A Little Night Music

by Andrea Dale

  “This was personal. I’ve never been the actual cause of a client’s bad PR before. They said that dating me was a new low, Andre!”

  “So you had your feelings hurt,” he said. “Was that any reason to up and leave the man hanging?” He squeezed her hands one final time, then let go. He took a deep drink of the coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

  The waitress slid two plates onto the table. The warm smell of sugar floated up. Hannah looked at hers, then silently pushed it across the table to Andre.

  “I don’t mean to be so hard on you, honey,” Andre said softly. He forked a big piece of cheese Danish into his mouth. “But I’ve known Nate for a long time, and I haven’t seen him this low since he was using.”

  “He’s hardly low,” she said. “He was out on a date last night.”

  “You arranged that,” he pointed out.

  “I didn’t arrange for him to kiss her.”

  “That was for the benefit of the camera.”

  “He wasn’t paying any attention to the camera.”

  “You’re jealous,” Andre observed. “He was doing what you wanted him to do, and now you don’t like it.”

  Looking away, Hannah fixed her gaze on the potted plant hanging over a nearby table. Its drooping fronds trembled in the air current generated by a ceiling fan.

  “He’s falling apart. And that has nothing to do with Hannah Montgomery, the publicist, and everything to do with Hannah Montgomery, the woman.”

  “He’ll survive just fine without me,” Hannah said. The question was, would she survive without him? The answer had to be “yes.” She just had to put on her big-girl panties and deal with it.

  “Surviving isn’t the same as living,” Andre said. “I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”

  Hannah raised her eyebrows in a question.

  “He left the party early tonight.” He paused, gauging her reaction. “Alone. I know, because I was in the limo with him.”

  The news hit her hard, the relief that surged through her making her dizzy. He wasn’t with Marta tonight. They weren’t in a hotel room. He wasn’t driving another woman wild with passion.

  Forcing herself to be the professional she knew she had to be, Hannah shrugged. “I’m his publicist, Andre, not his girlfriend. It doesn’t matter to me if he leaves alone or with a dozen groupies. In fact, it would have been better if he’d left with Marta or a dozen groupies. It would get him more publicity.”

  “You can’t tell me you don’t care,” Andre said.

  “It doesn’t matter if I care. He wants to be on top. He deserves to be there. And he won’t be if he’s not seen at all the parties, with all the right people. Being seen with an employee just won’t do it for him.”

  Andre looked about to interrupt, and it was her turn to stop him.

  “It’s what he wants, Andre. Right now, his pride is hurt because I left him and not the other way around. He’ll get over it, and move on because he wants to be number one again. It’s what he’s always wanted.

  “It’s my job to get him there.”

  “And that’s all?” His voice actually went up in pitch. Holy crap, she’d shocked Andre.

  “That’s all,” Hannah said firmly. “That’s what I was hired to do.”

  She’d do her job, get him back on top. She’d do what he wanted.

  Even if it meant her heart would never forgive her.

  *

  The ringing of her cell phone pulled Hannah out of layers of much-needed sleep. Not again. Groaning, she made a mental note to change her ringtone to something other than a Nate song, and squinted at the display.

  Oh yeah, it was way too early.

  Gina had been asleep on her couch when she’d stumbled in from meeting with Andre. She’d tossed back the dregs of warm Pouilly-Fuisse and tumbled into bed. Thankfully she’d been exhausted enough to fall asleep quickly, but that had only been, what, three hours ago? Ow.

  The phone’s display also informed her that the caller was Sam. As tempting as it was to let the phone go to voice mail, pull a pillow over her head, and pray for more sleep, she knew she had to take the call. Her professionalism made her do it.

  She made a mental note to stop being such a damn professional, because it was obviously ruining her life, and said hello.

  “Did you see the entertainment news?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Sam.”

  “Sorry.”

  Sam didn’t sound very sorry, but she let it go. “Yes, I saw the news. Nate got some prime air time.”

  “You did a good job getting him into that party,” Sam said. Before she could relish the flush of pride, he continued. “But he told me that other artists were invited to perform, and he wasn’t.”

  Ow. “I got him in last minute. There probably wasn’t time.” She really needed to be more awake for this.

  “And there were celebrity photos everywhere, but none of him.”

  Hannah lay back against the pillow and prayed for a double-shot espresso and a super-sized bottle of Advil to appear. It didn’t.

  “That probably had to do with the last-minute bit, too,” she said. “But I understand what you’re saying. I’ll call the club owner and chat him up, tell him what a good time Nate had, how it was good publicity for the club for Nate to be there.”

  “Do whatever you have to do,” Sam said.

  Anger boiled up inside her. She was too tired and headachy and heartachy to take Sam’s snippy orders right now. “What do you want me to do,” she snapped, “sleep with him, too?”

  As soon as it slipped out, she regretted it. On so many levels. Into the silence left by Sam’s lack of response, she said, “I’m sorry, Sam. That was really uncalled for. I had a shitty night and I’m not thinking straight. I’ll get some coffee in me and call Harry Z and straighten things out.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said. This time he sounded like he meant it.

  The gratitude surprised her—and made her feel even worse. “Look, it really was great PR for Nate to be seen there. This is going to help him, I promise.”

  “You’re doing a great job,” Sam said, and hung up.

  Hannah held the phone away from her and stared at it suspiciously.

  *

  Hannah sat at the dressing table in her old room and slipped on her favorite strappy black heels. She didn’t really need to touch up her makeup or her hair—the spa people had done wonders—but she was aware of the irony of the situation. In her old room, prepping to go downstairs to one of her parents’ parties…how could it not remind her of nine years ago?

  Instead of staring into the mirror, she closed her eyes and tried some meditative breathing. She had to stop thinking about Nate.

  Everything was different now anyway, entirely different. She felt a hell of a lot better about herself, inside and outside. No longer shy, no longer awkward and wallflowerish.

  Even the room was different.

  Her mother had gone through an Asian phase, and the furniture was all sleek straight lines, black and red lacquer. However, because it was her mother, there had to be something astonishingly overdone and fussy, and that would be the walls: she’d covered them in Chinese silk, red and woven with golden dragons.

  Hannah told herself it did not remind her of the Japanese restaurant they’d eaten at the first day she met Nate. The restaurant where they’d flirted so hard she’d almost come in her seat (and she suspected he’d been just as close).

  She’d been high as a kite that night, not from any substance other than a glass of wine, but from the heady knowledge that her adolescent fantasy was coming true, that she was going to have her night with Nate Fox.

  Well, she’d had it. It had been outstanding. Now it was done, and it was time to move on.

  She opened her eyes and stood, smoothing the folds of fabric along her thighs. The midnight blue halter dress brushed just above her knees. It dipped low in the back and had a spray of sparkling crystals in the front that drew the eye to her cleavage. Her
hair and makeup were impeccable and she looked good enough to kick ass and take no prisoners.

  It was her father’s sixty-fifth birthday, and by god she was going to help him celebrate.

  Focus on the positive. Her father’s party, catching up with Gina yesterday and today, a job well done with Nate at the club. Just think about Nate as a client.

  She left her room, headed down the hall, and started her descent.

  As she rounded the sweeping curve of the staircase, she looked down and saw him.

  Her stomach plummeted even as the rest of her body betrayed her by tingling with sexual anticipation. He looked good enough to nibble on, in a dark suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, the lean, strong lines of his thighs. He wore a pale shirt, open at the collar. No tie. She wanted to taste the column of his throat, push the shirt aside to bite his collarbone. She knew how his skin would taste, how it would feel against her lips. His hair still curled over his collar, and even from here she could tell that his eyes were just as blue as they had been when they’d caught sight of each other all those years before.

  He made her want just by standing there.

  He spoke first. “I was kind of hoping you’d fall into my arms again.”

  She finished walking down the stairs, slowly and deliberately and gracefully. “I’m not seventeen anymore,” she said once she was standing in front of him. “I don’t get flustered by adolescent crushes.”

  “No, you’re definitely all grown up.” His gaze wandered south. Hannah felt a flash of bitchy feminine pride that her cleavage was significantly more impressive than Marta-the-supermodel’s.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. God, was that really her? She sounded so stiff, so formal.

  “Your mother invited me. After all, I am one of your dad’s former clients.”

  Hannah decided she would slowly kill her mother tomorrow. It was just like Joanne to decide that Hannah’s boyfriend should come to the party. Ignoring the fact that Nate wasn’t Hannah’s boyfriend.

  And never was. He’d been a fling, nothing more. That’s all she’d planned on all those years ago, and it was all she and Nate had agreed to.

  Falling in love with him had been her own damn fault.

  Dammit, she wanted to kiss him again. Wanted to wind her fingers through his hair and pull his face down to hers and kiss him until they both forgot everything that was wrong.

  “You’re early,” she accused. She refused to notice the way his dark lashes framed his eyes. The sensual curve of his bottom lip.

  “I was hoping we’d have the chance to talk.”

  “From my end, it looks like everything’s in order. Sam told me about the club snubbing you by not asking you to perform and not having your picture up. I talked to Harry Z and he definitely wants you to autograph a photo for the wall.”

  Harry had, in fact, been hugely apologetic. He’d had a space on the wall but hadn’t had time to corner Nate. There was a great photo of Nate and Marta that would be perfect, he said.

  “Wow, that’s great,” Nate said. “You’re on top of everything.”

  They stared at each other. Hannah knew he was probably thinking the same thing she was: the last time she’d been on top of him. Sexual heat warmed her from the inside out.

  “I wanted to thank you again for arranging all that,” he went on. “I think it really did help. The press certainly won’t have anything to complain about. Except maybe that I left early.”

  Despite Andre’s insistence that Nate had left alone, Hannah had trouble believing he wasn’t interested in Marta, not after that kiss.

  “We can spin that so they eat it right up,” she said. She wasn’t going to bring up Marta, not right now.

  “You really think so?”

  She nodded.

  It was all about business. He was making that clear.

  “Look,” he said. “About the…what I said about you just wanting a fantasy fuck—it was really out of line. I know that’s not—”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she interrupted. “I caught you off guard. But we both knew it was time for me to go. We agreed to get it out of our systems, right? We let it go on too long, because it should never have affected your career. I was unprofessional in that regard, and I appreciate your keeping me on as your publicist despite that…misstep.”

  “You’re the best there is,” Nate said. She heard the compliment in his voice, but his expression was guarded, unreadable. “I’d be stupid to let you go.”

  The words twisted her stomach. If only he were saying those words about her personally.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It wouldn’t be going so well if you weren’t putting your all into it, too. I’ll know we’ve succeeded when you’re on top.” Before he could respond, she said, “Guests will be arriving soon, and I need to help my mother. Why don’t you go into the living room and get yourself a drink? My father’s in there and I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

  She needed to walk away from him before she said anything else, before she went all unprofessional over him again.

  Keep it to business.

  *

  Nate nibbled on a toast point topped with caviar and the tiniest dollop of sour cream, and watched Hannah across the room. The party was a glittering who’s who of the music world, all turned out to celebrate the birthday of one of the top producers in the business. Hannah was making the rounds, spending a few minutes chatting with each of her parents’ guests. He liked how she made them comfortable, encouraged them to be at ease, with a light touch on their arm or shoulder, with a joke, with her open body posture. It wasn’t forced or insincere, either, and he suspected that was one of the reasons she was so damn good at her job. She did it because she cared, not for the money or power or prestige.

  He’d been that way about music once upon a time. Back when writing and performing were a simple, sheer joy. He still loved performing, still loved that feedback from listeners.

  The writing…well, it would come back eventually.

  But Hannah wouldn’t. She’d made that clear in their conversation by the stairs. She wanted it to be all business. He’d done what she wanted him to, and she was glad he had.

  Then why weren’t either of them happy?

  He knew she wasn’t happy. He could tell that by how rigid her back had been, how she’d held herself away from him. Miles different from the way she curved and curled around him in bed, how she laughed and flirted, how she danced when she stood in front of the stage.

  Somehow, he had to tell her that it didn’t matter, that he’d rather be with her than be on top. That in the end, it was his music that would make or break him, not how many pictures he was in, or how many interviews he landed. And when she was gone even his music was less. He had to tell her she was brilliant at what she did, but he’d rather she go put someone else on top.

  She might not understand. But he had to try.

  He stared at the remainder of the toast point. Did he even like caviar? He put it in a cocktail napkin and deposited it on a passing waiter’s tray.

  He was torn between staying here and watching her, like a creepy stalker across the room, and leaving, to go back to another lifeless hotel room. He couldn’t talk to her here, that much he knew. He didn’t know what to say, for one thing. And he didn’t want to take anything away from her father’s special night.

  He’d go, he decided. He needed to think.

  He said his goodbyes to her parents, hoping as he had when he’d said hello that he didn’t telegraph “Hi, I adore screwing your daughter seven ways to Sunday,” and fled the party.

  At the hotel, he found a package in his suite. The photo from Harry Z for him to sign. He opened the padded envelope and slid out the print.

  Oh god.

  It was of him and Marta. It must have been taken when he was hugging her goodbye last night. Because even though he knew damn well it hadn’t been anything more than a friendly kiss on the cheek, the angle was su
ch that it looked like he was all over her.

  Even Sam had commented, having seen coverage of the club opening on TV, that Nate and Marta had looked quite cozy. No wonder. No wonder Hannah was so frosty, too.

  She thought he’d gotten her out of his system.

  Unable to sit still, he paced the suite. In the sitting area, a black baby grand sat against a bank of windows that looked out over the Los Angeles skyline.

  Angrily he slammed the piano open, uncaring if anyone heard. He was in the penthouse suite anyway; probably nobody could hear.

  He wanted the music to carry him away. Take with it his pain and worry and conscious thought. He started with Journey’s “Open Arms,” one of the first songs he’d picked out on the keys when he was learning to play, and went on to other songs, mostly his own, just letting whatever music wanted to happen, happen. No thoughts of Hannah. No thoughts of anything else.

  Gradually, though, he came to realize two things: that he was playing something new, something he’d never learned or heard before…

  …and that it was all about Hannah.

  As the music formed, he saw her in his mind’s eye; it pulled him back to her even as her image, as memories of her drew the music out of him.

  It was a song for her.

  It was her song.

  Hands stilled on the keys. The music still surged within him. The melody, the words, all coming together. It was a feeling Nate had all but forgotten. The sense that everything was right, that he’d somehow tapped into something other. Something that pulled the music from his soul, releasing everything he felt inside.

  Hannah had given that back to him.

  He wanted to share it with her.

  He wanted her to see how much he needed her.

  How necessary she was in his life.

  He played through the last few lines again, then grabbed a pad of hotel stationary and started to scribble. In moments, the page filled, lyrics and chords and snippets of melody.

  The hair prickled at his nape, the sense that he was being watched. Nate turned around on the piano bench to see his manager leaning against the door frame. Sam must have come into the suite when he’d been playing, oblivious to the sound of the door opening.