STOLEN MOMENTS

by Michelle Martin

  "I did not pursue you," he retorted with mock hauteur. "I was working on a case that necessitated leaving my office now and then."

  She smiled and kissed him. "Of course." She started to slide off his desk, but his hand caught her wrist and held her still. She looked down at him curiously. He seemed almost nervous!

  "I was thinking," he began, not quite meeting her eyes, "that it might make sense for you to just … move all of your things into the penthouse. It would be more convenient," he hurriedly added, "and … um … reduce our concerns about Desmond and Louis accosting you again. Of course, if you'd rather keep the privacy of a hotel room, I'd perfectly understand."

  She couldn't stop him rambling on because her throat was too constricted. No words of her own would come out. The Playboy of the Western World wanted her to move in with him!

  "I mean," he said, "you're just really starting to spread your wings and explore being independent and … um … moving into the penthouse—"

  "With you," Harley managed.

  "Yes … uh … with me. It might not be what you need right now."

  Harley blinked back the tears welling in her eyes. "Haven't you figured it out yet?" she said softly as she slid onto his lap and twined her arms around his neck. "I want to spend every possible moment of the day and night with you. I could happily live out my life on a desert island with you. There is nothing I want more than to check out of my hotel and into the penthouse."

  She proved it by kissing him, hard. For a moment he was utterly still. Then his arms enveloped her, squeezing her with a ferocity that matched his kiss, his body hardening beneath her, flooding her own body with the most delicious heat.

  "I promise not to leave you any room in the closet for your own things," she gasped, her head arching back as he sucked at the frantic pulse at the base of her throat.

  "Thanks," he moaned, dragging her mouth back to his.

  "What in blue blazes do you think you're doing?" Colby Lang bellowed from the doorway.

  Harley looked dazedly across the room. Duncan's father stood there, staring at them, purple with rage.

  "Kissing my client," Duncan calmly answered him.

  "No, no, no," Harley said with equal calm, though she was desperately fending off laughter. "I kissed him first," she explained to Colby, "then he kissed me back, then I kissed him, and he kissed me. I think that's the correct sequence of events."

  "That certainly was my recollection," Duncan murmured.

  Colby slammed the door closed behind him as he stalked into the office. "Miss Miller," he seethed, "this company has rules, ethics, which must not be breached by anyone, particularly my own son!"

  "Well," Harley said brightly, "Duncan really didn't have any choice. I kind of insisted."

  Colby gargled incoherently.

  "It was a mutual choice," Duncan corrected, his arms still wrapped around her waist as she continued to sit on his lap.

  "This is something I can fire you for, young man!" Colby threatened.

  "But you won't," Harley informed him, "or I'll be forced to take my business elsewhere and say very unkind things about Colangco to the press."

  "And you won't because it will cause a maelstrom of public suspicion, coming as it does on the heels of the Giscard diamond robbery," Duncan added. "The last thing you want, Dad, is public speculation about one of your own sons stealing from a company client. Our reputation will be besmirched. Our revenues will go down. It's a bad decision any way you look at it."

  "I will not be blackmailed by my own son!" Colby bellowed.

  "Let's call it extortion, then," Duncan amiably replied.

  Colby Lang erupted into a vituperative ten-minute tirade that slandered his younger son with every crime known to man. Then he stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  "That poor door has really taken a beating lately," Duncan remarked.

  "What a horrible man," Harley said. Sitting on Duncan's lap, her eyes were on a level with his. Her fingers brushed across his tense face. "If you believe any of that poison he just spewed all over you, then he wins." His black eyes met her steady gaze. There, deep down where no one else would see it, was the pain he had hidden for years.

  "His basic thesis is correct, though," he said in a tight voice. "I am not a good man. I've done things—"

  "Many things," Harley corrected him, her fingers pressed against his mouth to silence him, "and none of them done to deliberately hurt another human being. Your father can't say that about himself. He has gone out of his way to hurt you at every opportunity."

  "Harley—"

  "I'm not without some experience in these matters, Duncan Lang. There's a lot wrong with my mother, but she was always clear and I was always clear that she loved me and loves me still. The things she has said that have hurt me were said without conscious intent to cause pain. Colby and your mother, on the other hand, made you believe the most awful lie. They made you believe you're not a good man. I can't convince you otherwise. No one can. You'll have to prove them wrong yourself to yourself. Please try, Duncan," she whispered, her fingers brushing through his black curly hair. "You don't deserve this agony."

  "It's not so bad."

  "Yes, it is."

  He was stiff and silent for a moment. "How do you see so much?"

  "Because you show me so much."

  He looked into her eyes. "You're just as dangerous as I thought." He pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand. "What on earth made you barrel into my life?"

  "You step onto a new path and it's amazing the places it will take you," Harley replied, just before pulling him into a bone-melting kiss that lasted a very long time.

  "I'll send John and Emma along to help you move out of the hotel," Duncan said as his lips caressed her jaw, "just to make sure Giscard's men don't try to waylay you."

  "Emma?"

  She felt his smile against her throat. "She's got an eighth-degree black belt in karate and she's the best shot in the company. She could handle our French goons with both hands tied behind her back."

  "Wow," Harley murmured, loving his warm hands caressing her body. "I had no idea I had such a dangerous new best friend."

  "Wait till you meet her fiancé. He makes Jackie Chan look like he's moving in slow motion."

  "Sounds like they'd make a helluva double date."

  Duncan chuckled and playfully nipped at her chin with his teeth. "I'll see when they're free."

  There was a light rap on his office door. "Are you decent?" Emma inquired.

  "Yes," Duncan called, feigning exasperation.

  Harley grinned at him. "You really do have the most awful reputation."

  "This is not news," Duncan said as Emma walked into the room.

  She didn't even blink at seeing Harley seated on Duncan's lap. "Agent Sullivan sent over this FBI summary of Angelo Maurizio's recent activities. I thought you'd want to have it right away," she said, dropping the folder on his desk.

  "Thanks, Em," Duncan said. He saw that she was wavering between staying and leaving. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, really," Emma said, taking a backwards step toward the door.

  "Emma."

  "Well," she said grimacing, "it's just a few little things that … bother me."

  "Like what?"

  "Like why is it, if we're the only two Colangco employees working on the Boyd Monroe case, that someone else downloaded the entire computer file?"

  "It's probably just Dad snooping. You know how he worries. Besides, he promised Harley he'd provide oversight."

  "Fine, but his computer didn't download the file. In fact, from what I can tell, no Colangco computer downloaded that file."

  Harley felt Duncan stiffen beneath her. "That's odd."

  "That's what I thought," Emma said, folding her arms against her chest. "You want to know something even odder? Even though Harley's case has been closed for days now, our same Computer Sneak downloaded her file too."

  "When?" Duncan demanded, his face taut.<
br />
  "Yesterday, when Harley and I were having lunch together."

  "Damn!"

  "It might just be Colby working from a new computer, of course…"

  "And then again, it might not," Duncan grimly concluded. "I pretty much hate this."

  "Then it's a good thing I'm moving," Harley interceded.

  "Good plan," Emma said approvingly. "Where to now? A Colangco safe house?"

  "You might say that," Harley said with a grin.

  "Emma," Duncan said with grim amusement, "I need a favor."

  * * *

  Before she moved out of her hotel, Harley made use of Colangco's public relations department to issue a press release as Jane Miller, stating that she and her manager had made an amiable parting of the ways. Boyd could say whatever he wanted to when the press ambushed him, she didn't care. She'd covered the basics. Her fans and the industry would do what they wanted with them.

  Then, with Emma and John's help, she moved her things from the Loews New York and into the Colangco International penthouse apartment, thinking with malicious pleasure that Colby Lang would bust a gut when he found out.

  The minute Emma and John walked back out the door, she called her mother to try to repair some of the damage Boyd had caused, but it was an uphill struggle. Her mother was always happier when she could think the worst. Harley hung up the phone with a gusty sigh of relief, shrugged Sweetcreek off her shoulders, and called Annie Maguire, whom Boyd had fired, to rehire her and bring her up to date.

  Then she got to work.

  Once she had unpacked, relegating Duncan's clothes to a single square foot in the double closet, she sat down cross-legged on the king-size bed and tried to work with her Stratocaster. The music wouldn't come, but the lyrics did. It was unusual for her. The music almost always inspired the lyrics. Still, Harley had written too many songs over the years not to know she should go with whatever creative flow chose to present itself. The right melody for "No Guarantees" would come if she was patient.

  So she sat cross-legged on the bed and worked on the lyrics for "No Guarantees" and then for "Life in the Deep End." She had meant to return the favor and cook dinner for Duncan tonight, but as so often happened when songs were moving easily through her, she lost all track of time and had no idea Duncan had even walked into the apartment until he coughed politely at her from the foot of the bed.

  She jumped, which made him laugh.

  "Hi, honey, I'm home," he crooned.

  She made up for her previous distraction by rising onto her knees and dragging him into a major, and deeply satisfying, clinch that ended half an hour later, her music sheets scattered all over the floor, along with their clothes, as they lay naked in each other's arms, striving to catch their breaths.

  "I'll have to try that line again," Duncan said, which made Harley laugh.

  "I'm afraid I'm not very domestic," she confessed. "I forgot to make dinner."

  "That's okay. You have other redeeming qualities. Besides, I've made plans to go out tonight."

  "Out?" Harley said in surprise, rising up on one elbow to stare down at him with the utmost consternation. "With Louis and Desmond gunning for you?"

  "I've arranged a diversion for our two French shadows. We'll be fine."

  An hour later she forgot all about Louis and Desmond when she stepped into Duncan's arms on Goodies' dance floor. She found that dancing with Duncan when well embarked on a sexual relationship was very different from dancing with Duncan preintimacy. It was more sensual, more exhilarating, more silly and free than the first time they had come to Goodies. There was a lot to be said for this new path she had stepped on.

  "Hot band," Harley said when they finally claimed a booth. The black bass guitarist, in dreadlocks, was the only woman. The rest of the Rockin' Robins were white guys in their late twenties and early thirties, except for the Hispanic drummer. Their affection for each other was obvious, their love of the music clear in every note they played and sang.

  "I thought you'd like them. So do a couple of record companies. They're on their way up." Duncan gazed at her for a moment. "Was it hard being elevated to Pop Royalty so suddenly?"

  Harley thought about the seventeen-year-old girl she had been. "It was amazing, and awful, and unreal. For the first two or three years, the world was tilted off its axis and by the time it righted itself … I was this person I didn't know anymore."

  "I don't think you lost yourself as much as you believe," he said, reaching across the table to hold her hand in his. "I know you like to put her persona down, but I've been listening to the Jane Miller recordings these last few days and they really are quite strong, even with the overblown string section. You wouldn't have been raised on high—and stayed there for nine long years—if they'd been anything less than superb. Your audiences are not stupid, Harley. They know quality when they hear it. Rock star, pop star, or whatever, you'll stay on top."

  "You know, it's funny," she said, frowning, "ever since I bought my Stratocaster, I haven't worried about staying on top of the musical heap. I've just worried about disappointing my fans. They've been so great, Duncan, you don't know, and here I am planning to switch gears on them. Joni Mitchell's fans broke out into open rebellion when she made a blues album. A lot of Neil Diamond's fans burned him in effigy when he came out with a country album. Hell, even Bob Dylan was booed off the stage when he switched from acoustic to electric guitar back in the sixties."

  "You can't worry about how other people are going to react. You have no control over any of it. All you can do is write and sing the music you care about."

  "It takes a little getting used to," she said wonderingly.

  "What?"

  "Being with a man who cares so deeply about my happiness and satisfaction rather than his own agenda."

  The band had completed their set and were on a break, which explained how their lead singer and guitarist could now be standing at their table, gleefully ruffling Duncan's black curls.

  "Hi, Duncan. Good to see you again."

  Harley looked up at the affable musician and decided he was cuter close up. His hazel eyes were warm and friendly, his retro wardrobe of bell-bottom jeans, red paisley shirt, and leather vest with two-foot-long leather fringe revealed a lean body that was more sinew than muscle. His shoulder-length golden brown hair was held back by a leather headband. The man had to have groupies at least five feet deep at any given performance. And somehow he knew Duncan. Very interesting.

  "Mark!" Duncan said happily, removing his friend's hand from his hair. "It's great to see you again too. You were terrific up there."

  "Really good," Harley added sincerely. "I liked your cover of 'Let's Go' much more than the original by Ritchie Valens."

  "Thank you," Mark said with a charming smile. "You must be Harley. Duncan mentioned on the phone that you're a bit of a performer yourself."

  She cast a startled glance at Duncan and then looked back up at Mark. "A bit," she conceded.

  "Would you like to sit in with the band on the next set?"

  "What?" Harley said, more than surprised.

  "Go ahead," Duncan urged. "It'll be fun."

  Harley stared at him. He had set her up! "I don't have my guitar."

  "You mean this?" Mark said, pulling her black Fender Stratocaster from behind his back.

  She looked from Mark to Duncan. "How on earth did you pull this off?"

  His smile was downright smug. "I have connections."

  "Why did you pull this off?"

  "Purely selfish motives," he assured her. "I've never seen any human being as happy as you were on the Surrealistic Pillow's stage and I needed another fix."

  "Come on, Harley," Mark said, taking her elbow and beginning to pull her from the booth, "Susan needs the company."

  "If I make a fool of myself, I get to blame you," Harley informed Duncan as she stood up.

  "You won't," he replied. "Make a fool of yourself, I mean."

  Time stopped for a crystalline moment as thei
r eyes met. She felt the bond between them that seemed to have existed before they had met and that had grown steadily stronger ever since.

  Then someone jostled her and the spell was broken. Time returned to its steady progression as Mark led her into the crowd of people.

  "You must really trust that man to take me on sight unseen like this," Harley said to Mark after a minute of struggling toward the stage.

  "I do," he replied, forging ahead.

  "How come?"

  "He's never lied to me before. He says you're one of the best and I believe him."

  "Duncan thinks I'm one of the best?" Harley reiterated, thrilled and blushing at the same time.

  "Yep," Mark replied, pulling her up a small set of stairs to the stage.

  "That man never ceases to amaze me."

  "Me either."

  Harley glanced at him curiously and Mark grinned back at her. "I've known Duncan since our raucous years at Columbia. He's never wanted me to meet his girlfriends before. Never. That makes you very different and very special and me more than curious. So, let's see what you can do. You can plug into the amps here," he said, handing her a black cord.

  Bemused, Harley plugged her Stratocaster into the amps and then Mark introduced her to the rest of the band.

  "It's about time," Susan said in a lovely Jamaican accent, shaking her hand firmly. "I've been telling these guys for years that there's just too damn much testosterone in this band."

  "I'll do what I can to help you out," Harley said. She quickly tuned her guitar as Mark went up to the microphone, introduced the band once again, and then introduced her. The crowd was perfectly willing to take her at face value. Apparently whatever Mark did was fine by them.

  "We'll start with a little something by the Beach Boys to get you all in the right mood," Mark announced. Then he leaned toward Harley where she stood on the small stage beside the microphone she shared with Susan. "You join in on backup, Harley."

  "Right," she said, just as if anxiety weren't tickling up and down her spine. She had sung lead for so many years that she was afraid she was about to embarrass Mrs. Shepherd, her high school chorus teacher. The fact that she had never jammed with a band before was not a confidence booster. Her face felt bloodless. "What exactly is it we're starting with?"