Xoxo—Susan
Alicia re-read the e-mail from Susan, one eyebrow arched in amusement. I guess I’m out of the doghouse, she mused. Where most people would be thrilled that someone traveled all the way from D.C. to Connecticut to see their show, Susan and Alicia’s “friendly” rivalry over the years meant the other actress saw competition instead of support. Given the rumors about that production and Susan’s behavior in it, though, her insecurity was probably understandable. Especially since the rumor mill had hinted that Alicia herself was the second choice for that role and that she’d nearly gotten a call to replace the other actress.
Standing, Alicia tucked her phone in the pocket of her full-skirted black dress. While her dressing room-mates had gotten dolled up swiftly and left, chattering in happy anticipation of free champagne, Alicia had lagged behind, trying to shake off the vestiges of emotion that lingered after the performance. Thinking of grace…or to be more truthful, Gracie, during Juliet’s death scene made worry flutter in her belly like a wounded bird. She’s eighteen now. She shoved the thought away, years of practice asserting itself, and examined her reflection in the dressing room mirror. After cleaning off the makeup that had aged her for this afternoon’s matinée, she applied subtle, glamorous eyeshadow and paired it with a deep red lip. The short hair she wore under an ugly cap for performances she finger-combed until the longer strands dropped across one eye, glinting silvery blond in the makeup mirror lights.
“Buh-bye, crone.” She waggled her fingers at her own reflection, regretting that she hadn’t had time to put on nail polish, and took a deep breath, straightening her spine.
Showtime, part two.
She would far rather be heading home for a long shower and an early bedtime, but the job required her to socialize, and socialize she would.
Her shiny red heels made brittle tapping sounds on the tile floor as she entered the Folger Theater’s Great Hall. The party was in full swing, waiters circulating, the rest of the cast mingling with wealthy, high-powered donors. Alicia snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and sipped it, scanning the room. The back of her neck prickled as she continued to turn. A few yards away, standing in front of a display case containing an Elizabethan manuscript, a tall man observed her.
She took in his tanned skin, eyes that appeared almost black, and black hair a little long and shaggy. Dark stubble shadowed his cheeks in stark contrast to the sensuous curves of his lips. His nose was almost too large, but the strength of the rest of his features balanced the overall impression of magnetic masculinity. His shoulders appeared broad, filling out his suit jacket.
Well.
Alicia met his gaze. He didn’t look away. She lofted an eyebrow inquiringly. At this, he looked slightly abashed and walked toward her.
“I apologize for staring,” he said, extending a hand. “Colin St. Cyr. I know it sounds terribly corny, but have we met before?” A British accent tantalized Alicia’s ears, plummy and smooth. She loved accents. Loved guessing where someone had grown up, how their voice was shaped by the places they lived. Loved reproducing them in later performances, her mouth caressing the strange vowels.
“Alicia Johnson,” she said, accepting his hand and shaking it briefly. “But if you saw the play, you just saw me in there.” Alicia tilted her head toward the door of the theater.
Colin’s eyes narrowed and flicked toward the theater. “You were…wait. Why don’t I remember you?”
Alicia smiled. She could be reconciled to having to socialize if she could entertain herself.
One handed, he flipped open his program to the cast pages, his eyes scanning the names and the headshots. Alicia was gratified to see his large, dark eyes grow even larger, his jaw going slightly slack.
He pointed at the now-empty theater with the hand holding the champagne glass. “But…you just played the old lady? Juliet’s nurse?”
Alicia made the ghost of a curtsy, fingertips tugging her skirt sideways, head dipping to one side in an ironic, coquettish gesture, hair falling into her eyes.
Colin blinked a couple of times and took a long drink. “You pronounce your name the British way.”
“I do.” She’d met someone as a teenager who had a British mother and pronounced her name Ah-lyss-ee-a, and Alicia had decided on the spot that that was how she would as well.
“Wow. I…I am amazed. Gobsmacked, even.”
“Thanks.” Alicia’s voice sounded inadequate and overly American in her own ears compared to his. With those looks and that voice, he was like the love child of GQ and the BBC.
“No, really. I thought I had been observing your performance very closely, but I have clearly not been paying anywhere near close enough attention. Not only a great actress but a beautiful one.”
Raising her glass, Alicia tilted it at him, her expression flat. “Thanks.”
He squinted at her. “Why do I get the feeling I somehow just said the wrong thing?”
Alicia gave him a level look. “Exactly how much truth do you want me to lay on you?”
Colin’s eyebrows lifted at her proposed frankness. Inhaling, he looked at her glossy heels and the slightly messy, sexy shock of blond hair. Alicia’s features were fine-boned and fragile, but her eyes were challenging and steely. She wasn’t conventionally pretty. Her nose was slightly too long, her jaw too firm for mere prettiness. But she was beautiful, captivating. In fact, she looked as if she had been designed in a laboratory to misdirect Colin, befuddle him, and lead him astray.
He was still having a hard time reconciling this mercurial woman with Juliet’s rage-filled nurse.
Considering her question for a moment, he took a sip of champagne. She had already tricked him and seemed to enjoy it. And then she offered the option—apparently—to shade the truth.
“Are actresses ever honest? Isn’t it your job to lie?”
Alicia’s expression
