Page 83 of Fairest of Heart

“You’ve heard of me?” She infused her voice with enough surprise to sound modest, a tricky feat when superiority sluiced through her veins. But, of course, she was a world-renowned actress.

He offered her his arm and led her toward the dining room. “My home is in Denver, and the entire city seems papered with playbills advertising your arrival. Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered you right here in Boulder.”

A maître d’ showed them to a table, one Mr. Chapman silently indicated a preference for, in a corner where they could enjoy a somewhat private tête-à-tête. She couldn’t have chosen better herself.

Her companion held out her chair, then assisted her into it. She could practically feel his gaze roving over her figure. So easy. A twist here, a delicate hand to her throat there. By the time dessert was served, the man would be ripe for the picking.

Mr. Chapman seated himself in the chair closest to her instead of the more traditional position across the table. He accepted the menu, then waved the headwaiter away. Flashing a smile her way, he set the menu aside. “What brings you to Boulder, Madame? I would think Denver would be more to your taste with its superior shopping and entertainment.”

“Sometimes an artist must seek a quiet place to hide from all the attention.” And interfering lawmen. “I adore my audience, but every so often I must take time to refill my creative well. Otherwise, the wearying pace of a touring troupe can take an unforgiving toll. My audience deserves to see me at my best, and I refuse to give them anything less.”

“I admire your artistic integrity. Speaking as a person who hopes to attend a future Madame LaBelle performance in Denver, I look forward to seeing you at your best.” His gaze traced the lines of her dress. “Though, I daresay, it’s difficult to imagine you any better than you are right now.”

Narcissa patted his arm with a flirtatious flourish as her breathy chuckle warmed the air between them. “Flatterer.”

Victor Chapman captured her hand and pressed it into his jacket sleeve. She could feel the corded strength of his forearm beneath the fabric. This was no wealthy dandy who idled away his time. This was a man who kept himself in robust health. A nice change from the older gentlemen she usually courted. More like Cecil—but rich. Could provide a nice distraction while she laid low for a couple more weeks.

“I assure you, my dear, I only say what I mean.”

Goodness. That voice. So low and . . . seductive. Her blood suddenly warmed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. She was the siren, not him. Yet there was something rather freeing about letting go of her control and letting passion instead of calculation dictate her next move.

She rubbed her foot along his calf. “Perhaps you can order us a bottle of wine . . . Victor?”

It was a bold play, initiating physical contact and using his given name. But she wanted to make it clear that they were to be equal partners in this little game. Judging by the smile spreading across his face, he appreciated her daring.

Thirty minutes later, having consumed half a bottle of wine, a bowl of cream of potato soup, roast lamb with vegetables, and a lovely dish of rice pudding, Narcissa had completely relaxed, thoroughly enjoying Victor’s humorous anecdotes and suppositions about their fellow diners. The man had a gift for fiction. He made up story after story, each more outlandish than the rest. She hadn’t laughed so much in ages.

“You are quite the entertainer, Victor. I can’t recall a dinner I’ve enjoyed more.”

He smiled as he refilled her wine glass. “Coming from a professional such as yourself, I take that as high praise.”

She reached up to fiddle with his lapel, then smoothed it against his chest with the press of her hand. “As you should.”

Her charming companion twisted slightly in his seat to face her more directly. “A friend of mine caught one of your performances down in Texas.”

She dropped her hand from his chest and lifted her newly refilled glass to her lips. “Oh?” A warning bell clanged softly in her head, but the wine dulled its ring.

“Yes, he wrote me a three-page letter extolling your beauty and your superb acting prowess.”

See? Nothing to worry about. Just another infatuated fan. Narcissa swallowed her sip of wine and returned the glass to the table.

“Three pages?” She tittered softly. “My, that’s quite a lengthy eulogy.”

His smile widened, but something sharpened in his gaze. “Apropos that you should use that term.” He shifted his gaze from her and nodded to someone.

“Oh? How so?”

Heavens, but she wanted to look. To turn and scan the dining room for whomever was on the other end of the nod. But Narcissa would not concern herself with such paltry matters. Not when, in all likelihood, he was merely signaling a waiter.

Still, her belly tightened uncomfortably.

Victor leaned close to her. “That’s where my friend saw your show,” he murmured in a low tone—one that should have been seductive, but instead sounded the slightest bit predatory. “In Eulogy, Texas. Perhaps you remember him.” He paused, just as an actor would before delivering a climactic line. “Hubert Hathaway.”

“I-I don’t recall.” She fumbled in her lap for her purse, her internal alarm now ringing louder than the bells of St. James back in Chicago. “I meet so many people. . . .”

Had Hubert been one of the men she’d fleeced? His name seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t be sure. Either way, she needed to extricate herself from this dinner and get back to her room.

Victor’s hand gripped her knee beneath the tablecloth. The pressure firm. Strong. Not painful, but definitely unrelenting.