The Yuletide Child

He stood in the doorway, his dark eyes piercing her like a laser, moving over her slender, pale-skinned, almost naked body, leaving heat everywhere it touched.

Breathlessly, she managed to say, ‘Didn’t you hear me say I’m getting dressed?’

‘No, I didn’t. Sorry.’ The door shut again.

She was disturbed to find that her hands were trembling as she slid a filmy white slip over her head, smoothing down the delicate straps over her creamy shoulders, a flurry of lace over her breasts. Over that she added a gossamer-fine yellow chiffon dress, tight-waisted, low-necked, full-skirted, which made satisfying swishing noises around her thighs.

She blow-dried her damp hair, brushing the short brown curls into a semblance of order. Michael said the hairstyle made her look like a boy, especially as she had such a skinny, flat, athlete’s body.

Outside her door she heard loud, angry voices, and stiffened. What on earth was going on out there?

The door snapped open; Michael appeared in the doorway, his thin, fine-boned face flushed in anger. ‘This guy says he’s a friend of yours—is that right?’

Over his bony shoulder she met the dark eyes; they pleaded, urged.

‘Yes,’ she heard herself say, and couldn’t believe she had said it, almost contradicted herself, took it back. What on earth was the matter with her, pretending she knew this total stranger?

Of course, if she denied knowing him Michael would have him thrown out at once—and to her surprise she recognised that she didn’t want that to happen. She wanted to get to know this man.

Angrily pushing back a lock of damp, fair hair from his forehead, Michael demanded, ‘Who is he?’

Before she could think of a reply the other man answered for her. ‘None of your business.’ He pushed his way past Michael, closing the door in his face with a cool arrogance that took Dylan’s breath away. She had never seen anyone treat Michael Carossi as if he was just any other man. Michael was used to admiration, respect, the heady fumes of hero-worship from the whole company as well as their audiences. Michael was the god of their little world; the whole company revolved around him, including her.

The stranger stood, staring at her, and suddenly the room seemed far too small, she could hardly breathe.

‘You look...’ he began huskily, then stopped, swallowing; she saw his throat move. ‘Beautiful,’ he finished.

‘Thank you,’ she said, dry-mouthed, and forced a pretence of laugher. ‘I’m not, though—it’s an illusion, especially on stage. It’s just the make-up and clothes. I’m really very ordinary.’ Her eyes glanced sideways into the dressing table mirror at the slender girl reflected there. Brown hair, a small, heart-shaped face, slightly built—there was nothing special about her. There never had been.

‘Ordinary?’ he repeated. ‘Is that really how you feel? All this glamour, the show business stuff, the fans, the fuss people make over you! Do you wish you were just an ordinary girl?’

‘But that’s what I am! An ordinary girl who happens to be able to dance.’

‘You must have wanted to be a dancer!’

‘It just happened to me. I started when I was four years old, taking dancing lessons once a week. All my mother’s idea, actually. I don’t remember ever wanting to; it was all so long ago. I had no idea where it would all end. Nobody warns you that if you go on with it you’ll spend endless days in punishing, gruelling work. They don’t tell you about the muscle strain, the agony of sore feet, the aching back...’ She broke off, surprised by what she was telling him, flushed and worried. If he turned out to be a journalist and published what she had just said Michael would be furious with her! Hurriedly, she asked, ‘Look, who are you? How did you get in here?’

‘Walked in,’ he calmly said.

‘The stage doorkeeper should have stopped you!’ As if poor old George would have had much chance of keeping him out!

Nearly sixty, a cheerful, grey-haired man who had been a dancer once, George had broken a leg when he was thirty and never danced again. He had been given a job backstage and had graduated through various jobs to doorkeeper. Wiry, with a faint limp even now, George was practical and kind-hearted, a father-figure to the young dancers, but he would never be able to deal with a man like this.

The tough mouth curled up at one edge. ‘He was busy on the phone; he didn’t see me!’

Preferred not to, no doubt! thought Dylan. George had a strong sense of self-preservation; he wouldn’t risk getting his head knocked off!

Her blue eyes absorbed everything about the stranger, starting with that mouth. Wide, passionate, beautifully moulded, it had an erotic power that made her quiver. The very idea of being kissed by him made her head swim.

How tall was he? A foot taller than her; her head just came up to his wide shoulders. Now that he was under the raw glare of her dressing room lights she could see that he was not pale at all; no doubt it had been the contrast of his black hair and paler skin in shadows. In fact he was deeply tanned, brown as a berry, and very fit. A lean man, with a lot of muscles under that white shirt. Those stark, angular cheekbones, that strong jaw-line, made him a man any woman would find compelling and any man would find a threat.

‘What’s your name?’

He smiled and her ears beat with a hot pulse. ‘Ross Jefferson. Is Dylan Adams your real name?’

She nodded. ‘What do you do? You aren’t in the theatre, are you?’ He looked as if he spent all his time out of doors, but then she, of all people, knew how deceptive appearances could be!

‘No, I am not,’ he said, grimacing. ‘I’m a forester—I work in a commercially managed forest, way up north—all conifers, of course.’

She gave a sigh of relief—at least he wasn’t a journalist looking for a gossip story!

‘I had a holiday in Norway once, when I was at school. There were forests of fir trees everywhere we went.’ They were making polite conversation on the surface but underneath something very different was happening. She barely knew what she was saying, she was so intent on what she was feeling: a sensuality which was entirely new to her and left her in a state of shock.

She had had a few boyfriends in the past, but her career took first place in her life: there wasn’t time to get seriously involved with anyone. Except Michael, of course; he was always there. They saw each other every day, most of their waking hours, but their relationship was not a sexual one. They were more than friends, less than lovers. Partners, necessary to each other on stage and off, working together, eating together, spending their spare time together. How could she ever have fallen in love with anyone else? Michael left no room for any other man.

At that instant, right on cue, Michael tapped on the door. ‘Are you coming, Dylan? I’m not waiting much longer; I’m starving. Come on!’

‘Will you have supper with me?’ Ross Jefferson quickly asked.

‘I always eat with Michael after a performance.’

His eyes focused on hers intently, his face hard, set. ‘Are you two lovers?’

The direct, flat question made her flush.

‘No, just very good friends.’ Yet more than that; the answer was too simplistic. What else could she say, though? There were no words to describe how close she and Michael were.

‘Then eat with me tonight!’ Ross said urgently, moving closer to her, but not touching her. ‘I want to get to know you. I’m only in London for a week. I’m here on holiday and have to get back to work by next Monday, at the other end of the country. God knows when I shall be able to come to London again. I’ve no time to waste.’

‘Dylan!’ Michael shouted again. ‘Our table is booked for eleven! Come on!’

Still staring into the dark, hypnotic eyes, Dylan called out, ‘You go on without me, Michael. See you tomorrow at rehearsal.’

A silence, then the door was pulled open and Michael stared in at her, at both of them. There was incredulity, alarm, wariness in his elegant face. This had never happened before. She had never shown any sign of preferring another man’s company to his. Something new had entered their magic circle, something dangerous to Michael, and he immediately sensed it. He had powerful intuitions, especially where his own security was involved.

‘I need to talk over tonight’s performance. It won’t wait.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, meaning far more than that she was sorry she couldn’t eat supper with him. She was saying she was sorry she wouldn’t be able to talk through the way they had danced, analyse any mistakes, discuss the audience reaction to this movement or that, the way they always did after each performance, while it was fresh in their minds. Each night was so different, each audience responded differently; you learnt so much from studying them. Added to all that, they had to talk themselves down from the fierce excitement of the night.

And tonight Dylan was changing all that. Tonight Michael was no longer the centre of her universe. A new element had entered the equasion.

‘I’m having supper with Ross,’ she said.

Michael stood there, very still, intensely concentrated on her, staring into her eyes and reading everything in them.

They knew each other so well. She couldn’t hide anything from him. She didn’t even try.

‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ he said at last. The door slammed again; he was gone but she was trembling.