by Linda Swain
She had been so full of life. Effervescent was the word that always came to mind when he thought of her and those early days. They had met one afternoon in the college conservatory while he struggled to find the right notes to finish a piece of music that he had spent months working. Then she had walked in, her hair a mass of brightly burning curls, barely a hint of cosmetics on her face. And Ted had thought her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
She had moved quietly to his side, her head tilted as she nodded encouragement, her lovely voice easily picking up the melody. “Here,” she had suggested, “try it this way.” Lifting her voice, she picked up the melody where he had left off, easily finding the solution to the problem that had been haunting him.
Soon, they were inseparable, with most of the college easily assuming they were a romantic couple. Only, the truth was opposite. They were no more than truly good friends. Both had ambitions that circled the same desire, although in different veins; he wanted to write music, she wanted to sing it. Both knew without a doubt that, though they blended together perfectly with their combined gifts, ambition and romance wasn’t a good union. Still, they had worked together, finding gigs when they could, and when Kat had landed the spot at Simply Blues, they had both thought it a godsend.
A godsend, he thought miserably as Kat finally moved towards the stage. But it’s one that has the devil guarding the gate. She deserves better than him . . . giving her heart and soul to an ass that doesn’t even see what a jewel he has.
As Kat moved through the crowd, Ted couldn’t help mourn the young woman he had first met. The woman who mixed and laughed among the paying customers wasn’t the same person he had known in those days, and he wondered how one man could have changed her so much.
“Are you certain that you want to do this?” Ted’s brown eyes met hers, his filled with concern while her green eyes lit with laughter.
“You know darn well I do,” Kat replied saucily. “And don’t worry about Nick taking it the wrong way. One thing that I’ll say about the man, he doesn’t take things out on others.”
As Ted began the opening bars to her signature song, she stopped him with a slight, choreographed wave. Grasping the microphone, her eyes searched the crowd until she found her target.
Nick.
“I’d like to try a new number on you, tonight. Something that Ted and I worked up, with someone special in mind. It’s a little more … fun than our usual number – so I hope you like The Gentleman Is A Dope.”
The music began again: an up-tempo beat so unlike Kat’s usual opening song. Folding her arms, she found Nick as she sang about a man with bright blue eyes that was too much of a dope to realize he was tossing away the best thing that had ever happened to him. A single finger waved in his direction, even as her opposite hand waved him away. She rolled her eyes at the laughing audience who shook their heads while craning about to find Nick, picking up easily that the song had been about him.
“Hey Nick, if you don’t want her . . . why not give someone else a shot?”
He didn’t reply.
There was no need. Everyone knew that Kat was his girl and there wasn’t a man in the place that stood a chance with her, so everyone knew the heckler’s words were only a jest. Or at least, most of the laughing customers did. In fact, all but one man seemed to think the matter was a joke, and that one man’s keen green eyes didn’t laugh, nor did his lips turn up in even the slightest hint of a smile, though the sensual set of his moth hinted that such an expression was familiar. Instead, the green eyes stayed fixed on Kat as she moved across the stage.
The owner of those eyes was a surprisingly tall and muscular figure with aristocratic bones and a lithe grace born from centuries of good breeding. He merely watched in silence as she continued to sing; as her number drew to its end, he moved from his chair to Nick’s side, his smoothly accented voice ringing with the native tones of his country. “Je vous demande pardon, Nick. At your convenience, I have a matter to discuss with you.”
Nick turned, one brow lifted in interest, but his eyes drifted almost immediately back to Kat. “À votre service, Comte,” he replied, his voice distracted and indifferent.
The elegant man laughed aloud, his graceful fingers brushing at his expensively cut tuxedo. “You are just full of surprises! I did not know that you understood French! And please, with all the troubles in my country, titles are no more. I am simply Ashton Montserrat, le Comte, is another man in another time. This, the present, is what is important, non? But where did you learn my language?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Nick’s eyes strayed to where Kat now sat with a table full of patrons. “When Kat took lessons from your mother, I’m afraid she used to practice on me.” Pausing to light a cigarette, the smoke swirled mysteriously around his handsome features. “Now, what can I do for you this evening? Is there something wrong with your champagne?”’
“Non, non, and you should know better than to ask,” he chided, a hint of amusement in his musical voice. “The champagne is excellent as usual. Tonight, I have come to speak to you about Mademoiselle Katherine.”
Taken off guard, Nick barely hid his look of surprise. “Kat? What about her? Look, if there is something that you want her to sing, I suggest that you speak to her yourself.”
Coolly opalescent eyes flickered as an expressive hand moved to brush away a shock of raven hair. “I would like to see Katherine – socially, that is. I understand that you are her protector, her bienfaiteur. I thought that it only proper that I speak to you, first.”
Nick eyed the younger man who stood before him. Somehow, though he knew there could be nothing but coincidence between Kat’s song and Ashton’s appearance, he sensed that Ashton had been intent on pursuing Kat for some time. Even if he was seeing connections between the two events that did not exist, there was something in the depths of Ashton’s green-gold eyes that suggested that his little tête-à-tête was a formality and his politeness was merely for form.
He exhaled quietly, the sound of it lost in the clamor of a busy night at the club. A thin trail of smoke drifted from his lips, allowing Nick the time to hide the odd, twisting feeling in his gut that came along with the idea of Kat having anything to do with the man before him. “She’s her own person, I don’t own her.”
“But you and Katherine have a . . .” His voice trailed off, but the intense look in his eyes told Nick that no matter how faltering his English seemed, Ashton Montserrat, Comte de Montclair, knew exactly what he was saying. “How is it you say . . . an arrangement.”
“Look,” Nick said slowly, “Kat and I are business partners. If you want to ask her out for a date, that’s up to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run, and by the looks of it, my bartender could use an extra hand.” As he turned to leave, Nick paused, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Oh, good luck with . . . Katherine.” He spat out her full name as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. Moving through the throng until he reached the length of the bar, he refused to watch Ashton’s progression toward Kat’s table.
Setting up a fresh order of drinks, Tim paused, his dark eyes noticing the odd expression in his employer’s eyes. “Want me to eighty-six him, boss?”
A glimmer of amusement came to Nick’s cold features as he looked at Tim. The punk kid he had once rescued had grown into a muscular young man. Watching as Tim’s dark eyes, usually filled with humor, turned dangerously dark, Nick shook his head. “Nah, he’s not worth the effort. Besides that new girl of yours will have my head on a platter if you come home damaged. I’ve met Sandy remember? I’ll be damned if I want her coming down on me because you mixed it with Monsieur Montserrat.”
“Maybe it would be worth it,” Tim observed as he watched Kat with her newest conquest.
“Maybe,” Nick answered quietly, his hands shoved in his pockets. “But for right now, we’ll just wait and see.”
A slender finger traced its way down her glass as Kat gazed at Ashton Montserrat. H
is light green eyes looked at her with frank admiration, his muscular body poised, ready to pounce on her given the slightest encouragement. It was a feeling that made her uncomfortable and yet, still intrigued her. With a firm shake of her head, she refused his suggestion of a late supper.
“I’m afraid I’m quite booked at the moment. The anniversary of the club’s opening is coming up soon and I’m afraid that Nick wouldn’t take it too kindly.”
His sophisticated smile turned into an expression of confusion as he tilted his head while a thumb ran gently over the back of her hand. “But Nick informed me that you were . . . how would you say . . . available? That your relationship was strictly a business arrangement. Did I misunderstand?”
Sitting back in shock, Kat waited until her trembling legs could carry her as far as the bar. Stalking to where Nick stood, he met the flare in her eyes with his own implacable calm.
“Available, am I?” she hissed as Tim discreetly refilled her glass. “I’ve never, never gone out on you, Nick. Why in the hell would you encourage someone like Montserrat? Even I’ve heard tales of his exploits. He’s plowed his way under every willing skirt from Paris to New York. Why couldn’t you just once . . .”
“Once what?” he interrupted quietly as he idly poured himself a drink. “Tell him that you’re taken and not available? That’s never been a problem for you before. Why should this guy be any different?”
Tears prickled behind her eyes even as fury echoed in her voice. He doesn’t understand. And he never will. How could he do this to me? How could he be so insensitive? He’s never even claimed me as his girl. He slept with her, lived with her, laughed with her, but couldn’t admit to their relationship to a man like Montserrat. “Because, just once,” she hissed, “just once it would be nice to have you . . . oh forget it!” she snapped, her voice trembling with hurt and anger.
Draining his glass, he shoved it towards Tim for a refill, leaning casually against the glossy bar. “Look, everyone in this joint knows that you’re my girl. If that French dandy wants to try and change that, more power to him. You’ve always known where I stand, Kat. I’m not your shoulder to lean on, and I’m not going to take a swing at every guy who comes sniffing around your skirts.” Swiftly, he captured her slender hand before it could reach his cheek, the corners of his mouth turning into a parody of a smile. “Don’t make a scene, and I suggest that you don’t do something that you’ll only regret. No woman has ever struck me since my old lady, and not even you are going to change that fact, not ever.”
“Katherine, is there a problem?” Ashton’s cool voice interrupted whatever she might have said. Drawing her close, his strong fingers quickly removed her hand from Nick’s grip. When he spoke, there was an edge of danger in his voice. “Perhaps you should rejoin me at my table, ma belle.” His smile was gentle, but his eyes held a hard gleam as he focused his gaze on Nick. “Ah mon chagrin d’amour magnifique,” he murmured into her hair, his eyes never leaving Nick’s face. “Come, sit with me for a while.”
Lifting her head proudly, Kat’s eyes flashed as they met Nick’s impassive gaze before slowly turning her attention to Ashton. “Yes, I believe that you’re right . . . oh, and Ash, I’d love to have a late dinner with you after the show. I’ve only got one more set.”
“Why wait?” There was a hint of bitter humor in his voice as Nick sipped his fresh drink. “You deserve a night off. Go on and take off now. I’m sure we can get along without you for one night.”
Standing quietly, he watched as Kat stared in disbelief. He kept watching as a slow smile crossed her red lips and she pointed Ashton in the direction of her coat. Leaning against the bar, he observed the couple making a quiet exit, all the while twisting the gold ring he wore on his smallest finger. Kat had given it to him on their first Christmas together, and it was as much a part of him as the finger he wore it on.
“Boss,” Tim asked quietly as he began to set up yet another round of drinks. “What did he call her? It sounded dirty to me.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Nick shook his head. “His ‘beautiful heartache’. Let’s see if he finds out just how true those words are.”
Chapter Six
Long after the last customer had left for the evening – or early morning, as the case may be, -- Nick finally exited the club, driving to the small house that he and Kat had recently purchased. When their relationship had turned into more than a fling, he had wanted her to have a place of her own, not just the tiny apartment above the club with its recalcitrant sink. As far as he was concerned, it was as close to a commitment as he was ever going to give her. Not that she’s happy with that . . .
Now, as his headlamps beamed in the early morning hours, he smacked his hand in frustration against the heavy steering wheel. I gave the dame a house, a job, a hundred opportunities, beautiful clothes . . . and it’s still not enough. Words, kid – that’s all that you want? You want words that every schmuck in the world says and seldom means. You have to know how I feel about you, words or not. But that French ass will give you all the words that you could ever want.
Dear God, why did I let her go?
Repeatedly, he cursed himself on the drive home. The acrid smell of his cigarette drifted out an open window as he continued cursing.
“You’re going to lose her,” he muttered, the glow of his cigarette burning in the dark. “You’re gonna lose her. You let her go without saying a damn word! Words! That’s what it all comes back to, doesn’t it?” Slamming his fists repeatedly into the steering wheel, a choked sound that might have been a sob twisted from his throat.
“Just what in the hell am I trying to prove?” He asked himself wearily.
He knew damn well, what he was trying to prove: that he wasn’t some dumb sap who had let a dame run his life. Not him. Not Nick O’Connor. He was a free man and he intended to stay that way. But is the protection of my pride worth losing the only woman who ever mattered to me?
Their small house and its pretty drive loomed before him in the glare of his headlamps, much too soon for his liking. Stopping at the edge of the drive, he placed the car in park, sitting there as he stared at the darkened house ahead. He didn’t want to go inside. He knew that it would be dark and barren without Kat there to greet him with his usual highball and a sweet, lingering kiss.
A voice within his head sneered at him. Isn’t this what you wanted? No real man wants a pretty house with frilly curtains. What’s wrong with the apartment at the club? You haven’t been back there since you two connected. Think of what you’d gain just by going back.
Yeah, he thought, but what would I lose? He screwed his face into a scowl, shaking his head while his mind raced along different avenues. He might have already lost everything. After all, hadn’t he let her waltz out without a word? Even now, wasn’t she out with Ashton as he showed her a world that Nick never could?
Ashton, the sleek aristocrat who could give her everything and then some: a name, a title, and money . . . class.
He could give her everything that I can’t. All the words, all the opportunities. I’m a street rat who crawled up from the gutter. All I got is what I made for myself. He’s got everything. And now, he could have her. With a curse, he shoved open the car door, his mind racing back to his own beginnings.
He had been born in one of those shacks in the poorest sections of town, left behind by some itinerate worker who had made his money, spread his seed, and moved on. He had never known who his father was. Sometimes, when she had a good drunk on, his mother insisted his father's name was Alan O’Connor . . . and other times, when she was in nastier moods, she would shrug off his questions as she batted him across the mouth, a liquor bottle swinging at her side. “What do you care, you little bastard?” she would snarl.
He grew adept at avoiding her blows, escaping into the streets where his quick wit and quicker hands made short work of those careless enough to leave a wallet or purse where he could help himself.
He wasn’t going to stay in
the dank confines of the wrong side of the tracks . . . not him. One day, he would be a big man and wear fancy clothes and shoes that fit instead of hand-me-downs stuffed with newspaper to keep away the damp and chill. His reputation with fast hands soon had him running with an older crowd that kept him fed and out of the clutches of other gangs who also wanted to utilize this talent.
And then he had ran into a mark with sharp eyes and sharper hands who had lifted the boy by the scruff of his neck, eyeing him with sense of amusement. For some reason, Oliver – the mark’s name, Nick learned later - had seen something in this scrappy, filthy young teen.
“All right, young man, you have two choices. I can toss you to the coppers or . . . you can work out your debt. I could use someone to sweep up and keep the bar clean.”
“And what’s in it for me?” replied the kid smartly. Even the fear shining in his eyes couldn’t put a gag on his quick tongue.
“What’s in it?” Oliver had repeated incredulously, shaking his head. He had ticked each item off on his fingers. “Three squares a day, a chance to earn an honest living and, after school, learn how to run a proper business.”
Nick had thought about it, but abruptly, it had occurred to him that he had heard of old men who liked young boys. The idea had sent a chill down his spine and had made the police seem like not such a bad idea.
As if reading his mind, the old man had chortled. “My dear boy, that idea is as revolting to me as it is to you. Trust me; your anatomy is quite safe. So what say you, have we a deal?”
For weeks, Nick was happier than he had ever been. That is, until his mother had discovered his whereabouts. When she had learned of the new opportunity which had dropped out of nowhere into her son’s lap, she had done her best to strong arm him into giving her access to the high priced liquor that was part of Oliver’s establishment.
Terrified of losing the only safety he had known, Nick had given into her demands and had been reaching for a bottle of her favorite Scotch, only to feel Oliver’s hand on his arm. “Let me handle this, boy . . . in the meantime, you have studies to do.”