The Spellbinder

One
 
Brody Devlin appeared on stage to take his eighth curtain call.
 
The applause swelled, redoubling in volume as it echoed off the walls of the huge old theater. Every person in the audience was on his feet. His most ardent fans were wild with enthusiasm. They wanted to cling to him, keep him within their field of vision, listen to his deep, mesmerizing voice speak any words that would continue to envelop them in the spell he had been weaving about them all evening.
 
Spellbinder.
 
The word jumped suddenly into Sacha’s mind. For two months she had been trying to analyze Brody Devlin’s power over audiences; now she realized there was no logical explanation. He was a phenomenon, an actor who exuded such power and presence, he quite simply hypnotized and charmed, changing impossibility into reality, the commonplace into high drama. Even in this light-weight revival of the musical Camelot his power was riveting.
 
Of course, his magnificent good looks were an asset that couldn’t be discounted. His role was demanding. He should have been exhausted now. But that didn’t seem to be the case. He stood center stage, and from where Sacha was watching in the tenth row, she felt as though she were absorbing some of the crackling energy he radiated. In the dark green velvet of his medieval costume he looked so stunning, one reviewer had said it was an accolade to his acting that he could make King Arthur believable as a cuckolded husband. Devlin’s shoulder-length hair was a deep chestnut color and his tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped physique conveyed an impression of tough yet magnetically appealing sexuality. The camera loved his face, but not because he had the features of an Adonis. His brilliant blue eyes were wide set and tilted up slightly at the corners, and his broad cheekbones and short nose were definitely irregular as was his long sensual mouth. Yet put them together, and they combined to create a face to fascinate and beguile. The face of a spellbinder.
 
But tonight those brilliant blue eyes seemed restless and the smile on his tanned face betrayed impatience. Sacha inhaled sharply as she recognized the sign for which she had been watching for the past week: There was an air of leashed tension about him. Tonight. It would be tonight.
 
Sacha turned to Louis. “Call your contact at the reception desk of his hotel,” she said in an urgent whisper, “and tell him it will be tonight. Probably within the next hour or so.”
 
Louis Benoit raised an inquiring brow. “You’re sure? Jason is a very greedy man. He will charge us even if you’re wrong.”
 
Sacha glanced back at the man on the stage. Devlin’s tension was growing. She could sense it even as the actor, masking it with a careless, charming smile, bowed and waved to the audience. “I’m sure. Hurry.”
 
Louis nodded and then moved rapidly past the other people in their row. He hurried up the aisle, trying to get ahead of the crowd, which would be converging on the exits as soon as Brody released them from his spell.
 
Devlin would not be persuaded to come back after this curtain call, Sacha thought. No matter how loudly people in the audience clamored for him to return, he wouldn’t. Sacha had studied him so closely for the last two months that she felt as if she knew his every thought. And tonight, she felt certain, he would tell Cass to make the arrangements.
 
Cold perspiration dampened her palms, and she wiped them on her jeans. It was unusual for her to be nervous, but now she was more frightened than the first time Gino had sent her out on the streets. She drew a deep breath and braced herself, deliberately trying to subdue the apprehension that could make a coward of her. She had learned a long time ago that worrying never accomplished anything. It was better just to make up your mind, do what you set out to do with as much verve and style as you were capable of, and keep smiling. By assuming a cheerful outlook you could sometimes fool even yourself into believing everything was all right.
 
She was only nervous now because tonight was terribly important to her and she had waited for such a long time for it. She would be fine as soon as she swung into action, she assured herself.
 
Devlin was leaving the stage. It was the signal for her to depart too. She snatched up her worn blue-jean jacket from the back of the seat and slipped it on, her gaze still clinging to Brody Devlin as he strode gracefully toward the wings.
 
As soon as he disappeared from view she started to move toward the aisle, excusing herself to the beautifully dressed patrons who were still applauding loudly, hoping for Devlin to appear again. She was scarcely aware of the condescending and surprised looks her faded jeans and scuffed loafers received. She was too intent on getting out and catching a taxi to take her to the hotel to worry about how she looked. Not that she would have worried anyway. You wore what you had the money to buy, and then, if anyone looked down his nose at you, you found a way to tweak that nose—again with the utmost style.
 
Sacha hurried out of the theater and took a deep breath. The fresh air was invigorating after the perfumed closeness of the auditorium and, she noted, surprisingly cool for March in San Diego.
 
Damn, she didn’t have much money left after buying those tickets tonight, and it was only a few blocks to the hotel. Maybe, if she hurried, she could walk it and still … No, she couldn’t take the chance. Tonight was too important. She jumped into the first waiting taxi in the zone in front of the theater and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Ventura Hotel. Hurry, please.”
 
Brody was unbuttoning his emerald velvet doublet even as he reached the wings. He accepted the hot drink Joel Morton, the stagehand, held out to him and swallowed it in three swift gulps. Damn, he hated hot lemon juice. He would be glad to have this tour over so that he didn’t have to go through the motions of pampering his non-existent singing voice. Then he could relax and—
 
And what? Lie on the beach at Malibu and vegetate? Better hot juice and road tours like this than the boredom that besieged him when he wasn’t working at all. He handed the glass back to the stagehand. “I want to see Cass,” he said curtly as he turned and strode down the hall to his dressing room.
 
Joel Morton pursed his lips in a low whistle. Devlin’s notorious temper was obviously about to go on the rampage. It was completely out of character for him to be short with any member of the crew or with minor cast members. He usually saved his scathing sarcasm and glacier stares for the professionals in his own league. Well, Joel thought, it wasn’t his job to cope with Devlin’s displeasure. He’d deliver the summons to Cass Radison, Devlin’s manager, and let him try to calm down the actor.
 
Brody slammed the door of his dressing room, tersely dismissed his dresser, Chuck, shrugged out of the velvet doublet, and threw it on the top of the screen across the room. He sat down before the mirror and began taking off his stage makeup with swift, jerky movements.
 
There was a perfunctory knock on the door before Cass opened it and strolled into the dressing room. “A great performance, Brody.”
 
“How do you know? You never watch the show and you have a tin ear.” Brody threw a soiled tissue into the wastecan. “I was flat as hell in at least half my numbers tonight.”
 
“Strange, the audience didn’t seem to notice it,” Cass observed mildly. “You must have done something right.” He dropped down into the easy chair by the door. “Or maybe they just liked your costumes. You’ve got great legs in those tights.”
 
A reluctant smile tugged at Brody’s lips as he met Cass’s limpidly innocent brown-eyed gaze in the mirror. “Thanks, I can always count on you to pinpoint my more stellar qualities.” He stood up and began unbuttoning his white balloon-sleeved shirt. “Not that I displayed many tonight. I don’t know why I took this role. I stink.”
 
“That’s not what Time and People magazines said.”
 
“I can’t sing. The role has no dimension. I should have done Tempest at the Old Vic.”
 
“You did Shakespeare last year. You thought this would be a challenge.”
 
Brody pulled the tails of his shirt out of the loden-green tights. “Did I? I don’t remember.” He stripped the shirt off and tossed it beside the doublet over the screen. “I was wrong.” He went to the closet, found the street clothes his dresser had readied for him and tossed them on the chair before the dressing table. “Thank God this is the last week.”
 
“Have you read those film scripts I gave you?”
 
Brody nodded. “One has possibilities. I’ll let you know.”
 
Cass rose to his feet, his lanky body surprisingly graceful. “Hungry? I’ll call a car and we’ll find a decent restaurant. I feel like Chinese.”
 
Brody shook his head. “Not tonight.” He resumed undressing. “Call Marceline’s service and have them send someone to the hotel.”
 
There was no surprise in Cass’s face. He had been half expecting the order. He knew Brody was extremely highly sexed, and this request usually came at least once or twice in every town they played. “Same type as usual?”
 
Brody nodded.