even have her byline on it. If she’d described Candy Smithwick’s wedding dress wrong, she could have understood what happened, but she still couldn’t believe that her discovery of political wrongdoing had cost her job. Her editor, the man she’d thought was becoming more than just a friend, explained that the truth could hurt the county and her story would not be printed. When Sunny argued, wild rumors began to fly that her ambition had led her to speculation and exaggeration. Her credibility tumbled. In the end, she became the scapegoat and the politicians still had their jobs. Money spoke louder than words.
A flood gave her a chance to do some remote coverage for WTRU which brought her to Ted Fields’s attention. The hardest thing about relocating was leaving her father behind.
Lord Sin would be her first story for WTRU. Maybe it did make some kind of sense. A reporter whose credibility was zilch ought to be just about right for covering a scandalous event where a stripper was donating a million-dollar piece of real estate formally known as The Palace Of Sin to the Atlanta Arts Council for a community theater.
For now she was trying to get past the tattered grandeur of that Moorish palace and get her bearings. Ted had given her a tiny tape recorder, now hidden in her purse, and a guest list for the gala affair, with a few lines of description beside each name. Even if she was new to Atlanta, she didn’t need the notes to recognize two of the beautiful people, Sam and Nikki, hosts of Atlanta’s top morning radio show—their billboards were everywhere. With them were the mayor and his wife and the president of one of the local colleges. As Ted had forecast, the audience was mostly women. But what surprised Sunny was the number of younger women in attendance, and something told her that charity wasn’t what attracted them. She hadn’t expected to get a personal interview with Lord Sin tonight, but the number two man on her interview list, Ryan Malone, the real estate tycoon who was running the show, was missing as well.
She was ready to signal for Walt to begin taping when she was intercepted by a statuesque silver-haired woman in a purple dinner gown. “With Lord Sin’s compliments,” she said coolly, handing Sunny a ticket. “He’s arranged for you to have a seat, close to the stage.”
Sunny was taken aback. “Me? Why?”
The woman in purple forced a faint smile. “Lord Sin always selects a special guest to honor.”
“And he selected me?” She spoke with the same frosty air that Lord Sin’s messenger had used. “Where is he?” She looked up, studying the private balconies hugging the stage, feeling an odd sense of being watched nudging at her. Why would he select her? She shifted her tiny shoulder bag higher on her shoulder and said, “I’d like to meet him.”
Ignoring Sunny’s request, the woman withdrew her hand. “This seat is normally considered an honor, but if you’d prefer to sit elsewhere, I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Sunny would prefer to sit anywhere else, but Lord Sin was her focus and she was not about to blow any chance of meeting him. This might not be real news, but Sunny Clary always did her job. When Ted Fields had told her that after ten years of unbelievable success, Lord Sin’s identity was still a mystery, she knew that was her story—her chance to prove herself. And she had to succeed.
Her father had gotten past the lies that ruined his reputation and sent him to jail for a crime he didn’t commit. On his release, he’d made a new life for himself, and so could she. She’d made a vow not to rest until she’d done here in Atlanta what she’d been blocked from doing in South Georgia—report the truth. She just hadn’t expected the truth to be about a male stripper.
“No, thank you, I’ll accept his gift,” she said primly, then squared her shoulders. If he’d selected her, he had to have seen her. Somewhere he was watching the proceedings. Maybe the green dress was worth her discomfort. He didn’t know that it was rented, that it was her badge of courage. “Tell Lord Sin I’ll look forward to being favored.”
The woman in purple cleared her throat in resigned disapproval. “You should also know that photographs are not permitted during his performance.”
At that moment the lights flickered and summoned Lord Sin’s representative and his guests into the club. Sunny suggested that Walt should stand against the wall out of sight and tape as much of Lord Sin’s performance as possible. “Let’s try to get a good close-up of his face,” she added.
Clutching her seat of honor ticket, Sunny stepped inside the main room and gasped. From the streets of Cairo she’d left Egypt and entered the Sheik’s palace. The stage was draped with a red velvet curtain that wasn’t one of the Valentine’s Day decorations. Overhead there was no ceiling, rather a night sky filled with twinkling stars. As the orchestra played “Some Enchanted Evening,” Sunny took her center stage seat at a tambourine-size table only large enough for her purse and a fat cream-colored candle that twanged when she flicked it with her fingernail. It wasn’t real. Somehow that seemed appropriate.
When the last strains of music died away, the curtains parted and a man holding a microphone and a rose stepped out. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Ryan Malone and, on behalf of the Arts Council and our benefactor, Lord Sin, I’d like to welcome you to our Valentine fund-raiser for the new Community Theater.”
From the moment Ryan Malone stepped from between the folds of the curtain, Sunny’s mind went into some kind of surreal overdrive. Her heart literally lurched and she could hardly breathe. The man was magnificent. In a black collarless tux with a crisp white shirt, Ryan Malone was tall and lean and dark. Ten years ago, every afternoon soap opera would have cast him as their resident bad boy. Now he might be older, more polished, with a hint of silver in his midnight-black hair, but the suggestion of danger was still there.
There was an enthusiastic outbreak of applause followed by “We hope to raise enough money tonight to turn this building into a state-of-the-art community theater. So, if you haven’t already done so, stop at one of our booths on the way out and buy your sweetheart a rose.” He laughed lightly and added, “Of course we’d appreciate it if you’d wrap the rose in a nice check for the Arts Council.”
Ryan Malone was close enough to Sunny that she could have reached out and touched him. He never made direct eye contact with her. It was just as well. She’d have imploded, leaving nothing but the green dress in her seat. Every molecule of her body was, for lack of a better word, shimmering. There had been men in her life before, but there had never been an earth-moving relationship. Not even close. Now she was experiencing such an acute physical reaction that she entirely missed what he was saying. Unexpectedly, he leaned down, handed her the rose he was carrying and winked, then stepped back between the curtains. The stage went black, leaving Sunny Clary stunned in the darkness. Ryan Malone knew how to get to a woman and he’d done it without saying a word.
There was a rectangle of paper wrapped around the stem of the rose that was probably a check. Great bit, Malone, she thought, letting out the breath she was holding. He was setting an example for the other guests. Apparently Lord Sin wasn’t the only showman present. And if he was half as sexy as this Malone, she was beginning to get a hint of the stripper’s appeal.
Next a local rock group recently nominated for a Grammy performed their hit song to tempered applause. Then the outer curtain was raised for a beautifully choreographed modern dance presentation, and, finally, an original composition by the symphony who’d donated their services as the orchestra for the evening. By the time they’d finished, Sunny had gathered her senses and given herself a stern talk about staying focused on her assignment instead of Ryan Malone. She’d turn the check over to the council and send the rose home with Walt for his wife. For now, Sunny Clary, inquiring reporter, was ready for the grand finale, the last performance of Lord Sin.
Once more the theater
