Touched by Angels Page 0,42

pain his words produced sucked the breath from her lungs. At first she could barely think, and when she spoke her voice betrayed her pain. "You want me to leave?"

He held himself stiffly away from her and didn't answer for several moments. Then something broke within him, and he expelled his breath forcefully. Before her heart beat again, before she could take another breath, Roberto brought her into his arms. "No, I don't want you to go."

Her arms circled his waist, and he relaxed. Nothing had ever felt more right than to be in Roberto's arms.

"Promise me, if you're so anxious to go out nights, you'll let either me or Emilio accompany you."

She remembered his words about not having the time to be her bodyguard and knew he'd said those hurtful things only because he was worried for her.

"Promise?" he demanded.

She nodded, and he kissed the top of her head.

Beneath the warm, golden glow of the streetlight, the man who'd shouted at her only moments earlier now bent his head to kiss her. "What am I going to do with you?" he said.

Brynn smiled to herself, content in his arms. In time he'd realize she could make a difference. If it was only to be in one life, then so be it, but she wouldn't walk away from her students, nor would she leave this neighborhood, no matter what Roberto thought.

Jenny stood on stage, dressed in her tights and dancing shoes. Five others stood with her, including Michelle. All triple threats. Each one accomplished in singing, dancing, and acting. Each one eager to be John Peterman's latest Broadway discovery. Each one pleading silently to be chosen for this role. Any role. A chance.

Bright lights blinded her, but Jenny was accustomed to not being able to view her audience. Her throat was raw and her head throbbed, but she ignored the cold and flu symptoms as best she could.

"Miss Lancaster."

The man with the booming voice called her name. Jenny stepped forward and shaded her eyes with her hand. "Yes."

"You sang 'Don't Cry for Me, Argentina' in the first audition, is that correct?"

"Yes." Her voice quivered with the strain of answering his questions.

"Did you bring your sheet music with you?"

"Yes." She looked to the man sitting at the piano.

"What will you be singing this time?"

With her cold and her throat feeling the way it did, Jenny knew her voice wouldn't carry any musical number with more than a two-octave range. Normally her voice was able to scale four octaves, something that had amazed and thrilled her music teachers in Custer, Montana. But such versatility wasn't uncommon here in New York.

"I'll be singing 'Rainy Days and Mondays,' " Jenny told the faceless voice. The first piano notes broke into the silence. She was forced to clear her throat, which had tightened up on her to where she could barely speak, let alone sing.

The piano player looked at her when she didn't come in on cue and played the introduction a second time. She opened her mouth and nothing came out. She tried again, and what sound did escape wasn't anywhere close to being considered musical.

Miserable, Jenny raised her hand and stopped the piano player. There was no use continuing. Not now. She couldn't do it.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, wavered, and reached out blindly, afraid she was about to collapse.

Michelle gripped her hand. "Jenny's sick . . . she shouldn't even be here."

Her roommate placed her arm around Jenny's shoulders, and she slumped against Michelle, needing her friend's support to remain upright.

"She has a fever of a hundred and two," Michelle informed the casting director.

"And you are?" the loud voice boomed.

Michelle stiffened. "Her roommate. I realize this is none of my business, but I'm afraid Jenny's sick. If you want to hear her sing, our agent can supply you with any number of tapes. Come on, Jenny," Michelle said, steering her off the stage. "I'm taking you home."

"No," Jenny protested. It was bad enough that her best chance of ever appearing on Broadway was being taken away, but she wouldn't allow her own misfortune to ruin Michelle's chances, too. "You stay here."

"But - "

"I insist. Don't argue with me. This is your chance."

"But, Jenny - "

"Michelle Jordan!" the voice shouted.

Michelle wavered and looked over her shoulder.

"Are you staying or going?" the voice asked.

"Staying," Jenny answered for her. She'd meant to shout. She'd put all her effort into making herself heard, but what remained of her voice was shockingly weak.

"Oh, Jenny, are you sure you'll