The Yuletide Child

their audiences. Michael was the god of their little world; the whole company revolved around him, including her.
The stranger stood, staring at her, and suddenly the room seemed far too small, she could hardly breathe.
‘You look...’ he began huskily, then stopped, swallowing; she saw his throat move. ‘Beautiful,’ he finished.
‘Thank you,’ she said, dry-mouthed, and forced a pretence of laugher. ‘I’m not, though—it’s an illusion, especially on stage. It’s just the make-up and clothes. I’m really very ordinary.’ Her eyes glanced sideways into the dressing table mirror at the slender girl reflected there. Brown hair, a small, heart-shaped face, slightly built—there was nothing special about her. There never had been.
‘Ordinary?’ he repeated. ‘Is that really how you feel? All this glamour, the show business stuff, the fans, the fuss people make over you! Do you wish you were just an ordinary girl?’
‘But that’s what I am! An ordinary girl who happens to be able to dance.’
‘You must have wanted to be a dancer!’
‘It just happened to me. I started when I was four years old, taking dancing lessons once a week. All my mother’s idea, actually. I don’t remember ever wanting to; it was all so long ago. I had no idea where it would all end. Nobody warns you that if you go on with it you’ll spend endless days in punishing, gruelling work. They don’t tell you about the muscle strain, the agony of sore feet, the aching back...’ She broke off, surprised by what she was telling him, flushed and worried. If he turned out to be a journalist and published what she had just said Michael would be furious with her! Hurriedly, she asked, ‘Look, who are you? How did you get in here?’
‘Walked in,’ he calmly said.
‘The stage doorkeeper should have stopped you!’ As if poor old George would have had much chance of keeping him out!
Nearly sixty, a cheerful, grey-haired man who had been a dancer once, George had broken a leg when he was thirty and never danced again. He had been given a job backstage and had graduated through various jobs to doorkeeper. Wiry, with a faint limp even now, George was practical and kind-hearted, a father-figure to the young dancers, but he would never be able to deal with a man like this.
The tough mouth curled up at one edge. ‘He was busy on the phone; he didn’t see me!’
Preferred not to, no doubt! thought Dylan. George had a strong sense of self-preservation; he wouldn’t risk getting his head knocked off!
Her blue eyes absorbed everything about the stranger, starting with that mouth. Wide, passionate, beautifully moulded, it had an erotic power that made her quiver.The very idea of being kissed by him made her head swim.
How tall was he? A foot taller than her; her head just came up to his wide shoulders. Now that he was under the raw glare of her dressing room lights she could see that he was not pale at all; no doubt it had been the contrast of his black hair and paler skin in shadows. In fact he was deeply tanned, brown as a berry, and very fit. A lean man, with a lot of muscles under that white shirt. Those stark, angular cheekbones, that strong jaw-line, made him a man any woman would find compelling and any man would find a threat.
‘What’s your name?’
He smiled and her ears beat with a hot pulse. ‘Ross Jefferson. Is Dylan Adams your real name?’
She nodded. ‘What do you do? You aren’t in the theatre, are you?’ He looked as if he spent all his time out of doors, but then she, of all people, knew how deceptive appearances could be!
‘No, I am not,’ he said, grimacing. ‘I’m a forester—I work in a commercially managed forest, way up north—all conifers, of course.’
She gave a sigh of relief—at least he wasn’t a journalist looking for a gossip story!
‘I had a holiday in Norway once, when I was at school. There were forests of fir trees everywhere we went.’ They were making polite conversation on the surface but underneath something very different was happening. She barely knew what she was saying, she was so intent on what she was feeling: a sensuality which was entirely new to her and left her in a state of shock.
She had had a few boyfriends in the past, but her career took first place in her life: there wasn’t time to get seriously involved with anyone. Except Michael, ofcourse; he was always there. They saw each other every day, most of their waking hours, but their relationship was not a sexual one. They were more than friends, less than lovers. Partners, necessary to each other on stage and off, working together, eating together, spending their spare time together. How could she ever have fallen in love with anyone else? Michael left no room for any other man.
At that instant, right on cue, Michael tapped on the door. ‘Are you coming, Dylan? I’m not waiting much longer; I’m starving. Come on!’
‘Will you have supper with me?’ Ross Jefferson quickly asked.
‘I always eat with Michael after a performance.’
His eyes focused on hers intently, his face hard, set. ‘Are you two lovers?’
The direct, flat question made her flush.
‘No, just very good friends.’ Yet more than that; the answer was too simplistic. What else could she say, though? There were no words to describe how close she and Michael were.
‘Then eat with me tonight!’ Ross said urgently, moving closer to her, but not touching her. ‘I want to get to know you. I’m only in London for a week. I’m here on holiday and have to get back to work by next Monday, at the other end of the country. God knows when I shall be able to come to London again. I’ve no time to waste.’
‘Dylan!’ Michael shouted again. ‘Our table is booked for eleven! Come on!’
Still staring into the dark, hypnotic eyes, Dylan called out, ‘You go on without me, Michael. See you tomorrow at