A Dangerous Dance Read online

  With the warm, yeasty smell of cooking bread filling the air, she took an inventory of the refrigerator's contents, and then looked at him over the open door. “Cold drink or milk?”

  “Diet Coke if you have it.” The chair scraped briefly on the uneven floor, then creaked as he settled himself on the bare, wooden surface.

  She set a cold can down in front of him, feeling the echoes of her pre-Wizard life call to her. She'd spent most of her life without money or a father, waiting tables with her mother and eventually, when her mother became too ill, by herself. It wasn't until her mother died, that Magus appeared in her world.

  She turned from Mistral and the memories, opening the top of her bread machine and set about releasing the loaf inside. Behind her, she heard a pop and a hiss as he opened his cold drink. She hacked off a couple of thick slices as fragrant steam rose around her, piled them on a plate and set it in front of him.

  “Help yourself.” She pushed the pale yellow stick of butter and a knife toward him and she saw a brief, quickly hidden flicker of confusion in his eyes. Yes, she'd been right to bring him here, rather than to one of the elegant, formal rooms upstairs, as they made the first move in their wary dance. She was stronger here, more herself, less Magus. She needed to hang on to who she was if she was to survive this foray into Magus's world.

  I'm not the Wizard, she told him with her eyes, but I'm still dangerous, and felt a surge of satisfaction at the wariness that lit his eyes again. Like the East's wicked witch, did he recognize Dorothy as a force to be reckoned with? If he didn't yet, he soon would, she vowed.

  * * * *

  “That was better than the bread my mother never made me,” Remy said, wiping his fingers on the towel she tossed him. He took his time, then leaned back in his chair, thrusting his feet out. If she thought standing gave her the power position, it was time to prove her wrong. It was also time to take back control of this strange meeting.

  She smiled coolly, her lids drooping sleepily over her startling eyes and wiped her hands. “I'm glad you liked it, Remy Mistral.”

  So she did remember him. He'd wondered, and yet how could she not? He'd been around a lot back in the old days and these days, his radio show was inching its way across the South. There was talk of it going into wider syndication—talk that Remy kept a tight rein on while he tested the political waters. Talk was cheap, as some of his listeners were quick to point out. All it changed was minds, not policies. Louisiana was long overdue for a change in policy. Business as usual wasn't working. He wanted to change that.

  “I didn't think you're remember me, you've been gone a long time, Ms—”

  “This is Oz. Call me Dorothy.”

  “Dorothy.” He frowned, not because he minded the theatrical, but because he preferred to initiate it himself. The situation reminded him of one of those old dances, the kind where the couple moved together, then apart in a stylized tease.

  She gave him that cool, cutting smile again. “You could call me Anna, if you don't mind messing with the mystique.”

  That surprised a laugh out of him. “I never mind messing with anyone's mystique.”

  Their gazes clashed as she pushed away from the counter, pulled out a chair across from him and dropped into it. Chin on her hands, elbows propped on the wooden surface, like an inquiring child, she asked, “What brings you to Oz, Remy Mistral?”

  He wanted to tell her to call him Remy, but it felt like it would weaken his position for some reason. Instead he straightened, equalizing their positions again. Did she know what she was doing? He couldn't tell by looking into her eyes, but his gut said yes, she knew, in spades. He studied her face for a long moment, letting the silence draw out between them until he could hear the steady tick, then tock of a clock somewhere in the room.

  Her gaze didn't falter or her body shift. One to you, he thought. “I was hoping for an interview.”

  “I'm hardly breaking news.”

  “Verrol Vance was killed in prison yesterday. That makes you news.”

  For a second her lashes swept down across her pale cheeks in a fan of auburn silk. When they lifted, her expression was oddly blank. “So I heard.”

  “You have good contacts. Mine said they were trying to keep it quiet.”

  She shrugged, without breaking eye contact. “Magus always did.”

  And she'd kept those contacts up? Or reactivated them? “It's been a long time.”

  “Yes.” She relaxed back in her chair. “Which should make me...old news. Or at best, a sound bite—which you could have gotten on the phone.”

  Remy smiled. “Your number is unlisted—and you haven't been answering it.”

  Her chin lifted, her answering smile tightened his gut. “True.” She stood up, studying him for a long moment. “So, you're still a reporter and not just a personality.”

  He stood up, too. “Did you doubt it?”

  A short silence. “I...wondered.”

  “You don't have to anymore.”

  “I guess not.” She stared at him, but Remy had the odd impression it wasn't him she saw. He opened his mouth to ask—what? Before he could figure it out, she turned and started for the door.

  “It's too late for you to drive back to New Orleans tonight. I'll have a room made up for you.” She paused and turned back. “We don't dress for dinner.”

  It was what he wanted, but getting it didn't feel as good as he thought it would. It was too easy, too...something.

  “Thank you.” She was in motion again, and what a motion it was. Her body was almost liquid, the gentle sway of her hips...heady. Made it hard to focus on her words.

  “If it's a story you want, not just a sound bite, then you'll want to see it, I suppose.”

  “It?” He shook his head to clear it. He wasn't here to play side kick.

  “Magus's study.” She stopped, turned and gestured toward the stairs.

  Remy hesitated, then nodded, as if it didn't matter all that much.

  It was only as they wound back up the iron stairway, paced back down the wide hall, that it occurred to him to wonder why she was so willing to accommodate him. His defenses up, his gaze firmly avoiding her hips, he watched her stop in front of tall, narrow doors with big, ornate knobs. She twisted both knobs at once and pulled the doors toward her. Half turning, she gave him a look that was almost a warning.

  “Welcome to the heart of Oz, Remy Mistral. I hope you find what you're looking for.”

  She looked so ordinary, yet...not. She was the gatekeeper to her father's power, but did she know it? She stepped back, with a gesture towards the dim interior and he felt his awareness of her fade as the magic that had been Magus reached out to draw him into the room. He was only vaguely aware of her crossing the room to the floor-to-ceiling curtains and throwing them back to reveal long, narrow windows and let in the last, golden rays of evening light.

  Above the desk, set between the long windows, was a portrait of Magus, part in shadow, partly touched with gold. From it, the power radiated, growing stronger with each step he took toward it. It wasn't gone. It hadn't died with him. It lingered here, waiting for the right person to take it and shape it into a weapon of power again.

  All he had to do was convince the wizard's daughter that he was the man to wield it. He looked at her and found her watching him, her face an enigmatic mirror of her father's looking down from the wall.

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  * * *

  TWO

  * * * *

  “So which do you prefer?”

  Dorothy looked at Remy through the lit candles Titus had set on the table between them. They made the shadows on the wall behind him twist and dance, but they also helped to clear the staleness from the air. Opening the house hadn't just been about opening the past. They'd be hiring staff, if her plan worked, but for now, they were keeping things simple.

  “Excuse me?” She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.

  “Dorothy or Anna?”

  “Oh
.” She lay the fork down as she considered the question. No one had ever asked it before. “My mother called me Anna.”

  “And Magus called you Dorothy.”

  “Yes.” She used the fork to push her food from one side of her plate to the other. Who was she? Did she even know? Her mother had kept the secret of her paternity to the end, a fact Dorothy was still trying to forgive her for. She hadn't even known her legal name, had never seen her birth certificate, until Magus showed up to take her to Oz. It was an Anna world, one of making do and trying to make ends meet—and often failing. Her mother had kept her in school, but it hadn't been easy. There'd been days they'd gone to bed hungry. How could her mother let them live like that? How could Magus let them live like that?

  Neither one had seen fit to share their story, its beginning or its end.

  “I've been Dorothy for the last twelve years,” she said, finally. “It works for me.” She'd needed it in the beginning, to keep reminding all the people who thought she couldn't handle anything, that she was Magus's heir, in fact and deed. It had consumed her, leaving her little to think about who she was or what she wanted. In that interesting way life had of bringing a person full circle, she'd solidified her position just in time for the upcoming election. She'd proved to them, and to Magus's ghost, she could do it. That left only one task and then she'd be free to live her own life. Find Magus's killer and put his ghost to rest. Maybe then she'd know who she was and what to call herself.

  His ghost wasn't something she could see. Anything less than corporeal wasn't Magus's style. If he couldn't be larger than life, he wouldn't be. That said, she still felt him, especially here, in his Oz. He wasn't at rest and until he was, Dorothy couldn't be either. She'd have damned both her parents to hell, if she weren't sure they were already there. And if she knew Magus at all, he'd already taken over.

  “Okay.” Remy rounded up his last bite of food and popped it in his mouth, then leaned back with a sigh. “That was good.”

  “I'm glad you liked it.” Unfortunately, she was a little too glad he liked the food she'd prepared, though she'd bet he didn't know that. She'd wondered if she'd remember how to cook, but it had been as if she'd never stopped. Oddly enough, she'd felt satisfaction in the preparation. It had soothed and cleared her thoughts, bringing her to a tiny place of peace that she hadn't even known she needed.

  An unfamiliar tension began to build in the silence between them. She was sure he wanted to speak, but didn't know how to start. She wanted him to speak, but didn't know how to help him begin without tipping her hand. This had to be his move or he wouldn't play. Remy Mistral would want to lead in this dance...or at least think he was.

  She pushed her plate back, lifted her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. She knew he watched her, but kept her gaze down until the tension reached unbearable. Then, and only then, did she lift her lashes and meet his gaze.

  White-hot, it seared her, before he reined it in. Despite the muggy heat of the room, she missed it. For that instant, she felt...super-charged. And it told her what she needed to know. Remy was hungry, very hungry. She'd felt the same desire in Magus all those years ago. Now how to set it loose?

  Remy toyed with his glass, the hand holding the crystal, long fingered and strong. The urge to break the silence twisted her insides but she refused to give in to it. She couldn't afford to give him even the thinnest edge of the wedge.

  He took a drink, lowered the glass, his gaze finding her again, but minus the heat. “Are you going to run for governor?”

  She thought about stalling, because now the moment was here, she wasn't sure how it would end. She could almost hear Magus telling her to sit up straight and have some balls. Apparently, he still hadn't noticed they weren't standard equipment on his daughter.

  With only instinct to guide her, she pushed back her chair and stood up. “No, I'm not.” She'd be as honest with him as she dared. There'd be less to remember. “Shall we repair to the salon? I'm sure Titus has something cold laid on for us there?”

  She noted his relief before she turned and followed him toward the door.

  “Titus? Magus's bodyguard?” There was an edge to his voice, but whether it was disapproval or surprise, she couldn't tell. He stopped at the door to let her pass through first.

  “That's right. He's my bodyguard now.”

  “Is that wise?” he asked, as he walked beside her down the long hall toward the soft glow coming from the salon off to the left.

  “I trust him.” She could swear she heard a whisper of silks and satins as the past moved out of her way so she could turn into the salon. She bypassed the seating, heading straight for the window. The air was so weighted, so ominous, it was like a weight on her shoulders. The window was open, in hopes of any fugitive breeze that might find them. Insects beat against the screen, frantic for the light just out of their reach. They reminded her of what it had been like to be in politics.

  “Why did you come back?”

  His light-footed approach might have surprised her, but the wooden floor creaked and gave her warning. She turned to face him. To get what she wanted, she had to give him something.

  “To find out who hired Verrol to kill Magus.” She waited a beat. “But you already knew that, didn't you?”

  “Knew?” One dark brow arched. “Suspected, but didn't know. I'm a reporter, not a psychic.”

  Dorothy smiled. “Are you sure about that?”

  He looked startled for a moment, and then smiled with real amusement. It suited him dangerously well. She'd heard he had charm, but he'd never bothered to use it on her. There'd been no need. While his face was still lit with humor, she asked, “I hear you're considering a run?”

  He froze, before nodding. “I am.”

  She turned so she no longer looked at him. “You'd be good at it. You have passion and that vision thing. Not unlike Magus.” She hesitated. “Are you here for my endorsement?”

  She looked at him then. He looked thoughtful and a bit wary.

  “I didn't think...” he began, but stopped.

  “...that I was adult enough not to carry a grudge for your past...third estate excesses? You disappoint me, Remy Mistral.”

  “Not for the first time, I'm sure,” he shot back, his face still closed and suspicious. “Actually, there are more...credible candidates, former friends of Magus you could endorse.”

  “True.” Point for him.

  “Have they asked?” His tone was casual but his eyes weren't.

  She chuckled wryly. “Every year since Magus died.”

  Remy chuckled with her, but his gaze stayed pointed and hard. “Anyone you like?”

  She shrugged. “Magus liked you. I think he even trusted you—as much as he trusted anyone.”

  “And you still do what he wants?”

  His tone challenged her hackles to rise, but she kept them down with an effort. “Within reason.” She turned away from him. “Of course, everyone is assuming that my endorsement would mean something after twelve years. Do you think anyone, but the politicians, remember Magus? Or cares what his daughter thinks?”

  She waited, insides braced. If he wasn't honest with her, she'd stop it now.

  He didn't disappoint. “No.” He stared at her for a long moment. “But they could be reminded.”

  “Perhaps.” She rubbed a finger down the screen, as she felt her way through the mind field of what they weren't saying. “As a curiosity, maybe even mildly interesting, but a voice of authority? I don't think so.”

  “No, but momentum could be built. You've managed Magus's holdings, kept some of them in Louisiana making jobs for people here. If you didn't matter, all those old friends wouldn't have tried, now would they?”

  “No, I suppose not.” She allowed herself to look uncertain and slanted him a look. “I just assumed they were after the money.”

  He grinned. “That, too.”

  He was too appealing when he grinned. It softened his intensity, without making him any less dangerous. She tur
ned away from him, and from her own vulnerability and sat down in a wing backed chair that Magus had used to good effect in the past, as she had good cause to remember. He'd looked like royalty when he sat here.

  After a pause, Remy followed her, eliminating her slight, royal advantage, by dropping down onto a nearby couch. He leaned forward, his intensity hitting her in a wave. She struggled against it, keeping her back erect with an effort.

  “Don't you understand how amazing Magus was? Don't you realize that what he built, that what he did and stood for resonated with people. Getting killed for it made him bigger, not smaller. He was martyred for change, for the hope he gave to ordinary people that government could be honest and real and useful.”

  “What I remember—” Her voice came out stronger than she'd meant it to and she pulled it back to cool, “—is that the father I barely knew was killed in front of me. And the person who planned it has gone on breathing and living and spending time with people he cares about. That's what I remember, Remy Mistral.”

  Their gazes clashed like cymbals, leaving unseen sparks to fall around them both. Now he knew what she wanted and how bad she wanted. What she didn't know is what he'd do with it.

  His gaze narrowed. “Do you...know who did it?”

  “I have a few ideas, a short list of names,” she admitted. “What I don't have is proof.” She lowered her lashes, needing a respite from his gaze.

  “What you need,” Remy said, his voice soft as silk, “is someone to get in their way—the way Magus did.”

  She didn't tense, but it wasn't easy, as he stepped in to take the bait she'd prepared for him. When she felt in control, she lifted her lashes. “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “I thought it might.” He held her gaze for a long beat before he said, “I'm willing to be your bait.” He spoke slowly, as if he hadn't made up his mind, but Dorothy knew he had. She could feel his resolve beating like his heart beneath his impeccable suit, not frantic like the mosquitoes, but insistent.

  “For my endorsement and some well-placed contributions to your campaign?”