FLOWERS ARE RED
Page 2
"Are you kidding?"
"Nope." Quinn flashed the pass she wore around her neck.
"I shouldn't."
"You should." Quinn took Belle's arm, leading her through the crowd.
"He won't remember me."
"We'll remind him."
"I had a major crush." Hand flying to her mouth, Belle stopped in her tracks.
"We won't tell him that."
BELLE KNEW IT was a bad idea. Fantasy—even one as tempting as Ashe Mathison—was best when it stayed unattainable. She was setting herself up for disappointment. Why would Ashe remember the awkward girl next door? Two years older, he ran in different circles. They went to different private schools. Though their parents were friendly, they weren't the kind of people who had backyard barbecues or holiday open houses.
Nodding acquaintances. That was the best she could claim.
Coming to the concert was one thing. A fluky, unplanned opportunity. Only a fool would turn down a ticket to see the hottest band in the world—especially when it fell into her lap. Stop this foolishness, her brain commanded. After years of conditioning, Belle was good at listening to her brain. Logically, she should thank Quinn for the kind gesture, disappear into the crowd, and leave the lure of Ashe Mathison where it belonged. In her dreams.
For the first time in years, Belle's feet ignored her brain. Perhaps her heart had a bit to do with it. Before she could mount a protest, Quinn had them past security. The glances she received from some of the female concert goers helped to spur Belle on. It wasn't often women looked at her with envy. Why shouldn't she enjoy the moment?
"There you are." A gorgeous redhead greeted Quinn with a warm smile. "You were gone for most of the concert. How many pictures do you need?"
"Snapping photos is automatic. Vital. Like breathing in and out."
"If you say so. Who's your friend?"
"Colleen McNamara, meet Belle. I'm sorry. I didn't catch your last name."
Because I didn't throw it. It was an old joke. And might come off as snarky. Belle was a fan of some good snark, but under the circumstances, she simply held out her hand.
"Richards. It's nice to meet you."
"Belle is an old friend of Ashe's," Quinn explained. "Keep her company while I stow my camera bag in Ryder's dressing room."
"A friend of Ashe's?" Colleen's green eyes sparkled with interest. "Where from?"
"Boston."
Belle felt a wave of unease. Like Quinn, Colleen seemed genuinely interested. Nice. Open. But there was a layer of wariness in the emerald gaze. Was she Ashe's girlfriend? It was a possibility. One that made her stomach sink.
Belle didn't keep up with gossip. She loved The Ryder Hart Band's music. But she had no idea about their private lives. Not keeping track of Ashe had been a deliberate decision. The less she thought about him, the better. Which made her current situation all the more untenable. Turn and walk away. Forget Ashe. Go home to Boston. Your job. Your fiancé. Poor Theodore. Boring, nice, predictable Theodore. Though he never would say, Belle was certain he felt the same about her. She supposed on some weird level that made them perfect for each other.
"Boston? How long has it been since you spoke?"
"We didn't. Speak that is." When Colleen's eyes narrowed, Belle sighed. "I told your friend that I didn't think Ashe would remember me."
"Looks like we're about to find out."
The huge roar of the crowd drew Belle's attention.
"Thank you, Los Angeles. We've had a great time. Be safe. We'll see you soon."
Oh, boy. Surreptitiously, Belle wiped her palms on the slope of her denim-covered butt. This was a new feeling for her. Excited nerves with a tinge of the unknown making her stomach knot. Damn it. She was vice president of a billion-dollar company. She dealt with problems that would have lesser women sweating through their designer suits. Meeting Ashe Mathison for the first time in over ten years shouldn't be such a stressful moment.
Pulling back her shoulders, Belle put on her best I'm in control expression. It wasn't true, but nobody else had to know. She did a quick rundown on what she was wearing. Fashionable faded jeans. A silk camisole. The heat meant her jacket was of the lightweight variety. Dove gray linen outlined in slightly darker piping. Wishing she had taken the time to check hair and makeup, Belle rolled her eyes, cursing herself for turning—even briefly—into one of those women. If her smoothly styled shoulder-length hair had turned into a rat's nest and her Luscious Peach lipstick was a distant memory, so what? Ashe could take her as she was or stick it where the sun don't shine.
Feeling better, Belle's shoulders relaxed. Her smile melted from forced to natural. Bright eyed with anticipation, she had no idea what her mental shakedown had done for her looks. This was the woman Quinn noticed in the crowd. Bright. Warm. She exuded a relaxed confidence turning her from pretty to breathtaking. Belle never thought of herself that way. When she perused herself in the mirror, she saw what most of her family, friends, and colleagues saw. Competent intelligence. Attractive in a slightly above-average way.
What Ashe saw as he exited the stage—the breathtaking Belle—stopped him in his tracks.
"TWO MINUTES. BE ready to go back for your encore."
The concert had flown by without a hitch. Critics liked to say that The Ryder Hart Band was at the top of their game. Ashe, Ryder, Zoe, and Dalton preferred the term 'better than ever.' That left room for growth. They refused to rest on their laurels. Top of their game sounded like there was nothing left to strive for. There would always be more. The day there wasn't would be the day they walked away.
Towel wrapped around his neck, Ashe grinned at something Zoe said. She had a wicked sense of humor. Dry. Sometimes a bit dark. It didn't always translate if one wasn't around her very much. Those who knew her understood that under her cool, polished exterior was a woman who loved to laugh—at herself as much as at others.
"I'm telling you," Zoe grinned. "There was a woman in the front row playing an imaginary saxophone. She kept mouthing, 'I love you, Ashe. I want to have your babies.'"
"You're making that last part up." Set up in the corner was a food service table. Ashe passed Zoe a bottle of water, grabbing another for himself. "There is no way you could read her lips."
"It's a gift," Zoe said, her expression neutral. "You wouldn't believe some of the things fans say from down there."
"Blush worthy?"
"I don't blush. But you?" Shrugging, Zoe masked her smile behind the bottle of water.
"Why haven't I heard about this before?"
"I didn't want to shock your delicate sensibilities."
"My ass," Ashe muttered good-naturedly.
Chuckling, Ashe turned to ask Ryder if he could confirm Zoe's bullshit. The question dissolved from his brain the second he saw her. I know you. There was something about the way she stood. The curve of her lips. But mostly, it was her eyes. Big, brown, and expressive. If he didn't know her, he wanted to.
"Ashe!" Zoe tugged at his arm. "Encore time. Maybe your prospective baby-mama will mouth her phone number. I'll make a note."
Ashe didn't give a damn about the woman in the audience. It was this woman that had his attention. Afraid she would disappear before they finished their encore, he took a step in her direction. Something flashed in her eyes. Ashe wasn't certain what it was, but it triggered his memory.
"Belle?"
"Hello, Ashe."
"Get your ass in gear, Mathison." Dalton shoved Ashe in the direction of the stage. "Hear those cheers? That's our cue."
Keeping his eyes on Belle as Dalton dragged him along, just before he lost sight of her, Ashe called out, "Don't you dare move. Understand?"
Belle didn't say anything, but her smile widened. Because he wanted it to be, Ashe took it as a yes.
Two songs—and what seemed like endless bows—later, Ashe rushed backstage. His gaze went to the same spot. When he didn't see Belle, he felt a wave of disappointment. And a f
lash of anger. Goddamn it. Hadn't he told her not to move? Hadn't she smiled? If not legally binding, it was an agreement reached by two consenting adults. That should have counted for something. What was wrong with people these days?
"If you're looking for Belle, she was waylaid by Alden." Colleen pointed to her right. "He recognized her from some charity he co-chairs. Or something like that."
Relief washed over Ashe. For two reasons. First, Belle. That was it. Belle. Second, he was grateful Colleen wasn't a mind reader. His thoughts were a little intense. And a lot embarrassing. Ashe had a reputation for keeping his emotions on an even keel. Never one to overreact. His response to Belle would have surprised his friends. Almost as much as it surprised him.
"She didn't think you would recognize her."
"I didn't at first." Ashe addressed Colleen while keeping an eye on Belle. "It's been a long time."
Shaking her head, Colleen let out a slow whistle. "I'll give it to her. Quinn has the knack."
"What are talking about?"
"Quinn decided there was something special between Dalton and me before we met. She's the one who plucked Belle out of the audience. For you."
"Jesus, Colleen." Ashe dismissed her words as crazy. "Never say those words to another living soul."
"Not a problem." Laughing, Colleen sauntered away.
"My advice is to grab a shower before you speak with Belle. You're starting to smell a little ripe." Quinn waved a hand under her nose. "A woman can overlook a lot. Body odor is a tough sell. Even for a man with your legendary charm."
"Did you and Colleen decide it was tag team Ashe night? I'm going to exchange a few words with an old friend. I don't need a shower for that."
"Belle told me you weren't friends," Quinn said before Ashe could move.
"What else did Belle say?"
"Not much. You were neighbors with bedroom windows that faced each other. And you never spoke." Quinn paused for effect. "Ever."
Was that right? It didn't sound right. Or possible. In all those years, he and Belle must have exchanged a few words. The fact that Ashe couldn't remember any particular instance didn't bode well for his theory.
Scratching his neck, Ashe frowned. The sweat that poured off him during the concert was drying fast, leaving a layer of sticky salt. Maybe Quinn was right. A shower would make him feel better and give him time to think. Why would he recognize Belle if they hadn't interacted? It made no sense.
"I should get cleaned up."
"I'll make sure Belle is here when you get back."
Nodding his thanks, Ashe headed to his dressing room.
The usual crowd milled about in the halls. Mostly crew members tackling after-concert duties. Breaking down equipment, packing it up, making certain everything made it onto the trucks. Ashe nodded at the familiar faces. These were the people he saw every day when the band was on tour. He knew their names. If they were married. When new babies were born. In their own way, they were family.
Security was tight. Crazies came in every form. A few years ago, they had problems with a stalker. From the outside, she looked like somebody's grandmother straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. However, her obsession turned bizarre. She swore she was pregnant with Ashe's love child, going so far as to show up at a concert with a fake baby bump. She charged the stage, screaming for him to do the right thing by her and their child. The media picked up the story, treating it as a big joke. The woman ended up in a local psych ward. Ashe didn't find that terribly funny.
"Great show, Ashe." Billy Boyd, head of their security staff, opened the door to Ashe's dressing room. "All clear."
Billy and his crew checked the band's dressing rooms before and after every performance. It wasn't overkill. More than once an industrious fan was found hiding in a closet or in a shower stall—clothing optional. Ashe liked a naked woman as much as the next guy. Random naked women were a completely different matter.
"Thanks, Billy. How is that new grandbaby of yours?"
Billy beamed, his burly chest swelling with pride. "Little Billie is an angel. Thankfully she looks more like Grandma than Grandpa."
"I can't wait to meet her."
The second he was alone, Ashe unbuttoned his shirt, tossing the blue silk on the nearest chair. He didn't worry about making a mess nor who would clean it up. It was one of the perks of success and money. It was the same at his house. Three times a week a cleaning service swept up his clutter. Ashe was good about getting his dirty socks into the hamper and filling the dishwasher. That was it.
Reaching into the shower stall, Ashe turned the faucets on full. Hot. Close to scalding. With a sigh, he turned his face toward the water and let the sweat slide from his body, swirling down the drain. One hand braced against the wall, he closed his eyes. Then smiled when Belle's face popped into his head.
Damn. Talk about a blast from the past. Ashe tried to remember the last time he had seen her. A specific moment. Try as he might, none came to mind. They hadn't been friends. She was younger. Not a lot. Maybe a year or two. They had attended different schools. Wealthy Boston families had many choices for the education of their children. Some might say endless choices if their only criteria were a strong curriculum and excellent teachers. Bragging rights counted for the nouveau riche. Getting one's kid into an exclusive private institution was a sign of acceptance—as long as the tuition was paid on time and in full.
For old money, it was all about tradition. Ashe was sent to the prep school attended by his father, his father's father, and so on. Winsted Academy turned out future titans of business. Congressmen and women. Senators. They hadn't managed to infiltrate the Oval Office. However, one graduate had received his party's nomination. All this was carefully chronicled. The picture-lined corridors were daily reminders of how much could be achieved with a Winsted education. Ashe doubted he would find his face on those hallowed walls. Rock stars—no matter how successful—were not brag-worthy material.
It didn't matter which school Belle attended. The names changed, the snobbery was interchangeable. That thought gave Ashe pause. Grabbing a towel, he stepped out of the shower. Belle was from the world he walked away from. Had she stayed or broken away? Would he find a stuffed shirt housed beneath that unique beauty and warm smile?
Running the towel over his head, Ashe grabbed a clean pair of jeans followed by a blue cotton button-down shirt. Lovely Belle Richards. Perhaps they had never exchanged more than a few words. Subconsciously, she made an impression. One that stuck with him all these years.
Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, Ashe gave himself a quick once over. He wore his dark hair short, the ends curling slightly where they touched his neck. Gray eyes that were more often filled with good humor than anger or doom and gloom. Sometimes he shaved. Sometimes he didn't. The stubble on his cheeks had more to do with his mood that morning than a desire to look fashionably unkempt.
"When was the last time a woman made you think this hard?" Ashe asked his reflection with an ironic twist to his mouth.
All ego aside, not surprisingly, the answer was never. Women liked him. They always had. And Ashe liked them. He liked the way they sounded. The way they smelled. Most of all, he liked the way they felt in his arms. Soft and smooth. Curvy was his preference. Uncomplicated was his style.
No random hook-ups. Ashe was a fan of the wine and dine. Sex was better with mental as well as physical foreplay. A few nights. A fond farewell. That was his style. While the encounters were nice—very nice—they weren't particularly memorable. Ashe knew how that sounded. What could he say? He wasn't against forming a long-term relationship. Nor was he looking. Someday. Maybe. For now, he was happy with the status quo.
Which brought him back to Belle Richards. She interested him. The reasons were easy to figure out. A reminder of the past—a subject that had been on Ashe's mind with growing frequency—Belle represented a part of his life he thought he had left behind without regret. Now, he wasn't sure.
CHAPTER TWO
"BOSTON? GREAT CITY." Dalton Shaw's blue eyes held an expression that could only be termed faintly bored. Any second, Belle expected him to yawn.
"Very historical," Belle said it with a straight face, but her lips twitched. "Should I launch into a lengthy discourse on Paul Revere? My father owns an authentic silver paper weight forged by the man himself."
"Really. That's fascinating." Surreptitiously, Dalton scanned the area as though hoping the cavalry was on the way. He must be cursing Colleen for leaving him with the task of entertaining Belle.
"It is fascinating." Belle paused for a beat. Her next words were accompanied by a laugh. "If you are a collector. Or a historian. For the rest of us, it is boring as hell."
"God, yes." Air rushed from Dalton's lungs. Relief seemed to waft from him in waves. With a laugh, he pulled Belle in for a quick, friendly hug. "Thank you. I can't do small talk."
"I can." Belle's words were self-deprecating. She was a master at making a discussion of the weather last longer than what should be humanly possible. Walking in a no-bullshit zone was a nice change of pace. "May I ask you a personal question?"
A shutter came down over Dalton's blue eyes. "You can always ask."
Belle leaned closer, her whisper conspiratorial. "Would it be possible for me to trade this bottle of water for a beer?"
There was a beat of silence before Dalton burst out laughing. "Hey, Ashe. While you're at it, grab a long neck for Belle."
Swallowing, Belle followed Dalton's line of sight. Ashe. Freshly showered, looking relaxed and refreshed, he nodded, sending her a friendly smile before taking two beers from the small refrigerator. Though enjoying herself immensely, Belle couldn't help feeling the moment was slightly surreal. Here she was, standing in a room with The Ryder Hart Band. She had met them. Exchanged words. They looked like, like… well, like normal people. If normal people were insanely attractive and charismatic. Okay, Belle admitted, Ryder Hart, Dalton Shaw, and Zoe Hart weren't close to resembling normal people. But they were a surprise. She had expected an air of entitlement. Standoffishness. Instead, they were open and friendly. Welcoming her. Not with open arms. That would have seemed strange—to say the least. But Belle felt that she could become close to them. Given time and opportunity. That couldn't be said for the majority of people she met.