by Nora Roberts
“Come on, son.” In a casual move, Brian slipped an arm around his waist, steadying, taking the weight. “What we need’s a shower and some red meat.”
“Da, can I help?”
With a brisk shake of his head, Brian turned toward Stevie’s dressing room. This wasn’t something he would turn over to his daughter or anyone else. “No, I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll—see you at home,” she murmured, but he had already closed the door. Feeling a little lost, she went to find Drew.
She expected him to pick a loud, crowded club with hot rock music—Tramp or Taboo. Instead, she found herself sitting in the dim corner booth of a smoky jazz club in Soho. There was a trio spotlighted in dreamy blue on the stage, a pianist, a bass player, and a vocalist. They kept the music low and moody, like the lighting.
“I hope you don’t mind coming here.”
“No.” Deliberately, Emma unlaced her hands and relaxed her shoulders. She was grateful for the low lighting so that Drew couldn’t see her nerves—or Sweeney, smoking lazily a few tables over. “I’ve never been here before. I like it.”
“Well, it can’t be what you’re used to, but most of the other places, it’s hard to talk or to be alone. I wanted to do both with you.”
Her fingers knotted together again. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you how good you were tonight. You’ll be looking for your own opening act soon.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.” He laid a hand on hers, gently stroking his thumb over her knuckles. “We were a little stiff on the opening set, but we’ll loosen up.”
“How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was ten. I guess I can thank your father.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I had a cousin, he did some road work for Devastation when I was a kid and snuck me into a concert. Brian McAvoy. He just blew me away. As soon as I could save up, I bought a secondhand guitar.” He grinned. Her hand was firmly lodged in his now. “The rest is history.”
“I’ve never heard that story.”
“I guess I’ve never told anyone else.” He shrugged restlessly. “It’s a little embarrassing.”
“No.” Enchanted, she moved closer to him. “It’s touching. That’s just the kind of story that endears someone like you to fans.”
He looked at her, his eyes dark gold in the dim light. “I’m not thinking about fans right now. Emma—”
“Would you like a drink?”
Emma tore her gaze away from Drew’s to blink at the cocktail waitress. “Oh, a mineral water.”
Drew’s brow lifted, but he didn’t comment. “Guinness.” He continued to look at Emma, continued to toy with her fingers. “You must have heard your fill about musicians,” he murmured. “I’d rather hear about you.”
“There’s not that much to tell.”
“I think you’re wrong. I want to know everything there is to know about Emma McAvoy.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Everything.”
She spent the evening in a haze, with the sultry music the perfect backdrop. He seemed to hang on her every word. And touching, always touching her—his hand on hers, or brushing through her hair, skimming along her arm. They never moved from their shadowy corner, never glanced at the other couples huddled at tables.
They left the club to walk along the Thames in the breezy moonlight. It was late, much too late, but it didn’t seem to matter what time it was. She could smell the river, and the cool spring flowers. Emma thought of gallant knights when Drew stripped off his jacket and spread it over her shoulders.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” She drew in a deep breath and shook her head. “It feels wonderful. I never remember, until I come back, how much I love London.”
“I’ve lived here all my life.” Walking slowly, he watched the starlight play on the dark surface of the river. He wanted to see other rivers, other cities, and knew his time was coming. “Have you ever thought of moving back here, to live?”
“No, I haven’t. Not really.”
“Maybe you will.” He stopped her, gentle hands on her shoulders. “I keep wondering if you’re real. Every time I look at you, it’s as if you’re something I dreamed up.” His fingers tensed as he pulled her closer. The quick, unexpected strength, the sudden intensity of his eyes, his voice, made her mouth go dry. “I don’t want you to vanish.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.
Her heart scrambled as he lowered his head toward hers. She felt the warmth of his mouth, light, and so tender. He drew away, an inch only, then slowly, watching her eyes, pressed his mouth to hers again.
Sweet, so sweet, she thought. So kind. Accepting, she skimmed her hands up his back and let him lead her. With a master’s touch he stroked his lips over her face, then brought them back to hers for one long, last caress.
“I’d better get you home.” His voice was thick, unsteady. “Emma.” As if he couldn’t keep from touching her, he ran his hands up and down her arms. “I want to see you again, like this. Is that all right?”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “That’s absolutely all right.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
She spent all her free time with Drew over the next weeks. Midnight suppers for two, long walks in the starlight, a stolen hour in the afternoon. There was something more exciting, more intimate, more desperate about the hours they spent together, because they were so few.
In Paris she introduced him to Marianne. They met at a little café on Boulevard St.-Germain where both tourists and locals would sit over red wine or café au lait and watch the world strut by.
Marianne looked more like a native in her lacy white tights and slim short skirt. Gone was the spiky hairdo. The bright red hair was worn sleek and short, and very French. But her voice was pure American as she squealed Emma’s name and jumped up to embrace her.
“You’re here, I can’t believe you’re here. It seems like years. Let me look at you. Christ, you’re beautiful. I hate you.”
With a laugh, Emma swung her hair behind her shoulders. “You look precisely the way a French art student should look. Très chic et sensual.”
“Over here that’s as important as eating. You must be Drew.” Marianne kept an arm around Emma’s waist and extended her hand to him.
“It’s nice to meet you. Emma’s told me all about you.”
“Uh-oh. Well, sit down anyway. You know, Picasso used to drink here. I come all the time, and try a different table. I know if I ever find his chair I’ll go into a trance.” She picked up her glass. “Would you like wine?” she asked Drew. At his nod she signaled the waiter. “Un vin rouge et un café, s’il vous plaît.” She sent a wink to Emma. “Who’d have thought Sister Magdelina’s boring French lessons would have come in handy?”
“Your accent’s still a C minus.”
“I know. I’m working on it. So how’s the tour?”
“Devastation’s never been better.” Emma smiled at Drew. “And their opening act’s creating quite a sensation.”
He laid a hand over hers. “The response has been great.” He shifted his gaze from Marianne to Emma. “Everything’s been great.”
Marianne sipped her wine, measuring him. If she had been into religious art, she would have painted him as John the Apostle. He had that dreamy, dedicated look. Or skipping a few centuries, Hamlet. The young prince shadowed by tragedy. She smiled as the waiter served the fresh drinks. Then again, she could have dipped back only a few years and used him as a model for the young Brian McAvoy. She wondered if Emma saw the resemblance.
“Where to from here?” she asked.
“Nice.” Drew stretched out his legs. “But I’m not in any hurry to leave Paris.” He glanced toward the street where cars and bicycles whizzed by with careless disregard for life and limb. “What’s it like to live here?”
“Noisy. Exciting.” She laughed. “Wonderful. I have this little apartment right over a bakery. There is nothing, believe me nothing, that smells li
ke a French bakery first thing in the morning.”
They spent an hour loitering over their drinks before Drew leaned over to kiss Emma. “Look, I’ve got to get to rehearsal and I know you want to talk. I’ll see you tonight. You too, Marianne.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She, along with half the women around the café, watched him walk away. “I believe he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
“He is, isn’t he?” She leaned over to grip Marianne’s hands. “You do like him, don’t you?”
“What’s hot to like? He’s gorgeous, talented, smart, funny.” She grinned. “Maybe he’ll dump you for me.”
“I’d really hate to have to murder my best friend, but …”
“I figure I’m safe. He doesn’t look at anyone but you. Why, I don’t know; just because you’ve got those incredible cheekbones and big blue eyes a yard of blond hair and no hips. Some guys have no taste.” She leaned back. “You look ridiculously happy.”
“I am.” She took a deep breath, drawing in the scents of wine and flowers. Of Paris. “I think I’m in love with him.”
“No kidding? I’d never have guessed.” With a laugh she patted Emma’s cheeks. “Pal, it’s all over your face. If I were to paint you right now, I’d call it Infatuated. What does your dad think of him?”
Emma picked up her cold coffee and sipped. “He has a lot of respect for Drew’s talent both as a musician and as a songwriter.”
“I meant what does he think of Drew as the man his daughter’s in love with.”
“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”
Marianne’s brows disappeared under her sharply cut bangs. “You mean you haven’t told him that you’re involved?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Emma shoved the coffee aside. “I guess I just want to keep it to myself. I want it to belong to me for a while. He still thinks of me as a child.”
“All fathers think of their daughters that way. Mine calls me twice a week to make sure I haven’t succumbed to some lecherous French comte. I only wish.” When Emma didn’t smile, she tilted her head. “You think he’ll disapprove?”
“I don’t know.” Restless, she moved her shoulders.
“Emma, if it’s serious between you and Drew, he’s going to find out sooner or later.”
“I know. I’m just hoping it’ll be later.”
It wasn’t much later.
Emma enjoyed the morning sun on the terrace of her room in Rome. Though it was late for breakfast, she was still in her robe, her coffee growing cold, as she checked over her current batch of prints. In the back of her mind she was assessing them not only for Pete but for her own idea for a book.
Smiling, she took out her favorite of Drew. She’d taken it in the leafy shade of the Bois de Boulogne. Only moments after she’d taken the picture, he’d kissed her. And told her he loved her.
He loved her. Closing her eyes, she reached her arms up to the sky. She had hoped, and she had wished, but she’d had no idea how happy she could be until he’d said the words. Now that he had, she could begin to dream what it would be like to be with him always, to make love with him, to be married to him, to make a home and raise a family.
She hadn’t realized how badly she wanted that. A man who loved her, a home of her own, children. They could be happy, so happy. Who understood the life and problems of a musician more than a woman who had been raised by one? She could comfort and support him in his work. And he would do the same for her.
After the tour, she thought. After the tour they could begin to make plans.
The knock on the door broke into her thoughts. She hoped it would be Drew, come to share breakfast with her as he had once or twice. Her smile of welcome faltered only slightly when she saw her father.
“Da. I’m surprised to see you out of your room before noon.”
“Maybe I’m too predictable.” With a newspaper folded in his hand, he stepped into the room. He glanced first at the bed, then at his daughter. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.” She studied him with a puzzled frown. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“You tell me.” He slapped the paper into her hand. She had to unfold it, then turn it right side up. But the picture was clear enough. The picture of her and Drew. It wasn’t necessary to read Italian to get the drift. They were locked in each other’s arms, her face tilted up to his, her eyes slumberous and dreamy as a woman’s became when she’d been kissed by her lover.
She couldn’t tell where it had been taken. It didn’t matter where. What mattered was that someone had intruded on a very private moment, then had splashed that intimacy in newsprint.
Emma tossed the paper across the room, then stalked to the balcony. She needed air. “Damn them,” she muttered, knocking her fist lightly against the rail. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”
“How long have you been seeing him, Emma?”
She looked over her shoulder. The wind blew strands of pale hair over her eyes. “Since the start of the tour.”
Brian jammed his hands into his pockets. “For weeks, then. For weeks, and you didn’t bother to tell me.”
She tossed her head back as she turned. “I’m over twenty-one, Da. I don’t have to ask my father’s permission to go on a date.”
“You were hiding it from me. Dammit—come inside.” He bit the order off. “The bloody press has their telescopic lenses trained on this place.”
“What difference does it make?” she demanded, holding her ground. “Everything we do ends up as public fodder eventually. That’s part of the price.” She gestured to the piles of prints on the table. “Hell, I do it myself.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it.” He stopped himself, dragging a furious hand through his hair. “It hardly matters at this point. I want to know what’s going on between you and Drew.”
“You mean am I sleeping with him? No, not yet.” She braced her hands on the rail. “But it’s none of your business, Da. Just as you told me, years ago, that your sex life was none of mine.”
“I’m your father, dammit.” He heard himself. He was her father. Somehow he’d become the father of a grown woman. And he didn’t have a clue what to do about it. He waited until he was sure his voice would be calm. “Emma, I love you, and I worry about you.”
“There’s no need to worry. I know what I’m doing. I’m in love with Drew, and he’s in love with me.”
Now he couldn’t speak. In defense, he picked up her cold coffee and downed it. A dove flew by the terrace, soft gray wings flapping. “You’ve only known him for a few weeks, that means you don’t know enough about him.”
“He plays a guitar for a living,” she pointed out. “You’d sound ridiculous criticizing that.”
“The last thing I want for you is to see you involved with someone in the business. For Christ’s sake, Emma, you know what it can do to people. The demands, the pressures, the egos. I don’t know any more about this kid than that he’s ambitious and talented.”
“I know all I need to know.”
“Listen to yourself. You sound like some bubble-brain. Like it or not, you’re not in a position to trust a man just because he has a pretty face and says he loves you. You’ve got too much money, and too much power.”
“Power?”
“There’s no one who knows me who would doubt I’d do anything for you. Anything you’d ask me.”
It took her a minute, but the words slowly sank in. Angry tears blurred her vision as she stepped toward him. “So that’s it? You think Drew is interested in me because I have money, because he thinks I could sway you to help him in his career? It’s impossible, isn’t it, that he or any man might be attracted to me, might fall in love with me? Just me.”
“Of course not, but—”
“No, that’s just what you think. After all, how could anyone look at me and not see you?” She spun around, pressed her palms against the rail. The sun glinted off a
lens in the garden below. She didn’t give a damn. Let them take their pictures.
“Oh, it’s happened before. Yes, it has. Emma, how about dinner Friday—and by the way, can you get my cousin tickets and a backstage pass to your father’s concert in Chicago?”
“Emma, I’m sorry.” He reached out, but she jerked away.
“What for? You really can’t help it, can you? And I learned to live with that, even to be amused by it. But this, this time I’ve found someone who cares about me, who’s interested in my feelings and my thoughts. Who hasn’t asked me for anything but to be with him, and you want to spoil it.”
“I don’t want to spoil it. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You’ve already hurt me.” Her eyes were dry when she looked at him. “Leave me alone, Da. And leave Drew alone. If you interfere with this, I’ll never forgive you. I swear it.”
“I’m not going to interfere. I only want to help you. I don’t want to see you make a mistake.”
“It’ll be my mistake. You’ve made your own, God knows. For years I’ve watched you do whatever you wanted, with whomever you wanted. You ran away from your happiness, Da. I won’t run away from mine.”
“You know how to twist the knife,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t realized.” He walked out of the sunlight and left her alone.
Drew slipped an arm over Emma’s shoulders. They were standing on another terrace, in another city. The old-world graciousness of the Ritz Madrid was lost on Emma. She could hear the tinkle of the fountains, smell the lush garden below, but she might have been anywhere. Still, she found Drew’s arm comforting and rubbed her cheek against it.
“I hate to see you sad, Emma.”
“I’m not. Maybe a little tired, but not sad.”
“You’ve been upset for weeks, ever since you and Brian argued. Over me.” He removed his arm and moved aside. “The last thing I wanted to do was cause you trouble.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” He turned, and in the moonlight his eyes gleamed dark. “It doesn’t really. He would have had the same reaction no matter whom I was seeing. Da’s always been overprotective. A lot of it comes … because of what happened to my brother.”