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eBook Category: Romance
eBook Description: Alicia Cannon had paid her dues in show business. In the time she'd been in New York, she'd co-starred with a flock of bleating sheep in a commercial, played a prostitute on stage, and even worn a shark costume for a trade convention. She knew her talents were being wasted. She needed a film role, and her best chance for that was to impress a producer who was visiting Atlantic City. If she could just get onstage in Atlantic City, he would see that she was perfect for his next film. Chance Weal was a magician extraordinaire. He loved the awe and wonder on the faces of the audience when he disappeared into thin air and came back in a cloud of glittering dust. At last, his agent had gotten him his big break--a performance in an Atlantic City club. Now all he needed was a drop-dead gorgeous assistant. Theatrical agent Monty Jackson had a problem. One of his clients, a handsome magician with curly blond hair, needed an assistant. Another client, a lovely actress with chestnut hair and vivid blue eyes, needed to get onstage in Atlantic City. The solution seemed simple. So far, meetings between Chance and Ally had only produced sparks of the wrong kind. But no matter what, the show had to go on...

eBook Publisher: Wildside Press, Published: Wildside Press, 2000
Fictionwise Release Date: June 2002

76 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [695 KB], eReader (PDB) [227 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [219 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [196 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [226 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [244 KB], hiebook (KML) [541 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [236 KB], iSilo (PDB) [180 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [227 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [261 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [299 KB]
Words: 64888
Reading time: 185-259 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

There was no mistaking the woman's profession. She wasn't any ordinary streetwalker though. He was sure of that.

He spotted her on Broadway as he walked up the west side of the avenue and she walked up the east side. She chose to window-shop for a moment as he waited for the light at Broadway and Forty-second Street to change, and that was how he caught up with her. She glanced at her slim wristwatch as he crossed the noisy street.

She set off at a more hurried pace then. She must be late for a... a client? An appointment? A customer? He wondered what she would call it.

He walked at a more idle pace than she, since he was early for his own appointment. But his legs were long, and her heels were high and narrow, so he always seemed to stay within a few yards of her on the crowded street.

He didn't mind having found something beautiful to look at. New York City had always struck him as distinctly unappealing. No matter how many times he came here, a country boy like him would always find it stifling, filthy, gray, and unfriendly.

He wondered if she was a native. She looked slightly foreign, a little exotic, but he knew that New Yorkers often did. She was petite, perhaps five three. In those perilous heels, she would come a little closer to his height of six feet. She walked on them with care, setting each foot down firmly, toes pointed straight ahead, but she was extremely graceful and didn't appear to be in danger of toppling off them.

After several blocks, she turned and entered an office building. He glanced up at the address, and his brows rose in surprise. This was also his destination.

He followed her through the lobby and slipped into her elevator just before the doors swished shut, locking the two of them in together.

"What floor?" she asked. Her voice was low and melodic, smooth and pleasant.

"Twenty-five," he answered.

Her brows arched slightly as she pressed a button for the twenty-fifth floor. He noticed it was the only one she pressed. Were they actually visiting the same offices? His curiosity about her expanded.

Thick, rich, glowing, red hair tumbled smoothly around her face and shoulders. Her skin was pale and creamy and absolutely flawless. Her eyes were wide and slanted slightly upwards at the corners. They were a stunning, vivid blue color, shot through with sparks of emerald green. He had never seen such beautiful eyes. They were without a doubt the most lovely feature of a very lovely woman.

She was perfectly proportioned everywhere, slim without being skinny, voluptuous without being plump. And her dress emphasized everything about her that was female and mysterious. A delicate concoction of black silk and lace, it snuggled tightly over her full breasts, hugged her narrow waist, and slid intimately around the smooth curve of her hips. The slits in the material, which exposed one shapely thigh and a considerable amount of midriff, were positively indecent.

He loved her dress.

He was about to tell her so when it occurred to him that she would think he was coming on to her. Did he want to come on to her? As beautiful as she was, he gave it some thought before deciding against it.

The elevator came to a jarring halt on the fifteenth floor. The woman jiggled slightly when she fell against the wall, and the sight nearly banished his resolve to stay silent around her.

Two elderly women looked into the elevator, did a double take when they saw her, and then mumbled something about waiting for the next elevator.

The doors swished shut again. He saw her mouth curve slightly, and he wondered if she often endured that kind of insult. She looked more amused than embittered.

All the same, if he tried to compliment her, even flirt with her a little, she would probably become businesslike -- either name a price or tell him she was booked for the day. And that would destroy the love-goddess aura that seemed to surround her. Besides, she would resent his wasting her time. He had never paid for a woman's company and certainly didn't intend to start now, not even for her.

The doors opened on the twenty-fifth floor. Remembering the manners his grandfather had drilled into him, he gestured for the lady to go first.

Alicia Cannon looked at the man from under her thick lashes for just a moment. He must be a nice guy, she thought, because he had managed to study her -- surreptitiously, but unmistakably -- all the way up to the twenty-fifth floor without making her feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. This was the first time she had ever left the theatre dressed like this, and she had found men's stares either lustful or contemptuous as she walked along. This man's gaze was flattering and curious, but also polite and respectful. A nice combination, she admitted to herself.

She walked past him, and then some devil inside, perhaps a residual characteristic of the role she was currently playing, made her turn to face him. Surprised at herself, she touched him lightly under the chin with one forefinger, and then winked coyly at him as she pivoted to walk away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his dumbfounded expression change to a broad grin which swept slowly across his face. He shook his head and then followed after her.

Much to her surprise, he wasn't going to one of the other two offices on the same floor, but to her destination: Slade and Jackson Associates, Talent Agents. He opened the door for her and followed her inside.

"A bit overdressed today, aren't we?" said the receptionist dryly.

Ally Cannon propped her leg up on the desk, leaned forward, arched her back, and said in a low, seductive voice, "Tell Monty I'm here. He'll want to see me."

It had been a running gag between her and the staff of the talent agency during the six months she had been playing a prostitute in an off-Broadway production.

Playing along, the secretary said, "Monty said you're to go right in. I'll hold all calls."

Hips swaying beneath her uncomfortably tight dress, Ally started down the hallway.

Behind her, she heard the secretary say, "Can I help you, sir?"

"What? Oh... I have an appointment. I'm a little early."

His voice was gorgeous, like the rest of him. Ally wondered if he was an actor. He looked more California than New York. He was tall, slim, well muscled beneath his blue jeans and cambric shirt, with thick, curly, honey blond hair and warm, dark brown eyes. If she had been dressed like a normal person, she might have tried to be a little friendlier. However, dressed as she was, he would have probably jumped to erroneous conclusions.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite little tramp," said Monty Jackson wryly as she sat down before him. Her squirming made him frown. "What's wrong, Ally?"

"It's so hard to find a comfortable position in this dress," she said. "And this wig itches."

"Yes, I can imagine."

"I dashed over right after the matinee -- the wardrobe mistress will kill me when she finds out -- and I have to eat and be back for the evening performance in an hour," Ally said hurriedly. "You wanted to see me?"

Monty nodded.

"Is it about Roland Houston?" she asked eagerly.

Monty nodded again. For three months they had known that Roland Houston, the writer-director, was preparing to make a film out of the novel Grass in Heaven. It was a strong, uncompromising story of inner-city poverty. One of the supporting roles in the movie would be the part of Rainy, the tough young woman who died trying to help the hero realize his dream of finding a place where they could live in peace and safety, a place with plenty of green grass to walk on.

Ally had dreamed of playing that part ever since she had first read the book. When she heard that Roland Houston was turning it into a movie, she was determined to seize her chance. When she learned that her agent, Monty, had dealt with Houston several times before, it seemed that everything was going her way. All she needed now was to meet the man, talk to him, read for him. She wanted the part so badly, she would willingly blow what was left of her meager savings on a plane ticket to Los Angeles to meet with him if necessary.

Ally frowned suddenly, aware that Monty did not look like a man about to deliver good news.

"Does he want to see me?" she asked hopefully.

"I hate this," Monty said, and stood up abruptly. He turned away and looked out the window. "No, Ally. He doesn't."

The words fell like stones. The room seemed to echo the rejection in mockery of all Ally's hopes and plans.

"He doesn't?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "Why not?"

"He... took one look at your picture and said no."

"What?"

"He said you were too fresh and sweet, too delicate-looking. He said Rainy is a tough, wisecracking, hardened woman who's been through everything by the age of twenty-four. He said a face like yours could never pull it off on-screen."

"But right now I'm playing a prostitute who kills her own pimp! And I do it eight times a week," Ally sputtered. "To rave reviews, I might add."

"I know, Ally. But when he looked at your resumé, all he saw were--"

"Underwear parts," Ally finished bleakly. The words "underwear parts" were Ally's euphemism for the plethora of roles she had played that required nothing except that she run around scantily clad, looking pretty and uttering straight lines. Although dissatisfied with the roles, Ally had been grateful to at least get work more often than many of her talented friends. What's more, her first two agents and numerous producers had insisted again and again that a young woman with her sexy looks was only going to get "underwear parts."

Montgomery Jackson was the first agent who had ever told her she was strong, talented, and impressive, and should be doing more important work. When he had left the huge agency he had originally worked in to form his own agency with a partner, Ally had gone with him as a client, flattered to be asked since Monty's client list was extremely impressive. She had never regretted it. He had gotten her a whole season with an excellent Shakespeare company in Oregon, and three challenging roles since then. Monty had kept his promise to help Ally build an impressive repertoire of roles she could grow in and recall with dignity.

As she approached thirty, Ally was determined to continue growing. She resented the implication that her pretty face made her incapable of playing Rainy in Grass in Heaven.

"Didn't he see the more recent listings on my resumé?" she demanded. "Pray for Us, The Seagull, Much Ado About Nothing--"

"Of course he saw, Ally. But he's not convinced. He said that he can tell by looking at your face that you're not right for the part, and there's not enough evidence on your resumé to make him think otherwise."

"Then why doesn't he come to see me in the play I'm doing now? I'm tough enough in this play to scare a roomful of linebackers."

"He's not planning a trip to New York right now, and your play closes next week. He's not going to make a special trip out here just to see you in Northern Comfort. He's not interested, Ally. I'm sorry."

Ally bowed her head, feeling defeat hit her with merciless force. She had wanted this so badly. The part itself would have meant everything to her, and the chance to work in a Roland Houston film could have skyrocketed her career. She ran a hand through the illusionary red tresses that spilled over her shoulders.

"Okay," she said at last. "Thank you for trying, Monty."

"I think he's wrong, Ally, and we'll find a part for you that will make him eat his hat. But for now..."

"If only I could meet him, just talk to him. No one will play that part like I could...." She sighed heavily. They were both silent for several long moments. She was grateful to Monty for telling her this in person; telephones were so impersonal. Finally she said, "Since Comfort closes next week, I'd better ask. Has anything else turned up yet?"

He shook his head. "Things are very slow right now. How are you fixed for cash?"

"Not good," she admitted. "My free animal-shelter cat just required some surgery that nearly cleaned me out. And my rent is going up."

"Well, there might be a breakfast drink commercial coming up, if you're interested." He looked doubtful.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Ally said glumly. "What about that woman who was thinking of me for that play about Emily Dickinson?"

"She called last week. Can't get enough backers."

"Well, keep me posted, Monty. As of next week, I'm unemployed." She rose to leave.

Monty opened the door. "Don't worry, Ally. I'll find something for you."

She smiled fondly at him as she stepped out into the hall. "I know. You always do." She really was very lucky to have such a dedicated agent. Many of her friends were not so fortunate. "I need a hug," she said.

Monty gave her an affectionate squeeze. He pulled back and looked into her face. "Look at you," he said wryly. "It's a good thing my wife's not the jealous type."

"Ahhh, it's a good thing you're not the philandering type," Ally answered.

She touched his cheek lightly and turned to leave. As soon as she turned away from Monty, her eyes locked with those of the blond stranger who had entered the office with her. She heard Monty's door close behind her.

The stranger's eyes were warm and curious. Not judgmental, but certainly speculative as he looked at her. A suggestively dressed woman being physically affectionate with a talent agent had all sorts of possible implications.

"Do it again!" cried the receptionist, distracting Ally and the blond man.

He grinned at the receptionist. He had a devastating smile, Ally noticed, sunny and sexy at the same time.

"No, I'd better not. I might get hurt this time."

"Oh, come on!" Seeing Ally, the receptionist gestured to her to come nearer. "You've got to see this!"

Ally stepped closer and looked at the stranger from under her thick lashes. "See what?"

The receptionist pulled a cigarette out of her purse and put it to her lips. The man glanced at Ally for a moment, shrugged good-naturedly, and snapped his fingers.

Ally gasped and stepped back as his fingers caught fire.

He leaned gracefully across the desk to light the woman's cigarette. He turned to Ally. "Want a light?" he asked with the endearing tone and expression of a teenager trying to impress an older woman.

"I... No, thanks." Ally was definitely impressed.

He waved his hand with a quick flourish, and the flame disappeared. His dark eyes were soulful and laughing at the same time, his face was intelligent and handsome, and his voice was husky and deep.

"Look! He's not even burned!" exclaimed the receptionist.

"That's amazing," Ally said politely.

As the receptionist purred with admiration, a thought occurred to Ally. Actors needed all sorts of bizarre skills. A friend of hers had spent eight weeks in roller-skating lessons to get her role in Starlight Express. Another non-smoking friend had spent many hours learning to roll her own cigarettes for a scene in Plenty. Ally's last boyfriend had learned to use a lasso for his role in Oklahoma. Perhaps, Ally thought, she could someday profit from knowing a trick like this. It was a good one, after all. Like many people in her profession, he might be willing to share his secrets.

"Do you give your tricks away?" she asked suddenly.

"No." The man's soft brown eyes glinted and traveled down her body with subtle implication. "Do you?"

Ally felt blood rush to her face as she realized the implication of his words. This was the last straw. She should have realized what people would think if she walked around in the real world like this, but she had just suffered a crushing disappointment in Monty's office, and felt neither tolerant nor humorous at this particular moment.

She gave the stranger her most withering look, her eyes telling him that she thought he was loathsome and vulgar. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and left.

Chance watched the redhead stalk out of the talent agency without a backward glance. A puzzled smile played around his mouth. He still wasn't sure what her profession was -- or what her connection to Montgomery Jackson was. He was tempted to follow her and apologize.

"I'll tell Monty you're here, Mr. Weal."

"Call me Chance," he said. He was rewarded by an adoring flutter of eyelashes before the receptionist picked up the phone to buzz her employer. He grinned, then thought about the redhead again. Her eyes were amazing. He would have liked to see her laugh or smile.

"Chance, good to see you again." Monty came down the hallway and clasped Chance's hand in a firm handshake. Monty didn't greet him with the exaggerated joviality Chance had come to detest in some show-business people. In fact, Monty's sincerity and genuine concern for his clients was one of the main reasons that Chance, having fired his last agent, had decided to sign with Slade and Jackson Associates.

Monty's reputation was another reason Chance had chosen him. At fifty-six, Monty had handled a wide variety of talent, had boosted numerous careers to stardom, had obtained and cultivated excellent connections, and maintained a reputation for fairness. And Chance had worked too hard all these years to settle for less anymore.

They had shaken hands on their agreement in Los Angeles two months ago. Chance had finished out a contract at one of the big Las Vegas Hotels, and now he was in New York for some more television appearances Monty had booked.

"Have you found a place to stay?" Monty asked as they sat down in his office.

"I'm subletting a place from a friend of mine. It's comfortable."

"To get right down to business," Monty said, "I got a call from Los Angeles today. It's a go."

"The one-hour special we discussed with that producer we met with? Ambrose Kettering?"

Monty nodded. "One hour, prime time, network television. Of course, there are still contractual details to work out."

"Monty, I don't know what to say. For two years I badgered my last agent about a television special. And you've done it in two months!" Chance grinned. "And now I guess it's up to me to make sure they sign me for another special after this one is over."

"Exactly," said Monty. "To that end, I count on you to make magic onstage while I stir up excitement about you offstage. If we both play our cards right, you could be doing as well as David Copperfield and Doug Henning before long."

"And if I mess it up, it's back to Ghirardelli Square for me," Chance said wryly, naming the colorful square in San Francisco where he had started his career more than a dozen years ago by performing for pedestrians and passing the hat.

"As I said, there are a number of contractual questions," Monty began.

Chance had an unlimited attention span when it came to perfecting his craft, but business bored him quickly. He was aware that, as a responsible adult and professional, he needed to know the business details of his career. He was, however, shifting restlessly in his chair and eager to leave after a half hour of concentrating on Monty's conversation.

The phone intercom buzzed. Monty picked it up. "Yes? Tell her I'm with a client now...." Monty frowned. After a moment, he glanced up at Chance. "It's another client. She says it's urgent. Do you mind if I--"

"No, of course not."

"All right, put her on." He waited a moment. "Yes, Ally, what is it? Slow down, I can't understand you." He frowned again. "Atlantic City? Ally, it's not right around the corner.... Well, I didn't know he would be there. How did you -- Oh, I see. But I don't think... He won't... You're not..." Monty gave a sigh. He smiled ruefully. "All right, Ally. I will.... Yes, I'll think of something. I promise."

After a few more moments, Monty said good-bye and hung up. He smiled at Chance. "Ambition must be a terrible burden. I thank God I'm just a businessman. Now, where were we?"

"Publicity."

"Oh, yes, that call reminded me. There's going to be a benefit in Atlantic City in a few weeks. A fund for homeless children, I believe. It's a big weekend shebang that'll take place at the Wilson Palace Hotel and Casino. Ambrose Kettering is producing the show, and he's suggested you give a brief performance."

"What do you think?" Chance asked.

"I think it's a good cause, it'll get a lot of coverage, and there will be a lot of important people there. If we can fit it in, I think you should go." Chance nodded affably, and Monty added, "I'll find out more about it for you."

They wrapped up their conversation quickly, since I, Monty was expecting another appointment momentarily.

As Chance left Monty's office and rode the elevator down to the first floor, he knew he had been right to sign with Monty.

In the past, Chance had suffered a number of setbacks, both professional and personal, regarding his career. Conjurers were still often poorly regarded by talent agencies and by other performers. Often by their loved ones, too, Chance thought with a faint twinge of unpleasant emotion. After all these years, he had almost forgotten the woman -- but he had never forgotten the feeling of betrayal.

Monty didn't strike Chance as the type to steal a little afternoon delight with a call girl, so he assumed the redhead was really an actress. He wondered if she dressed like that all the time, or if it was part of some work she was doing. He was sorry he had let the opportunity to meet her slip by. But then, he thought with a smile, the venomous look she had given him when she left proved she had quite a temper. Perhaps it was just as well he had let her go.

He sauntered down the street, hands in his pockets, and wondered what to do until he met a friend at the cinema later. He could do some work, but he was feeling suddenly nostalgic. On a whim, he decided to go to Central Park and see if he could find a street magician or two.

Chance loved the spectacle of legerdemain, the awe, wonder, and suspicion on the audience's faces, and the triumphant surprises offered by the magician. He especially loved the impromptu aspect of conjuring right in the middle of a throng of people. Anything could, and frequently did, happen.

He checked his pockets to make sure he had something to put in the hat, then he set off for the park with a smile on his face.

After leaving Monty's office, Ally had decided to grab a bite to eat on the same street. Her outfit made it necessary for her to sharply rebuke would-be companions several times after she sat down at a window table in a shabby pasta bar. However, once she tucked four napkins around her costume to prevent it from getting inadvertently stained, she must have looked considerably less alluring, since no one else approached her.

She was glad she was performing tonight. Otherwise, she was so depressed, she would just go home and feel disgustingly sorry for herself. It was times like this that she sincerely envied fictional women -- some of whom she had played -- who had a loving, supportive man to go home to and share their troubles with. She'd never had a relationship like that. In fact, for the past couple of years, she hadn't had a relationship at all. Too many bad experiences had made her choose peaceful solitude in the end. However, on days like this, solitude wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Ally sighed and pushed her pasta around on her plate. She tried to chide herself out of this uncharacteristically low mood. She had maintained her stamina because she was an essentially cheerful and optimistic person, but sometimes the setbacks really got her down. Monty was right, she reminded herself; there would be other roles.

But she had wanted this one so badly. She loved the character, understood her, could give so much to the role and learn so much from it. If only there were some way of convincing Roland Houston to at least meet her.

Realizing she wasn't going to finish her pasta, Ally pushed her plate away, asked for a cup of coffee, and picked up her newspaper. After several minutes, she found an article that captured her attention.

Helmut Wilson, the fabulously rich entrepreneur, was hosting a gala weekend charity event in Atlantic City at his Wilson Palace Hotel and Casino. The entertainment included nationally and internationally known singers, dancers, comics, actors, and radio personalities. The cause was worthy, the price astronomical, and the guest list absolutely stellar.

The name Roland Houston jumped out at Ally. He would be attending! Within two minutes she was on the phone to Monty.

"Atlantic City, Monty! It's just around the corner! Why didn't you tell me he would be so near?" she demanded. "Oh... it's in the paper today.... Well, maybe he'd want to come up to New York afterwards? Before? But I -- Well, in that case, I'll go to Atlantic City." She frowned. "Yes, the paper says it's five thousand dollars or something per person. But can't you get me in? I don't know how. Please, think of something, Monty. Something. Just get me there. I'll change his mind once I find him."

Satisfied that the karmic pendulum was once again swinging her way, Ally hung up the phone and sat back down at her table. She paid her check and finished her coffee, staring out the window.

She felt some misgivings when she considered how pushy Roland Houston might consider her if she tracked him down in Atlantic City after he had already said he didn't want to see her. However, this was the toughest, most competitive profession in the world. Her teachers, her directors, her peers, and even her agent had all always advised her to pursue work with the tenacity of a terrier.

"It's got to be the right thing to do," she murmured to herself. "I wouldn't want this so badly if it weren't right."

Suddenly a familiar face appeared in the crowd that rushed past the window. He was tall, blond, well built, slightly tanned, dressed in denim and cotton. His fingers, she noticed, did not appear to be on fire this time.

He was smiling, and his expression made him look very appealing. He stopped to pull a few dollars out of his pocket, then tossed them into the violin case of a hapless young musician who was being ignored by the New Yorkers rushing by.

The blond man said something to the violinist that made him laugh, then he sauntered away.

Ally watched with interest. There was an animal grace about the man that was irresistible. He exuded an air of charisma and confidence that couldn't be ignored.

He'd been smiling beatifically, Ally mused. And he was being rather free with his dollar bills. Monty Jackson must have given him good news.

Seeing him again like this seemed to be an omen. Whether it was good or bad remained to be seen.

Copyright © 2000 by Laura Leone