Priceless

It was her last performance and she was going to do it.  Ever since she'd joined the tour as Christine, he had tempted her. Tonight -- finally -- she would accept his unspoken invitation and give the audience something they'd never seen before. A smile played about her lips. Luke, the backstage manager, would pitch a fit...but what was he going to do, fire her? The smile turned into a laugh as giddy anticipation bubbled up within her. She was going to throw off the choreography of an entire scene and she didn't care.

This was going to be fun.

She headed for her dressing room, pausing outside Ian's open door. Rapping her knuckles against the frame, she leaned inside. Ian was sitting in front of the mirror, his back to the door. Sharon was standing in front of him, applying the makeup that would turn the right half of his face into a mass of scar tissue.

"Hi, handsome."

Ian's eyes met hers in the mirror and he smiled.

"Hey there. Last performance."

"Yeah, it'll be one to remember."

"That sounds promising."

"Oh it is. Believe me, it is." Giving him a brilliant smile, she left to get into costume. The anticipation and nervousness fluttering in her stomach felt strong enough to lift her off the ground. This night was going to remain etched in her mind for all time. She was going to do it.

The first scene went by in a blur. She paid close attention to her dancing and singing -- her voice soared effortlessly at the end of "Think of Me" -- but part of her was waiting, anticipating, impatiently counting down the songs between now and The Moment. There was the "Angel of Music" duet, then "Little Lotte"...and then Ian's voice lashed out -- powerful and angry -- instantly softening into his sweetly seductive "flattering child". He sang her through the mirror, which was magic, as always. His hand came through the smoke, beckoning, and she took it, stepping into the light that surrounded him. This scene was always a little surreal, a little dream-like, no matter how many times she performed it.

Riding in the boat always made her a little nervous; there were so many horror stories about it and so many things that could go wrong... But the boat behaved the way it was supposed to -- sliding across the stage flawlessly -- and she relaxed.

She accepted Ian's hands as he lifted her from the boat; then she drifted across the stage, singing her heart out as his voice pleaded, commanded, compelled her to sing her best. She hit the last note without straining and mentally congratulated herself. The nervousness, the knowledge of what she was going to do hadn't affected her voice, as least.

Then she stood silently -- eyes closed -- in the center of the stage while Ian's voice softly wrapped around her. She heard him approach and turned....his palm covered her cheek, fingers splayed to avoid her eyes, turning her face from him. She resisted the urge to lick the side of his hand. She'd done that once in rehearsal; he'd jumped and yanked his hand back. Then he'd laughed, his sense of humor instantly displacing his surprise. "Do not try that during the performance." His clear eyes, amused and teasing, had sparkled down at her. She'd managed to stop smiling back at him for a few seconds, long enough to pull her mouth down into a pout. "I mean it. Otherwise, I won't be held responsible for my actions."

She'd promised to be good. She'd lied.

But not now; this wasn't the time. She let the back of his hand draw her face toward him. She languidly opened her eyes, focusing on Ian's face, which was only a few inches away from hers.

"And listen to the music of the night." He slowly drew back, dropping his hand from her chin.

"Close your eyes," his voice requested, and she complied, swaying gently with the music, her lips parted, her expression one of anticipation and quiet excitement.

"Close your eyes," the song repeated, "let your spirit start to soar." She leaned forward slightly, falling completely into the music, letting it pull her upward -- higher and higher -- until the notes softly faded away. She returned to herself and gradually straightened as he promised, "And you'll live, as you've never lived before."

"Softly, deftly." She opened her eyes and turned to face him.

"Music shall caress you." A chill ran down her spine, the 'caress' somehow reaching into the pit of her stomach and curling deep inside her.

"Hear it." He raised his right hand to shoulder level, palm up, fingers elegantly curved.

"Feel it." He tilted his hand, his palm stroking the air in front of him, as if it were her arm he was touching. She shivered, as if -- despite the several feet of stage separating them -- he had touched her.

"Secretly possess you." He turned his hand again, palm up, his fingers slowly curling inward. He drew his hand toward his chest. That elegant beckoning pulled her slowly toward him as Ian backed up a step. He turned to face the back of the stage, spreading his arms, raising them above his head. Slowly he brought his hands down, his long fingers splayed, as the portcullis descended toward the stage. He reached the portcullis seconds after it had settled into place. His left hand curved around one of the upright bars and he slowly pivoted, his fingers tightening as he turned. He took a step to the right and reached out his right hand, his palm skimming the bars as it moved up and out. His fingers finally curled around one of the crosspieces, but he didn't stop moving. He kept stretching, sliding his loose grip along the bar -- stretching, reaching -- his fingers finally tightening, pulling his arm, shoulders, and back tightly against the portcullis. It was an unbelievably sensual move; an invitation, full of restrained power. That posture telegraphed a hundred wordless messages that she had no trouble interpreting.

I won't move...it's safe...you can come closer. You can do anything you want, I won't stop you. I won't touch you. But if I wasn't holding myself back, I would touch you. I want to...so much. I don't want to frighten you. If I touched you, I don't know if I could stop. Having you close and unafraid...it's what I've dreamed of. Come closer. I will hold myself back. I will be harmless...for you.

All these currents and undercurrents of meaning came to her instantly from that one elegant stretch.

And she was supposed to turn and run?

Yes; that was what the script called for, and so that was what she had done for many, many performances. But not this one.

She moved toward him as the music swelled; there was her cue to run to the front of the stage...but she ignored it. Deliberately she raised her left hand and placed it on his chest; slowly she slid her palm upward, over the jacket collar, until it was pressed against the side of his throat. "Keep singing," she mouthed, smiling up into his shocked, questioning eyes. After all, what else was he going to do? The show must go on.

She knew her unexpected deviation from  the script had thrown Ian off balance, but he could think on his feet; he'd recover quickly. Even as she stared up into his face -- between one note and the next -- she saw curiosity replace his shock and knew he would follow her lead. He might be furious with her later, but she'd worry about that later. Right now, they were both in the middle of the stage, and she intended to savor the rest of this song as she'd never been able to before.

With her standing directly in front of him, there was no need for the power that Ian always put into the next lines. His voice softened, retaining its commanding, compelling tone, but now it was muted by a note of tender persuasion.

"Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world." She lifted her other hand and rested it against his chest, feeling the notes vibrate beneath her fingertips.

"Leave all thought of the world you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be." His voice grew even softer as she lifted her left hand away from his throat and slowly traced her fingertips down his shoulder, along his outstretched arm, over his wrist and across his clenched fingers. She dropped her arm to her side and looked back up at him, the last notes of 'be' lingering between them.

"Only then..." he shifted and let go of the portcullis, lowering his arms and reaching for her.

"...can you belong to me." She pulled her right hand away from his chest and quickly moved back, out of his reach.

"Floating, falling." He took one step away from the portcullis and stopped. He wasn't close enough to touch her, but he raised his right hand and caressed the air, tracing the curves of her face, her throat, her shoulder.

"Sweet intoxication." His hand stilled and extended toward her.

"Touch me," he whispered. She reached out and laid her hand in his.

"Trust me." His fingers tightened around hers as he moved forward; raising her arm, he pressed the back of her hand against his heart.

"Savor each sensation." They stood perfectly still, staring into each other's eyes, only the space of their clasped hands separating them.

"Let the dream begin." He shifted back fractionally and raised his left hand, brushing his fingertips across her forehead, down her temple.

"Let your darker side give in." She tilted her head, pressing her cheek against his palm as he cupped the side of her face.

"To the power of the music that I write." She raised her free hand to touch his face, but he caught her wrist before she could. Shaking his head, he moved back, loosening his hold on her hands until he was gently clasping only the tips of her fingers.

"The power of the music of the night." He turned her toward stage right, then slowly back away. She twined her fingers with his and let him lead her to the covered mirror. They reached it ahead of the music, but she wasn't particularly concerned. Ian pulled the cover off with a flourish, then wadded it up and tossed it behind himself into the wings, never taking his eyes off her.

She glanced at Laurel -- who looked frighteningly lifeless in the wedding dress -- then looked back at Ian as he stepped up to the edge of the mirror and rested one hand against the frame. After a moment, she turned from him and stepped closer to the mirror. She slowly raised one hand and was reaching out when Laurel fell forward.

She stepped back and closed her eyes, her legs crumpling beneath her. As she was about to hit the ground, two strong arms suddenly caught and held her. Startled, she managed to remain limp and keep her face composed.

Peering out from beneath her lashes, she saw Ian kneeling beside her, cradling her against his chest. His head was bent over her, their faces only inches apart. As she watched, he hesitantly lowered his head a fraction more, then suddenly pulled back. She let her eyes close completely as he gently lowered her to the floor. She heard him stand and walk to the boat, felt the breeze and heard the snap of fabric as he unfurled the cloak above her. The cool fabric settled over her and Ian's fingers brushed her throat as he drew the collar up around her neck. She didn't open her eyes, but she could sense his hand hovering over her face for a moment after the cloak was settled. Then he stood and finished the last two lines of the song, holding the last pure, achingly sweet note as the stage was plunged into darkness.

Rolling to her knees, she swept the cloak and her skirts out of the way before rising to her feet. A hand on her shoulder made her jump; she let Ian turn her to face him.

"Why did you do that?" His question held a tone of wonder, confusion, and amazement.

She smiled in relief. He wasn't angry. She hadn't thought he would be, but still....

She couldn't explain all her reasons now -- they only had a few seconds before the lights came up -- but he deserved an answer. She gave him the simplest, and yet for all its simplicity, the truest explanation she had.

"You're both irresistible, Ian," she said, knowing he'd understand. "I thought you knew that."

She heard him laugh, then felt his lips press briefly against her forehead. "You're priceless," he told her, a smile evident in his voice. "But no more improvs," he added quickly, his tone becoming stern.

"No more improvs," she instantly agreed.

He let go of her shoulder and she hurried to the boat, spreading the cloak over herself and settling back against the cushions. As the lights came up, she managed to stop smiling and compose her face, although she was convinced it was tone of the hardest things she'd ever had to do.

Back to the parlor

Kathryn Rice, she'd love to hear from you!