Her mouth opened, then closed. She gave a slight smile and short nod in acknowledgement.
For someone who displayed her naked self in her front window she acted shy, something he wouldn't have expected. Pretty women usually came on to him. He didn't even have to try. She didn't turn around as they exited the bookshop, but her friend did and shot him a questioning glance. He could hear the start of her question. "Who was…?"
They were gone, and he trailed around the bookstore, gazing at the colorful displays and book spines on the shelves. After a while he wandered back outside. He didn't recognize any faces on the street, but since he'd been gone so long he didn't really expect to. He didn't know them, and they didn't know him anymore. That didn't keep him from searching faces for some recognition.
He found himself walking south toward the location of the old Rahn hardware store. His stomach churned with nerves.
Knowing the building was gone didn't help. So many days had been spent there helping out his dad and mom in the store. He couldn't count the number of times he'd slipped out the side door and perched on the rocks along the riverbank to throw his fishing line into the rushing water. Shade trees helped keep him cool in the hot summer sun.
Will the rocks still be there? In the same place? He doubted it if Wilcox had built a resort and marina, but a boy could hope, couldn't he?
The immense gray-stone church looked the same, the big town cemetery right behind it. The rectory had been built onto over the years since he'd been gone, the addition white clapboard.
Right next door a five-story hotel loomed up, all straight lines except for filigree iron balconies off each room. Some overlooked the cemetery—he figured those room rates were probably discounted. Who'd really want to pay to overlook that, peaceful though it might be?
His parents. Their graves were in that cemetery. His heart hurt at that memory.
Moving south on Hickory Street angling east, he continued walking until the rest of the resort came into view. There was a marina on each side of the Falls River joined by a footbridge, then two more hotel buildings three stories tall on the south side with a large green park between the marina and hotel section. Right at the corner of the street and the river was Marietty's Jazz Club.
In his day it had been on the other side of town, across from Birch Park. He remembered the old club—all pine-plank walls, the smoky interior smelling of yeasty beer and customers' cologne and sweat. Dingy. But you always heard great music at Marietty's—rock and country back in those days. It appeared from the sign on top of the building it now featured jazz.
Taking the bridge over the river, he squeezed his eyes shut because the sight of the spot where the hardware store had been was too painful. He turned his gaze away, balanced both elbows on the railing, and stared into the water. Back he went, back years to his grief and confusion.
He'd lost his whole family in one moment in time. There'd only been the three of them, and now he was the only one left. His stomach knotted. He didn't know if he could stop himself from giving in to the excruciating pain.
Heartsick, he'd been too shocked to display emotion during the days, weeks, and months following the accident. He'd quit football and finished up high school in a daze. He only talked to a couple of the guys but never about the accident or his feelings.
Every once in a while over the years he'd let memories through, but collapsing in sorrow and wallowing in grief didn't help. He'd put all his focus on the Marines and the people in Iraq and now Afghanistan whom he was supposed to be fighting for.
Maybe coming back to his hometown was the wrong thing to do. It would force him to remember, to go back over the few known details of what happened that night. He'd been all alone in the world, alone emotionally, for so long it had become his default.
What made him dwell on that? Alone had always suited him. The only people he'd trusted were his Marines. They weren't here now. He didn't need anyone. Just the truth.
Chapter Three
Phoebe was running on nervous energy by the time her nine o'clock set started at Marietty's. Tonight was her Al Green cover night. She'd thought about the man across the street all day, especially after seeing him in the bookstore. On the way home, she'd stopped to talk to a couple of her neighbors. None of them knew anything about him.
Pouring herself into a red knit dress that displayed a generous portion of slim thigh, a feather boa angled diagonally across her breast to cover the nipple ring, she slid her feet into four-inch stilettos, and did her slinky stroll onto the stage to the sound of applause. Man, I love that sound.
She never had stage fright. It was her second home—maybe really her first, the one place that completely suited her, where she was the center of attention with all eyes focused on her. And she always gave her audience a great show.
"Ain't no sunshine…"
With deep, earthy tones she serenaded the microphone, her lips pursed as if kissing it. She wrapped one arm around her waist. Through narrowed eyes she saw him, big as life. Bigger. His shoulders filled the entryway as he paused there. His eyes met hers. She sang directly to him, her heart pounding, voice fraught with sensual resonance. The audience thought it was part of the song. She had no way of knowing what he thought.
Singing on automatic pilot, she watched his gaze roam every inch of her, stopping at the spots he'd surely seen this morning. Her belly tightened, and her nipples pinged with anticipatory pleasure.
The song ended, and all she could focus on was him. Suddenly closer to the stage, he'd slipped down the side of the room and enveloped himself in a nearby dark alcove, never releasing her from his compelling gaze.
She felt an overwhelming frisson of something like fear. This had never happened before. She'd never had this primal reaction to a man. But then she'd never even seen a man who looked this raw. He was big and dark, his huge muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. Jeans hugged him like a second skin. She could almost feel the wet flat of his tongue circling her…
Then she froze. She was so wrapped up in the man she hadn't noticed Butch Wilcox standing right beside him. Were they together? Was the hunk a cop too? Her heart did a little flip-flop. Any fantasy about the neighbor guy would have to be abandoned if he turned out to be anything like Butch Wilcox.
Oh God. Silence. Flicking a glance at the audience, it was as if they'd caught the interplay between the stranger and her. Face flaming, she felt sweat pop out on her upper lip. Get it together, girl!
He hadn't moved. Didn't give her any help. She was on her own. Summoning her long-practiced stage presence, she towed a tall stool toward the baby grand, her knees too rubbery to stand. Settling herself and leaning her elbow on the piano, she dove into the next number and sang the Al Green lyrics…
"You're my one desire…"
Being this "full of fire" for a stranger was a precarious development. It got worse. Singing about raging fires and getting next to him was not helping any. Finishing the last chorus brought her own silence and the audience's stomping and applause. The stomping would be from her friends. She bowed her head, supposing it to be dramatic, but the truth was if she glanced up it would be at the man. If he was still there.
Get a damn grip! Show some professionalism.
With her own exhortation, she lifted her chin and aimed a smile at Moira and Davy. Thank God for their support. Smiling more broadly, she included the rest of the audience, her eyes skipping over the dark corner. Except—too late. It was empty.
Disgruntled that she'd so completely lost her composure, she pulled herself together and blew kisses at the audience, murmured a husky thank-you into the mic and exited the stage. She had to get to the little corner in the back that was her dressing room, if you could call it that. The cramped bathroom used by male and female employees alike had the only walls.
She put everything she had in her into the next set. Performing was her life's dream, and she'd be damned if she'd let some man distract her. No one was going to ruin this for her.
She'd gone on a couple of dates with Butch but wasn't serious about him. Since he didn't excite her, she recollected past boyfriends to inspire the lyrics of the rest of the songs. Anything to keep the neighbor hunk out of her mind. She didn't even know his name, so how could she sing the blues about him?
After singing the final song and changing into jeans and a blouse, she joined her friends at their table. Moira handed her a glass of icy champagne. As Phoebe sipped slowly, the bubbles popped in her mouth, and she focused only on that pleasure. Now that she could relax, she wondered if he were still here. For some reason she thought she could feel his presence, and it was odd to have that sensation about a man she didn't know.
"Congratulations, Phoebs. You were great as usual."
"Thanks, Davy."
"You seemed to be looking at someone. Were you? Or looking for someone?"
She took a sip to avoid answering until she knew what she wanted to admit.
Davy continued. "There was a gorgeous guy standing down near the end of the bar. He's the one I'd be singing to if I had the pipes. Too bad he was with that asshole Wilcox."
"I saw them too," Moira added, narrowing her eyes at Phoebe.
She sucked in a quick breath and hoped the dark bar would conceal her flushing cheeks. Moira didn't know anything about this morning. It was a hilarious story, so why hadn't she told her friends? Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Okay, this is all overdoing it. She took a deep breath, surreptitiously glancing around the bar, especially toward the end of the bar toward that dark alcove.
Moira and Davy's eyebrows lifted comically like a silent movie actor's look of extreme surprise. Both looked past her, their mouths open in absolute astonishment. Prickles raced across her neck and down her spine. Heat. Her sixth sense said man. Not just any man. Suppressing a shiver, she took another deep breath—or tried to at least—and turned to look over her shoulder—right into a bulge pushing at the straining zipper placket of snug jeans encasing lean hips. Her heart faltered, skipping and racing beats combined.
Davy was the first to stand and offer his hand to shake. She caught back a laugh. Her friend was so gay and naturally would lust after the man. But then who wouldn't? Stop it!
"Hi, I'm Davy. This is Moira." He indicated her girlfriend. "And you were enjoying the musical stylings of the wonderful Phoebe Barnes." In a snide tone, he added, "Wilcox."
Phoebe lifted her gaze up and up and ridiculously higher to an expression she couldn't read in eyes piercingly light in the dark club. A little thought niggled at her. Shouldn't he be a bit more admiring? She didn't expect star-struck, but he looked gratingly impassive.
"Join us? You using this? No?" Davy, purposely ignoring Butch, grabbed an unused chair at the next table. "Thanks man." He set the chair right next to Phoebe.
Butch made a irritated face as he grabbed another chair for himself, naturally without asking permission from the people at that table. He didn't act fast enough though and had to settle for sitting on the other side of the hunk and between Davy and Moira.
Phoebe suppressed another laugh. Butch couldn't stand her friend and would hate sitting that close to him. But Davy could take care of himself. Meanwhile Moira just gazed wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Geez, they won't be any help.
The man sat carefully on the tiny chair with a look on his face that said he didn't trust it to stand up to his weight. Not that he was fat. Not by any means. As he sat next to her, she took in his immense shoulders and chest that contrasted with a narrow, flat waist and nonexistent hips. One of his hard thighs brushed her knee.
Her first reaction was to jerk away from the heat of his leg burning through his jeans and hers. But she didn't. Just that touch was incredibly sexy.
He leaned an elbow on the table and turned toward her. "You were great, Phoebe. Haven't I seen you before?" An innocent smile played on his lips.
Absolutely certain his befuddlement was feigned, she answered his knowing grin with a haughty, "Maybe. At the Grammys."
"That must have been where it was."
His husky voice and crooked smile bewitched her. The wrinkles at the corners of his light eyes radiated something shared only with her. She was spellbound—heat bloomed in her entire body from head to toes and everywhere in-between. She couldn't respond but neither could she tear her gaze from his.
The sounds of piano music, the clamor of voices, the clatter of ice and drink glasses all disappeared. His gaze held her transfixed, then it shifted to her mouth for a long look. Her lips tingled until his eyes returned to hers. She let out a soft breath.
"Rahn, this is my girlfriend. I told you about her."
Butch's grating voice interrupted what had become a gloriously hot moment. Phoebe ripped her gaze from the man and met Butch's fierce eyes. They scared her. She'd never felt this peculiar revulsion before.
How had she not realized how strange he was? They'd only gone out a couple of times. He'd tried to kiss her after the second date, but she'd held him off to a quick peck. Fear slithered down her spine. She'd have to make it clear she wouldn't go out with him again. Her career was always the best excuse.
"Marc Rahn." He offered his hand. "I enjoyed your singing." He teased her with a quick wink.
She placed her hand in his palm, mesmerized by the sight of her small fingers nestled in his big paw. She felt like Little Red Riding Hood with the Big Bad Wolf and stifled a laugh. Would he eat her up?
"Thank you." She gave his hand a brief squeeze. Thankfully he let her go but not before his heat streaked up her arm to curve around her breast, making her aware of the gold piercing. Shivering, she settled her hands safely in her lap and tried to take a deep but shaky breath.
"So what do you do, Marc?" Davy asked.
She was curious about that too.
"Nothing right now," Marc replied, shifting his gaze to Davy.
"Refills, anyone?" Butch interrupted, making it obvious he felt left out.
Moira was the only one who responded to him with a quick shake of her head. Her gaze was glued to Marc.
"I'm on leave from the Marines."
With a worshipful smile, Davy rested his chin on his fist. "What brought you to B Falls?"
"I went to high school here." His rough voice made short shrift of his answer.
"Phoebe, can I talk to you a minute?" Butch leaned around Marc to put himself in her line of sight. "In private?"
"Hey, we're all friends here," Davy pointed out.
Butch glared at him. Phoebe knew Butch hated gays, which was adding to the many reasons she didn't want to go out with him again.
"Butch," she interceded. "We can talk tomorrow. I'm tired tonight. It's been a long day."
Butch turned a malevolent gaze on her, but it disappeared as quickly as she'd caught it. He looked down and grabbed at the phone clipped to his belt. "Wilcox." After he listened for a minute, a look of disgust and frustration crossed his face. "Okay. Be right there." He stood. "I've got to go. Phoebe, can you get home okay without me?"
"Uh, yeah." What an asshole. What kind of possessive game is he playing? The sooner she got rid of him the better. He made her more and more uncomfortable every time she saw him.
"Rahn, I'll have the file tomorrow morning at the station."
Butch barely acknowledged the rest of the group, but made a point of placing his hands on Phoebe's shoulders as if he owned her. Leaning down, he kissed her neck and said loudly enough to be heard even in the nightclub noise, "You were great, honey. Looking forward to our date tomorrow."
Then, thankfully, he left. The table was quiet for a moment. She was stunned at his actions and risked a glance at Marc, at his curious expression. Before she came right out and told him she wasn't Butch's girlfriend, Moira began a new topic of conversation.
"So Marc, how long have you been in the Marines?"
"Eight years. Moira, was it?"
"Uh huh." Her brown eyes sparkled as she smiled at him with the same kind of admiration Davy showed.
/> Phoebe loved her friends. She and Davy and Moira had formed a close triumvirate when Phoebe first moved to town. They were all nosy about each other's lives but not intrusive or judgmental. Every day she cherished knowing them.
"What brought you back? Do you have family here?"
His eyes immediately shuttered. A muscle at his jaw ticked. His fists clenched suddenly on his thighs, the knuckles turning white. "I have some unfinished business."
Phoebe heard him but knew the other two hadn't. Before they could ask him to repeat himself, she gave them a quick shake of her head. Gazing at him, she could almost feel the heavy emotion surrounding him. It must be something really bad for a man like him to give off such pained vibes.
A hand gripped her arm bringing her back to earth. "We're going to take off now, honey."
"Huh?" Her gaze strayed from Marc's face. She blinked a couple of times until focusing on the speaker. Davy. He and Moira, grinning like idiots, stood. There was no way she could move. Her limbs shook with something she'd never quite felt before and wasn't even sure what it was.
"Well, sir," Davy addressed Marc. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that you're obviously not gay."
She started at Davy's brazenness but wasn't surprised. He didn't flaunt it but didn't make it a secret either.
In a one-eighty mood change, Marc stood, gave her friends a smile that would have melted steel and said, "Don't leave on my account. I don't want to ruin your evening."
She was somewhat miffed at him. His recovery was much quicker than hers. She was still too dazed to acknowledge her own friends.
"Oh, that's all right," said Moira. "We have to work tomorrow. So do you, Phoebs."
She weakly nodded. "Yes, I know. I'll be leaving soon." Then finally her composure returned. "Thank you both for coming, as always. They're my biggest fans." She smiled at Marc.
"It's good to have friends like that," he said seriously.
"Will you see Phoebe gets home okay?"
"Davy!" she responded sharply. What the hell was he doing? Moira was no help. She just stood there grinning.
The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) Page 2