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“I used candles. All sizes, all shapes—all of them electric,” he added quickly, when Marco raised his eyebrows. “There was no danger of fire. And in the center, a Steinway grand.”
“A what?”
“A piano. One of those big things you see at concerts. The pianist wore a tux. The real deal, you know, a black tux, the coat with that funny-looking split tail—”
“A white grand piano,” Marco said slowly.
“No, sir. It was black—”
“A white piano. The white vases on the glass risers, the vases filled with tall glass candles and alternating with tall white—”
“Lilies,” Stein said excitedly. “White candles. White lilies. White piano. A guy in a white tuxedo.”
“A woman,” Marco said, “in a white evening gown.”
Stein nodded his head furiously. “Yes, sir! That would work. We already have the vases. I can get the candles, no sweat. And flowers—we won’t need anywhere near as many since we’re also using candles. As for the piano—no problem, I’m certain.”
“In which case, all we lack is the piano player.”
“They call them pianists, sir.”
“They call them piano players,” Marco said, fighting back the little rush of anticipatory excitement that went through him.
******
Stein left to deal with the piano, the flowers and the candles.
“I’ll handle the rest,” Marco told him.
“The rest,” of course, was Emily.
He’d come away last night without her phone number, even without her last name but then, he’d never anticipated seeing her again. Getting in touch with her now was only logical. Nothing about it was personal. He needed a piano player. She needed a job. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t really bought into her breezy Oh, my agent will find me something else. If it were that easy, she wouldn’t have been working in the kind of dive she’d described.
This was business, plain and simple.
He considered going to see her but decided against it. Too personal. A would-be employer would not turn up at a would-be employee’s door. Not that he would actually be her employer. This was a temporary job…
“Hell,” he muttered, and reached for the phone.
His attorney listened, asked for Emily’s address, said he knew just who to contact and would get back to him with the information within the hour.
“Unless you want a full background check.”
“I want an address and a phone number,” Marco said brusquely. “Nothing more.”
Twenty minutes later, he had her last name—Madison—her cell number and her landline number
All he had to do now was contact her.
Why was he hesitating? What he was about to do was logical. Eminently logical.
Nothing about this was personal.
She needed a job. He needed a piano player. It was a win-win situation, a problem solved for him, a problem solved for her. It might even be more than that for her. This was only a one-day event but it would provide her with excellent media coverage.
That kind of exposure was surely good for an entertainer. Not that he’d gotten the impression she saw herself as an entertainer. He hadn’t even gotten the sense that she saw piano as a career. It hadn’t been in anything she’d said but in her attitude. Maybe she was still looking for a career.
Whatever. That didn’t matter.
