The show was a compilation of variety acts. As Sloan’s laughter rumbled in his chest at the comedian, Ziara let herself join in. She held her breath, awed over the awesome acrobatics and stunts in various sketches.
At one point Sloan stretched out his long legs, the brush of material against the bare skin of her calf setting off goose bumps. His gaze branded her like a heat-seeking missile, taking in her reactions to the various acts onstage, reminding her to temper her laughter or excitement.
She thoroughly enjoyed the evening until the next-to-last act. As a scantily clad woman gracefully crossed the stage and burst into song, Ziara cringed in her seat.
She knew the song well—it had been one of her mother’s favorites. The scene was from a musical about a prostitute who’d found Mr. Right and hoped he’d look past her profession to the woman within. As fellow “call girls” made their way onto the stage to join in the chorus, Ziara shifted in her seat.
Like a neon sign right before her face, the scene reminded her of all she had to lose if she gave in to her attraction to Sloan. Her past and future colliding in one tempting, disastrous physical attraction. Each word of the song pounded at her temples, reawakening her anger and resolution.
She wasn’t her mother and never would be. But she knew from experience that people, especially men, treated her differently when they found out about her childhood. Their attitudes changed. Their words changed. Above all, their eyes changed.
Vivian would definitely change if Ziara’s past found the light of day.
Abruptly Sloan stood, grasping her hand to pull her to her feet, then guide her up the aisle to the muted lighting of the foyer. As he paused outside the auditorium doors, she turned to him, acutely conscious of his hand still wrapped around hers. She blinked, her vision adjusting to the faint light, bright after the darkness of the theater.
“What is it?” she asked, withdrawing slightly as he studied her with uncomfortable intensity. That gaze didn’t miss much, and she felt as vulnerable as an open book right now.
“You seemed to have lost interest, so I thought it was time to go,” Sloan said, a question in his voice.
She shifted, firmly drawing her hand from his grasp. “What makes you say that?”
Stupid! Her defensiveness would surely make him even more curious. Too bad she didn’t have a real zipper in her mouth like she’d pretended to as a child, then she could zip her lips shut so nothing incriminating could leak out.
He stepped closer, as if to regain any ground lost by letting go of her hand. She checked the urge to retreat. “You kept wiggling. You seemed uncomfortable and weren’t watching the stage despite the excellent performances.”
He reached out and pushed an errant strand of hair back behind her ear. Her flesh tingled at the contact, speeding up her heartbeat.
“Was it the performance or the content?”
Now her heart pounded in her chest, drowning out any sound around her. She made the mistake of meeting his gaze; those cool, steady eyes coaxing her to spill her secrets. But if he knew, knew what her mother had been, those eyes would change. They would glitter, hard as ice, as he condemned her just like her classmates and the townspeople of good ol’ Macon, Georgia. Only this time, the life she’d built would be at stake, not just her heart.
“We’ve got somewhere to be,” he said, turning away without waiting for an answer. Had he drawn his own conclusions?
As she followed him down several hallways, she pulled herself back into professional mode, sharp and on alert around Sloan’s prying eyes.
Her first inkling that all was not as she suspected came when Sloan led her through a nondescript door that opened into a back corridor near the theater. After several minutes of walking, they came to a door marked Backstage with a doorman keeping a close eye on things. Sloan pulled something from his jacket pocket and the man waved him in.
Going through that door was like entering another dimension. Whereas earlier Ziara had been dazzled by the lights, sounds and effortless flow of the production, now she was amazed that such beauty came from such chaos.
Performers stood in groups chatting or rushing to and from who knows where. Stagehands attended to curtains, props and other mysterious tasks, sidestepping anyone or anything in their way. But it was nearly silent chaos, for the tone of the noise remained low and soft, ever aware of the audience and performance not too far away.
Sloan led her deeper into the backstage area, through rooms containing waiting performers. Here the noise level rose, protected from the stage by distance. Finally they came to a long, narrow room lined with dressing tables. Sloan didn’t even blink at the number of women—very toned, well-built women—in various stages of undress, though several certainly noticed him.