“You waiting for me?”
Savanah practically jumped out of her skin. How had he crossed the distance between them so quickly?
“Are you waiting for me?” he asked again.
She had always found honesty to be the best policy, so she said, “Yes,” dismayed by the quiver in her voice. She had never been a coward, but there was something about being alone in a dark alley with this man that frightened her almost as much as he intrigued her.
“Well, here I am. If you want an autograph, I hope you brought a pen and paper.”
Savanah cleared her throat. “I want an interview.”
“I don’t give interviews.”
“I know. You don’t pose for pictures, either.”
He arched one dark brow. “If you know all that, why are you wasting your time, and mine?”
“I want to know what you’re hiding.”
He uttered a soft sound of derision. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”
“Because you don’t do interviews.”
Rane chuckled softly. She was more than a pretty face and a shapely figure, he thought, charmed in spite of himself.
“So,” she said, smiling, “how about that interview?”
Rane shrugged. “I’m on my way to have a drink. Bring your poison pen and come along.”
Without waiting for her reply, he set off down the alley toward the street.
Now that she had almost achieved her goal, Savanah felt a sudden sense of trepidation as she stared after him. She only knew two things about Santoro the Magnificent—he was an amazing performer, and he could read her mind.
He had almost reached the mouth of the alley. It was obvious he wasn’t going to wait for her. Gathering her courage, she hurried after him. It wasn’t easy, trying to match her shorter strides to his long ones.
She almost changed her mind when he stopped in front of a dreary-looking nightclub. The name HELL’S HOLLOW flickered in blood red neon lights above the door.
For the first time, he looked back to see if she was behind him. “Coming?” he asked, a challenge in his dark eyes.
Praying that she wasn’t making a fatal mistake, Savanah took a deep breath and followed him through the doorway.
Inside, Savanah glanced around in amazement. Judging from the outward appearance of the place, she had expected to find some crummy nightclub populated by drunks and winos, so the interior of Hell’s Hollow came as quite a surprise. The walls were papered in a decadent red-and-gold stripe, the floor was gold-veined marble. Rich red velvet draperies hung at the windows; dozens of candles set in beautiful black wrought-iron wall sconces provided the light, adding to the club’s ambience. A three-piece band occupied a raised platform in one corner of the room. The musicians, all women, wore tight black sweaters, skintight stretch pants, and black boots. Their music was soft and seductive, with a dangerous sensual edge that did funny things in the pit of Savanah’s stomach.
A man elegantly attired in a black tux and crisp white shirt bowed them through the door. A tall woman with a mass of sleek red hair escorted them to a secluded table for two in the back of the room. She took their drink order and glided away.
Savanah glanced around, thinking that black seemed to be the color of choice, as nearly everyone in the place was wearing it. She felt conspicuous in her white skirt and red sweater.
“So,” Rane said, “what do you want to know?”
“The secrets to all your tricks, of course.” She laughed self-consciously. “I’m just kidding. I know magicians are sworn to secrecy, but you really are the most amazing performer I’ve ever seen. I had an uncle who was a pretty good magician, but he was nowhere as slick as you are.”
Rane shrugged. “I’ve practiced for a long time.”
Savanah pulled a small tape recorder from her pocket and laid it on the table. “Do you mind?”
He shook his head.
“Is Santoro your real name?”
“No.”
“You’ve had several names, haven’t you?” She recounted the ones she remembered. “The Remarkable Renaldo. The Marvelous Marvello. The Great Zander. The Amazing Antoine. Are they all stage names?”
“Of course.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Rane.”
“Is that your first name, or your last?”
“It’s the only one you need to know.”
She regarded him a moment, her brows drawn together in a vee. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me who or what you’re hiding from?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. How long have you been a magician?”
“About twenty-five years.”
She stared at him in disbelief. He couldn’t be much older than twenty-five, thirty at the most. “I don’t believe you! What were you, five when you started?”
He smiled faintly. “I’m older than I look.”
“Really?” Her gaze moved over his face; there were no telltale signs indicating he’d had any work done. “He must have been a very skilled doctor.”
Rane laughed. “Trust me, I’ve never gone under the knife.”
“Are you married?”
“No. Are you?”
“No. So, where’s home?”
“Here.”
“You live in Kelton?”
“I don’t live anywhere.”
“You’re making this extremely difficult,” Savanah remarked, wondering at his emphasis on the word live.
“Sorry,” he said with a sly grin. “I said I’d grant you an interview. I didn’t say it would be easy.”
Savanah hit Pause on the tape recorder when the waitress arrived with their drinks.
Rane smiled at the waitress, then dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the tray. “Thanks, Sylvie.”
The waitress winked at him, then sashayed away, hips swaying provocatively beneath her tight black skirt.
Savanah had ordered a strawberry daiquiri. She sipped it slowly. Rane was extremely closemouthed. She would have given a year’s pay to know what he was hiding.
Setting her glass aside, she started the tape recorder again. “Do you have relatives here in town?”
“No.”
“Any family anywhere?”
“Sure. I wasn’t hatched under a rock.”
“I’d ask for their names, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t tell me.”
His smile confirmed her suspicions. “Anything else you want to know?”