She couldn’t be sorry. There was no room in her heart for regrets. What she had shared with Alexander had been magic, a wish come true. She had found him gentle, caring and sweet. The glory of that still remained with her. Briefly he had held her to him as though nothing and no one mattered as much as she. Now that the night was over, there were responsibilities neither of them could ignore.

He would never ignore them, not for her, not for Deboque, not for anyone. She could stand at the window, struggling against the fear of what might be, but he would do whatever his duty demanded. How could she fault him for being what he was, if she loved him?

But, oh, how she wished he could be there with her, watching the morning.

Turning away from the window, Eve prepared to face the day on her own.

Chapter 9

From the fly gallery above the stage, Eve had a bird’s-eye view of rehearsal. It was in its sixth hour, and there had only been two bouts of temper. Things had settled down since the meeting she had called the afternoon before, but she continued to make notes on the yellow pad secured to her clipboard.

She’d been right about the casting, she thought smugly as she watched Russ and Linda run through a scene as Brick and Maggie. The spark was there, and the sex. When they were onstage the temperature rose ten degrees. Linda played Maggie the Cat to the hilt, desperate, grasping and hungry. Russ’s Brick was just aloof enough without being cold, his needs and turmoils raging under the surface.

They were a constant contrast to the second leads, with the nastiness and rivalry not so much obvious as natural. She couldn’t help but be pleased with herself, especially since they were going to bring the production in under budget.

The director took them back, and Linda repeated the same line for the fifth time that hour. Both she and Russ went through the same moves. The patience of actors, Eve mused, and wondered at herself for ever believing she could have thought to be one. She was much better here, supervising, organizing.

But the set … she tapped her pencil against her lips. The set wasn’t quite right. Too shiny, she realized. Too new, too staged. She narrowed her eyes and tried to see it her way. It needed to be a bit more wilted, used, even decaying under a sheen of beeswax and lemon oil. With a focal point, she realized with growing excitement. Something big and brash and shiny that would show up the rest. A vase, she decided, oversize and ornate in some vivid color. They’d fill it with flowers that Big Momma could fuss with while she was trying to ignore the disintegration of her family.

She scribbled hurriedly as she heard the director call for a break.