Page 52 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

With his gaze still fixed on her shoes, he gave one sharp nod.

One thing Hollywood had taught her was how to make a graceful exit, so she kept her chin high, crossed the court, and opened the door to the reception room.

The charms on the bracelet flashed gold in the lamplight.

Twelve days of Christmas . . .

Oh no. The show.

Not only had she lost the man she loved, but she’d also lost her star.

To think he’d thought he was in love with her.

Maggie paused with her hand on the doorknob, then she darted inside.

Another door slammed in Prescott’s face, and he winced and pressed his hands over his eyes.

She didn’t love him enough to listen to him. Maggie was just like Ma, choosing her own path heedless of other people. Could Maggie’s scheme work as she imagined? For Frank and Vi’s sakes, he prayed it would. But if it failed . . .

Maybe he could find Vi and warn her.

Prescott trudged back to the reception room, empty of all but dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, and shreds of wrapping paper.

Grief ballooned inside. Only half an hour earlier, this room had overflowed with laughter, celebration, the hope of love.

He slapped a hand to the table for balance. Red paper. Green paper. Opening night.

How could he pull himself together enough to play the emcee and act and dance and sing? And why should he? For her?

Prescott crumpled some paper.

What would happen to the show if he didn’t perform?

Disaster. And disaster would serve her right.

He groaned and bowed over the table. How petty could he get? What about the men in the audience who came to be entertained? What about the cast who’d poured their hearts into this show? Even Maggie.

He refused to turn his back on her. He’d be the better person.

Not terribly difficult when she wasn’t quite the person he’d thought she was.

He’d thought he loved her.

And that kiss . . .

An older gentleman in a suit entered, a member of the hotel’s staff. “Ah, you’re still here, Mr. Duke.”

“Just leaving.” Prescott straightened up. “Thank you for everything. It was wonderful. Please make sure it’s all on my bill.”

“Actually, you have a telephone call. The gentleman has called several times this evening. I’ve told him you were hosting a party, but he’s insistent.”

Prescott glanced at his watch. Who would call at nine o’clock?

He followed the gentleman to the lobby, entered the phone booth, and picked up the receiver. “Prescott Duke.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Prescott’s eyebrows sprang high. “Melvin?” He’d never heard that tone from his agent.