Cut And Run. Carla Neggers
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she thought.
But Ryder’s reaction interested her. He had stiffened visibly and paled. “Stark—Matthew,” he said, managing a smile as he put out his hand. There was no friendship in the gesture. Whoever Matthew Stark was, Sam Ryder didn’t want any part of him. “It’s been a long time.”
“I guess it has,” Stark said, shaking hands briefly. “I caught the concert and spotted you. Thought I’d say hello.”
That’s bullshit, Juliana thought unexpectedly. Matthew Stark had anticipated the effect he would have on Sam Ryder. But that, she reminded herself, was hardly her problem. “If you gentlemen don’t mind—”
Matthew turned and grinned at her look of controlled frustration. “Come on, Sam, we’re in the lady’s way. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I’m sorry—bad night.” Regaining his composure, Ryder turned to Juliana, his baby blue eyes shining with embarrassment and anger. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
Juliana bit back a laugh when she realized he meant Stark, not himself. “It’s all right,” she said, not caring whom he meant, just so long as they both got out of her way.
“Miss Fall, I was wondering—” Ryder stopped himself, red-faced, and glared at Stark, who just smiled back, staying put. Ryder turned back to Juliana, obviously controlling his anger. “It’s been a pleasure.”
He brushed past Stark, who was leaning against the open door, looking relaxed and distant. Juliana felt bad for Ryder and realized Stark’s presence had prevented him from asking her to dinner, which, she supposed, was just as well. She hoped Stark would take the hint and move along, too. But he didn’t. To hell with him, she thought, whipping up the turban and tossing it back into her bag with her rose-colored shoes. He could stay if he wanted. She was leaving.
“Nice turban,” he said. “Didn’t peg you for the sequins type.”
She gave him an ice-cold look. “Excuse me, won’t you?”
Stark made no move to get out of her way. “Take it easy,” he said, his own equanimity in stark contrast to her almost compulsive energy. “I’m on my way, okay?”
She almost told him good, go. Instead she remembered her position and Shuji’s lectures on how to treat her public, although somehow she didn’t think this solid, hard man fit into that category. Had he pulled an Aunt Wilhelmina and snored through the Beethoven? Why was he here?
“I take it you don’t know much about Sam Ryder,” Stark said.
She picked up her black crepe and considered just starting to undress right in front of him, but her eyes fell on his, dark and remote, and she reconsidered. “No, we just met tonight. Now—”
“You called him Mister.”
“So?”
“He’s a senator. I guess you didn’t know that.”
“A senator—oh, shit.”
“A U.S. senator,” Stark said, adding, “That’s U.S. as in United States.”
She rolled her tongue inside her cheek. Stark’s eyes, she noticed, seemed black, but she couldn’t be sure. “I’m not amused.”
“I didn’t think you would be.”
“And who are you?”
“Ah ha. The name Matthew Stark doesn’t jingle any bells behind those cool green eyes. My how the mighty have fallen. You and my editor ought to get together.”
Should she have heard of him? Probably not, she decided. He was just trying to annoy her—and succeeding remarkably well. “Mr. Stark, I’m running late.”
“As I said, I’m on my way. Just one more thing.” He placed one hand high on the door-jamb and looked at her. She could feel the sweat on the stray wisps around her hairline, dripping slowly between her breasts, matting her dress to her. She was hot and madder than hell but trying not to let him know it—and, at the same time, she felt herself daring him. Egging him on. He grinned at her. “If I were you, toots, I’d tell this Shuji character to stick it and head for Vermont.” He straightened up. “Night.”
Her back stiffening, Juliana gave him a steely look. His eyes seemed to change from black to a dark, dark brown, warmth coming into them, excitement. Toots, she thought, almost dispassionately. She couldn’t remember ever being called toots.
Stark was already out the door. Juliana shook out her black dress, putting all her pent-up irritation into the effort. Toots, for God’s sake. As for Vermont and Shuji—
How had Stark known about Vermont?
She leaped out the door after him. “You bastard, you eavesdropped on me and Shuji!”
Matthew Stark turned around and grinned. “That’s right. Bumped into him on his way out. Told him I thought you deserved a break, too. Lucky I read my program notes or I wouldn’t have known who he was.”
“You’ve never heard of Shuji?”
“Not until tonight. Last music I listened to was by George Thorogood and the Destroyers.”
It was something to seize on, and Juliana laughed, returning to her dressing room and shutting the door.
Matthew got the hell out of there—fast, before he did something he’d really regret. Like tell Juliana Fall she had the sexiest damn laugh he’d heard in ages. The lady was an artsy-fartsy type and damned cool, but he’d seen the impatience all over her stiff, trim little body. What was she in such a big hurry over? A man? No, he doubted she’d get into such a state over something as simple as a lover, romance, anything like that. Most men would be happy to wait for her, and he suspected she knew it. Ryder sure as hell would. Hell, I might, too, Stark thought, remembering how sweat had made the thin silk of her dress cling to her breasts, outlining their shape. Forget love and romance. Maybe a night of romping, good sex would put her in a hurry.
Shame on you, Matt, the lady probably doesn’t do stuff like that.
Not, he thought, seeing those deep, dark gorgeous eyes of hers once more, that she wouldn’t be damn good at it.
He wondered what he was going to tell Feldie.
The hell with it, he thought, why start worrying about that kind of thing at this late date? He went for a beer and thought some more about Juliana Fall’s laugh.
Six
Hendrik de Geer was smoking a cigar in the back seat of Ryder’s chauffeured car, waiting on Broadway, when the tall senator slid in next to him breathing hard and obviously agitated. “Put that thing out,” he said sharply, snatching a silk handkerchief from his pocket. He didn’t bother to shake the folds from it before he wiped his brow. “I hate cigars.”
The Dutchman shrugged impassively and put out his cigar, which he would finish later, in privacy. Ryder balled up his handkerchief and shoved it into the pocket of his overcoat, and Hendrik wondered, with some amusement, just how badly the pretty pianist Juliana Fall had treated him. With the skill of the practiced politician, Ryder composed himself. “You were at the concert? Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes, and no, I did not. Did you?”
“Yes—yes, of course. It was a fine performance.” Only the distant, pained look in Ryder’s eyes betrayed his lingering passion for the blond pianist. “Juliana Fall’s a remarkable musician, don’t you agree?”
“Music doesn’t interest me.”
Ryder gave Hendrik a thin, patrician smile, but the Dutchman took no offense. He was what he was, and long ago he’d stopped trying to change. Ryder said mildly, “Let’s get to the point, shall we? I assume you saw who I was with tonight.”
“Rachel Stein,” Hendrik said without expression.