Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(21)

“Do what you like,” he said flatly. “I have no right to object to your choice of companions.”

Bewildered, Madeline stared at his profile. One moment he had been in a fury, and the next he was completely indifferent. She must have done something wrong, missed some opportunity that a woman of more experience would have taken advantage of. As a seductress, she was an utter failure.

She waited for him to leave the room, but he was silent and unmoving. It appeared that every muscle of his body was tightly bunched. It seemed as if he were fighting some tremendous inner battle.

“Mr. Scott?” she asked softly. “If you don't mind…would you finish what you were going to say?”

His head turned. His searing blue eyes stared into hers.

“You said that when a man looks at me,” Madeline prompted, “he can't help thinking…”

The tension grew until Mr. Scott shook his head with a muffled laugh. “My God,” he muttered, striding from the room. “I'd like to know what I've done to deserve this.”

For the next two weeks Logan discovered himself to be the object of the strangest persecution he had ever experienced. Every time he turned a corner, Madeline was there, unrelentingly helpful, nearly driving him mad with her attentions. When he entered his office in the morning, she had already been there, leaving a napkin filled with iced buns or a steaming pot of tea on his desk. She ran to fetch things before he was even aware that he needed them…she studied his habits—how much sugar he liked in his tea, how much starch he preferred in his shirts.

Madeline's eager devotion both annoyed and embarrassed Logan, but at the same time…he couldn't remember when, or if, anyone had ever been so quick to meet his needs. She made certain that his costumes were always clean, mended, and pressed; brought reference books from the theater library when he needed them; and kept his office and his dressing room organized.

It was constantly on the tip of Logan's tongue to tell her to leave him alone, yet he couldn't seem to get the words out. It was convenient to have her close at hand…and oddly pleasant to watch her small, expressive face as she took dictation or sorted stacks of notices freshly arrived from the printer's shop. On the odd days when she was too busy to come straight to his office, he found himself watching the clock for her arrival.

“You took your time,” he said when she came to help with his correspondence one morning. “I've been waiting for you.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” she said breathlessly, “but Mrs. Lyttleton needed my assistance with some costume fittings—”

“You spend too much time at the costume shop. If Mrs. Lyttleton is overburdened, tell her to hire another seamstress. I have mail that needs to be answered.”

“Yes, sir,” she said obediently, a small smile touching her lips.

Realizing that he had sounded jealous and possessive, Logan scowled. “My correspondence is a damned sight more important than Mrs. Lyttleton's fripperies,” he said, feeling the need to justify himself. Madeline smiled and sat beside him in her accustomed place.

Logan kept her working in his office a good deal of the time, rationalizing that it was the safest place for an accident-prone girl like Madeline to be. She had a fearlessness that provoked him mightily, as he found her engaged in activities that ranged from hammering nails in the carpenter's shop to crawling across the fly-floor built high above the ground. This last instance was too much for Logan, as he walked onto the stage one day and discovered a small group of stagehands watching Madeline work far above them. She held a rope in one hand and was busily threading it through a pulley that was nailed to the grid ten feet below the roof of the theater. “Good work, lass!” one of the men called, while another laughed admiringly. “Agile as a monkey, that girl.”

Logan's breath seemed to leave his body. One misstep, and Madeline would plummet to the boards far below. He clenched his jaw to keep from shouting, which might startle her and result in a fatal accident. Breaking out in a heavy sweat, Logan swore silently and strode to a spiral staircase built behind the proscenium. He ascended rapidly, taking the narrow steps three at a time, until he had reached the catwalk, a two-foot-wide bridge suspended just below the fly-floor and slung on iron stirrups from the iron grid.

“I've finished,” Madeline called, swaying slightly as she looked over the edge of the fly-floor. “My goodness, it's a long way down!” She started as she saw Logan beneath her. “Mr. Scott,” she said in surprise, “what are you doing up here?”

“What are you doing,” he countered grimly, “aside from letting everyone have a glimpse up your skirts? No wonder you're so damned popular around here.”

For the first time she looked at him with anger, her mouth tightening. “That's unfair, Mr. Scott. I'm only doing my job, which is to help wherever I'm needed—”

“Not at the risk of your life,” he snapped. “Although at the moment I'm tempted to break your pretty neck myself and save you the trouble. Now give me your hand.”

“I can climb down myself—”

“Now,” he said between his teeth. She complied reluctantly, and his hand closed around her wrist in a bruising vise, hauling her off the fly-floor and into his arms. The catwalk vibrated from the force of the motion.

Madeline yelped at the indignity of being slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “Put me down,” she scolded as Logan made his way down the spiral staircase. “I don't need your help!” Ignoring her protests, he continued to carry her until they had reached the stage, and he deposited her roughly on her feet.