Hannah's Beau. Renee Ryan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ had discovered a more powerful force than fear. Faith.

      Now, if only her twin sister could find the same peace in Christ that she had.

      With that thought, Hannah leaned slightly forward, her eyes searching for the woman positioned off the opposite end of the stage. There she stood, a mirror image of Hannah, yet profoundly different. It was the look in her eyes that set Rachel apart from Hannah, the startling combination of purity and audacity that had turned the heads of many unsuspecting men.

      Rachel’s presence at the theater tonight evoked a myriad of emotions—happiness that Rachel had left her fiancé barely a month before the wedding for the sole purpose of reconnecting with her estranged sister. Disappointment that Hannah’s father had chosen not to come with Rachel. Hannah had hoped that after five years the venerable Reverend Thomas Southerland could find it in his heart to forgive her.

      As Hannah had forgiven Rachel.

      If, during her sister’s brief stay, Hannah could teach Rachel about true accountability, maybe, maybe, Hannah could move on with her life. Without the guilt. Without the burden.

      Without the shame.

      Her hands started to shake harder, threatening her outward calm. A deep, driving urge to run away washed through her. Instead of giving in to the cowardice, Hannah threaded her fingers together and clutched her palms tightly against one another. In this mood she could feel the edgy nerves of her fellow actors, the underlying desperation to deliver the perfect performance.

      Unable to bear their emotions along with her own unsettled ones, she shifted her gaze toward the audience. Flickering light illuminated the theater, casting a golden glow over tonight’s patrons.

      Hannah squinted deep into the shadows until her gaze focused. Countless faces stared at the stage with the kind of rapt attention that widened the eyes and slackened the jaw.

      As expensive and wealthy went, the affluent men and women viewing tonight’s closing performance had no rivals. Except, perhaps, in London. And like those patrons of the British theater, they fully accepted the illusion of true love found in the midst of deception.

      Hannah took a deep breath and turned her attention back to the stage.

      At last, the actor playing the clown recited his final line and made his exit. A hushed pause filled the theater. Like waking from a lovely dream, eyes slowly blinked and then…

      The applause thundered, passing through shadow, to light, to empty stage.

      The curtain began its slow descent, but not before the audience played its own part in the production and surged to its feet. The sound of their approval rumbled past the velvet folds as the soft thud of the thick, heavy material landed on the stage floor.

      Chaos instantly erupted behind the delicate veil between audience and actor.

      “Places, everyone,” yelled the director. He turned to Hannah and motioned her forward.

      Hannah wove her way through the labyrinth of rushing humanity, gliding toward her spot in the center of the troupe. She pushed back an unexpected flash of trepidation—one she hadn’t felt since that terrible night of her banishment—and moved with the liquid grace born from tedious hours of practice, practice, practice. Each step required concentration, control and commitment. The kind that set Hannah apart from her other, more talented contemporaries.

      Once in place, Hannah allowed the soft buzz of excited chatter to drift around her as she waited for her fellow players to join her. She rubbed her tongue across her teeth, a nervous gesture left over from childhood, before turning her head to seek out her sister once more.

      Rachel stood watching the commotion with the wide-eyed innocence that had led her to be termed the “good” twin. But as with the play just performed, the outward impression was pure illusion.

      Hannah was suddenly jostled by the actor on her left, jerking her attention back to the drawn curtain. Her hair swung out with the swift gesture, curved under her chin, then settled.

      With a flick of her wrist, Hannah shifted the ebony mass of curls behind her back. Thoughts of her sister were not so easily set aside. However, right now, Hannah needed to concentrate on the other, equally disturbing emotions warring inside her.

      Lord, fill me with a humble heart.

      How easy it would be to fall for the adoration displayed inside the deafening applause seeping through the velvet barrier. To believe the praise was for her alone. To give in to the temptation of accepting glory for a gift that was merely on loan to her from her heavenly Father.

      Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

      Hannah pressed her lips together. Her mentor, Patience O’Toole, had taught her how to focus on being a light in the dark world of theater—a modern-day Babylon that required the resolve of Daniel and the courage of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to keep selfish ambition at bay.

      How she missed the grounding influence of Patience and her flamboyant husband, Reginald. The surrogate parents who, with the perfect blend of Christian grace and earthly truth, had helped boost Hannah’s broken confidence and heal her battered heart.

      With a shake of her head, Hannah forced her mind on the present and smiled at her astonishingly handsome costar as he swept into view.

      Golden, spectacular, larger than life, Tyler O’Toole—Patience and Reginald’s youngest son—never missed an opportunity to make an entrance. Although likable and charming, Tyler had his own agenda in life. Three priorities ruled his actions. Amusement. Pleasure. And, lest she forget, merriment. Unlike the rest of his siblings, Tyler would always be a selfish boy at heart.

      “You were breathtaking tonight, my dear.” His voice was as dramatic as the rest of him, a husky baritone that carried to the last row in any theater.

      Prepared to offer her own congratulations, Hannah looked up at his chiseled, beautiful face. He was the brother she’d never had, the one member of the troupe—other than his mother and father—who had worked tirelessly with Hannah to perfect her stage presence. In spite of his many faults, and there were many, Hannah couldn’t help but admire the man. Tyler O’Toole was a brilliant performer.

      Tonight had been no exception.

      But before she could compliment his performance, he reached for her hand, bent at the waist and dropped a kiss onto her knuckles. The gesture was pure Tyler Bartholomew O’Toole, sincerity wrapped inside an insincere, theatrical flourish.

      He rose slowly, deliberately, and then sent her a suave, half smile that seemed to say, But, truly, wasn’t I equally brilliant?

      Hannah lifted a single eyebrow. “Tyler, you—” She broke off, realizing she’d already lost his wavering attention.

      Against her better judgment, she followed his gaze with her own—across the stage, past the rest of the hurrying cast, straight to the spot where her twin sister stood a little off to one side.

      Rachel stared back at Tyler, giving him the serene, artful smile that had brought several men to their knees. Standing separate from the cast and crew, with a single beam of light casting a soft glow around her, Rachel looked like a beautiful, mysterious siren calling to any man willing to fall for her fantasy.

      Tyler’s answering СКАЧАТЬ