long, narrow dressing room, she was mentally making a list of places she could go tomorrow to look for another job.
The door opened and a stagehand yelled, “One minute.”
Mallory quickly finished applying the lipstick, then sat back and looked at herself in the mottled mirrors. Her ebony hair had been gathered on top of her head in a riot of curls contained by a holly wreath, and her sapphire blue eyes had been highlighted by dark mascara. Deep blush brought out her high cheek line, and the gauzy, full-length white dress she wore was off the shoulder and nipped in tightly at her waist with a white satin band.
“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” she muttered at her reflection. That’s just what this job had become—a ghost—and she didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t get something else quickly. She couldn’t survive on what she made in tips at the restaurant.
She blotted her lips and stood as the door opened again. “You’re on,” the stagehand yelled into the room.
“I’m coming,” she called back as she tossed a tissue into the wastebasket. Turning, she hurried to the door and stepped into the hallway, turning left toward backstage. But as she rounded the corner near the stage door, she ran right into an immovable object, and felt hands clamp on her shoulders to keep her from stumbling backward. As she looked up, fully expecting to see one of the stagehands, she was shocked to find it was a man she’d never seen before.
He was tall, at least three inches over six feet, and he wore a dark, well-cut trench coat. His rain-dampened raven black hair was slicked back from a face that was far from traditionally handsome, but with a sensuality that struck her instantly, with a force that shook her. His features seemed to be all harsh planes and angles, his skin deeply tanned, his nose strong and his jaw clean-shaven.
But it was his eyes that riveted Mallory, making her next breath almost impossible. They were slightly slanted, as black as the night outside, with short, spiked lashes, and they were staring at her with an unsettling intensity.
It took her a moment to realize that he exuded an aura of danger, which defied reason since he’d kept her from falling. But it was there and almost tangible. She had to try twice before she forced words past the tightness in her throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No damage done,” the man murmured in a low, rough voice as his hands released their hold on her. His dark eyes flicked over her in a heartbeat. “You look like a ghost.”
She nervously smoothed the fine, white material of her dress. “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”
He inclined his head slightly as his eyes narrowed. “My guess would have been the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he muttered, his expression tightening as he spoke.
This wasn’t any light banter, impersonal conversation between strangers. There was an edge to it that disturbed Mallory, almost as much as the man inches from her. Right then she heard the beginning strains of the musical piece that signaled her entrance, and the stranger was blocking her path to stage left. “For tonight, it’s Christmas Past,” she said. “That’s my cue. I need to—”
“Break a leg,” he murmured, then stood aside to let her pass.
Mallory ducked her head and hurried by him to her spot. The music swelled, and as the stagehand pulled the curtain back for her to step onto the stage, she could feel eyes on her. The stranger was watching her.
With a quick look back as she stepped forward, she saw the man had moved into the shadows near the prop room. But that didn’t diminish the intensity of his gaze on her. She’d never reacted like this to a man, attracted to him, yet aware of a danger that surrounded him. It had seemed like forever since she even looked at a man with anything more than passing interest.
When he nodded to her, she looked away. Then, as the actor playing Scrooge called, “Who goes there?” she took a shaky breath and stepped through the curtains into the light. In the next instant she was part of the fantasy she created on stage, a fantasy that didn’t have a place for a dark stranger who disturbed her and made her feel vulnerable.
At one minute to ten, the fantasy ended, and reality came back with a thud. Mallory had made her way back to the dressing room, which was crowded with the other female members of the cast. She had looked back over her shoulder more than once in the hallway, half expecting to see the stranger lingering in the shadows.
But he was nowhere in sight. And once inside, she stripped off her costume, put on her old terry-cloth robe and sat down in front of the mirrors. Methodically she began to spread cold cream on her face, and as she removed the last of the heavy stage makeup, lightning ripped through the night outside, its white glow flashing into the room through the bank of high windows, which were filmed with the grime of the city.
She tossed the last makeup-soiled cotton ball in the trash, then looked at her reflection in the mottled mirrors. She looked tired, her face pale in contrast to her dark hair, as she released her curls from the holly wreath. Her eyes were smudged with shadows from the sleeplessness she’d experienced over the past few days.
She grimaced, her natural ability to ignore the reality of the present and fantasize about a better future almost failing her right then. That little part of her life where she could make-believe and become someone else, that part that took her away from her job as a waitress and the empty apartment where she lived, had been taken from her until she could find another part in another play.
As she tossed the holly wreath into the prop box, she heard someone yell over the din, “King! Mallory King!”
She twisted to look back to the door and saw a stagehand waving in her direction. When he made eye contact with her, he called, “You’ve got a visitor!”
Mallory was surprised. She had never had anyone come backstage to see her after a play, and the house had been less than half-full during the performance. The applause at the curtain call had been more from politeness than enthusiasm. Then she remembered the man she’d run into, and for a second she thought he might have come back. But why would he?
She pointed to herself. “Me?”
The stagehand nodded, then ducked out and shut the door.
She stood and tugged her robe around her, knotting the tie at her waist as she made her way through the room. Nearing the door, she put the idea of the stranger out of her mind. It was crazy. When she opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, she spotted someone by the outside doors.
It was a woman. She recognized Elaine Bowers, her agent. Elaine, with her short, gray-blond hair curling slightly from the humidity. She was wearing a dark raincoat over a simple gray suit. “Mallory,” she said as she crossed to her.
Mallory slowly closed the door and watched the woman approach. One glance around the hallway and she knew that the dark-haired stranger wasn’t lingering in any of the nooks and crannies in the dingy space. She focused on the woman in front of her. Mallory knew she was one of her agent’s least lucrative clients, and she certainly didn’t warrant a personal visit on such a rainy night. “Elaine, what are you doing here?” Mallory asked.
The short, plump woman looked at her watch. “Looking for you.” She glanced up and down the hallway, grimacing at the faded walls and the low, moisture-stained ceiling. “Boy, I haven’t been in here in years. This old place was once the theater in the city. Can you believe it?”
“If you go out into the foyer and narrow your eyes,
