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“Uh-huh,” Leanna said, because it was a lot easier to say that than to admit the truth.
All that stuff she’d told herself about infatuation was a lie.
She loved Cam. He was a brave man with no heart…and she would always love him.
The sooner she left Dallas, the better.
Cam was parked in his Porsche across from the hotel that housed the visiting corps de ballet.
He’d spent the evening pacing the antique kilim carpet in his darkened study. He couldn’t stand still, couldn’t sit still. Even his deep-breathing exercises had failed him.
When he realized he was checking his watch every thirty or forty seconds, he’d muttered an oath, grabbed his leather jacket and a couple of other things, and headed out the door.
He’d driven aimlessly for a while, taking a road that led out of the city, putting his foot to the floor when he reached a turn-off to an abandoned stretch of highway that was supposed to lead to the interstate but actually went nowhere. The road was known mostly to cops and street-racers. He’d let the Porsche fly until the car was running flat-out.
Then he’d eased off the gas and driven back to Dallas.
He had a good plan. Not flawless: no plan ever was. Luck, fate, kismet, whatever you wanted to call it, was always the unknown element. For all his careful organizing, he might still come up short.
Yeah, but the longer he sat here now, opposite the hotel, waiting for the P.I.’s call, the more he knew he had to do this.
Cam checked his watch again, the dial glowing an eerie green inside the dark car. “Come on,” he muttered impatiently. “What’s taking so freaking long?”
His gut was in knots. Excitement thrummed in his veins. Confronting a stranger named Leanna was all he could think about.
Leanna DeMarco. That was her name. Born in Boston, lived in a walk-up in Manhattan, danced ballet all her life, on tour with this company for the past six months.
The P.I. had phoned in late afternoon with all the pertinent information. Her name. Her background. The name of her hotel. Her room number.
He’d added that she shared her room with someone.
For a second, the world had gone dark.
“Another dancer in the company,” the P.I. said. “Virginia Adams. She and the subject appear to be good friends.”
Cam had let out his breath. Another girl. Yeah. Okay—except, that might present a logistics problem.
“How good?” he said. “When the subject leaves the theater tonight, is she likely to be in the company of this Adams woman?”
She was, the P.I. said. The two dancers commonly traveled back and forth together.
Definitely a logistics problem, but not insoluble. Half an hour, and Cam had figured a way to deal with it. Rich Williams, a guy he’d played football with in college, was a features writer for the Dallas Register.
A phone call. A handful of good-natured “how’s it goin’” and “remember when.” Then, finally, a request.
“Lemme get this straight,” Rich had said. “You want me to interview a dancer in a visiting ballet company?”
“Tonight, after the performance.”
“Uh huh.” Rich chuckled. “Seems to me I can recall the days you didn’t need a setup like this to score points, buddy.”
“Very funny,” Cam had replied dryly.
“Well, you’re in luck, man. I’m doing a piece on unusual jobs. Wouldn’t hurt to add a dancer to the mix.”
“Great. Take her out to supper. On me. Keep her busy for a couple of hours.”
“Keep her…? You mean, the babe I’ll be interviewing isn’t the babe you’ve got your eye on?”
