“Any point?” She halted, and a beat later so did he. “For God’s sake, Doc, I like you.” Her voice was gravelly with irony. “Is that so strange? Call me crazy, but the other day I thought there was a chance you might like me, too.”

He nodded. “I might.” His face was turned toward her, but she couldn’t see his expression. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know whether I would or not. I don’t know you well enough.”

She laughed, a helpless little hiss of exasperation. “I thought that was the point in having dinner-to get to know each other. What is this, Catch-22?” She was trembling inside; never had she felt herself so far out on a slender, shaky limb.

His head was bowed, his arms folded across his body-the very picture of a kindly doctor intently listening while a patient tells him where it hurts. Again, in silhouette she saw him nod. “I guess it would be, except that, like I said the other day, I don’t think you really want me-or anyone else-to know you. You seem to try hard to make sure nobody can.”

Anger flared, and this time, because it felt so much better than that terrible trembling vulnerability, she didn’t try to hide it. “Why, because I don’t give out-”

“-personal information,” he finished with her, then nodded. “I’m no expert, but I imagine it’s pretty hard to get to know a person without it.”

“You asked about the past,” Phoenix said furiously. “The past has nothing to do with who I am. Hey-you want to know about me? Ask me anything. Now. Go ahead-I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Ask me, What do I like to do in my spare time? What’s my favorite comfort food? Do sad movies make me cry? Answers-take long walks and dance in the rain, root beer floats, and never-but when little kids sing it just destroys me. Want more? Come on-ask me, damn you!”

For a second or two her oath hung there in its own vibrating echo. Then there was a quickly indrawn breath, and the doc’s quiet voice. “All right, then, I’ll ask you one. Tell me this. Who are you, really? Are you Phoenix, or Joanna Dunn?”

Then it was she who caught a breath, as a familiar little draught of fear blew threw her. Who am I? She saw herself standing at the windows looking out upon the city that had haunted her nightmares for as long as she could remember…heard Doveman’s voice saying, “Maybe…you should just be yourself. Joanna Dunn.” And with a deep sadness she didn’t understand, heard herself answer, “Doveman, I haven’t been that person for so long, I don’t know who she is anymore.”

She found that she was rubbing her upper arms, and that her skin was rough with goose bumps. Leaving the doc standing there, she walked slowly toward the bandstand, dimly backlit from this angle, the bulky shapes of sound equipment and speakers, instruments and mikes looking mysterious and abandoned, like some electronic age Stonehenge.

“Tell me, Doc,” she said without turning, “what if I wasn’t…‘a rock-and-roll legend’? What if I was just some little ol’ girl named Joanna Dunn, and you…”

“If I weren’t…the First Son?” He said it without amusement, his voice harsh with unexpected emotion, and unexpectedly near.

She whirled to face him. “Yeah. Suppose you were just some guy named Brown-Bill, say, or Jim. Or…Leroy. What would you do? Right this minute-what would you do?”

The stage lights painted shadows across his face, then drew new ones as he smiled. “Bad Bad Leroy Brown? Me?”

“Hey-” she gave her head a defiant little toss, coaxing her self-confidence out from wherever it had been hiding “-where I live ‘bad’ is good. Answer my question, Leroy.”

He moved closer, two slow, rocking steps. “First of all, I’m having trouble seeing you as just ‘some little old’ anybody.”

She found that she was smiling, too, and bewilderingly at the same time felt an urge to cry. “Joanna, then.” She felt as if the word had been ripped from her throat. Oh, and damn you, Doc, for making me have to do this! “So, what would you do? If it was just us…”

What would I do? Ethan knew what he wanted to do. What probably any red-blooded male would have wanted to do under the same circumstances. And from the way she was smiling at him, he was pretty sure she knew exactly what that was. So it was probably not so much presence of mind as good old-fashioned macho pride that made him instead say, “What would I do? Okay…right now, I guess…I’d probably be trying to get up the nerve to ask you out.”

She gave a husky little chortle. “Nerve?”

“I’m known to be somewhat shy.”

“Uh-huh.” Her voice was rich with amusement. “Let’s assume, for the sake of discussion, you did get up the nerve to ask. And I said yes. So, where would you take me?”

Oh, Lord. Where would one take a Phoenix on a date? Then he reminded himself, No-not Phoenix, just…Joanna.

“Well,” he said, watching her, “after I showered for half an hour and about drowned myself in aftershave and cologne-”

“Uh-”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not crazy about men’s cologne.”

“Scratch the cologne, then…”

“And I rather like your beard.”

“Okay, scratch the aftershave, too-just lots of soap, mouthwash and deodorant, I guess. Man-you’re hard on a guy’s self-confidence, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” she murmured. There was a pause while she pulled the fantasy back into place, like the slipping pieces of a complicated costume. “Okay, so assuming your grooming passes muster, then what?”

“Then, since my finances-” and he cleared his throat delicately “-are a little tight-”

“You’re cheap, you mean.”

“-I guess I’d pick you up and take you somewhere for Chinese food-”

“Chinese!” He heard surprised approval in her voice.

“Yeah,” said Ethan, “because it’s cheap, and because I’m pretty good with chopsticks, and I’m trying to impress you.”

Her laughter was a delighted hiccup that invited him to join in. And there was something wickedly tempting about it, too, rather like being invited to go skinny-dipping, or sneaking a smoke-or a kiss-behind the school gym during recess. He felt prickles of response roll across his skin like a wave of static electricity, raising awareness like the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

“I’m already impressed,” she murmured. “And then?”

“Then…as I said, money’s tight, so I guess we’d go for a walk along the riverfront, and we’d come to a place where there’s a live band playing, and the music is spilling out into the street, and we’d stop for a while and listen. And maybe…you’d let me take your hand.”

“Let you? If you didn’t, I’d think there was something wrong with you. That maybe you didn’t like me, or else you’re-”

“Shy,” said Ethan, smiling. “I told you that, remember?”

“Shy…right…” she murmured, and with flawless timing, reached up and with one invisible movement released whatever it was that had been holding her hair up and out of the way of the headphones. He watched, fascinated, as the blue-black mass uncoiled itself and slithered down her bare back like a living thing, and was unprepared when a wave of desire hit him like a sucker punch, leaving him feeling dazed and slightly weak in the knees.

“And then?”

He blinked away grogginess and cleared his throat. “Then…” But, oh, Lord, what was this thickness in his speech, like someone struggling out from under anesthetic? Or someone under the influence of a powerful drug? A drug? Oh, yeah…a drug named Phoenix. “That would depend,” he said carefully.

“On what?”

“On…how things are going. How we both feel. If it feels right, maybe we go back to my place-”

“Your place?”

“My place,” he said firmly, “and we put on some music, and we talk, maybe dance a little. And if we get hungry, we feed each other leftover Chinese food straight out of the take-home boxes…”

“Because you’re good with chopsticks, and you want to impress me.”

“Right…”

“And then?” But he could barely hear her whisper over the thumping of his heart.

He paused and then replied with gravel in his voice, “We get to know each other.”

She didn’t reply at once, and in the silence, looking at her, it struck him suddenly that she wasn’t playing a game any longer, that for reasons he couldn’t begin to imagine, she was vulnerable to him. Maybe even afraid. We get to know each other, he’d said to her. Was it those words that had put that look in her eyes? A look of fear and longing…

Go on, ask me! She’d hurled it at him too quickly, brash and full of bravado, he realized now, like a cornered child with her back against the wall. He wondered if she knew how much she’d revealed about herself with those off-the-top-of-her-head answers. Dance in the rain…root beer floats…small children singing… They were the answers a very young girl might give, he thought, remembering that glimpse he’d once caught in her eyes of eagerness, innocence and yearning. A lonely little girl standing on the edge of the playground, watching the other kids’ games.

The vision vanished a moment later, though. There was nothing remotely childlike about her laughter, or the husky burr in her voice when she said, “Okay, then. Let’s do it.”

He looked at her, hating to destroy the moment, knowing his words would snuff the sweet little flame of liking that had kindled between them so unexpectedly, there in her darkened studio. The game had been fun, for him a sidetrip into fantasy that was all the more exciting because it was so completely against his nature. But Ethan was a doctor; he was also the son of the president of the United States. He couldn’t afford to believe in fantasy.

In the end he said nothing, but only smiled and shook his head.

“Come on, Leroy.” She hooked her arm through his. “You asked me out on a date, I’m accepting. You said you’d pick me up, you’re here, I’m ready, so…pick away. I have my heart set on dim sum.”

“Joanna…”

“Yes, Leroy?”

He was fighting laughter. She was batting her eyelashes at him so outrageously, and he didn’t know whether to grab her and pull her into his arms or just grab her and shake her. He was fairly sure, though, which of those things he’d wind up doing if he were insane enough to put his hands on her. So he said mildly instead, “Aren’t you forgetting something? Like…a six-and-a-half-foot bodyguard?”

“Ethan Brown has a bodyguard,” she reminded him. “Leroy doesn’t.”

“Leroy also doesn’t have a car. Do you-uh, does Joanna?”

“Ah.” She was silent for perhaps two beats. Then she held up one finger and murmured, “Don’t go ’way,” and before he could stop her she was running across the studio, vanishing into the shadows.

He watched her, as always fascinated by the way she moved, like some wild creature… Tiger, tiger… Yes, a tiger, he thought, disappearing in tall grass. He’d be crazy to go after her. She’d eat a man alive.

But, was he also crazy to like her? He’d been determined not to, had come here armed against the possibility, had steadfastly dismissed any attraction he felt for her as the remnants of teenaged fantasies. What, then, had changed? Watching her just now, in spite of the sexy rock star clothes, the buzz beneath his breastbone had felt less like the adrenaline rush of lust and more like the sweet warmth of…liking?

But that seemed too pale a word, somehow.

What was happening, he realized, was that when he looked at her now he wasn’t seeing a rock-and-roll superstar named Phoenix. What he felt when he looked at her was nothing like the adolescent panting after a sex symbol he remembered-with some embarrassment still-from his high school days. What it was was desire, pure and simple-grown-up desire, of one man for one particular woman. Somehow, in just a few minutes, with her little game of make-believe she’d managed to transform herself into a woman-a girl, really, for she’d also seemed to become magically younger-named Joanna Dunn. And had drawn him into the game with her and made him believe in it.

He wondered whether it had been so easy for her to make him believe because of her incredible magnetism, the same charisma that had held concert audiences in thrall the world over…or because he just wanted so much to believe. He’d do well, he told himself, to remember that this woman was above all things a performer-even for an audience of one.

“Here you go.” She was back, slightly out of breath but more from excitement, he thought, than exertion. He could see it shining in her eyes as she held up something small and metal, something that jingled when she shook it, picked up a bit of light from somewhere and winked it back at him like a conspirator in her mischief. “Wheels.” He caught the keys she tossed to him one-handed. “I borrowed them from Stewart, the sound man.” Her voice was rich with self-congratulation. “It’s Japanese-a ‘sport-utility vehicle,’ sort of brownish, he said-that should be anonymous enough, don’t you think? Stewart says everybody’s driving them now.” She hooked her arm through his in the way that was becoming familiar to him and gave it a squeeze. She was smug, altogether pleased with herself, as she added, “Come on, Leroy-you drive.”