The Reluctant Lark (22 page)

O’Shea had leaned forward and was speaking to Reilly. “You can radio the helicopter now, Sean. Drive directly to Challon’s private landing strip.”

“Right you are, Donal,” Reilly replied, picking up a receiver from under the dashboard and obeying his superior with the swift alacrity that always distinguished him. A ground-to-air radio, Sheena thought bitterly. She felt as if she were in the middle of a James Bond film.

“Helicopter?” she asked carefully, casually withdrawing her hand from O’Shea’s. She felt physically ill at his touch.

O’Shea nodded. “We’ve had a helicopter standing by. We’ll leave the car at the landing strip and board the ’copter there.” His lips twisted in a smile of smug satisfaction. “We’ll be out of here before Challon even knows about the landing. Then we’ll transfer to a commercial jet at Houston Intercontinental.”

“I see,” Sheena said. “I thought we were just going as far as Houston tonight.”

O’Shea smiled easily. “There’s no reason for laying over now that you’ve come to your senses. We might just as well fly through to New York.” He patted her cheek gently, a trace of triumph in his face. “You do want to come with us now, don’t you, lass?”

He was so sure that he had won. He thought he had the strings of his little puppet securely in his own hands again.

“Yes, Uncle Donal,” she said quietly, her dark gaze sure and steady as it met his. “I want to go to New York with you very much, indeed.”

Night had fallen when they reached Challon’s landing strip, but the field was brilliantly illuminated by the floodlights, and the scarlet helicopter that was just descending was experiencing no difficulties. The unauthorized landing, however, had brought a stream of mechanics and security personnel hurrying out on the tarmac from the concrete building beside the hangar.

“We’d better be prepared to do some fast talking,” her uncle murmured to Reilly, as he helped Sheena from the car.

“It may take a trifle more than that,” Sean answered silkily, a touch of the tiger in his gleaming smile. Why had she never seen past that polite facade? Sheena wondered. There was whip-cord tension and a sleek menace in Reilly’s every move.

“None of that, Sean,” O’Shea said sharply, glancing at Sheena’s composed face uneasily. “Let me handle it.”

They walked quickly across the runway, O’Shea and Reilly on either side of Sheena.

“Good Lord, Sheena, you’re a busy little girl today. Does Rand know about this little adventure?” Nick O’Brien drawled, as he strolled lazily toward her across the field.

Sheena could feel the men on either side of her tense with the coiled danger of cats about to spring. O’Brien must have sensed the silent menace, for his own stance took on a subtle threat.

Sheena moved forward hurriedly a few paces to face O’Brien and try to avoid the dangerous confrontation that was festering in that silence. “Rand knows that I’m leaving, Nick,” she said rapidly, her dark eyes frantically signaling a warning. “We’ve just left him.” She forced a laugh. “I didn’t think I’d see you again today. I thought you’d returned to Crescent Creek. What are you doing down here?”

“There’s always a big poker game over here on Wednesday nights,” he replied, his thoughtful gaze going past her to where O’Shea and Reilly were standing. “Isn’t your departure a bit unexpected?” he asked quietly. “You’re sure Rand knows that you’re leaving?”

Sheena nodded. “Believe me, Nick, Rand knows that I’ve left for New York,” she said earnestly. This conversation was bound to be repeated immediately to Rand. The reference to New York would eliminate any wild-goose chase to Houston. She heard O’Shea mutter something behind her, and she smiled grimly. He would almost certainly think the information had been dropped in all innocence. O’Shea’s meek, docile puppet would never have the initiative to cause an upset in his plans.

O’Brien’s searching gaze studied her face a long moment. “I still don’t understand why he’s letting you go, but it’s not my place to try to stop you,” he said slowly. “It’s a bit of a puzzle.”

She smiled brightly. “And I know how you love puzzles, Nick. I’ve been working on one myself lately, and suddenly all the pieces just fell into place.”

“Really,” Nick said, his eyes narrowing on her face. “That must have been very satisfying.”

“Well, I had some help,” she said softly. “Rand’s a great one at solving puzzles, too, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” O’Brien said thoughtfully. “I’m glad he was able to help you with this one.”

“Sheena, love, it’s time we were leaving,” O’Shea said smoothly, as he joined her. “You’ll have to chat with your friend some other time.”

“I’m ready, Uncle Donal,” Sheena said quietly, as she
turned back to O’Brien. “Goodbye, Nick, I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

“You’re sure this is what you want, Sheena?” Nick asked soberly. “Sometimes when you walk away, it’s damn hard to come back.”

“I’m sure,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed meaningfully on his lean, perplexed face. “It’s always hard to break free of a cocoon, but it’s necessary if a person is to reach one’s full potential. I’m out of the cocoon now, Nick, and I definitely want to go to New York and do this concert.”

“Of course you do,” O’Shea said, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “But we must be on our way if we’re to make our connection in Houston.”

Sheena gave O’Brien a flashing smile. “I’ll be seeing you, Nick,” she said lightly, and turned away. A few minutes later she was being assisted into the scarlet helicopter, and the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind her.

Sheena added a touch of mauve shadow to her lids, which caused her eyes to appear even darker in their frame of black lashes, then gazed at her face objectively in the dressing room mirror. For a minute she considered using a touch of rouge but then decided against it. She had more than enough color in her cheeks that night. In fact, she had never looked more vibrantly alive in all her life.

There was a soft knock at the door, and at her invitation to enter, Donal O’Shea came in and closed the door behind him. “It’s a very good house tonight, darlin’,” he said easily as he came forward to stand behind her. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Very responsive for a benefit audience. It’s unusual to see people who are paying fifty dollars a ticket so uncritical.” He scowled in disgust. “They even applauded that young rock star who was just on.”

Sheena smiled and reached for her rose pink lipstick, which she began applying carefully.

As her uncle observed her, a frown gradually clouded his face. “I’m not sure that gown suits you. Why didn’t you wear one of your usual costumes? This performance isn’t so outlandishly important that you had to run out yesterday and buy a new gown.”

“I disagree. I think this performance is very important.” She looked down at the black taffeta she was wearing. “I thought sure that you’d approve of my taste, Uncle Donal. It
is
black, and really quite dramatic-looking, don’t you think?”

The garment in question looked more like a chic Chinese robe than a gown. Its loose flowing lines completely enveloped her small figure, from the high, stand-up collar to her feet, and the sleeves were long and lavishly full. The only decorations on the robe were the three large, shiny onyx buttons that fastened it, one at the throat, one at the waist, and the last at her knees.

“It’s a bit too sophisticated for you, Sheena,” he said, still frowning. “Next time I’ll go along with you and help you choose.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders and crossed to the gray velvet wing chair in the corner of the room. “Well, it’s too late now to worry about it. You’re on next.”

Sheena nodded as she picked up a comb and began to tidy her glossy, dark curls. “I’ll be ready,” she said quietly.

O’Shea watched her silently for a moment, his gray eyes apparently puzzled by the expression on the thin, fragile face reflected in the mirror. “You’ve changed,” he said abruptly. “You would never have wanted to choose your costumes before that blackguard, Challon, got hold of you.”

Sheena smiled. “We all have to change as we grow older, Uncle Donal. I thought it was time I accepted some of the responsibility for my career myself. I’ve left the entire burden on you for much too long.”

“Nonsense,” O’Shea said gruffly. “I enjoy doing things for you. Just leave it to me from now on.”

She didn’t answer, and after a short silence, O’Shea asked suddenly, “You’re not upset that I’ve scheduled you to do ‘Rory’s Song’ tonight?”

Sheena shook her head. “Of course not,” she said serenely. “I agree that it’s entirely appropriate for me to sing it tonight. I might even have asked you to put it in if you’d omitted it.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Sheena,” he said slowly. He rose to his feet and came forward to stand behind her once again. One hand reached out to touch her hair caressingly. “It’s good to know you haven’t forgotten how important it is.” He picked up one curl and unwound it, only to release it to spring back into its former coiled tightness. “Rory loved your hair,” he said absently, his eyes on her face. “Remember how he used to laugh when he did that?”

Sheena felt a sudden thrust of agony, and she closed her eyes swiftly to hide the pain and rage that was blazing out of them. Was she too calm and composed for him, then, that he must stir up that poignant memory?

“Yes, I remember,” she said softly. Dark, laughing eyes that danced and teased and loved life with a wild zest. “I remember.”

She opened her eyes and surprised a tiny glint of satisfaction in O’Shea’s gray eyes, before it was quickly replaced by affectionate sympathy. “What a fool I am upsetting you right before you go on stage,” he said, making a face. “You’re an angel from heaven to put up with my clumsiness.” He turned and walked toward the door, then paused there for a moment. “I know you’re going to make me proud of you tonight, Sheena.” The door closed softly behind him.

Sheena sat quite still for a long moment, fighting for control. She would not be overcome by these memories that would rip her composure to shreds. She must retain her strength of purpose if she was to survive this evening and come out victorious. She took several deep breaths, and gradually her serenity returned. By
the time the knock sounded on the door to summon her to the wings, her face was as cool and composed as before O’Shea had entered the dressing room.

Sean Reilly was standing by O’Shea in the wings. “You look very elegant tonight, Sheena,” he said, his smile flashing warmly. He handed her guitar to her, his eyes going over her lingeringly. “Quite the sophisticated young lady.”

“Too sophisticated,” her uncle said sourly. “Not the look we want at all.”

“Thank you, Sean,” Sheena said. “I’m sorry Uncle Donal doesn’t agree with you.” Her eyes were on the world-famous pianist on stage, who was taking her final bows.

“Perhaps it is a little unsuitable for your particular style,” Reilly said smoothly, reversing himself as she knew he would. “But charming nevertheless.”

The pianist had left the stage now, and O’Shea turned to Sheena. “You know what you’re to do now?” he asked tersely. “First the two ballads and then ‘Rory’s Song.’ ”

“I know what the program calls for, Uncle Donal.” The television talk show host, who was the master of ceremonies, was introducing her now, and she only had time to add softly, “Don’t worry. I think you’ll find this a very memorable performance.” Her uncle was staring at her in uneasy curiosity as she walked slowly on stage to be greeted by an enthusiastic wave of applause.

Her uncle was right, it was a good audience, Sheena thought remotely, as she stood quietly center stage, waiting for the acclaim to subside.

When the huge auditorium was quiet, she spoke softly. “I’d like to beg your indulgence tonight. I’m going to change the program a bit, and I hope you won’t be disappointed. I’d also appreciate it if you would refrain from any applause until I leave the stage.”

Ignoring the surprised murmur that swept through the audience, she turned and walked swiftly to her
stool, settled herself comfortably, and struck the first opening chords on her guitar. “ ‘Rory’s Song,’ ” she announced in a low, sweet voice.

“ ‘
As he lay dying, my Rory asked me why
.

I could find no answer, though God knows I tried
.’ ”

As always when she sang the poignant notes, she was caught up in the sheer emotional impact of her memories, but this time she blanked out that nightmare recollection of Rory’s death and tried to remember only the good things. Rory’s smile and gay laughter, the time when they were small and he’d brought home the squirrel with the broken leg and nursed it all winter until it was well.

Gradually it became easier, and all the days filled with love and laughter flooded back to her. Rory had laughed so hard that he’d nearly fallen out of his chair when he’d put that rubber spider in her soup. Then when she had gotten so upset that she’d cried, he’d insisted on giving her his own soup, along with his dessert. The past enfolded her and almost all the memories were sweet and good. Why hadn’t she realized that?

The last throbbing chords echoed through the auditorium with a wild, sad sweetness that was completely without bitterness. There were no tears on Sheena’s cheeks, but her dark eyes were brilliant with tenderness and nostalgia as she sat silent for a long moment staring blankly ahead of her into the darkness. The dropping of a pin could have been heard, so silent was the auditorium, and Sheena was vaguely conscious that her audience was sharing, even helping in what she was attempting to do.

She closed her eyes for a brief instant, her throat aching with tears. Her voice was a mere breath of sound, but every person in the audience heard. They felt their own eyes mist with feeling. “Goodbye, Rory, love,” she said huskily. “I’ll miss you.”

There was another long silence, and then Sheena slowly opened her eyes. Agony and regret no longer
shone out of her face. They had been replaced by a strange serenity and the indomitable strength that O’Shea had noticed earlier. She spoke in a soft conversational tone, as if she were speaking to a roomful of friends. “That’s the last time I’ll ever sing ‘Rory’s Song,’ ” she said. “Thank you for helping me to say goodbye.” She looked out into the darkness, her face earnest as a child who was trying to make the grown-ups understand what appeared so simple to her. “You see, it’s time to put mourning aside and say farewell.” She stood up slowly and put her guitar on the stool. “Someone once told me that life should be a celebration. It can’t be that if we cling to the old wounds and the old strifes. We must let them go.” Her hands were at the onyx buttons of her gown as she spoke, and she shrugged out of its heavy, dark folds as she ended simply, “As I have done.”