She pulled out the piano bench and sat down, easing back the silky wood cover to expose the spotless black and white keys. She touched middle C experimentally, and then let her fingers stretch out to a chord. The piano was in perfect tune.

  Bits and pieces of a song she'd been working on in her mind for months began to fall into place under her graceful fingers. She closed her eyes and let the music transport her away from her grief.

  She played the introduction and then let her voice take up the slow, seductive melody. "Sad, sad eyes, melancholy eyes," she sang, "tears are raining from your lovely eyes . . . how many dreams have found their rainbow's end in you . . . how many nightmares have those teardrops beckoned to . . . sad, sad eyes, melancholy eyes, how dark the shadow of your dying love . . . memory and melody can't warm the ashes of. . . the melancholy love that hides ... behind the sadness of your sad, sad eyes. ..."

  The tune whispered away under her sultry voice, and she knew the song had potential. It was just as the doctors had told her—there was nothing wrong with her voice. Her inability to talk after the accident had been caused by shock alone. She realized suddenly that her reluctance to try her voice had come more from her doubts about continuing her career than any real fear that her vocal cords had been damaged. Now all she had to do was find someone else to believe in her. Someone . . . Gil!

  She ran to the phone and dialed the newspaper office. As lucky as the Irish, she thought when he picked up the line as soon as the switchboard buzzed him.

  "Hi!" She laughed, pretending a gaiety she couldn't really feel. "Guess who?"

  "An angel, as I live and breathe!" He chuckled. "How are you, blue eyes? You sound great! When are you coming back to me, or is the evil stepbrother still holding you prisoner?"

  She felt her heart crack, as it had last night when Cole had put an end to her dreams. Her eyes closed and opened, and she drew a steadying breath. "I want to come back. Know any bands who need a vocalist?"

  "Funny damn thing," he said. "I do. They're a soft-rock group: three guitars and a set of drums. Nothing bluesy. Think you might cope?"

  "I'd like to try. Are they auditioning now?"

  "Sure!" She knew he was grinning, even long distance. "I'll tell them they are. How about tomorrow night?"

  She swallowed, clutching the phone cord. "So soon?"

  "The sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned," he said, serious now. "I've missed you something terrible."

  "I'll catch the first available flight out tomorrow."

  "Fantastic!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "By the way, I know the A and R guys at two of the biggest record companies in the state. If things work out with this new band, maybe I could talk to them. ..."

  She laughed quietly. "I can see my troubles will be over if I stick with you, Gil. Thanks. You're a real friend."

  "It's the least I can do," he said softly. "So long. Call me from the airport and I'll come get you." He hung up.

  The following afternoon Heather dressed in a warm aqua knit skirt and top with matching shoes for travel. Her bags were packed, her face perfectly made up to disguise the traces of tears, her hair wound into an elegant French knot at the back of her head. She searched in her closet for the old handbag in which she kept her papers and money. As she did so her eyes were drawn involuntarily to the silky fur coat Cole had given her, her good-luck charm. She closed the closet door on it and turned away. She'd freeze before she'd ever wear it again.

  She took her suitcase downstairs and called one of the ranch hands away from the stables to take her into Victoria where she would catch a plane to Houston. But when she brought her bag out to the truck she found Cole striding toward her, dressed in a dark gray business suit with a conservative tie, the very image of a successful tycoon.

  Heather hadn't seen him since their confrontation in his study the night before last. It was as if they'd both made an effort to keep out of each other's way. But here he was, and she couldn't ignore him now.

  "Ready to go?" he asked quietly, his eyes missing nothing as they moved over her slender body.

  "Yes. Danny's driving me to the airport." she said.

  He only nodded. "Got enough money? he asked softly.

  "For now." She clutched her purse closer. "I . . . Gil's going to help me get started again, now that I've got my voice back. He has some contacts."

  His face froze, but he didn't make any sarcastic comment. "It'll be cold in Houston. Where's your coat?"

  "In my closet," she said quietly, meeting his eyes with a bravery she didn't feel. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and cry her heart out. "I don't need it anymore."

  She watched his face go even tauter. He knew how much she'd loved the coat, that it was her lucky charm. It had always been precious because he'd given it to her. She was telling him without words that she didn't want him in her life anymore.

  "No," he agreed quietly. "Not it, or me. Don't ever look back, baby."

  Looking at his rigid features, she remembered the sound of her own voice telling him she loved him, over and over, and she blushed in spite of her efforts. "No," she said. "I won't look back. Good-bye, Cole."

  "I never say good-bye," he reminded her. His eyes scanned her face for a long time before he turned away. She watched him until he entered the house and disappeared from view. Then she turned back to the truck where Danny was waiting patiently.

  * * *

  Houston was alive with nightlife, and Heather told herself she was glad to be in the jeweled city again. She took a cab to her apartment, and decided her first move would be to phone Gil. She hadn't called him from the airport, preferring to surprise him. Now she tossed her shoes off and sat down on the edge of the bed, putting the ranch and Cole and all the unpleasantness to the back of her mind. From now on, she was going to live from day to day. Minutes at a time. And she was going to become, somehow, the biggest, hottest property on the nightclub circuit. She wouldn't let anything stand in her way now. She was going to make it.

  "This band is great," Gil told her on the way to the club where the group was rehearsing. "You'll like the guys. They'll like you, too."

  She gripped her purse nervously. "I... I don't even have my new arrangements," she told him. "There wasn't time to work them up____"

  "Don't worry about it. These guys are masters at improvisation. You sing the song to them one time, they'll never have to see sheet music."

  "If they're that good, what do they need with me?" She laughed.

  "Didn't I tell you?" he asked with a grin. "They may be talented, but they're all ugly! They need you to give 'em a little class."

  She smiled. "You sure know how to boost a girl's ego."

  "That's what I'm here for." He pulled off the street and squeezed his small sports car into a parking spot, cutting the engine. "Okay, angel, we're here. Let's do it."

  She opened her door resolutely. "You're on," she said, pretending a confidence she didn't feel.

  Gil marched her straight through the club and up to the front where the band was just winding up a number. The musicians were all in their shirt-sleeves, some of them smoking. Several were bearded, and the bandleader, in a white T-shirt with "Wild Man!" blazing across it in red letters, needed a haircut badly. They were a far cry from the clean-cut musicians Heather was used to. Wearing a soft cape-sleeved blue velour dress, her hair knotted primly behind her graceful neck, she felt out of place.

  "Hi, guys, I brought you a new nightingale," Gil announced.

  "Great. Does she sing or do bird calls?" the bandleader asked with a lifted eyebrow. He stared at her over his cigarette, a guitar dangling from a decorative cord around his neck.

  "Cute." Gil grinned. "Her name's Heather."

  "What else, with that hair?" came the sardonic reply. "I'm Charlie. The drums are Billy Jackson, bass guitar is Jackie Blake, second guitar is Harry White," he said, nodding toward each of his group, "and that's our new guy, Dewey Dan, on the piano. I play lead guitar. They call us the Red Rhythm Band. What do you sing?" he added, narrowing his small brown eyes at her from his far-superior height.

  "Whatever you play," she responded gamely.

  "A comedienne," came the terse reply. A doubtful pair of brown eyes speared Gil. "Are you sure she knows what she's doing?"

  "Go on, give the girl a chance," Gil said impatiently. "How about that soft-rock tidbit I heard you play last week? 'Devil in Ribbons and Lace' . . . wasn't that it?"

  "All right." Charlie shrugged. His eyes glanced off Heather. "Why not?"

  He dug for sheet music, found it, and handed Heather a page. "I. hope you can sight-read," he muttered.

  "I play piano, too," she said with controlled sweetness.

  He chuckled, turning back to the band. "Okay, let's see what you can do." He fingered his guitar for tune along with the other band members, gave the downbeat, and they swung into the first throbbing bars of "Devil in Ribbons and Lace." Heather liked the silky beat, the way the prominent rhythm of the drums blended with the rich melody of the guitars and the harmony of the piano. It was a honey of a tune, bursting with promise, and she was already in love with it by the time Charlie gave her the cue. Fires surged in her blood, the remembered sweetness of being on stage, of putting every emotion in her into every song she sang. All her energy was suddenly concentrated into her throat as she belted out the first words of the song in her powerful, clear voice, and the bandleader turned his head abruptly to stare at her as if he'd never seen a singer before. Charlie hadn't even asked for her key, a courtesy any other bandleader would have given her. But the key was just a half step above her own, and the rich contralto filled the room.

  ". . . silky and satin-faced, devil in pretty lace, woman you leave my maaaan alone!" she sang. Her face shone with the pure joy of performing. The energy of the music seemed to enter her bloodstream, and then surge out again in her voice. Her body throbbed in time with the drums. Watching her, any of the men could have been forgiven for thinking she looked like the woman the song was about. There was a wild-ness under that honey exterior that made her a devil in lace herself.

  She forgot the band, Gil, even her surroundings as she put herself inside the song. When it ended on a wild clash of cymbals, she stood there shaking from the emotion she'd released. There was a hush in the club like that of midnight on the range.

  As if coming out of a trance, the musicians began to move, putting down their instruments to applaud. Tears formed in Heather's eyes.

  "Thanks," she whispered.

  "Beauty and talent," Charlie whistled. "What a combination!" ,

  "I told you she was good," Gil put in.

  "Anyone who ever looked less like a devil..." Charlie sighed. "I'd love to see her record that song. My God, we'd make the top ten overnight."

  "If you're serious about that," Gil told him, sliding a possessive arm around Heather, "I'll go make a couple of phone calls. I told Heather I know the A and R guy over at International; and he owes me a favor. I did a huge feature spread on him a few weeks ago. If he's fool enough to turn us down, I have a few other contacts too."

  "I'm serious," Charlie confirmed. "And as far as I'm concerned, the Red Rhythm Band's got a new lead singer—they hire us all or they don't get any of us. Okay, guys?" he asked the group, and they all nodded.

  "I hope you're properly impressed," Gil told the stunned singer. "These guys have to turn down gigs. That's how notorious they are. Charlie there was on a national talk show not long ago."

  "Oh, you can't do this," Heather protested, flushing. "You might not like the way I do your other songs."

  Charlie grinned. "Do you want the job or not?"

  "Yes!" Heather cried, her face lighting up, her eyes sparkling.

  "Our first show is tomorrow at eight p.m. sharp," he told her. "We'll have to spend the whole day rehearsing."

  She pulled up a stool and sat down on it. "So what's the problem?" she asked, linking her hands around her knees.

  "And that's how you'll sing," Charlie said suddenly. "We do a couple of slow tunes, for the older folks—over thirty, you know." He chuckled. "You can sing those on the stool."

  "Not lying on the piano?" she asked in mock disappointment.

  "Why not?" Dewey Dan called out, grinning under his thick glasses. "It'll hold us both!"

  "Never fear, my child," Charlie assured her,

  "I shall protect you from the lecherous advances of that depraved pianist."

  "Yeah?" Billy sang out from his drums, his red hair mussed from his exertions. "Who's gonna protect her from you?"

  The rest of the band jumped into the argument and Heather stood on the sidelines, laughing. It was good to be singing again after all, and she knew she was going to make it this time. She held on to Gil's sleeve, her eyes wild with the magic of a new beginning. She was going all the way up now! All she had to do was not think about Big Spur.

  Heather waited backstage the following night, chewing unconsciously on a long pink fingernail while she waited for the band to end the piece it was playing.

  Her heart was pounding while Charlie led up to her introduction, and she could feel her palms sweating. Despite her emotional high the night before, she was afraid of the audience, afraid to stand out there in front of all those sophisticated people and open her mouth. What if she wasn't good enough? What if Charlie had lied? What if she went out there and couldn't make a sound? It was a very real case of stage fright—this was by far the largest audience she had ever sung for—and she had to stifle the urge to run out of the club and forget the whole thing.

  ". . . a lovely young talent, Heather!" Charlie concluded. "Let's give her a big hand, ladies and gentlemen!"

  The sound of applause gave her just enough confidence to walk gracefully to the front of the band. She thanked the audience, gripped the microphone, focused on the back wall of the club and smiled. She was trembling from head to toe. but when the first throbbing notes sounded on Charlie's lead guitar, confidence began to build inside her. Her blue eyes glittered, her platinum hair swung like molten silver as her slender body in its simple, elegant black dress began to sway sensuously to the beat.

  She heard her cue and opened her mouth, and the sound was piercingly clear and sweet. ". . . woman you leave my maaaaan alone!" She belted out the song, her eyes closing as she let the emotions she felt blaze out of her in a throaty rush. Before she finished, the audience was clapping in time with her. And when she let the dying notes trail away, and bent to the waist over the mike, the applause was deafening. It went on and on and on, and she gaped at the cheering audience with tears running down her cheeks.

  "Thanks," she whispered achingly. "Thank you so much."

  It was the beginning. Now, she knew she was going to make it.

  Chapter Nine

  Gil Austin, true to his word, arranged a recording session for Heather and the Red Rhythm Band. Their first single, "Devil in Ribbons and Lace," was released several weeks later and became a runaway local hit. Gil watched it catch on without surprise; his confidence in Heather knew no bounds.

  "It's on the top ten in Atlanta." He chuckled, watching Heather over a cup of coffee in one of Houston's exclusive restaurants. The band had just completed a two-week engagement and was scheduled for a one-nighter later that week before they went on the road. This was Heather's first evening off since she'd made her debut, and it felt strange to sit and eat without being nervous about an upcoming performance.

  "I still can't believe it. . . ." She laughed as she finished her creamy dessert. "To go so far so fast. . . And to think, I worked for two years before the accident without ever getting so much publicity."

  "This time you've got me to give you a hand," he reminded her.

  She smiled at him. She'd gained a little weight, just enough to make her soft curves even softer, and the light was slowly coming back into her blue eyes. She wasn't over Cole, not by a long shot, but she was working her way toward it, thanks to Gil. He pampered her, pushed her, petted her, and never let her forget her ultimate goal. She knew he couldn't be doing it all out of kindness, but she didn't want to question his motives.

  "Charlie's helped a lot, too," she told him. "He's even letting me do one of my own songs Friday night. It's called 'Sad, Sad Eyes,' and he did the arranging himself."

  Gil studied her quietly, his eyes appraising. "Yours were sad when you came back to me," he told her. "I'm glad the light's back in them again."

  She touched his hand lightly. "And you never asked a question. I was grateful for that."

  He hadn't had to ask. He knew it had something to do with Everett, who hung over Gil's relationship with Heather like an over-sharpened ax, always ready to fall. But he only shrugged and smiled. "I never pry. Unless it's in the line of duty," he added with a grin.

  * * *

  She should have been on top of the world. She was on her way to being a hot property for the recording studio, she was making money, she was independent of Cole as she'd always wanted to be. But as she'd been on the verge of discovering before her accident, it was like expecting steak and tasting sawdust. It left a bad taste in her mouth.

  She couldn't let the band down by giving any less than her best, though. When she walked out on the stage at the Golden Gun for their one-nighter later that week, she put everything she had into her performance. "Devil in Ribbons and Lace" drew a thunderous round of applause. And then they turned down the stage lights, and she climbed onto her stool, oblivious to the couple that quietly walked in and seated themselves at a rear table while the band played the introduction to "Sad, Sad Eyes." It had started out as a blues tune when Heather originally wrote it, but Charlie had given it a bossa nova beat and increased the tempo, so that when Heather sang it now, it raised the blood pressure. Especially when she wore the tight aqua satin dress that made her eyes look like seawa-ter at dawn, her hair a silky platinum cloud.

  She was just beginning the song when the sea of people suddenly parted to reveal one silver-eyed, dark face at the rear of the club—a face that was the beginning and end of her world. Cole! She barely noticed Tessa beside him, her eyes riveted to the sensual masculine perfection of him in his dark jacket and striped tie. The sight of him was like a balm to her aching heart after the long, lonely weeks. She almost faltered in mid-note, but training and confidence steeled her nerve. She went on, her sultry voice belting out the song, but there was a new, blinding radiance about her face, a peachy glow that made Gil Austin, in the corner of the room, clench his drink until his fingers turned white.