A Little Night Music

by Andrea Dale

  Their appetizers arrived, delivered swiftly and efficiently. They lingered over them, exchanging tastes, sharing morsels off of each other’s fork. The arrival of the main dishes was exquisitely timed to occur once they’d finished.

  “What is it,” Hannah wondered aloud, feeling Nate’s knee brush against hers under the table, “about us and food?”

  “Maybe it’s our thing,” Nate said.

  “We have a thing?”

  “Seems like it.” He seemed content with the idea. “Here, try a bite of this. It’s so tender.”

  He reached out with a forkful of filet mignon, and she obligingly opened her mouth. He teased her with it, pulling back just as she was about to close her lips. Giggling, she stuck her tongue out at him, then opened her mouth wide. He moved the morsel nearer.

  A flash of light, blinding her.

  “What the hell—?” she heard Nate say, as he rose to his feet.

  Dishes on the table rattled as she, too, leapt up, reaching in the direction of the man with the camera.

  “Mr. Fox—Ms. Montgomery—we’ll handle it.” The maître d’ held out a hand. “We’ll handle it. We’re very sorry. This has never happened before…”

  The photographer had bolted, but at least one waiter had gone after him. There was nothing they could do. The other diners went back to pointedly staring at their own plates.

  Hannah looked at Nate. He was scowling, but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he looked calmer, but he still not entirely happy.

  “Thank you for sending your staff after him,” he said to the maître d’ when the man returned. “I appreciate that. However, I’m disappointed that a paparazzo was allowed into your restaurant at all.”

  “I understand, sir, and I must apologize. I checked, and he’d made his reservation under the casino manager’s name, obviously to gain illicit entrance. Nothing like this has ever happened before, I assure you. Please, let us give you your meals free of charge, to make up for your dinner being interrupted.”

  “The wine, too,” Hannah said.

  The maître d’ pursed his lips, then reluctantly nodded. “Of course. Please, try to enjoy the rest of your time here. Carlos will bring you the dessert and coffee menu when you’re finished.”

  He moved away. Hannah and Nate sat. For a moment, they were silent. Then, Nate said, “That was mean.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What? Asking for the wine? Yeah, I suppose it was. But we deserve it.”

  He looked down at his plate for a moment, and she wondered if he was angry. Then she realized he was choking back laughter.

  “You know, I was having a really good night,” he said. “And that asshole went a long way to screwing everything up. Thank you.”

  He’d lost her. “For what?”

  “For…handling it with such grace.”

  “I hardly think that insisting they cover the wine as well as the meal can be categorized as grace,” she protested.

  “You didn’t scream, throw a tantrum, cry, or fling a shoe at anyone,” Nate said. “That counts as grace in my book.”

  “Well,” she said. “Well. There may be screaming and shoe-flinging later, but only in the throes of passion.”

  He raised his glass, and she clinked hers against it. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  *

  It had been a good day, a day worth celebrating. Back on the road, with the crackling energy and excitement that heralded the beginning of a tour. Facing and resisting his ultimate temptation. Quality time spent with an amazing woman. The only minor downside was that they’d agreed to spend the night in separate rooms.

  Nate didn’t want to spend the night away from Hannah. He’d hated watching her get up and get dressed. Hated the empty feeling of the room after she’d left. Hated even more the empty feeling of the bed. But at least he could fall asleep with the knowledge that he’d see her the very next day.

  It had been a good, positive, life-affirming day.

  The night went all to hell.

  Chapter Eleven

  Flashes of faces: Sam, the band, the crew; a parade of women, Suzanne one of many, blurring in and out of the crowd until her visage resurfaced, spattered with blood. He’d held her hand there, with the streetlight glittering on the rain-soaked pavement, not really sure where he was, when it was, only that it was dark and wet and he was dead and he was still flying high, torn between laughing and sobbing.

  At that moment, he’d’ve given anything for a hit. He might have pleaded aloud to an unseen, unbelieved-in deity for Suzanne’s life, but what he’d really wanted, what he’d needed and craved and would have sacrificed for was to get lit. To get even more lit. To take whatever was necessary to numb the fear and panic, the growing anguish at the searing knowledge of what had happened.

  To find oblivion. Sweet, sweet escape.

  Then there was Victor, all smiles and solicitousness, telling Nate that whatever he needed, Victor would provide. All Nate had to do was name it, and it would be supplied.

  And in his dream, Nate willingly—eagerly—took what was offered.

  *

  His harsh breathing filled the room, rasping into the night. Nate held his breath, just to make the sound stop, and listened to the hum of the air conditioning before he had to gulp air again.

  Despite the air conditioning, sweat trickled down his temples, the sticky moisture gluing the sheet to his thighs.

  He peeled the covers off. His eyes adjusted to the dim red glow of the clock’s digits, enough light to help him navigate across the suite to one of the two bathrooms. He fumbled for the faucet in the dark, scooped water onto his face and chest, heedless of how it splashed throughout the room.

  The combination of cold water and cooled air against his skin had him shivering uncontrollably.

  The tremors reminded him of coming down from a high.

  The nightmare flooded back.

  God, what had brought that on?

  Nate raked wet hands through his hair. He didn’t care why, not right now, anyway. More important was the fact that he dreaded trying to sleep again. Dreaded returning to the dream.

  He could think of any number of self-medications that would ensure him a dreamless sleep. His hands were trembling as he sat on the edge of the bed. He balled them into fists on his thighs.

  It struck him then, the craving. The one that outshadowed all the others. The one that had saved him today.

  He wanted to be with Hannah.

  It was stupidly risky to go down to her room. Vegas never slept. Inside a casino the action didn’t abate just because it was after midnight. Anybody could be wandering around. Anyone could see him.

  Fuck it. He didn’t care.

  He dragged on jeans, not bothering with underwear. Found a T-shirt he’d discarded earlier. Eschewed shoes.

  A hat and sunglasses could make him less noticeable, or they could be more obvious. He didn’t want to waste time looking for them. In less than a minute, he was in the elevator, thankful it was empty.

  Hannah looked bleary and confused when she answered the door, her red hair sleep-mussed. She’d thrown on a short, peach-colored satin robe that accented her long legs. Despite her confusion at his unexpected arrival, she understood his urgency and stepped aside as he pushed in.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, reaching up a hand to touch his cheek.

  The gesture twisted something inside him. For a moment, all he could do was echo the motion, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.

  Then his hands bracketed her head and he was pulling her into a crushing kiss.

  When they finally broke apart, he said simply, “I need you.”

  And kissed her again, kissed her until they were both gasping for breath. He needed to taste her, touch her everywhere. Drown himself in her.

  Lose himself.

  After a moment’s hesitation, no doubt borne on surprise, she matched him kiss for kiss, answering his intensity with her own
. They may have made love in the Jacuzzi, then again after dinner, but it was if they hadn’t touched each other in weeks.

  They made it to the bed by mutual, unspoken agreement, still locked together. Her robe was easy enough to toss aside; he had his T-shirt off while she was still popping the buttons on his jeans. When she wrapped a slender hand around his already straining cock, he groaned aloud.

  Pushing her down, he caught her hands, stretching them high over her head. He pinned them to the pillow with one hand while the other stroked her from thigh to breast and back again. She writhed under him, all heat and longing.

  The kiss wasn’t enough. She tasted of minty toothpaste and moonlight desires, and it wasn’t enough. He sampled the skin of her throat, licking the salt from her flesh.

  The breast that plumped in his hand wasn’t enough. He lowered his head, sucking the hard nipple, biting down. Hearing her startled cry, the moan of surprised pleasure.

  It wasn’t enough.

  “Hannah,” he cried her name into her skin, the dream still clinging. The need to control the craving overpowered nearly everything else. But she was the craving. Her scent, her taste, her body.

  Abruptly, Nate rolled over, pulling her on top of him. Her let her wrists go, smoothing his hands down her spine. Her ass fitted into his hands perfectly. He didn’t need to control her. He needed to lose himself in her.

  For so long he’d fought to be in control.

  Hannah looked down at him, her red curls wild around her face. Those smoky grey eyes could see into him. See what he needed.

  A movement of her hips, and he was inside. Her hands caught his now, meshing their fingers together. Everything else fell away.

  He was safe. Safe to trust her. Safe to let go and give in to what he needed.

  She clenched around him, shuddering. Nate allowed himself to give up control.

  Later, when he was spent, sated, lying tangled with her and breathing in the scent of her hair, he knew he would finally be able to sleep in peace.

  *

  Hannah had done her best to whip up a media frenzy about this concert. It was the first show of the tour, and had been set up for VIPs, friends, press, celebrities. Online and radio contest winners. The few tickets available to the public had been snapped up by fans who had come through and made it a sold-out show. Since on a level it was almost a private show, Nate knew a lot of attendees.

  The pre-show meet-and-greet was therefore packed. Hannah had to mentally pat herself on the back, because she’d managed to arrange for a healthy number of reporters and photographers to attend the party and show.

  Nate, clutching a mug of Throat Coat tea, moved through the crowd, not trying to talk over the hubbub of voices and whatever was playing over the sound system. Still, he had that hundred-watt smile going, and Hannah heard him give several pithy sound bites to the appropriate people.

  “Nate!” A woman flung her arms around him.

  He hugged her back. “Marta.”

  They disengaged. Marta looked a little disappointed. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on Hannah’s part.

  After all, Marta Ingersol was supermodel extraordinaire, and the shimmery little silver sheath dress she wore over impossibly high spike heels made it clear why she was in constant demand. That, along with the ski-slope cheekbones and flawless Scandinavian complexion.

  “Marta, this is my publicist, Hannah Montgomery.”

  Marta blinked and smiled sunnily, an expression that seemed more designed for a camera than a social situation. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Hannah,” she said with a trace of an accent. Her waist-length blond hair shimmered in the lights.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Marta,” Hannah said with just as much conviction, damping down the flash of jealousy and pulling up a veil of detached professionalism. Had Nate dated Marta at some point? Probably.

  The niceties out of the way, Marta turned her attention away from Hannah and launched into some charming and amusing tale that required she punctuate it by frequently touching Nate’s arm or her own lips.

  Ugh. Well, Hannah didn’t have to stick around to witness this blatant attempt at seduction. Didn’t have to stick around to fight the sudden feeling of inadequacy. The supermodel was his world, the bright lights, the paparazzi. Hannah was nights at home with a good book and a movie. Marta was slinky dresses. She was business suits. She didn’t like to be reminded of that.

  Looking for an excuse to leave, Hannah went to check that the media packages she’d put together were getting to the right people. The security at the door checked passes before ushering guests through into the room. A smiling hostess wearing one of the new tour shirts was diligently handing out the information to the press as they entered. Satisfied, Hannah snagged a glass of champagne and went back to see if Marta was succeeding in her quest.

  She hadn’t yet, although whatever she was talking about required her to toy with Nate’s hair.

  Hey, that’s my fetish!

  Hannah bit back a grin, almost embarrassed by how territorial she felt. She’d had time to get her feelings under control. Still…

  Nate couldn’t spend all night talking to the woman. This was a meet-and-greet, and he had other people to meet and greet.

  She moved close enough to be in Nate’s field of vision, but hung outside the personal space so she didn’t intrude on the private conversation.

  Nate kept his eyes on Marta, nodding at something she’d said, but he reached out a hand to Hannah. She took it, feeling an absurd sense of victory, and he drew her to his side. He gave her fingers a quick squeeze and dropped them. As Marta paused to take a breath, he said, “It’s wonderful to see you, and I’m glad you’re doing so well. But my public awaits—if I don’t do my mingling duties, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Well, damn. He’d read her mind.

  Marta’s lush mouth drew up in an insincere, joking pout, but Hannah sensed real regret lingered behind it. “Very well, Nate. But you must call me, yes?”

  “The tour’s just starting, so I’m going to be pretty busy,” he said. He gave her a charming smile. “I’ll do my best.”

  They kissed on both cheeks (Hannah resisted the urge to roll her eyes) and then Marta walked away as if she were on a catwalk.

  “She’s very pretty,” Hannah said, knowing it was lame. Hating herself for her own insecurities.

  Nate put his hand on the small of her back. She could feel the warmth of it through her shirt. She would normally have worn a suit to a client’s press party, but the concert was right after, and she wanted to be comfortable. She wanted to blend in with the other fans.

  “She is,” he said, his voice low and meant only for her. “She also barfs up her dinner every night to stay thin. She’s kind of nuts.”

  Hannah smiled into her champagne.

  “More importantly,” Nate continued, “you’re the one wearing a present from me. You are wearing it, aren’t you?”

  Yes. Oh yes. Nestled between her legs, in an area already slick, was Nate’s gift to her. The hard bullet of the vibrator pressed against her clit, stimulating her even though it wasn’t turned on. The tight jeans she wore kept it tucked close, and she was aware of it every time she moved, shifted, walked…

  She’d lost the ability to speak. The soft laugh he gave at her strangled response just made it worse.

  “Good,” he said, his voice rough.

  “Nate!” another female voice said.

  This woman, thankfully, Hannah actually recognized.

  “Hey, Tani,” he said, giving the tall brunette a hug. “Hannah, have you met Tani?”

  “Of course!” It was Tani who answered, her usual breathless self. “We’ve known each other for years. Hannah, it’s so cool that you’re working for Nate now. What a dream job!”

  Nate raised an eyebrow. His blue eyes regarded her carefully. “Oh, now the truth comes out. How long have you been a member of the FoxFanatics?”

  Hannah flushed. “It’s part of my job, Nate.” S
he sidestepped the actual question of just how big a fan she was. “The FoxFanatics are one of the best-organized fan clubs out there. I’ve already been corresponding with Tani to get the word out about this tour, your appearances, anything to make sure there’s an enthusiastic crowd.”

  He knew she’d been a fan for a long time, given that they’d talked about their first meeting. She’d just not specifically mentioned the fan club because it seemed just a little too groupie. She was just annoyed that she couldn’t tell by the light tone of his voice how he felt about it.

  “That reminds me,” Tani said. “We’re doing a membership drive to coincide with the tour. Nate, would you be willing to do a welcome .mpg? Five or ten minutes talking to fan club members about the tour, how you’re doing, thanking them for joining?”

  “I’d be glad to,” he said. “Just check with Sam and Hannah. They’re in charge of my schedule. I think we can record it in the next week or so—whenever we have a day off from the tour.” He directed the latter half of the sentence to Hannah, making it a question.

  “Next week,” she said. To Tani, she added, “Mention it to Sam, and we’ll make sure it gets sorted out.”

  “Thanks!” Tani bounded off.

  Watching her go, Nate shook his head. “She’s a trip. I don’t know where she gets her energy.”

  “She’s got a good group of people helping her out,” Hannah said. “But yeah, she’s just really enthusiastic. You’re lucky to have her on your team.”

  “I’m lucky to have you, too,” Nate said. “I don’t think any PR guy I’ve had before thought to work with the fan club.”

  “Word of mouth can be more powerful than the press,” she said. “Which reminds me: MTV has a VJ here. Have you talked to him yet?”

  *

  Hannah fingered the laminated plastic of the backstage pass that hung from around her neck and peered out from the side of the stage at the audience. The concert theatre was at full capacity.

  Excitement thrummed through the air, thick and palpable and crackling with electricity. From her vantage point at the side of the stage, Hannah surveyed the audience. Most of the concert-goers—the ones in front, anyway—couldn’t seem to stay in their seats. They stood, chatted with each other, fidgeted, and stared at the stage. Many wore T-shirts from Nate’s past shows, and some wore the commemorative shirts from this tour, newly purchased in the lobby.