After Midnight

by Grimm, Sarah

  “Headache?”

  She raised her eyebrow as she placed his water before him.

  “You keep rubbing your temple,” he explained.

  She did? “Is Dominic feeling better today?”

  “I haven’t seen him. We’re meeting at the studio up the street in about an hour.”

  “You’re in town to record?”

  “Noon to midnight, six days a week for the next few months.”

  “It’s a nice studio. Pete’s a good guy.” Why was she making conversation when she was supposed to be working on a plan to get him to leave?

  Mentally rolling her eyes at herself, she started to turn away when he held up something in his hand. A compact disc, her name in bold script across the front.

  He placed the disc atop the bar. “You sent this to me.”

  “I did,” she admitted.

  “Why?”

  She didn’t know why, hadn’t taken the time to think about the reasons behind her actions. Just slipped the case from her collection upstairs, boxed it up, and sent it to his manager. She was surprised that he’d received it.

  “You didn’t have it” was the best she could come up with.

  A look of contemplation crossed his face. “And I needed it because…it’s the most important one?”

  “It’s hard to find. They didn’t make many of that one.”

  He nodded as if he accepted her simple answer, even though she was certain he didn’t. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He studied her for a moment before his gaze dropped, came to rest on her hands so near his atop the bar. She held her breath, waiting for him to comment or question, as people were inclined to do when they first noticed her scars or two missing fingernails. He did neither. His hand shifted closer, settled next to hers. His thumb lifted, ran along the pale, jagged line of the largest of her scars.

  The trembling started in her legs and worked up her body. She recoiled, tucking her hand into her front pocket and out of view.

  He frowned. “You look tired today, Isabeau.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Do you ever take a day off?”

  With the abrupt change of subject, she was able to regain a bit of her composure. “Yes.”

  “What do you do on your day off?”

  “What do I do?”

  “Do you go to the movies? Into Manhattan? Do you go shopping?” His lips curved when she wrinkled her brow in confusion. “It’s not a trick question, Isa. What do you do to relax?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “I like to go to Astoria, to the restaurants,” she confided.

  He cocked his head and regarded her for a moment. “Isn’t that a lot like being here?”

  “No. I don’t have to cook the meals there, just enjoy them.”

  “You never feel like getting away from the noise and the crowds?”

  “I like the noise.”

  “Do you?” he asked quietly, his voice edged with disbelief. “Or do you hate silence?”

  The room was suddenly devoid of air. She couldn’t breathe. She could barely speak. “Why would I?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  She stood motionless, her palms damp, muscles stiff as cardboard. She let out a pent-up breath, praying the answer to that question was something he never discovered.

  Immediately on the defensive, she asked tightly, “Why are you here?” Her tone was sharp and accusing. “It’s not for the water, and I doubt it’s for the company.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be for the company?”

  She swallowed and looked at him. “I can’t be the person you want me to be.”

  “I prefer people to be who they are.”

  She wanted to believe him, longed to lose herself in his eyes and forget everything else. For once in the thirteen years since her mother’s death, to just be. No more lies. No more secrets.

  She couldn’t. She’d lived the lie for far too long to go back now. Her entire life was built upon it.

  “I can’t be the person you want me to be,” she repeated.

  “Isabeau—”

  “There’s nothing for you here.”

  He ran his gaze over her features. “You said that once before. I didn’t agree with you then, and I don’t agree with you now, but I can take a hint.”

  He stood, picked up the disc, and started for the door. When he stopped and looked back at her, his voice was lowered. “You know, I’m not asking for much, just the chance to get to know you. I wish you’d give me that chance.”

  He stood before the doors, waiting. Hand clenched against her thigh, Isabeau struggled to absorb his admission. By the time she found her voice, he was gone.

  Chapter Three

  “Look, Hannah, I don’t like to be rude, but this is the second time this week that you’ve failed to make delivery.” Isabeau tightened her grip on the phone as the infuriating woman continued to argue with her. “No, I did not cancel my order. Of course I’m sure.”

  “What’s your name again?” the nasal voice on the other end of the line asked.

  “Isabeau Montgomery,” she supplied for the third time. She did her best not to scream aloud in frustration. “My customer number is three seven five, five four six.”

  “One moment.”

  Isabeau pushed her fingers through her hair and held onto control. She cringed as the teeth-grinding din of bad music, the signal that she’d been placed on hold, blasted from the earpiece. After propping the phone against her shoulder to keep from going deaf, she waited.

  The digital clock behind the bar read six p.m., and already she wanted to crawl beneath the covers and put this day behind her. Who knew facing the man who made her insides quake would be the highlight of her day? Sure, he was a fine male specimen, but the pounding in her skull and the war of emotions? She could have gone all day without those things. Follow that up with her best waitress skipping out on work to run off to Vegas and get married…Isabeau had a full-blown migraine.

  And that was before she realized her organic vegetable order hadn’t been delivered.

  Now it was happy hour. At least for her patrons. The music from the telephone competing with the game highlights on the high definition television in the corner, felt more like hell to her. She shook her head just as Clint caught her eye and smiled. Tall and slender, his dark hair and eyes held more than one woman’s attention as he manned the bar with his usual aplomb. Early, as usual, his arrival meant she caught her first break of the day. She’d used it to call about her missing vegetables. What she’d expected to be a quick telephone call was turning into a major pain.

  As the song on the handset turned from sappy and overly emotional to a poorly mixed remake, she groaned aloud. She closed her eyes against the pounding ache in her temple and absently rubbed warmth back into her left hand. Although she’d regained total use of her hand after the accident, the extent of the damage left her circulation poor. Which meant that even on days like today, when it was warm enough outside she had to bump the air conditioner to a lower setting, her fingers were chilled.

  Except, she recalled as she followed the raised scar with her fingertips, when Noah traced his thumb along the back of her hand. She hadn’t felt a chill then, but a shock of warmth that stole her breath. All she had to do was recall that feeling and every muscle in her body tensed, including some that she preferred not respond to Noah that way. Rocked by unbidden images—images of her and Noah together, of his large, warm hands tracing other parts of her anatomy—she wondered…

  Would he invoke that spark of electricity everywhere he touched her?

  “What’s that?” she asked into the phone, realizing she had missed something during that little jog her mind had taken. Isabeau turned her irritation on the woman on the other end of the line. “Look, I need that delivery.”

  “Ma’am, we show you cancelled those deliveries.”

  “No, I
didn’t.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Listen to me,” she interrupted. She’d had enough of this woman’s impertinence. “I did not cancel any orders. I don’t know who you’re taking these cancellations from, but I assure you, it is not me.”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m telling you that someone in your company is not doing their job. I believe it is your company’s policy that all orders and cancellations be verified with an account number. Since I’m the only person who has that number, and I am not canceling my orders, you have a problem.”

  “How would you like me to correct the problem?”

  Isabeau took a deep breath. She chose to ignore the woman’s condescending tone. “I need my delivery. I’d appreciate it if you could get that rescheduled for me as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” More irritated than when she’d dialed the number, she hung up the phone with a thud.

  “Rough day?” a deep masculine voice asked from behind her.

  She spun around and bounced off a solid male chest. Warm hands gripped her elbows to steady her. She pulled back enough to look up, met ocean blue eyes. Dominic Price.

  “You all right, luv?”

  She gave the darkly handsome Dominic a smile, relieved that he was the one Pete had sent to pick up the studio’s supper order and not the man who’d occupied her thoughts far too much since his mid-morning visit.

  “Yes,” she assured him as she stepped out of his grasp. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. You’re having problems with deliveries?”

  His accent was much stronger than Noah’s, something she hadn’t noticed last night. “Yes.”

  “Did you get it straightened out?”

  “It’s more likely I guaranteed I’ll never receive another delivery from them.”

  He eased onto the stool nearest him as she slipped behind the bar. “Was it worth it?”

  “Definitely.”

  His grin was irresistible. She imagined he didn’t long for female companionship. Even she wasn’t unaffected by his charm and good looks, and she wasn’t one to succumb to a man’s magnetism.

  “I’m afraid your order won’t be ready for a few more minutes. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

  “Whatever you have on tap.”

  She retrieved a frosted mug from the cooler below the bar and filled it, leaving it on the drip tray before sliding around Clint and pulling a long neck out of the beer cooler. Topping off the mug, she turned and placed it before Dominic—the long neck went to the customer on his left.

  “Thanks, Izzy,” the man mumbled as she swapped the full bottle for the empty before him.

  “You’re welcome, Bill.”

  She turned back to Dominic. “How’s the recording going?”

  “How do you know we’re here recording?”

  “Noah told me.”

  “Ah.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes sparkled with something she couldn’t name. “Not much happening yet, we’re still settling in. You know the owner, Pete?”

  She stepped aside as Clint reached over her head for a wine glass. “I do.”

  “He seems like a decent bloke.”

  “He is. He’s also good at what he does. He’s got a good ear.”

  He nodded, watching her thoughtfully. “You say that as if you speak from experience. How long have you known him?”

  Most of my life. “Years.”

  “How long have you had this place?”

  “I reopened it four years ago after a substantial renovation.” She continued when he quirked his eyebrow. “It’s a long, boring story. The bar is an inheritance I didn’t initially want.”

  “Was part of the remodel the addition of food?”

  “It was.”

  He took in the room and its occupants before returning his gaze to her. “Is it always this busy? If not, that would explain the harried look you’re wearing.”

  “I’m short-staffed tonight,” she explained. “I had a waitress quit today.”

  “Why?”

  “She got tired of the customers asking so many questions.”

  He grinned. “You going to replace her?”

  “Why? Are you looking for a second job?”

  Dominic’s grin widened as he continued to watch her. He held her gaze for so long that, despite his easygoing words, a spark of apprehension raced down her spine. “I’ll go get your supper.”

  She returned a few minutes later and placed the bagged order atop the bar.

  He stood and reached for his wallet. “You’re okay, Isabeau.”

  “I’m glad I passed the test.”

  He didn’t react to the hint of sarcasm in her voice, just continued to smile at her like a child with a secret. “What do I owe you for the drink?”

  He hadn’t touched his drink. “It’s on the house.”

  His smile remained in place as he returned his wallet to his pocket and lifted the bag off the bar. “I guess I’ll see you again.”

  Unable to shake the feeling that there was more behind his visit than supper, she replied dryly, “I guess you will.”

  ****

  Noah stood with his hand on the door and thought better of entering. Inside the bar, music played—David Bowie singing about changes. It was a song he could relate to.

  For two weeks, he’d come here after putting in a twelve-hour day at the studio. Two long weeks of watching, aching. And for what? Isabeau Montgomery wanted nothing to do with him. She had him completely at her feet, and she didn’t even know it. Hell, had she known, she most likely wouldn’t care.

  Noah closed his eyes, wondering why he bothered. She’d barely spoken to him after the day he accused her of fearing silence. He lost track of how many times he’d berated himself on the subject. Yet it remained on his mind since that day. Even now, as the song drifted through the double set of doors, he wondered why she chose to hide from the music in a place full of it. If only she could see what was so clear to him. That denying who you are is nothing more than wasted time. Time you never got back.

  No matter how much you wished otherwise.

  Releasing the door handle, he considered his options. The prospect of leaving, of spending the evening alone in his hotel room, didn’t tempt. Even when weighed against spending the evening alone in a bar, wanting something he couldn’t have.

  “Damn it!” He scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed to get over his obsession with her. He didn’t even want a lager, he wanted to see Isabeau—smell her, relish the way his blood moved a bit quicker through his veins when she was near.

  He let out a long, slow breath. He should have invited Dominic along. At least then he had a chance in hell of talking to her. Isa liked Dom, enjoyed his company, enjoyed herself when he was around. It was a given that, had he invited Dom, her smile as he stepped through this door would show bright and genuine.

  For Dominic.

  Not for him.

  Laughter drifted out the door. Isabeau. His mind made up, Noah reached for the handle. He couldn’t walk away. Not when there remained the slightest possibility she may turn that joy upon him. Tonight, if the stars aligned right, she would laugh with him the way she did her other patrons. He believed that. Just as he believed she would eventually forgive him for whatever the hell he’d done to her. She had to.

  Even for a Tuesday night, there wasn’t much of a crowd. Besides Isa, Adam the bouncer, and himself, there were only two other people in the place. Both sat at the far end of the bar, watching Isabeau with rapturous looks on their face while she chatted on, totally oblivious to her appeal.

  Tonight she wore her usual hip-hugging jeans. Her shirt, a pale blue that matched her eyes, had tiny straps that held it up. Made of fabric that clung to her like second skin, it emphasized the perfect shape of her breasts and her slender wa
ist before ending at her belt. As she reached above her head and slid glasses into the rack, her shirt inched up revealing a flash of smooth, golden skin.

  For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

  Because of a minuscule glimpse of her stomach. Shit. How ridiculous was that? Certain his face now mirrored the other men’s, Noah sat on the barstool closest to the door. “Pretty quiet in here tonight.”

  “It is,” she agreed. She held up a bottle of his preferred brand, opened it and placed it before him when he nodded. “I’ve already sent everyone else home. Well, except for Adam, his wife’s expecting, so I told him he could work through his shift.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  She shrugged. “You’re here earlier than normal. Slow day at the studio?”

  “We hit a small snag and decided to call it off early.”

  “I closed the kitchen already, but if you’re hungry I could warm something up.”

  “I don’t require special treatment, you know.”

  “All my customers receive the same treatment,” she assured him, then settled her hands atop the bar.

  Settled in, instead of running off. Interesting.

  He looked her over, noting her relaxed posture. He took in her beautiful face, her golden skin, and the way her fingers danced atop the polished chestnut. She wore no rings, no jewelry of any kind. Why hadn’t he seen that before? She had nice hands, slender fingers with eight unpainted, well-manicured nails. The last two nails on her left hand were missing, something that wasn’t readily apparent unless you looked closely, as he did now. Scars littered the back of the hand, a large one that extended from the base of her ring finger to her wrist, and a multitude of others of varied size. Too many to count, he was shocked to realize.

  He had read a few of the articles about the accident that claimed her mother and ended her career. Every one mentioned a debilitating injury—one severe enough she would most likely never recover full mobility of her left hand. If the scars were any indication, the reports about her injury weren’t that far off. With one exception—she had regained the use of her hand—enough that she could still play the piano.