by C J Burright
In answer, she jerked open a drawer, grabbed a pink pad of paper and scribbled something on it. A quick rip and she handed the top paper to him.
Reading it, he laughed. “Detention in third grade?”
“For calling me ‘darling’.” One eyebrow quirked up.
Slow and suggestive, he eased his gaze from her eyes to her full mouth and lingered there. “I could conjure many more names I’d like to call you, Miss Dumont—enough to make an impression, no matter the age.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a murmur, inhaling her coconut shampoo. “I can’t stop thinking about you, how sweet your lips were on mine.”
“Stop it. Seriously.” A hiss entered her whisper, but she couldn’t hide the flush in her pale cheeks or the fast beat of her pulse against her collarbone. “Sexual harassment, Ambrose.”
“I believe all harassment was utterly under your control last night, neshama.”
“Tonight.” She jabbed a finger in his face. “I’m looking that word up tonight. I’m sure it’s synonymous with ‘pushover’, ‘sucker’ and ‘morons who fall into musician traps’.”
He resisted caressing that one lock of glossy raven hair that shadowed her face, tucking it behind her ear so the delicate angles of her bone structure would be on full display. She had no idea the beauty lying in every line, and that unawareness only made her more intriguing. “If you care to postpone your canvassing preparations, it so happens that I’m free tonight, to aid in your word research.”
“Now you’re implying I’m incompetent.” She folded her arms and sniffed, the twinkle in her eyes betraying her.
“Stubborn. There’s a difference.” He flashed a smile. “Admittedly, I have an agenda for coming over.”
“Wow. Shocker.”
“Besides our required weekly report, I’d like your input on the ideas I have for the recital.”
She dropped her hands into her lap and she studied his face with sharp, gray eyes, as if searching for fraud. She wouldn’t find any. While recital ideas might not be the only reason he wanted to be with her tonight, it was one of them. He wanted her approval, and that approval extended beyond his music. Adara had the ability to affect him deeply, and no one had held that power since his mother.
‘You can’t inspire everyone.’ Bob’s earlier words at the school carnival chose that inopportune moment to surface in his memories, right when he was feeling middle-school vulnerable. Next time he saw his brother-in-law, he’d ask him to keep his advice to himself so it wouldn’t bother him when he was trying to weasel his way into Friday night Adara alone time.
The first bell rang, signaling the end of recess, the end of their discussion. No matter how he tested the rules while alone with her, he’d never sabotage her position as teacher and chief, third-grade mind-warper. He pushed from her desk and stepped back a second before the first student skipped into the room, face flushed with early spring cold and eyes bright. With an audience, he had to play his part as music mentor, not a man who struggled with winning his reluctant, enchanting muse.
“Seven o’clock.” Adara bent her head over her paperwork, her red pen scratching again. “If you want to eat, bring food.”
He chained down his smile and strolled away before she reconsidered.
* * * *
Five hours later, Garret trotted up the stairs to Adara’s house, homemade Chinese in one hand, store-bought ice cream in the other—food bribery at its best. Since both hands were full, he hit the doorbell with his elbow. Beethoven’s Fifth bellowed from deep in the house and he chuckled softly. It was a true shame he hadn’t had the privilege of meeting Joey. He had a feeling that, if they’d banded together, they could have changed the world—or at least set it on fire.
“If you’re Garret, just come in!” Adara’s muffled voice barely made it past the door. “If you’re a serial killer, there’s a blonde bimbo at the pink house on the corner.”
In other words, she hadn’t locked her door again. Plastering on a frown, he tucked the ice cream carton beneath his arm and went inside. He locked the door behind him before hunting down Adara, finding her in the kitchen, flat on her back under the sink.
“You, Miss Dumont, need to lock your doors.” He set his treasures on the counter and crouched beside her, ducking to look under the sink. “Runner, teacher and plumber too?”
“My sink keeps clogging up and has proven all department store brand solutions incompetent, so I went to the experts.” She handed him a wrench. “YouTube.”
“Ah, the new-age oracle, keeper of all truths and wisdom.”
“Exactly.” Adara clambered out of the cupboard and sat on the kitchen tile. “Look what I found.” She held up a ring. Blackened with grime, a wolf’s empty eye socket stared out at him, its grin malicious, and a chill prickled down his back. “Next time you invade my kitchen, leave your Gothic jewelry home.”
His heart gonging a hollow, uneven beat, Garret plucked the platinum ring from her grip. He wiped it off with a dish towel and angled the inner band beneath the kitchen light, just to be sure. The initials GAA shone back at him, inscribed by London years ago.
Feeling sick, he dropped the ring and it clanked heavily on the counter. “I lost that ring six months ago…in Belgium.”
Adara’s forehead puckered. “So how did it end up in my sink?”
Taking her wet hands, he pulled her to her feet, fighting the urge to drag her into the protection of his arms. Instead, he settled his hands on her shoulders and held her gaze. “Remember my number one fan, Belgian Beauty?” He waited for the expected eye roll before continuing. “I never had solid proof, but I believed she finagled her way into my motel room while I was away. That was just before I applied for the protective order.”
Her head cocked, she looked doubtful. “So your Belgian beauty snuck into my house and stuck your pilfered pirate ring down my sink in a dastardly plot to clog my drainpipe?”
She clearly didn’t comprehend the potential danger, and he clenched his jaw to control the rising need to sling her over his shoulder and carry her off somewhere safe. He compromised with dragging her to the living room couch.
“I didn’t want to rehash this.” Pushing the entire scenario from his mind forever would have been preferable and not possible if Bella had truly followed him home. He wiped a hand over his face and braced his forearms on his thighs. “I told you before about the dinner interview with Bella.” He waited for her to nod, glad she picked up on his gravity. “I learned later that, during our interview, one of her colleagues was clandestinely taking photos. I thought her behavior was a little odd. Reporters generally don’t touch you, but I didn’t think much about it until a few days later when we crossed paths at my motel, a hundred miles away.”
“I assume you don’t keep your tour schedule a secret.” Adara clasped her hands together, the only sign of her discomfort. “But the odds of ending up at the same motel are questionable.”
“That’s how she explained it, that the only tickets still available were at this particular concert, and what a surprise to find we were staying under the same roof. I brushed off her invitation to compare rooms.”
He air-quoted the last two words. What she wanted to compare had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with a bottle of vodka and either her bed or his, no preference.
“I mistakenly believed she got the hint.” He sighed and dropped his head in his hands. “Everywhere I went, she was there. She didn’t always make contact, and those incidents were almost worse. They made my skin crawl, as if she wanted me to wonder why she was only watching.” Cold crept into his veins at the memories, the tingling sense of being watched followed by the startled discovery of her face in the crowd. “Then the texts started, the pictures, the crazy. She didn’t do anything dangerous in Belgium, but I never dismissed the potential, and the fact she followed me here, knows who you are, was in your house…” He nearly choked. Ben-zonna. Bella had been inside Adara’s house.
Adara curled one leg
up and shifted slightly toward him. “I won’t second-guess you and question the probability of your weird ring in my sink.” She paused, her gray eyes cool, revealing neither worry nor disbelief. “Do you think she meant to leave it as some kind of I-was-here signature to creep me out or did she lose it by mistake? I mean, if she went to the effort of swiping your ring, I can’t imagine she’d want to lose her stolen treasure.”
“Normally, I’d enjoy your speculation, but the ‘why’ of it isn’t as important as the fact that it actually happened.” He sprang to his feet, that unnerving feeling of unseen eyes too much to bear. “Chara. You never lock your door. She could still be here.” Holding his hand out to her, he wriggled his fingers impatiently. “I’ve watched too many horror movies to leave you alone while I search your house.”
“And looking for the murderer always works out well.” Adara arched an eyebrow, but she obliged his paranoia and took his hand. “Shouldn’t we get a knife from the kitchen or something?”
“I trust your sharp words to protect us.” Pulling her to the hallway, he went for flippant to hide the clenching in his gut. While Bella had never threatened him or done anything violent, mentally off-kilter meant unpredictable.
The bathroom shower curtain hid nothing beyond soap and shampoo, the hallway closet was free of watchful eyes, no monsters under the bed. With Adara at his elbow, he opened the door to the den…nothing but a desk, papers and bookshelves.
“You haven’t noticed anything misplaced or moved?” He shut the door.
“Nope.” She shrugged. “And I wouldn’t call my pantry adequate for two. I’d notice if my hummus went missing.”
“I’ll remember not to mess with your hummus. Do you recall hearing anything suspicious?”
“No, I—” Her face paled and her gaze skittered to the closed door of Joey’s room.
The knot in his neck ratcheted tight. Opening that wound for her wasn’t what he wanted, but he wouldn’t risk her safety. He kept his voice to a soothing murmur. “We need to check.”
She released a long breath and nodded.
Before opening the door, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. Her throat worked, and while she didn’t smile, she didn’t pull away, either. Not breaking their connection, he opened the door.
Adara sucked in a breath as he endured another bout of chills. The room he’d seen once, by accident, remained largely the same. Dust-covered piano, violins and sheet music…the broken guitar. But the bed was unmade, as if someone had slept in it. Several fast-food bags littered the floor, and the abandoned stale air now held a flowery hint. Bella’s perfume.
He leaned against the doorframe to steady himself, the walls collapsing in. Bella had not only been in Adara’s house, she’d stayed, maybe for days.
“Ben-zonna,” Adara murmured and latched onto his arm. He would have laughed at her use of his favorite curse if he had it in him.
Forcing his feet forward, he entered Joey’s room, Adara clinging firmly to him. Apparently, potential danger was an avenue to closer contact, information to ponder later when his heart was pounding hard for different reasons. They both crouched and peered under the bed. The dust bunnies had built an army, but they weren’t hiding Bella. A quick inspection of Joey’s closet revealed only clothes and personal effects. Adara still kept a pair of ratty Converse the Salvation Army would reject and a computer from the dark ages. What he wouldn’t pay for her to love him that way—deeply, freely, ferociously, unwilling to let him go.
“I should call the police.” Adara’s voice was smooth, a testament to her strength. She released his arm suddenly, as if realizing she still held onto him.
He smoothly took her hand and tucked it back in the crook of his arm. “Bob’s best beer buddy is on the force. I’ll call him, but don’t expect much. Based on my own experience, any investigation will amount to a cursory examination and life will go on. You’re not staying here.”
When she didn’t offer the expected argument, he turned his gaze from Bella’s discarded trash to Adara’s face. She stared at the violin case leaning in the corner.
“I haven’t been in here since his funeral.” The strength in her voice only seconds ago fractured into vulnerable shards. “I buried every part of him that day—his body in the ground, what he left behind in this room. The memories refuse to be buried,” she said, so soft they barely counted as words.
Garret lightly squeezed her limp fingers. He could tell her that embracing memories was like having Joey always close, that the heart never forgets. Or that while the pain might sometimes feel like razor blades slicing her soul, that softer, fonder flashes of moments would counterbalance the agony. Or that she controlled the way loss carved her future, that life without Joey would be different but it didn’t have to be bleak or empty. Instead, he kept his words trapped tight and wrapped Adara in his arms, allowing her the courtesy of silence. And when the stiffness in her shoulders relaxed and she leaned into him, nestling her cheek against his shoulder with a shaky sigh, he was completely and endlessly lost in her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Adara forced herself out of Garret’s arms, away from his strength and warmth, and the loss nearly staggered her, almost as much as how she’d unthinkingly revealed her grief to him. She sped into the hallway and to her bedroom, leaving him alone to reseal Joey’s tomb.
“You don’t have to hang around,” she called over her shoulder, dragging her duffel bag free from the stack of dusty photo albums in the closet. One album fell and thumped to the carpet. It flipped opened, and she slammed it shut without looking. “I’ll grab some things and find a hotel room. Tomorrow, I’ll add security system research to my agenda.”
She spun toward her dresser and almost smacked into Garret. He blocked her path, his eyes glittering like onyx, a straight, white line replacing his usual smile. Every inch of him nearly vibrated with tension. He looked positively ruthless.
“Don’t you remember what I said?” His fierce, tight voice held an unmistakable threat. “Bella broke into my hotel room without any problem. You’re coming home with me.”
A strange thrill spiraled deep into her soul. His bossiness inspired an urge to argue, dig in her heels and tell him to kiss off, yet the savage protectiveness called up an irresistible warmth. She felt like a moth caught in a lantern, craving the light as much as she knew it would burn her. And after discovering a stranger had been hanging out in her house without her knowing, she really didn’t want to be home tonight—or alone, even if it meant spending more time with Garret. “Okay.”
“No arguments.” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “No trickery, either.”
“All trickery has been postponed to a later date.” Her gentle push to access her dresser only gained a few inches. He barricaded the door as if she might make a run for it. “Ambrose, I said I’d go to your place. You don’t need to be privy to my underwear drawer too.”
His features softened and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He wriggled his eyebrows, sense of humor safely regained. “Go ahead, darling. Grab your things. I’m keeping watch.”
“I’m not your ‘darling’, and I’m pretty sure Bella isn’t folded up among my socks.” Ignoring him as best as she could, Adara opened her top drawer and stuffed a pair of socks and underwear in her bag.
“Black and lacy.” A tease entered his voice. “Good choice.”
“Hope you got a good look, pervert.” She swiped a shirt and sweatshirt from another drawer. The heat in her face better be gone before she had to face him full on. “That’s all you’re going to see.”
“Just making an observation.”
“So was I.”
“The difference between you and me, neshama, is that I’d gladly show you my underwear drawer and take your opinion to heart.” He leaned a hip against her dresser, a long, lean line of jeans and black T-shirt. “I’d only keep what you like.”
And now she was thinking about
his underwear. Briefs or boxers? She straightened and gave him her best unimpressed look. “The difference between you and me, violin boy, is that I actually have an underwear drawer. You don’t have any furniture.”
His smile worked free. Not even a stalker could keep it down long. “I ordered some, but until it arrives, my suitcases are free for your inspection.”
“I’ll pass.” But still—boxers or briefs? She tried her best to keep her focus on his broad shoulders as they left her room, but it wasn’t her fault he stopped and bent to tuck a loose shoelace into his boot. She bit her cheek. Definitely boxers. Definitely. And she’d rather think about his underwear than what Bella had been doing in her house instead of Garret’s.
* * * *
The drive to Garret’s home was short, and Adara let him fill the void with idle conversation. She trailed him up the steps and waited in silence while he disabled the alarm. If he noticed the humble vibe, he didn’t say. Any need to heckle him about his overdone locks and security system had vanished at the sight of Joey’s desecrated bedroom. He led her past the gorgeous staircase and the library to the farthest room, only glancing back once to confirm she followed.
She paused beneath the curved archway marking the entrance and waited for the inevitable convulsing of her heart. So this was his live-in room, the one she’d missed on the previous tour, thanks to Gia’s call for rescue. Like the rest of his house, carved woodwork warmed every surface of the oblong room. Three windows in one wall opened to the night, frosted as if to let light in while not distract with the view, a baby grand centered between them. An assortment of stringed instruments in their stands, from cello to violin to fiddle, lined another wall like trained dogs awaiting their master’s order. A black, silver-veined marble hearth cozied up in the opposite wall, waiting to glow for whoever sat in the couch facing it.
Garret set her bag beside the couch and studied her cautiously, clearly waiting for her to change her mind and bolt. She should bolt, but if she ran now, it would raise uncomfortable questions she wasn’t ready to answer.