After the show, a security officer is waiting for Devon Taylor as he exits stage left. With the quickest of glances, he sums her up—relatively young, early thirties at the latest, with blonde curls escaping her cap in wispy tendrils which make her look frazzled this late in the day. There’s a nervousness in her fingers, the way she taps her notebook and pen, that says she doesn’t want to be here.
Me either, honey,he thinks, squelching a grin before it can escape at the thought.
She’s unmarried, he assumes, or at least there’s no ring on her finger, so she probably doesn’t have any children, either, though in today’s society that’s a hard call. But when she sees him, she doesn’t fly over like a harpy, so Devon thinks yeah, no kids. Because he knows why she’s here, and any mother would already be accosting him, demanding answers. For this woman, her career comes first.
“Mr. Taylor?” she calls.
Despite the hustle backstage, Devon hears her clearly. He throws off the cape a stagehand tries to toss over his shoulders and waves it aside. Half-turning so his own voice won’t carry, he murmurs, “Get Harry for me, will you?”
The assistant nods and hurries off. When Devon turns, he finds the officer has crossed the distance and now stands before him as if by magic. Devon allows himself a small grin. “Nice trick. We could work that into our show, Miss…?”
“Officer Morris.” She doesn’t extend a hand in greeting. This close, there’s a hardness to her eyes Devon didn’t notice before. His disarming smile does little to diffuse it. Maybe he was wrong about her having no kids. “Janine Morris, Landmark Security. I also work part-time with the city police department, so I’ve already put in a call to my unit downtown to give them a head’s up on the situation here. We take missing child cases very seriously in Richmond, Mr. Taylor. Police have already locked down the building and we’re searching the premises. With your cooperation, hopefully we’ll find the boy soon.”
Devon’s smile locks into place. He resists the urge to run a hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his, but he doesn’t want her to read anything into it. “You’re not suggesting Ihad anything to do with it, are you? This place is full of kids. It’s a magic show. I’ve been onstage the whole time.”
“With me.”
The voice behind Devon is melodious, hypnotic. Even after all these years, Devon still loves the sound of it. When a strong hand touches the small of his back, Devon relaxes as warmth floods his body. Tension drains away. That hand rubs around his waist in a quick, one-armed embrace, then drops away as the magician known as Harry Marvelous leans past Devon to bow with a flourish.
His top hat sweeps out, brushing the officer’s notepad on its way to the ground. His long, salted curls, tied at his nape with a silk ribbon, cascade over one shoulder, but with the hat off, Devon can see how far Harry’s hairline has receded. The magician still dons his stage outfit, an iridescent tuxedo that winks in the light and crinkles when he moves, and the makeup he wears during the show has caked into the lines on his face, making him look less than magical at the moment.
But the effect he has on Officer Morris is instantaneous. When he stands, pulling a single red rose from the depths of his hat and offering it to her, her eyes soften and a smile cracks through her tough exterior. She even giggles a little when Harry kisses the back of her hand. Then he stands, and the officer finds herself holding a fist full of rose petals. She laughs in delight.
Devon elbows his partner in the ribs. “Show’s over, Maestro.”
Harry’s arm finds its way around Devon’s waist again and he leans close to his apprentice. “One never stops performing, love. It’s the only rule I live by. You should know that by now.”
The term of endearment reminds Devon they aren’t alone. Taking Harry’s arm, Devon nods at the officer to remind the magician, as well. The stagehands and backstage assistants might think little if they overheard Harry’s flirtatious banter, but Officer Morris sees the closeness between the two men and her laughter dries up. Devon doesn’t need to be a mentalist to interpret the way her eyes narrow when Harry’s hand folds over Devon’s possessively in the crook of his arm.
“I believe the officer has some questions she wants to ask us,” Devon suggests. At Harry’s blank look, he adds, “About the boy you made disappear?”
“During the show?” Harry turns to Officer Morris, who nods. His smile flashes out, beguiling. “A true magician never gives away his secrets.”
Inwardly, Devon groans. So Harry doesn’t know. Turning away from the officer, he starts, “Harry—”
She interrupts him. “Mr. Marvelous, if that’s your real name, the boy you made disappear during the show never made it back to his seat.”
Devon watches as confusion flickers across Harry’s features—it starts with a furrowing of the brow he knows so well, then fills those deep-set, chocolate-colored eyes he could lose himself in for hours. Then Harry’s patrician nose crinkles a bit, as if he smells something foul, and one side of his thin upper lip pulls up in a half-sneer that always reminds Devon of Elvis Presley.
