Lure of Song and Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “You keep him down until we get him to the emergency room, and I’m going to have to start believing you,” Oz warned. “And I don’t want to believe you. I’m not feeling a damned thing except irritated that you’re singing to him and not me.”

  Pippa almost smiled. “If you weren’t so thickheaded, you’d fall asleep at the wheel. Mind the road, and I’ll mind donkey brain back there.”

  She returned to the lullaby she’d decided on, singing softly. Maybe the drunk would think she was the radio. She had to keep one eye on Oz to be certain he wasn’t getting sleepy too. But he seemed fascinated, casting glances in the rearview mirror far more often than he should as she put their passenger back to sleep.

  She’d sung Robbie to sleep on many occasions. She didn’t want to remember them, but the knowledge didn’t go away. Back then, the lullabies had left her drained and even more alone than before, which had created some very unhappy music. She couldn’t put herself to sleep.

  But this time, with no emotion involved other than a need for peace, the song left her energized. For a change, she was being useful. The world’s scariness went away when she knew she could help.

  Oz followed a hospital sign off the highway and into a suburb. Pippa tried to concentrate on the song and not her jumpiness as he drove through unfamiliar streets of neat little houses. She’d distanced herself from the city and its enormous population for good reason. She needed isolation to prevent her roller-coaster temperament from being driven by too many people. She no longer knew how to behave among strangers, feared the noise and crowds and her reactions to them. She could feel herself shrinking into nothingness already, despite all the work she’d done to become strong.

  She’d only practiced control among friends in a small, safe environment. And even then, she’d needed her studio to release all the pent-up rage and frustration hammering inside her some days. The city was too dangerous, too volatile. Too many bad things happened there. She had only to look to the past hour for proof of that.

  Oz pulled up in front of the emergency doors, took one look at her, said nothing, and climbed out of the truck, leaving her safely inside. Pippa was grateful that he didn’t expect her to go into the chaos of the emergency room and find a doctor. A hospital would unbalance her of a certainty. She squinched down in the seat and threaded her fingers to hold herself together.

  Their passenger woke as the medics lowered the tailgate, but she didn’t dare sing with anyone other than Oz around. The bully came up fighting, but with Oz’s help, the medics strapped him on a gurney. No more busting jaws. Oz returned to the cab, took another look at her hunched position, and reached for the ignition.

  “I told them I found him beside the road. He’s in no shape to know what hit him.” He guided the truck out of the parking lot and toward the highway.

  Thoughts and emotions all racing incoherently, Pippa tried not to glance too often at Oz’s stoic expression. She feared his silence meant he was regretting bringing her with him, that he finally realized how damaged she was.

  In that outrageous Tommy Bahama shirt, he lost some of his glitz and sophistication. He had dirt on his trousers from a collision with the gravel and a small cut on the corner of his lip from a collision with the drunk’s fist. Instead of sophistication, he exuded frightening strength and masculinity. Even orange flowers couldn’t take that away.

  Maybe, if she tried to act normal… Could she be normal? For a day?

  “Are you taking your godson a present?” she finally asked, just to break the unspoken conversation in both their heads.

  He cursed at her reminder and swung the truck into a turn lane. Before she could catch the dash or panic, he asked, “Mind coming back to my place? I’ll clean up and pick up the gift.”

  Yes, she minded, but it would be rude to say so. She was on unknown territory, afraid to put the wrong foot forward and trying desperately to behave as if she weren’t psychotic.

  She was trusting the damned man to understand and be patient with her! She had baloney for brains.

  She nodded agreement to his suggestion, keeping her fears to herself.

  ***

  Oz didn’t worry that Pippa would turn up her nose in disgust at his bachelor condo. After Alys died, he’d moved here rather than deal with the house she’d so lovingly decorated. He’d brought Donal’s familiar furniture to the condo, but he’d had a designer buy and arrange the rest of the place, adding the decorator touches women expected.

  After Heidi, the nanny, had disappeared with Donal, he’d had to hire a maid service to keep the place neat. These days, he was seldom there except to sleep, so he hadn’t left much of a mark on it. Pippa should be safe enough admiring his awards and his ocean view long enough for him to make a fast change.

  He was more concerned about Pippa herself, but he’d been the one determined to haul her spoiled ass back to town, and now he had to deal with the result. Did he keep pushing or let her retreat up the mountain?

  He had a feeling if he let her retreat, she’d never come down again. And he couldn’t help it: he was excited about her voice. Evil or not, it was amazing, and his curiosity knew no bounds. He hadn’t been this excited about anyone or anything in… Since he’d married Alys. And that had worn off. So he wouldn’t let himself get too involved this time.

  Returning to his black-and-white front room wearing stone-washed jeans and a less enthusiastic blue print shirt, Oz halted in the doorway.

  Pippa had taken the black cushions from his sprawling couch and arranged them in an acoustic shield around his stereo equipment. She’d turned off the surround sound, sat on the floor in front of the shield, and directed the front speakers toward her, so she had a perfect balance of resonance.

  She was singing along with Michael Jackson’s Thriller album. And she did it better than Michael. She was scary good.

  And damn if she didn’t look like a bouquet of orange and yellow tropical flowers brightening his chrome and glass decor. He hadn’t realized how cold the room was until her red-gold hair warmed it better than a fire. He needed to install a fireplace.

  He wanted to linger and admire, but they were already running late.

  “Don’t mind me, I only live here,” he said in amusement when he approached, and she jerked out of her reverie.

  She hastily began returning cushions to his couch. “I threw away all my CDs. I miss them.”

  “I hope you have a good therapist.” He flung the rest of the cushions back and let her fuss with arranging the decorator pillows. “You are a living embodiment of music. Surviving without it must be like living without water.”

  She held up a photo of Donal chasing a butterfly that he’d had framed and left hidden behind his CDs. “Surviving without music may be somewhat akin to surviving without a son.”

  The pain around his heart crushed like a vise. He took the small photo and set it back on the shelf, sticking to the topic she’d tried to divert. “You have the power to bring back the music.”

  She shrugged her narrow shoulders and strode toward the door as if eager to escape. “You’ve not seen how I can destroy. Don’t push me, Oswin.”

  “That’s what I do best, push.” Hand at the small of her back, he shoved her across the threshold into the condo corridor. “Nothing would ever get done unless some of us take the reins and lead. So, do you want to be pushed or led?”

  She elbowed him with her sharp elbow and strode down to the elevator, avoiding his pushing hand. She stood straight and proud as any goddess. Guess that told him where he stood in the scheme of things.

  Chapter 18

  Pippa understood Oz’s Hawaiian shirt penchant when he introduced her to Nick and Mary Townsend and their beach house. They were native Hawaiians, and elements of their history adorned every shelf and wall. A hand-carved canoe served as a mantel over a polished stone vent-free fireplace.
Stone statues guarded the lush plants visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows off the terrace. Coral and turtle shell artwork blended with the casual but expensive wicker furniture and tropical pillows.

  In the middle of the lovely oasis, bright red and blue plastic toys covered the bamboo floors, and Pippa relaxed a fraction.

  While the adults talked, Pippa retreated to the children. Children were simple. They liked attention. All she had to do was admire their artwork, push their toys, and read to them. She’d even learned to allow her pleasure to seep through in her voice, so they tended to behave better when she was around—the reason the day care loved having her.

  She didn’t know how Oz was surviving with the devastation of losing that gorgeous little boy she’d seen in the photo. No wonder he was pushing her, even if thinking she could help him wasn’t rational. Losing his son must be eating him alive.

  As she played with the children, Pippa knew the director was studying her and his wife was taking her measure, but she no longer cared. It was liberating to know that she didn’t have to perform for anyone anymore—even if they figured out who she was. She no longer needed anyone’s love or approval. And that went for the damned man analyzing her as if she were a Picasso he didn’t understand.

  By the time they left an hour later, she was in control again, or as much as she could be surrounded by city traffic, with a sexy but silent man at her side, while contemplating what they would find on her computer.

  So, she wasn’t exactly serene.

  “Does your brother know we’re coming over?” she asked when the silence had stretched too long.

  “I warned him earlier. He’ll be there. He’s dying to figure out the puzzle. You ought to try singing for him and see if a human exists inside his robot mind anywhere.”

  Pippa tilted him a reluctant half-grin. “A Syrene song maybe? Want to see if he’ll follow me anywhere?”

  Oz grunted and cast her a look of displeasure. “You think you enthralled your audience with your voice? That they didn’t buy your music because it was good but because you magicked them into it?”

  “I’m not that crazy. I’m good, and they got their money’s worth when they bought my songs.” She sat back and folded her arms, staring at the eclectic array of houses in the neighborhood they’d entered. “But it does leave open the question of whether or not I’d be popular if it hadn’t been for…” She hesitated, unwilling to name the evil. “This is a ridiculous topic. I can’t talk about it. It is what it is.”

  “Do you have any songs that aren’t about sex?” he asked with interest. “Something that will make Conan clap and sing like you did with the woman and her kid?”

  “Still don’t believe me, do you?” she taunted. “And the truth is, I don’t know. Different people react differently. I sing a love song, and one man hands me flowers, another tries to rape me. You don’t seem to react at all. Lullabies are usually safe. You want to put him to sleep?”

  Oz chuckled. “He could use some sleep. I’m inclined to try.”

  “Well, I’m not. He could fall so deeply asleep that he won’t hear a smoke alarm go off, and it would be my fault if he died of smoke inhalation. I don’t want the responsibility of any more lives. Period. The end.”

  Oz’s phone buzzed as he pulled into the narrow drive of what would be called a faded blue fishing shack anywhere else but in California. Pippa figured the Realtors called it an adorable, authentic bungalow, and given the location not far from Redondo Beach, it probably cost five times more than her place in the mountains. There was no yard to speak of. A towering, modern blocks-of-glass townhome occupied the entire lot on one side. A shack more bedraggled than Conan’s adorned a scruffy lot on the left. A bright red and blue parrot squawked from the tropical greenery on the scruffy shack’s collapsing porch. Conan had interesting neighbors.

  Truck safely parked, Oz pulled the vibrating phone off his belt, read the screen, and cursed. “Let’s get inside and see if Conan can trace this.”

  Rudely leaving her sitting, he jumped from the cab and took three big strides to the blue house’s peeling maroon front door. Not bothering to knock, he shoved past the door, leaving it open so Pippa could follow.

  “Well, Pippa, my dear, you know your place in his life,” she mocked herself, climbing out and pushing the seat up so she could retrieve the computer behind it.

  Carrying the heavy equipment up to the porch, she decided she preferred a man who had his own priorities. She didn’t want any more needy men clinging to her skirts. She enjoyed her independence and liked that he put his son first.

  But she wouldn’t be female if she didn’t enjoy the looks of appreciation both men gave her when she walked in carrying a stupid box of metal. Pippa wasn’t at all certain if it was her or the computer they were admiring.

  “What?” she demanded, setting the box down on a crate after Conan knocked the books off it to clear space. “Am I wearing feathers in my hair?”

  “You’ve got muscles,” Conan said—idiotically, in her opinion.

  “I have bare arms. I know how to use them. Get over it. This isn’t the beach, and I’m not a bunny.” She glared at Oz, who was fighting a grin. He dropped his BlackBerry on the table in front of his brother, distracting him.

  “He’s not groveling yet,” Oz said. “Try harder.”

  She’d spoken with irritation. And neither man had fallen on the floor and writhed. She’d once sent a stagehand into epileptic spasms when she’d yelled at him. Huffing, she sought a place to sit.

  And gave up. Conan’s entire front room was devoted to equipment, books, files, and an incomprehensible clutter of mechanical and electrical parts. With his back to the front door, he occupied the only chair, the one in front of a bank of computers on the interior wall. Really bad feng shui, she observed.

  Leaning against a wall as Oz was doing, Pippa met his gaze. She was learning to challenge the man. She was also learning he liked it. “What sent you dashing in here? Who is he tracing?” She tilted her head in Conan’s direction.

  Conan had already dived into the BlackBerry and was doing something mysterious with a piece of equipment hooked to his computer, no longer aware of her or her muscles.

  “Librarian,” Oz replied, losing his smirk. “New message. It only says, ‘Santa Domenica.’”

  “Never heard of it.” Pippa glanced around, locating what appeared to be a dusty laptop on one of the shelves. She unburied the case from a pair of earphones, a diver’s mask, and a broken pen.

  Conan paid her no attention, but Oz was instantly at her side, carrying a chair from another room so she could sit and open the machine.

  “Is this how his guests usually entertain themselves, or are we special?” she asked, opening the shell and turning it on to see if there was any battery.

  “You think he entertains in here? If he’s even got a girlfriend, I don’t know about it. We’re not the closest of families.” Placing his hands on the back of her chair, Oz peered over her shoulder as she called up an Internet browser.

  He smelled of a spicy aftershave that had her mouth watering. The hands that had brought her to ecstasy the night before were propped right behind her shoulders. Heightened awareness wasn’t good for concentration. She missed a key, and he leaned over to correct her spelling, hitting the right combination on the keyboard for her.

  Would he want another night with her, or had she scared him off?

  She couldn’t care. She wouldn’t allow herself to care.

  “Santa Domenica, Italy. Santa Domenica, California. Want to take bets?” Still leaning over Pippa’s shoulder, Oz hit Enter on the California link.

  “Population 1500. Looks like desert. Not far from Barstow.” Pippa rattled off the important facts as she scrolled down. “I’m betting two gas stations, a church, and a trailer park filled with scrawny dogs.”
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br />   ***

  Fighting the need to yell at his brother to hurry up, to track the damned message, do something, Oz settled for tugging Pippa’s hair. “Thou shalt not judge. If the Librarian lives there, one of those trailers contains some damned sophisticated equipment. It’s not easy to remain anonymous. Do they even have Internet in the desert?”

  It was easier to believe the messages were crank calls meant to manipulate either him or Pippa into something. If Oz let himself believe that the Librarian knew his son, he’d have to find a means of reaching through the phone and shaking him.

  So he concentrated on the bright spot in Conan’s dingy hut—Pippa.

  Nick and Mary had approved of her instantly. Oz had known they would, especially when Pippa kept the boys wildly entertained. Mary was satisfied that her husband wouldn’t be flirting with one of Oz’s usual morally handicapped dates. Neither of them had recognized the former teenage idol, but then, she hadn’t been singing.

  “No idea what deserts have,” Pippa muttered, attempting to call up Google Earth. But the laptop battery died, blacking the screen.

  “I’ll check it out,” Conan said, breaking into the conversation as if he’d been listening all along. He tossed the new BlackBerry back to Oz. “Not a trace. Your caller is wilier than a coyote.”

  “We don’t even know if it means Santa Domenica, California,” Pippa said quietly.

  Oz looked her over to make certain she was okay. Passive had not been her natural state all day. She was twiddling with the lock of hair he’d tugged, wrapping it around her finger.

  “Santa Domenica can wait.” Conan began pushing aside the collection of books and papers in front of his monitor. “I can’t believe this Librarian is going to all this trouble out of meanness. He’s either psychotic or providing clues.” He produced a screwdriver from the depth of a drawer spilling with cables. “Give me your computer.”