Then the curtain parted. Soulful, plaintive piano and saxophone notes filled the small theatre. The drums joined in, and he saw her shadow appear as if out of a mist, her hips pulsing to the beat. All his ruminations and doubts faded in the face of fascination. She glided toward the veil. She began to sing.
Her pure, yet powerful voice poured into all the empty voids inside him.
And Asher knew it didn’t matter if she was a stranger or a girl who had haunted his dreams for years.
He had to look upon the naked face of the woman behind the curtain.
• • •
After Yesenia’s performance that night, Asher didn’t wait in the dark alley. Instead, he stood behind a two-foot-thick, peeling, white-painted cement column in Chicago’s vast underground subway network, counting the seconds by the throb of his pulse at his throat.
Even though he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it, he’d first had the suspicion last night while standing in that alley. The idea originated from Grandpop’s stories and their tour of the State Theatre when he was eight years old. The State was hooked into Chicago’s subterranean world, a network of tunnels, many of which were still in use today, that incorporated dozens of newer and older buildings, multilevel underground streets and of course, the subway and train stations. Many of them had been established during Prohibition to lead to speakeasies or for illegal alcohol transport. It had occurred to him as he watched Yesenia hypnotize the audience so completely that this was how she was making her escape night after night from rabid fans, hungry reporters and determined entertainment photographers, like Rudy.
She was accessing the old tunnels.
He recalled from his times with Grandpop that a stretch of tunnel led from the old State Theatre to an underground delivery road for some of the older Chicago skyscrapers. Rumor had it that Al Capone had even used it. Nowadays, the stretch of tunnel led to the Red Line of the subway.
He felt even more stupid than he had last night, slinking around in the alley. Clearly, Yesenia didn’t want to be seen. If it was true she was scarred, wasn’t this beyond intrusive of him? Wasn’t it cruel? Plus, he’d probably frighten her, a man stalking a woman in this dim, mostly unused portion of the tunnel . . .
. . . A woman who nightly made a bold statement that she didn’t want to be seen up close.
He knew his behavior was odd and obsessive, but he also knew one thing: he wasn’t going to rest until he gazed directly on her face, until he could silence this weird suspicion that it was her.
It couldn’t be her. She’d walked away from him so long ago because her family found him appallingly ill-suited. Everything he stood for was a threat, and in direct contrast to what they’d hoped for their beautiful young daughter. They believed he’d sullied her, that he’d come this close to shaming the entire family.
He’d come more than close, though. Her parents would have gone apoplectic on the spot if they’d ever known what had transpired between him and their precious girl in the private world they’d made together.
But her parents had never fully learned that secret, thank God. She and Asher had successfully created their own world—or so they’d thought—a place of mystery and wonder, intense desire and vibrant beauty. A place they’d both belonged.
Until she’d made her choice, forsaken it all and walked away, that is. Until she’d smashed their private little paradise to smithereens one day. Yes, it had been his asshole cousin Eric who had first betrayed them; her furious father, uncles and cousin who had separated them; and her hurt and shamed mother who had solidified that rift.
But in the end, it had been her choice, hadn’t it? A choice that she’d continued to make for eight years.
Laila.
This time the forbidden name brought a wave of distilled fury and hurt along with the longing. He wouldn’t have guessed that so much anger still existed inside him.
He shifted his booted feet restlessly. Only the sound of water trickling sluggishly from a metal pipe and the muted voices on the distant train platform entered his hearing. No one seemed aware of this portion of the tunnel.
Just when he was about to give up on his irrational—no, ludicrous—mission of pouncing upon an unsuspecting, extremely private stranger, he heard it: a light, rapid tread approaching his location. He eased around the column and started back abruptly, holding his breath.
A hooded figure walked rapidly in his direction, the closeness of it surprising him. He stayed concealed, watching as the figure passed. Only the lights from the platform ahead and an old, dust-encrusted exit light permeated the gloom. It was enough for him to make out that the person wore loose-fitting cargo pants, running shoes, a backpack and sweatshirt with the hood up. Her form was slight and graceful. Despite the baggy clothing, he made out the curve of feminine hips and the hint of a round bottom.
It’s her.
He never told himself to do it, but suddenly, he was following her. She clearly didn’t want to be noticed. Everything about her slightly hunched posture, her haste and her hands in her pockets shouted unapproachability. But there was something else about her, the gliding gait and the delicate, graceful arch of her spine. She called out to some nameless thing rushing in his blood.
What the hell are you going to say? She was going to be scared, being accosted here by a stranger.
Why didn’t you shave your damn beard?
At six foot three and a hundred ei
ghty-five pounds, he was intimidating enough to a solitary female without the dark, thick facial hair adding to the scenario.
Her pace suddenly increased. He kept up. Had she heard him behind her? The sound of an approaching train in the distance reached his ears. No, she’d heard her train and was hurrying to catch it.
The name burned on his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to shout it. Anger and shame and disbelief at his unexpected need prevented it. What if it was her? What if she was scarred, and the last thing she wanted was to be seen?