A Very Gothic Christmas

by Christine Feehan

  The smile faded from Trevor’s face and color crept up his neck into his face. Tara gasped, outraged. “Trevor didn’t hurt your stupid staircase.”

  “And you need to learn how to speak to adults, young lady,” Dillon concluded, switching his glare to her furious little face.

  Jessica stood up, drawing Tara up with her. She reached down to help Trevor to his feet. “Trevor slipped on something on the stairs, just as I did, Dillon,” she informed him icily. “Perhaps, instead of jumping to conclusions about Trevor’s behavior, you should ask your other guests to be more careful and not spill things on the stairs that will send people flying.”

  Dillon climbed to his feet slowly, his face an expressionless mask. “What’s on the stairs?”

  “I didn’t stop and check,” Jessica answered.

  “Well, let’s go see.” He started up the stairs with Jessica following him closely.

  The top stair was shiny, a clear, oily substance covering it. Dillon hunkered down and studied it. “Looks like cooking oil, right out of the kitchen.” He glanced down at the twins who were waiting at the bottom of the stairs as if suspecting them.

  “They didn’t spill oil here. They were with me,” Jessica snapped. She reached past him, touched the oil with a fingertip and brought it to her mouth. “Vegetable oil. Someone must have poured this oil onto the stair.” Oil was used in magical ceremonies to invoke spirits. She remembered that piece of information all too well.

  “Or accidentally spilled some and didn’t realize it.” Dillon’s blue gaze slid over her. “And I wasn’t accusing the kids, it didn’t occur to me they did this. Don’t jump to conclusions, Jess.”

  “Let’s go ask the others,” she challenged him.

  He sighed. “You’re angry with me.” He held out his leather-covered hand to her, an instinctive gesture. The moment he realized what he’d done, he dropped his hand to his side.

  “Of course I’m angry with you, Dillon, what did you expect?” Jessica tilted her head to look up at him. “Don’t treat me like a child, and don’t use that infuriating patronizing voice on me either. I told you the accidents that have been happening at home could easily be explained away. I’ll guarantee you, no one in this house is going to admit to spilling cooking oil on the stairs.”

  He shrugged. “So what if they don’t? This wasn’t directed at Trevor and Tara—how could it be? We’re recording down there. Why would anyone think the kids would come down? No one could possibly have predicted that I would be calling for you.”

  “I disagree. I love music and I’m a sound engineer, and everyone here knows it. And you mentioned earlier in the kitchen that the twins could come down later and watch.”

  He raised his eyebrow at her. “Everyone, including Brenda, is in the studio. How do you explain that?”

  “The twins were with me the entire time, Dillon,” Jessica countered, her green eyes beginning to smolder, “how do you explain that? And speaking of Brenda, why in the world would you give your consent to allow that woman to hold an insurance policy on you and your children?”

  “She’s family, Jessie, it’s harmless enough, although costly,” he shrugged carelessly, “and it makes her feel a part of something.”

  “It makes me feel like a vulture is circling overhead,” Jessica muttered. She followed him back down the stairs to where the twins waited expectantly.

  “Hey, we’re wasting time,” Brian called. “Are you two going to come and work or are you going to discuss the positive versus the negative flow of the universe around us? What’s going on out there?”

  “We fell down the stairs,” Dillon said grimly. “We’ll be right there.” He leaned close to Jessica. “Take a breath, Mama Tiger, don’t rip my head off,” Dillon teased, searching for a way to ease the tension between them. “Pull in the claws.” Her instant, fierce defense of his children amused and pleased him.

  Jessica glared at the twins. Both backed away innocently, shaking their heads in unison, awed that their father knew their secret pet name for Jessica. “I didn’t tell him. Honest,” Trevor added, when she kept glaring. “And he didn’t mention fangs.”

  “Does she have fangs?” Dillon asked his son, his eyebrow shooting up. He was so relieved the boy hadn’t hurt himself in the fall.

  “Oh, yeah,” Trevor answered, “absolutely. In a heartbeat. Fear for your life if you mess with us.”

  Dillon grinned suddenly, his face lighting up, mischief flickering for a brief moment in the deep blue of his eyes. “Believe me, son, I would.”

  Trevor stood absolutely still, shaken at the emotion pouring into him at his father’s words. Jessica’s hand briefly touched his shoulder in silent understanding.

  “Come on, Jessica, we could use a little help.” Dillon caught her arm and marched her down the hall as if she were his prisoner. He leaned close to her as they walked, his breath warm against her ear. “And I am not volatile.” He glanced back at the twins, beckoning to them. “If you two can keep quiet, you can come and watch. Brenda! I have a job for you.”

  Jessica made a face at Trevor behind Dillon’s back that set the children laughing as Dillon dragged her into the sound room.

  “A job?” Brenda stretched languidly as she stood up. “Surely not, Dillon. I haven’t actually worked in years. The idea is a bit on the daunting side.”

  “I think you’ll find it easy enough. There’s oil on the stairway, a large amount of it. It makes the stairs dangerous and it needs to be cleaned up. My household staff is gone, we’re all pitching in, so this is your task for the day.”

  Brenda widened her eyes in shocked dismay. “You can’t possibly be serious, Dillon. It was a terrible decision to allow your staff to leave. What were you thinking to do such a crazy thing?”

  “That it was Christmastime and they might want to be with their families,” Dillon lied. The truth was he hadn’t wanted anyone to witness him falling flat on his face while he worked with the band. It was terrifying to think of the enormity of what he was doing. “You knew there was no staff, that we would be working. You agreed to help with the everyday chores if I allowed you to come.”

  “Well, chores, of course. Fluffing the towels in the bathroom, not cleaning up a mess on the stairs. You,” she pointed to Tara, “surely you could do this little job.”

  Before Tara could reply Dillon shook his head. “You, Brenda, get to it. Tara and Trevor, sit over there. Jessica, take a look at my notations and listen to the tracks and see if it makes any sense to you. I’m ready to pull out my hair here.” He pulled Jessica over to a chair, pressing down on her shoulders until she sat. “It’s a nightmare.”

  Jessica waited until he was safely in the studio before muttering her reply. “It is now. Working with Dillon Wentworth is going to be pure hell.” She winked at the twins. “Wait until you see him. He’s all passion and energy. Quicksilver. And he yells when he doesn’t get exactly what he wants.”

  “Big surprise there,” Trevor said drolly.

  Brenda threw a pencil onto the floor, a small rebellion. “That man is an overbearing, dominating madman when he’s working. I don’t know where he gets the mistaken idea he can boss me around.”

  “True, but he’s a musical genius and he makes lots and lots of money for everyone,” Jessica reminded, frowning down at the sheets of music. It was obvious Dillon’s smaller motor skills were lacking, his musical notations were barely legible scratches.

  Brenda sighed. “Fine then, it’s true, we need our wonderful cash machine, so I’ll do my part to make him happy. One of you kiddies should take a picture of me scrubbing the stairs like Cinderella. It might be worth a fortune.” She gave her tinkling laugh. “I know Robert would certainly love to see such a thing, but then, it would ruin his image of me and I can’t let him think I’m capable of working.” She winked at Trevor. “I’m trusting you not to say a word to him. If you both want to come with me, I’ll even pass on smoking, which the master has decreed I can’t do in his house.”


  “Well, you shouldn’t smoke. It’s not good for you.” Tara pointed out judiciously.

  Brenda made a face at her. “Fine, stay here and listen to your father yell at everyone, but it won’t be nearly as entertaining as watching me.” Her high heels tapped out her annoyance as she left.

  Jessica spent an hour deciphering Dillon’s musical notations then listening through the tracks he had already recorded, trying to find the mix Dillon was looking for. The problem was, the band members weren’t hearing the same thing in their heads that Dillon was hearing. Don was no lead guitarist; his gift lay in his skill with the bass. It was apparent to Jessica that the band needed a lead, but she wasn’t altogether certain who could play Dillon’s music the way he wanted it to be played. Most musicians had egos. No one was going to allow Dillon to tell him how to play.

  She saw that the band had once more ground to a halt. Brian grimaced at her through the glass. Paul shook his head at her, worry plain on his face. She leaned over to flip the switch to flood the room with sound. Dillon paced back and forth, energy pouring out of him, filling the studio, flashes of brilliance, of pure genius mixed with building frustration and impatience.

  “Why can’t any of you hear it?” Dillon smacked his palm to his head, stormed over to the guitar leaning against the wall. “What’s so difficult about anticipating the beat? Slow the melody down, you’re rushing the riff. It isn’t to show what an awesome player you are alone, it’s a harmony, a blending so that it smokes.” He cradled the guitar, held it lovingly, almost tenderly. The need to play what he heard in his head was so strong his body trembled.

  Watching him through the glass, Jessica felt her heart shatter. She could read him, and his need to bring the music to life, so easily. Dillon had always been exacting, a perfectionist when it came to his music. His passion came through in his composing, in his lyrics, in his playing. It was what had shot the band to the top and all of them knew it. They wanted it again, and they were banking on him to find it for them.

  Dillon glared at Don. “Try again and this time get it right.”

  Visibly sweating, Don glanced uneasily at the others. “I’m not going to play it any differently than I did the last time, Dillon. I’m not you. I’ll never be you. I can’t hear what you want me to hear just by you telling me about blending and smoke and strings. I’m not you.”

  Dillon swore, his blue eyes burning with such intensity Don stepped away from him and held up his hand. “I want this, I do. I’m telling you, we need to find someone else to play lead guitar because it’s not going to be me. And no matter who we get, Dillon, it still won’t be you. You aren’t ever going to be satisfied.”

  Dillon winced as if Don had struck him. The two men stared at one another for a long moment and then Dillon turned and abruptly stalked out of the room. He stood in the sound room, head down, breathing deeply, trying to push down despair. He never should have tried, never should have thought he could do it. Aloud, he cursed his hands, cursed his scarred, useless body, cursed his passion for music.

  Tears swam in Tara’s eyes and she buried her face against her brother’s shoulder. Trevor put his arm around his sister and looked at Jessica.

  The movement snapped Dillon back to reality. Jessica was fiddling with a row of keys, concentrating intently, not looking at him. “Jess!” The sight of her was inspiring, a gift! He stalked across the room like a prowling panther, caught her arm and pulled her to him. “You do it, Jess, I know you hear what I hear. It’s there inside of you, it’s always been there. We’ve always shared that connection. Get in there and play that song the way it’s meant to be played.” He was dragging her toward the door. “You’ve been playing guitar since you were five.”

  “What are thinking? I can’t play with your band!” Jessica was appalled. “Don will get it right, stop yelling at him and give him time.”

  “He’ll never get it right, he doesn’t love the melody. You have to love it, Jessica. Remember all those nights we sat up playing in the kitchen? The music’s in you, you live it and breathe it. It’s alive to you the same way it is for me.”

  “But that was different, it was just the two of us.”

  “I know you play guitar brilliantly, I’ve heard you. I know you would never give up playing, you hear it the same way I hear it.” He was shoving her, actually pushing her as she mulishly tried to dig in her heels.

  Jessica looked to the twins for support but they were wearing identical grins. “She plays every day, sometimes for hours,” Tara volunteered helpfully.

  “Little traitor,” Jessica hissed, “you’ve been hanging around with your brother too long. Both of you have dish duty for the next week.”

  “Both of us?” Trevor squeaked. “I’m innocent in this. Come on, Tara, let’s leave them to it. We can explore that game room a little more.”

  “Deserters,” Jessica added. “Rats off the sinking ship. I’ll remember this.” She was holding the door to the studio closed with her foot.

  “Actually, I think it will be fun to catch Aunt Brenda cleaning the goop off the stairs,” Tara said mischievously. She flounced out with a little wave and Trevor sauntered after her, grinning from ear to ear.

  “It’s obvious that you raised them,” Dillon said, his lips against her ear, his arm hard around her waist. “They both have smart mouths on them.”

  “Stop making such a spectacle! You have the entire band grinning at us like apes!” Jessica pushed away from him, made a show of straightening her clothes and smoothing her hair. Her chin went up. “I’ll do this, Dillon. I think I have an idea of what you’re looking for, but it will take some time to pull it out of my head. Don’t yell at me while I’m working. Not once, do you understand? Do not raise your voice to me or I will walk out of that room so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

  “I’d like to get away with saying that,” Brian observed.

  “You all can take a break. Jessica is going to save the day for us.”

  “I am not.” She glared at Dillon. “I’m just going to see if I can figure it out and if I can get it, I’ll play it for you. Do you mind, Don?”

  “I’m grateful, Jess.” Don smiled for the first time since entering the studio. “Yell very loud if you need help and we’ll all come running.”

  “Great, the place is soundproof.” Jessica picked up the guitar and idly began to play a blues riff, allowing her fingers to wander over the strings, her ear tuning itself to the tones of the instrument, familiarizing herself with the feel of it. “You’re leaving me with Dillon, just remember that.”

  chapter

  6

  JESSICA CLOSED HER EYES as she played, allowing the music to move through her body. Her heart and soul. It wasn’t right, there was something missing, something she wasn’t quite hitting. It was so close, so very close, but she couldn’t quite reach it. She shook her head, listening with her heart. “It’s not quite what it should be. It’s almost there, but it isn’t perfect.”

  There was frustration in her voice, enough that Dillon checked what he would have said and waited a heartbeat so that his own frustration wouldn’t betray him. She didn’t need him raging at her. What she needed was complete harmony between them. Unlike Don, Jessica was aware of what he wanted, she heard a similar sound in her own head, but it wasn’t coming through her fingers. “Let’s try something else, Jess. Pull it back a bit. Hold the notes longer, let the music breathe.”

  She nodded without looking at him, intense concentration on her face as her fingers lovingly moved over the strings. She listened to the flow, the pitch, a moody, introspective score, opening slowly, building, until the pain and heartbreak swelled, spilled over, filling the room until her heart was breaking and there were tears in her eyes. Her fingers stopped moving abruptly. “It’s not the guitar, Dillon. The sound is there, haunting and vivid, the emotions pouring out of the music. Listen, right here, it’s right here,” she played the notes once, twice, her fingers lingering, drawing out the sounds. “This isn�
��t a piece where we can just lay a track and have bass and drums doing their thing. It isn’t ever going to be enough.”

  He snapped his fingers, indicating for her to play again, his head cocked to one side, his eyes closed. “A saxophone? Something soft and melancholy? Right there, cutting into that passage, lonely, something lonely.”

  Jessica nodded and she smiled, her entire face lighting up. “Exactly, that’s it exactly. The sax has to cut in right there and take the spotlight for just a few bars, the guitar fading a bit into the background. This melody is too much for just bass and drums. We just aren’t looking at the entire picture. When we mix it, we can try a few things, but I’d like to hear what it would sound like with Robert giving us synthesized orchestra sounds on the keyboard. This song should have more texture to it. The vocal will add the depth we need.”

  Dillon paced across the room, once, twice, then stopped in front of her. “I can hear the saxophone perfectly. It has to come in right on the beat in the middle of the buildup.”

  She nodded. “I’m excited—I think it will work. I’ve got the ideas for mixing. Don can come in and play it . . .”

  “No!” He nearly bit her head off, his blue eyes burning at her.

  He looked moody, dark. Intriguing. Jessica nearly groaned. She looked away from him, wishing she didn’t find him so attractive. Wishing it was only chemistry sizzling between them and not so many other things.

  “Don will never have your passion, Jess. He knows that, he as much as said so. He told me to find another lead.”

  She leaned the guitar very carefully against the wall. “Well, it isn’t going to be me. I can’t play the way you want—I don’t have enough experience. And even if I did, this is a men’s club. Very few musicians want to admit that a woman can handle a guitar.”

  “You’ll have the experience when we need it. I’ll help you,” he promised. “And the band wants this to work. They’ll try anything to keep it going forward.”