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Hugh stood in the midst of a fawning crowd, looking for someone . . . looking for her.

He met her eyes. He excused himself from his sycophants, strode over and took her hand. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Hugh Capel.”

“I’m Wendy Giordano.”

“Wendy Giordano.” He savored her name like a sip of rich red wine. “You looked wonderful before in your jungle outfit, but now . . .” He took her other hand, lifted her arms away from her body and looked at her from top to toe. “You’re magnificent.”

If Percy had made that move, pulling her arms up to look at her figure, Wendy would have knocked him ass over teakettle. With Hugh, she blushed—actually blushed. “Maeve’s dresser, Beatrice, is a wonder.”

“She had the right person to dress.” Hugh let Wendy’s hands go. “I’ve got to shower and change. Can you wait for me?”

“I can wait for you.”

Hugh’s eyes flickered. “Good. That’s good.” He was gorgeous. But not smug. Not aware of himself as a powerful morsel of a man. He felt . . . real.

Wendy reminded herself that he wasn’t real. Then she made an oath to herself; if she woke from this hallucination now, before she’d had a chance to talk to Hugh, dance with Hugh . . . she’d hit herself on the head again to induce another one.

But then Hugh grimaced, and Wendy suddenly felt that something wasn’t right. She glanced around.

The people who moments before had been laughing, drinking, slapping each other in congratulation . . . those people now silently watched Hugh and Wendy. Every eye was upon them. Percy, Bill, Fred, the painted warriors, the leaf-skirted dancers, the purple velvet crocodile . . . although at least the crocodile wasn’t nudging someone . . .

Hugh didn’t so much look around as know from experience how much his every move interested the world. But he ignored the cast and crew and spoke to Wendy. “If you want to wait outside, I can find you there. Go out the front door. You’ll be less likely to be interviewed repeatedly.” A dimple quirked his cheek.

“That’s a good idea.” An interview or two would be disastrous. Because who would she say she was? Where would she say she was from? A sudden sense of caution made her take a step away from Hugh.

He sensed her onset of wariness, and in a low, urgent voice he said, “Please don’t change your mind about me. I’m not the public. I’m not the press. I’m not the cast. I’m Hugh, and I would very much like to get to know you.”

His words, the expression in his eyes, pushed aside her misgivings and returned her into a debutante blushing maiden. “Okay.”

“You’ll be in front of the theater?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll hurry.”

“Okay.” She watched him stride to the guest star dressing room.

Betty stepped out of Miss Lindholm’s dressing room with Hazel in her arms. She put the child down; Hazel zeroed in on Hugh and ran up to him, arms stretched up, ready to be held.

Hugh stepped back, hands out as if to push her back. He opened the door to his dressing room, slid inside and shut the door.

The way he acted around Hazel, like he didn’t want to be bothered . . .

That troubled Wendy. Not a lot; some people didn’t relate to kids. But Hazel was such a sweet girl. Then Wendy remembered Maeve had mentioned “the wife and child”—she didn’t have any right to judge.

“Okay,” she mimicked herself. Whatever he saw in her that appealed to him, it wasn’t her scintillating conversation.

She started toward the stairs she’d come up, the ones that led to the Vintage Gothic Encore Clothing Shop, but changed her course and headed for the stage. Because she didn’t know if, when she descended those stairs, she’d be back with Minnie and Mabel, buying props for a kids’ party—which she loved to do—and living her unglamorous, high-energy life in the modern village of Gothic.

Onstage, Wendy gazed out over the orchestra pit and beyond, to the last of the audience as it dispersed through the wide double doors into the lobby, and she marveled at the clean floors. Apparently in the early half of the twentieth century, the audience did not spill their drinks or their popcorn or throw their candy wrappers on the floor. They left the place as clean as they found it.

Wendy descended the wide steps that led to the sloped aisle and strolled up toward the lobby. There, a few of the audience lingered, men in their dark suits and wide-brimmed hats holding evening wraps for the wives, girlfriends and daughters clad in dresses, heels, hats and gloves.

In her slinky silk gown and her costume department heels, Wendy was overdressed. But not that overdressed.

These men looked in appreciation, but none of them whistled or made lewd comments. The rules were different in here.

One of the women approached Wendy holding a small book in her hand. “Could I have an autograph?”

“I’m not anyone. Just the stuntwoman,” Wendy assured her.

“You’re the one who swung down to Hugh Capel and he . . . looked at you?” The woman thrust her autograph book at her. “Yes, please, I want your autograph.”

Feeling alternately foolish and pleased, Wendy signed her book, and a few others. Once she glanced up, she saw two white-haired women walk toward the theater exit.

“Minnie! Mabel!” She started forward, but they vanished out the door and when she looked out on the street, they were nowhere in sight.

Again Wendy rubbed the lump on the back of her head and reminded herself this was a dream, a nightmare . . . a Harlequin Romance fantasy.

“Miss?” One of the teens who lingered in the lobby offered her autograph book.

“Of course.” Wendy signed, then escaped out the front door and stood on the short wooden sidewalk as the last of the sun set. She stood as she had seen early twentieth century models stand: back slouched, hips thrust forward, the epitome of lazy glamor.

The remaining audience disappeared into a bus or cars. Headlights came on, and the vehicles drove toward the recently completed Pacific Coast Highway.

Wendy stood enjoying the cool air, the faint rhythm of the ocean waves against the cliffs, the sense of being familiar with this place, while at the same time, she experienced a clawing sense that little Wendy Giordano didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong in this time, didn’t belong in this place with the beautiful people.

Wendy thought of her life outside the dream. Why was she here? She believed that a person had a fate, a destiny, a reason to be on this earth. What had she been sent here for?

A lone car, an early twentieth century model Ford, was parked facing up the road toward Maeve Lindholm’s still-in-progress Tower. The engine was idling, but no one was around. She stepped back by the ticket office, curious to see who came out of the theater and drove away.

It was Bill. He carried something wrapped in a blanket, and in the dim light, he appeared grimly triumphant.

A small arm flung back the blanket. A small black patent-leather-clad foot kicked.

Wendy saw a fluff of white skirt and golden curls, and she knew. She hiked up her skirt and ran, yelling, “Hey! You! Stop now! Someone! He’s got Hazel!”

Bill glanced her way, flung Hazel through the window into the passenger seat, leaped into the driver’s side and roared toward Nacimiento-Fergusson Road and the depths of the Santa Lucia Mountains.

“No!” She kicked off her heels and ran faster. “You can’t have her!”

Someone caught her arm.

“Let me go!” She turned savagely.

Hugh. Hugh Capel. He held her, observing her, glancing around, zeroing in on the car roaring up the road. “Wendy,” he said urgently, “what’s wrong?”

She pointed. “He’s got Hazel! Bill’s kidnapping Hazel!”