked door. Her unlocked blocked door. With so many quick changes between scenes, it was best to leave the dressing room unlocked, which wasn’t normally an issue.

  Until now.

  A borderline creepy fan stood in front of her door.

  Where was security? She glanced around the dimly lit hall, but only saw a few crew members. The cast was either gone, or safely tucked inside the common dressing room the rest of the cast used. Security was usually pretty good about keeping the strange fans from gaining access backstage.

  “You were wonderful as always tonight, Ms. Weston. I made this especially for you.” The man, in his late forties with pale blue eyes, glasses, a crooked nose, and brown hair combed straight back from his balding temples, leaned his thin frame against the closed door while he handed her a white cowboy hat.

  Thanks to that darn missing cruel gene of hers, Phoebe tamped down her unease, released her skirt and grasped the hat. “Th-thank you.” A red rose was tucked into the band.

  More sweet than creepy.

  “I’ve seen all your shows,” he gushed, color flooding his cheeks. “Can I have your autograph?”

  Maybe then he’ll leave.

  “Sure.”

  Smiling, he thrust a red permanent marker at her. “On my chest. Right next to our tattoo.”

  At first, she thought she’d heard wrong, but a second later, he ripped open his shirt, and sure enough, on the left breast of his boney chest, was a heart tattooed in red with the black letters F + P in the center.

  Okay, back to more creepy than sweet. Especially since the heart was shaped like the organ, not the sentiment.

  Call security, common sense urged.

  “Ah, I-I’m sorry. But I’ve got to go,” she said, contemplating if trying to get inside her dressing room was a good idea, since the man could be stronger than he appeared, and possibly force his way in, as well.

  “Where?” His chin lifted. “Do you have a date? I could be your date.”

  “Thanks, but I have one.” Technically not a lie, since she had plans with her friends.

  The man’s expression turned suspicious. He shook his head. “But you don’t have a boyfriend.”

  Did Pierre count?

  Not that he’d be much help, although, he’d probably make a good weapon. She cringed as a headline flashed through her mind: Broadway Star Delivers Death By Dildo.

  Her mother would faint, Niles would drop dead of a heart attack, and any chance of heading to Hollywood would die with him.

  “I’ve read all the papers, and I google you every day. You shouldn’t lie, Ms. Weston.” He stepped closer, blue gaze no longer friendly.

  She shouldn’t have been kind to him, either. Fear thumped through her ears louder than the base drum in the finale.

  “You don’t really have a boyfriend, do you?”

  She was definitely ready to call security now. Too bad her throat was too dry to scream.

  “Phoebe, sorry I’m late.”

  Thank God. Another person.

  She didn’t recognize the voice, but she sure as heck appreciated the interruption. Relief burst through the tight hold fear had on her limbs, and she turned to face the welcomed intruder.

  It was him.

  The sexy stranger from the audience. She sucked in a breath and promptly forgot what to do with it.

  “These are for you.” He handed her a bunch of long-stemmed roses. “You were great tonight, sweetheart.”

  The deep timber of his voice did funny things to her body. Operating on autopilot, she reached for the roses and opened her mouth to squeak out a thank you, but he stepped right into her personal space, cupped her face with both hands and pressed his lips to hers as if it was a daily occurrence.

  If only, because…holy wow, the guy was even sexier up close, and damn, he knew how to kiss.

  He tasted minty and hot…with a slice of hunger, and the way his incredible mouth moved over hers, and delicious stubble scraped her chin, sparked a jolt of desire unlike any she’d ever experienced.

  Should she step back and chastise the stranger for taking such liberties?

  Nah. Technically, he aided her plight with the creepy fan. That’s her story and she was sticking to it. And him. Damn, he smelled good. Woodsy, and hot, and male.

  Goose bumps spread across her shoulders, converting any remaining bumps created by fear.

  Still holding her face, he drew back and smiled. Her heart rocked in her chest. She’d been right. The sexy man had brown eyes. Dark and indecently decadent like the special Chocolate Overload cupcake sitting in her fridge.

  “Mason, Jill, and Keiffer left to keep our reservation,” he informed.

  Phoebe knew this meant something. Something important, but the dang stupid had returned just enough to keep the meaning out of reach. So she nodded.

  His smile broadened and the tightness returned to her chest, but it was pleasant and warm, unlike the cold, strangling grip fear had possessed a few minutes ago.

  “Ben and Lea are waiting for us in the lobby, so you’d better hurry and change.”

  Lea and Ben. Mason. Keiffer. Wait…she blinked.

  The Wynes.

  Finally, she got a clue. That’s what her brain was trying to formulate. This man was… “Ethan.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he reassured as he ushered her past the silent, creepy fan and into her dressing room. Only once the door was shut did he release her. She set the flowers next to a few other bouquets on the dressing table and turned to face him.

  He frowned. “Are you okay?”

  Not really, but she nodded even though her temperature went from cold to hot, her heart raced, and throat was dry.

  “You’re shaking.”

  Before she could respond, he promptly pulled her into his chest and surrounded her with a solid wall of warmth and muscles.

  Funny thing. This only seemed to increase the tremors. They raced down her body, pinging off all the good parts.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay. No one’s going to hurt you,” he soothed, still holding her tight against him with one hand while he stroked her hair with the other.

  Look at that, goose bumps joined the party.

  “It’s a normal reaction to fear,” he continued. “It’s okay.”

  Except, her reaction wasn’t all from fear. It had to do with this man. And being in his arms, pressed against his lean, hot body. He made her cozy dressing room with gold stripped wallpaper, feel like a posh broom closet. Half a broom closet. On the sun.

  If she wanted to get a handle on her tremors, then she needed to move. Now.

  Stupid body stepped closer.

  It was her own fault. She hadn’t had a boyfriend in…what year was it? Poor body was so starved for attention she had all she could do to keep from rubbing up against him and purring.

  “We should call security.”

  That snapped her out of her stupor. “No.” She drew back, then moved to sit in the chair in front of her dressing table. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The last thing she need was for the press to get wind of a crazed fan at her show. They’d chew on that for days. She shook her head and began to remove the pins from her curls. Calling security would cause more harm than good.

  “I disagree.”

  She stilled, he
r fingers bent around the last two pins in her hair, while her gaze met his in the mirror. “I’m sorry, I know you’re trying to help, but believe me, it’s better this way.”

  He shifted his weight and leaned back against the door, disapproval tightening the strong jaw dusted with the stubble she could still feel scraping against her chin. “I disagree,” he repeated, his voice low and calm.

  Phoebe lowered her hands and turned to face him, taking a moment to get a real good look at the man who’d helped her out of a sticky situation.

  Tall and dark, he practically blocked the whole door, and even though he didn’t look exactly like Mason or Ben, he had the same strong bone structure and sharp gaze, that upon closer inspection, appeared a little tired.

  Her mind recalled Lea mentioning she’d confronted Ben’s older brother about working too hard and he’d brushed her concern aside and insisted he was fine. Definitely a Wyne. Stubborn. Strong. He wore an air of toughness and competence like a second skin.

  Damn, that was sexy.

  Phoebe’s pulse hiccupped. He filled out his white, button-down shirt and black dress pants with a lean, muscled body she’d lay odds was more at home in a T-shirt and cargo pants or jeans. Instinct told her his big, broad body would be even more devastatingly handsome stuffed in casual attire. Or his National Guard uniform.

  An unexpected shaft of desire shook through her body.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  She laughed because…no, okay was not the word she’d use to describe how she felt. Lustful. Hungry, and not for food. Okay, yeah, for food, too. She was still hungry for food.

  She was always hungry for food. Especially Italian.

  “Yeah.” She nodded and stood. “Thanks for your help, for…um, you know.” Suddenly feeling shy, she sucked her lip between her teeth, unable to get the word out.

  Shy. She hadn’t felt that emotion since high school, over a dozen years ago.

  The corner of his mouth twitched and a delicious gleam entered his gaze. “Ms. Weston, are you thanking me for kissing you?”

  She returned his infectious grin. “Yes, I believe I am, Mr. Wyne.”

  “Trust me, it was my pleasure.” He straightened from the door and opened his mouth as if to say something when his gaze dropped to her lips.

  And just like that, all the air evaporated from the room. Closet.

  Half a closet.

  On the sun.

  The room began to fade.

  She shook the fog from her brain, and looking for something to do, grabbed a wipe from the dressing table, then held it out to him. “Speaking of that kiss, you should, uh, probably…” She motioned toward his mouth that bore the stain of her red lipstick. “Stage makeup is pretty hardy.”

  He grabbed the wipe and nodded. “Thanks.” After swiping his mouth a few times, he rolled the cloth into a ball before tossing it into the garbage. “I, ah, think I’d better wait in the hall before I give in to this urge to make you thank me again.”

  It took a second for his words to penetrate her fogged brain. He wanted to kiss her again. She smiled. It felt empowering to know a strong, virile, handsome man like Ethan Wyne wanted to kiss her.

  Then she sobered, because strong, virile, handsome Ethan Wyne wanted to kiss her.

  Not a good idea. He was practically Lea’s brother-in-law, and would eventually become Jill’s. Best not to get involved with her friends’ relative.

  But she did actually still need his help. “Okay, but before you go, could you grab that vase on the shelf by your head and fill it with water in the bathroom two doors down the hall on the left?”

  He blinked, and some of the shock appeared to vanish from his gaze. “Okay. Sure. They were from Jill and Lea, by the way.”

  A second later, he and the vase were gone.

  Phoebe sprang into action, unzipping the top of her dress then managed to pull it over her head. Wardrobe hadn’t designed the dress to slip down her hips. Too bad, because she also managed to get her hair caught in one of the fake buttons on the back.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “It’s me, Ethan.”

  She stumbled to the wall behind the door, clutched the dress to her chest and cursed as the stuck button yanked on her hair. Far from exposed, she still had on the period undergarments, so there was no reason to feel embarrassed. Tell that to her heated cheeks.

  “Come in.”

  Ethan entered, and in the space of time it took him to shut the door, his strong, sexy presence turned the room back into a closet, and her slow pulse to wild. Unaware of the havoc he caused, the gorgeous man set the vase on the table then turned to face her.

  “Oh, sorry, I thought you said to come in.” He blinked, then twisted his back to her in a surprisingly sweet, gentlemanly gesture.

  “I did,” she said. “It’s okay, you can turn around. I actually need your help. Again.”

  She watched as he slowly faced her, hesitancy clouding his gaze.

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” she replied, heat flooding her face. “I’d planned to be dressed by now and save us both the embarrassment of seeing me in my knickers.”

  A slow smile spread across his lips. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Swell.” She laughed. “Until my hair got caught on a button. Can you help get it unstuck?”

  His attention transferred to the knotted mess. “Sure,” he said, and stepped closer, carefully taking the garment from her hands. “Turn around.”

  The gravelly timbre of his voice awakened a fluttering in her stomach. But she had bigger worries, because as he worked the button loose, his fingers brushed her neck and shoulders, and the feel of his calloused hands on her skin stole her breath. By the time he finished, her body trembled and the goose bumps returned. With reinforcements. Those suckers raced down her back so fast they bounced up the front, peaking body parts her undergarments were not going to hide.

  “You’re unhooked,” he informed, his breath warm on her skin.

  Phoebe swallowed and forced her body to step away before turning around. “Thank you.” She attributed the breathlessness of her voice to the exertion, even though he was the one who’d done all the work.

  “You’re welcome.” He stood there, dress in hand, as his gaze dropped to take in her boots, white pantaloons, lingering on her chest where her nipples were far from disguised despite the bra she wore under her white camisole. “Here.” He shoved the dress at her before pivoting toward the door. “I’ll wait in the hall.”

  Then he was gone.

  He was good at vanishing.

  Phoebe slumped against the table and sucked in several deep breaths. Damn, that was…wow.

  In an attempt to pull her mind out of the fog, she hung the dress, placed the flowers in the vase and began to sing, because singing always calmed her, even as a child. It was as common to her as breathing, and just as essential.

  By the time she hit the last note of a Stephen Schwartz classic she’d had the privilege to perform on stage in her early twenties, she knew four minutes and fifty-two seconds had passed. In that time, she brushed her curls into waves, replaced her costume with a black cocktail dress, removed her stage make up and just finished her smoky eyes. Still humming the tune, she applied a neutral lip color of light mauve, slipped into her black stilettos, then stood.

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” she told her reflection.

  It was good to be back, but there were days she’d much rather be on stage.

  After she removed her jewelry and purse from a locked drawer, Phoebe quickly donned the sterling silver and black onyx earrings and matching necklace her mother had given her when she’d received her first Tony Awards nomination. Even though she didn’t win, that night had been one of the highlights of her career.

  So far.

  She only wore the set for special occasions. Tonight was one of them. It was Jill’s special night.

  Hoping she wasn’t too late, she headed for the door,
her mind calculating how much time had passed since the final curtain fell. The plan was to meet the Wynes in the lobby a half-hour after the show.

  At her estimate, she was on the upside of thirty. Like her age. She opened the door with a snicker, but irritation canceled out her mirth when she found Ethan talking to the head of security.

  Dammit.

  She didn’t need this. Didn’t want security involved.

  “Ms. Weston, ma’am, I’m so sorry about that fan,” Henry said, removing his security hat as he stepped close, his kind blue eyes full of worry. “There was an incident involving an injured lady in the south stairwell, and apparently Joel left his post to go help.”

  Phoebe touched his shoulder and squeezed. “It’s all right, Henry. Is the woman okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Turned out to be a false alarm. You know how that goes.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “But that’s no excuse for Joel.” He shook his gray head. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Why don’t you come with me and fill out a report.”

  “No. No, Henry.” She nodded toward the silent man leaning against the wall. “As I already explained to my well-meaning, but misguided friend, I don’t want to report anything. No harm done.”

  Odd. Ethan hadn’t said a thing since she’d stepped into the hall.

  “I don’t know.” Henry frowned. “I share Mr. Wyne’s concern.”

  “Please, just forget about it. I already have.” She patted the guard’s arm and smiled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an engagement party to attend. You have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Without waiting for a reply, or Ethan, she turned and strode down the hall toward the exit that led to the lobby. Irritation prickled her spine and lengthened her stride. She knew it was unjust. That’s why she left, to avoid saying something she’d regret. If she learned nothing this past half hour, she discovered her reactions to the oldest Wyne brother were strong and unpredictable, and worse than that—uncontrollable.

  For someone who learned to control her feelings, her outward reactions, her facial features, body movement, timbre and strength of her voice at a young age, losing control in any way was…exhilarating.