by Eden Winters
Reinvent himself? And had Henri lost some of his drive? Well, coming to a concert stoned or hungover might count as showing a bit of disinterest, though he’d given up hard drugs two years ago in favor of pot and booze. The heavy stuff sapped his creativity. “What do you want me to do?”
“First thing, you’re going to take time off, write new material while I lay the groundwork for your return.” Lucas punched away on his iPad for a minute.
“Do you really believe this will work?” Could Henri drop the fake and finally be himself?
“I wouldn’t waste my time if I didn’t.”
So cool, so confident. And yet so down to earth. Different from Margo in a million ways. Trusting anyone at this point might be beyond Henri’s abilities. He snorted. Look where trusting family had gotten him. “I’m taking time off here.”
Lucas wrinkled his nose. “No offense, but this environment isn’t conducive to the creative process.”
True. But the public knew where Henri’s houses were, and his usual haunts. “Where can I go?”
“I’ll work out the details and get back to you.”
“Let me see the contract.”
Lucas reached into his briefcase and extracted a sheaf of papers. Old-fashioned, despite the iPad. Nice.
Extremely straightforward, nothing out of the ordinary. “I’d like my lawyer to look this over.”
“But of course.”
In the end Henry signed on the dotted line, one step closer to getting his life back.
“You had a visitor, but he wasn’t on the list and wouldn’t tell us his name so we turned him away,” Nurse Cranky announced.
“He?” Dare Henri hope his dad had come by? “What did he look like?”
“How should I know? Fred was on shift.”
“Can I talk to Fred?”
“In about two weeks, when he gets back from Cancun.”
Fuck. Henri wouldn’t be here in two weeks.
“Oh, I do remember one thing. He told Fred he’s your biggest fan.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. He’d been found. Henri held his breath to keep panic at bay.
The moment the woman left the room, he dialed Detective Shepherd. Then he called Lucas. “Get me the fuck out of here.”
Lucas returned three days later. “I have just the place. I know someone I’d like you to spend time with, though his style of music is vastly different from yours. If you don’t mind my saying, vocally, you need a bit of discipline. You’ve never taken the first voice lesson, have you?”
Voice lessons? Really? A bit late for vocal training. “I’ve got a gold album. What do I need with voice lessons?”
“The man who thinks he knows everything is a fool.” Lucas displayed no smirk, no smugness, merely a matter-of-factness Henri couldn’t deny. Damn the man for being right. “And wouldn’t you like to add a platinum album to your collection one day? If you want to up the rewards you have to up the stakes and, to be totally honest, your current version of ‘A Matter of When’ won’t get you there.”
Finally, someone said what Henri always believed, instead of “You’ll get it next time.” “I hang out with this guy, he teaches me a few things, I write some songs, and then what?” Maybe the guy smoked good shit. And shared.
“You’ll need backup, a name, a little exposure. We’ll go into the studio, leak a few tracks to incite interest, and you start touring again.”
“You make it sound easy.” The doctor’s words came back to Henri: Nothing worthwhile is easy.
“It’s my job to make it easy.” Reared-back shoulders and a determined gleam in his eyes said Lucas meant business.
Okay, Henri could play along. It wasn’t like he was doing anything else useful at the moment. “Who is this guy I’m supposed to learn from?” Was it too much to ask for a gorgeous Greek god of a man? A horny one? Damn, but Henri needed to get laid, but the mere idea of inviting someone into his bed who’d sell him out five minutes later deflated his libido.
“Sebastian Unger, an opera tenor, and the son of a good friend of mine, so be on your best behavior.”
Opera? Well, Henri could make a deal. Let this Sebastian guy keep whatever he’d been offered, as long as he left Henri alone and gave Lucas good reports. Bonus for drugs provided. No way in hell would the creative juices flow without a bribe for the muses, despite what Dr. Worthington said.
“Where does he live?”
“Evergreen, Colorado.”
Colorado? Woot! Legal pot! “When can I leave?”
“Now, I know you’re leaving and aren’t my client anymore, but if you ever need me…” Tessa pulled out a business card and scribbled on the back.
Oh. So now she’d show her true colors, with a wink and a “Call me.” Henri should have known.
Instead, she said, “That’s my personal e-mail. If you’re stressed, feel yourself slipping, either call or e-mail.” Her crystal green eyes bored into his. “If not my help, though, please ask someone. A family member, a friend. You’ve come too far to go back now.” She hugged him as tears glittered in her eyes. “Take care of yourself.”
So this was what it felt like to have someone truly care. Strange, but nice. Henri kept the card.
Five
Well, hell. Lucas had promised Henri would get away from it all, but did the sprawling log and stone two-story even have running water or air-conditioning? Old house for old owner? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Who wanted to spend the next month in a technological sinkhole with a grandfatherly curmudgeon who devoted every waking moment to reliving old glory days? When I was your age I was a star! Born in 1951 was all Henri had learned of his tutor.
Henri parked his Harley in front of the house and unhooked the trailer. If he had to travel out into the wilds, at least he went in style. Besides, from the looks of things, there were plenty of places around here to ride whenever he needed to escape the phantom of the opera hiding within the creepy old house. Helmet in one hand, duffel in the other, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, Henri clomped up to the door. He set the bag down to ring the doorbell.
With the house set back from the road down a long drive, at least he’d see his stalker coming if the guy drove up. And although trees bordered the property on three sides, open fields provided a buffer. With any luck, though, Detective Shepard would soon have the maniac behind bars. Henri slipped one of Dr. Worthington’s “emergency pills” out of his pocket and swallowed it dry. Damn, but he had the headache from hell.
He admired the view while waiting, the gorgeous green of the Colorado Rockies, and sucked in air totally devoid of car exhaust, even if breathing did take a bit more effort up here. Quiet. No passing cars, no human sounds. A bird chirped in a nearby tree, and gladiolas of every color thrived in well-tended beds. The garden needed roses.
The door opened. Henri peered inside, but a broad chest blocked his view. “Can I help you?”
Smooth as silk and rich as chocolate, the man’s voice washed over Henri. Wow. Henri glanced up, and up some more. The guy had to be every bit of six three, with russet corkscrew ringlets giving him an angelic air. Linebacker shoulders topped a body that appeared naturally stocky, and while not gorgeous in an air-brushed magazine-cover kind of way, Henri certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. He reminded Henri of someone else. Hmm….
“I’m here to see Sebastian Unger. I’m staying for a while.” Henri had gotten the correct house, right? Though he wouldn’t mind spending a month in the glass and chrome creation down the street, a real party place from the looks of things. This rustic home stuck out among the neighbors’ newer, architectural marvels. They spoke of wealth; this house whispered of days gone by.
Chestnut-colored eyes took Henri in. Large men normally didn’t appeal to Henri. “Skinny at all costs” types inhabited his circles—and his bed, on the occasions when he managed to sneak one past the ever watchful eyes of his band and manager. This guy topped him by a good few inches and exuded sexy in an unfamiliar way. Comfort.
He appeared comfortable in his own skin, unlike Henri, who at the moment had no clue who he actually was. With his soothing tenor, maybe Mr. Sexy Voice was a student too. This could prove interesting.
The man extended his hand. “You must be Henri.”
Henri removed a leather glove and locked palms. Firm grip. Nice. Especially depending on which body part benefitted from the grip. He might not be groupie material, but Mr. Smooth-As-Silk-Voice might do to warm up a bed at night. What happened in Colorado had better the hell not follow Henri back to California.
“I’m Sebastian Unger, but please, call me Seb. Sebastian’s too formal.” The foreign expression on Sebastian’s face took Henri a moment to work out. An openness, and genuine lack of guile. Creases formed on Sebastian’s cheeks, extending all the way up to his twinkling eyes. What do you know? A sincere person. In the music business.
But wait. This wasn’t the guy from online. “Aren’t you supposed to be old?”
Sebastian barked out a laugh. Damn, what a voice. It might not be a good fit for a rock band, but Henri would pay the guy to read to him—or talk dirty. “Fuck me harder” would work. “I’m twenty-five. I take it you looked up Sebastian Unger on the Internet and got my father. I’m ‘Unger the Younger,’ as they say.”
Heat rushed Henri’s face. Hell, he hadn’t blushed in years, having lost the ability after about the fiftieth time someone threw underwear onstage and offered him free use of the orifice of his choice. “Is your father here, or are you the one I’m supposed to meet with?” Oh, please, please, please, let it be this guy. If he spoke dirty, Henri might get off on his voice alone. Hell, if he read his grocery list, Henri would likely sprout wood.
“As my father died before I was born, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” Sebastian stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
First chance he got, Henri would send off scathing words to the online site he’d gotten his misinformation from.
He followed his host into the house that time forgot. From his vantage point in the foyer Henri spotted what appeared to be a sitting room, completely furnished in antiques, unless he missed his guess. Margo had gone through an antique phase about the time Henri had earned his first big record deal. A spiral staircase led upward, and Henri dogged Sebastian’s heels up bare, wooden planks, worn from hundreds of footsteps. Wow! What an ass! Nice, solid handfuls. And the man’s sturdy build meant he wouldn’t break from a good pounding.
The silence seemed awkward, and ogling his host’s posterior probably wasn’t good manners. In LA among his old crowd, maybe, where an ass like Sebastian’s probably cost about seventeen thou in surgery. Homegrown ass. Who’d have thought? “How do you know Lucas?” Henri asked. Though he hadn’t learned much about his manager yet, he’d didn’t peg the man as the type to hang out at opera houses. Dive bars, maybe.
“He’s an old friend of my mother’s. We lost touch over the years and reconnected after she died.”
He’d lost his father and his mother. Poor guy. Then again, if Sebastian’s parents were anything like Henri’s….
“Here’s where you’ll be staying.” Seb opened a door and led the way into a spacious room. White curtains covered the windows, and through the lace Henri spotted mountains dotted with tall trees. What a view. “Put your things here and I’ll show you the rest of the house.” Sebastian eyed Henri’s bag. “Is that all you brought?”
“I’ve got more out in the trailer, but I’ll go get them later.” Henri stripped off his leather jacket, chaps, and other glove, and placed them on a chair, keeping his back turned to his host—offering a prime view of his ass, were the man interested in looking.
The room, like the rest of the house he’d seen thus far, was furnished in a style of days gone by. A double four-poster bed provided the focal point, with a dresser, mirror, and a chest in a matching pattern of carved wheat.
Over the bed hung a canvas of a sunlit meadow in full bloom with wildflowers. Simple, elegant, and homey. “My grandmother’s work.” Sebastian stepped up beside Henri. “She was a gifted artist, but only painted for pleasure. She never sold her paintings.”
Okay, something was expected of Henri, possibly compliments, most assuredly agreement. “It’s… nice.”
Sebastian gave him a cocked-brow perusal that seemed to find him lacking. Oh yeah. Opera guy. Cultured. His grandmother had probably taken him to art galleries and museum openings. Henri’s grandma had taken him to tractor pulls and dirt track races. God rest her soul.
The rest of the house maintained the same bygone feel. Thank God the kitchen had been updated and the bathroom sported indoor plumbing. They neared the last room on the first level. “Here’s the music room. Feel free to spend all the time you like here.” With dramatic flair, Sebastian pushed back a pocket door and ducked his head to enter the room.
Well, damn. A polished wooden floor gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from windows every bit as tall as the door. A bay window overlooked the grounds, and the end of the room was an obvious modern extension, with three glassed-in sides. In the middle of the extension sat a grand piano. An old-fashioned velvet settee sat opposite, matching chair in front, with cables, recording equipment and a stereo to make the average rock fan cry filling the remaining space. Twelve-foot ceilings would make for some hellacious acoustics.
“Do you play?” Sebastian swept a hand toward the piano.
“A little. Not concert-worthy or anything, but enough to work on my music.” Truth be told, Henri created melodies in his head, pecked out a basic draft on the piano, then relied on others to bring his visions to life. Try as he might, he’d never mastered any instruments.
“We’ll work out a schedule to suit us both. Through the week I’m often gone. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”
Gone? “You’re supposed to be here, helping me.” Why did having an audience suddenly matter?
“I am. But on Mondays I have acting lessons. On Wednesdays, dance. My languages classes are online, to be taken anytime.”
“Acting? Dance? You’re a singer, not an actor or dancer.”
Sebastian must have possessed the air capacity of a blimp, for he sighed deeper than Henri had ever heard. “Let me guess. You know absolutely nothing about opera.”
“Not true.” Hmm…. What had Henri read? Oh yeah, he kept getting distracted. “I know you sing.”
“In four different languages. And act. And dance. One doesn’t merely sing The Barber of Seville, one is the Barber of Seville.”
Margo had forced Henri to take dance lessons once. They didn’t take. He had no sense of body rhythm at all—the reason he’d turned down a stint on a reality show where he’d be paired with a professional dancer. His career wouldn’t have survived the embarrassment. Wild, drugged-out binges ending in rehab? Fans expected those. Tripping over his own feet while trying out a routine he couldn’t even pronounce? Career suicide.
A man of Sebastian’s size might need a lot of lessons.
“Why languages?” Hell, some days, Henri barely managed English, though Margo insisted he learn enough French to perpetuate the image of a Cajun heritage and charm reporters.
“Have you ever sung in Italian?” Again a brow arched over one of Seb’s eyes. Henri used to try for raised-eyebrow glares, but never mastered moving his brows independently.
“No.” Henri had plenty of Italian fans, but had never felt the need to connect with them on a more personal level. Besides, then he’d have to do the same for his Spanish, German, etcetera fans. His grandmother had spoken Cajun French, but he’d never learned enough to qualify as fluent, just a few well-practiced phrases. Until she’d tried to capitalize on his ancestry, his mother hadn’t encouraged embracing the familial roots. She and Grandma Lafontaine hadn’t seen eye to eye.
“It’s not enough to babble sounds. You have to understand the words to bring them to life.” Sebastian’s chest swelled, and he released a melody Henri couldn’t understand. The words sounded damned good, thou
gh, and even without grasping the full meaning, the sorrow behind them clearly shone. Sebastian finished, offering a challenge with his eyes.
Holy fuck, the guy owned one hell of a set of pipes. Not that Henri would tell him and feed another singer’s overgrown ego. “I suppose I can amuse myself while you’re gone.” It wasn’t like he could fire up a joint anyway until he found out the guy’s views on recreational drugs. And Henri’s being here to learn “discipline” didn’t bode well for Sebastian joining in.
“Good. Get settled, make yourself at home. Feel free to clean up before dinner.”
Was that a hint?
The hell with Sebastian Unger and his arrogant opinions. How could anyone expect Henri to be squeaky clean after riding a thousand miles? Of course, his stop in Vegas didn’t help. At least the one-nighter he’d picked up didn’t seem to realize he’d slept with the real Henri Lafontaine and not an impersonator. Hell, Henri had encountered three look-alikes himself while on his hunt for a willing body. Sex with someone who looked like him? Too disturbing, even for him.
He settled for picking at his helmet-hair and headed downstairs, following a soft tenor melody into the kitchen. He sniffed but didn’t smell cooking. His stomach rumbled anyway.
“Do you eat seafood? Lucas didn’t say.”
Because Lucas didn’t know, having only recently entered Henri’s life. “I’m starving. I’ll take anything.” Maybe he should have given Lucas a list of food favorites to have on hand. He had no intention of giving up pizza, burgers, and fries while hiding from the world. And who knew what kind of delivery service he might find.
“Have a seat.” Sebastian pointed with a knife to a rustic wooden table that might have been handmade. “I’m making tuna salad.”
Henri plopped down in one of six mismatched chairs. Tuna salad. He hadn’t eaten a tuna salad sandwich since high school. “Wait! What?” Henri stared down at the plate and glass of tea Sebastian set before him. “This isn’t a tuna salad sandwich.”