Public Secrets

by Nora Roberts

  when I told him, he was, well, embarrassed. There was something so charming about the way he reacted.”

  “Did you go out with him?”

  “No. I was too flustered, and maybe a little afraid to say yes. Then today, he sent me a note. And—oh, Mum, I’m dying to see him again. I wish you’d come tonight so you could just be there.”

  “You know I can’t, Emma.”

  “I know, I know.” She let out a long breath. “You see, I’ve never felt this way before. Sort of …”

  “Light-headed, short of breath.”

  “Yes.” Emma laughed. “Yes, exactly.”

  She had felt the same way once. Only once. “You have plenty of time to get to know him. Go slow.”

  “I’ve always gone slow,” she muttered. “Did you go slow with Da?”

  It hurt. More than fifteen years had passed, and it still hurt. “No. I wouldn’t listen to anyone.”

  “You listened to yourself. Mum—-”

  “Let’s not talk about Brian.”

  “All right. Just one thing more. Da goes to Ireland—to Darren—twice every year. Once on Darren’s birthday, and once on … once in December. I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you.” She gave Emma’s hand a squeeze. “You didn’t come here to talk about sad things.”

  “No. No, I didn’t.” Emma knelt, rested her hands on Bev’s thigh. “I came to ask you something vitally important. I need something absolutely wonderful to wear tonight. Go shopping with me and help me find it.”

  With a delighted laugh, Bev sprang up. “I’ll get a jacket.”

  EMMA HAD NEARLY convinced herself she’d been foolish to worry about her attire. She was there to photograph, not to flirt with the lead singer of the opening act. There was so much to do, equipment and lighting to check, stagehands and smoke machines to dodge, that she soon forgot it had taken her over an hour to dress.

  The audience was already filing in, though there were more than thirty minutes to the opening. There were stands of merchandise to be plucked through. Sweatshirts, T-shirts, posters, key chains. In the eighties rock and roll was no longer just music for young, rebellious kids. It was big business, umbrellaed by conglomerates.

  Anonymous enough in her black jumpsuit, she prowled the stands, snapping pictures of fans as they forked over pound after pound for memorabilia of the big concert. She heard her father discussed, dissected, and cooed over. It made her smile and remember the day so long ago when she had stood in line for the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. She hadn’t been quite three then, and now, nineteen years later, Brian McAvoy was still making giddy teenagers’ hearts throb.

  She switched cameras, wanting color now to show the screaming streaks of red, blue, green, of the shirts with their boldly emblazoned lettering.

  DEVASTATION 1986

  The fans themselves were a rainbow. Spiked hair, razor cuts, flowing manes. The style now was no style at all. Dress ranged from torn jeans to three-piece suits. A good number of the people jostling for space were her father’s age and older. Doctors, dentists, executives who had grown up on rock and roll and shared the legacy with their children. There were schoolchildren, toddlers carried on shoulders, women wearing pearls with their daughters clutching newly purchased screen-printed T-shirts. And, like an echo of the sixties, there was the faint but unmistakable aroma of pot to mix with the fragrance of Chanel or Brut.

  She wandered away, moving slowly through the crowd. The pass clamped to the second button of her jumpsuit had security giving her the nod to go backstage.

  If it was a madhouse out front, it was only madder back here. A faulty amp, another coil of cable, a frantic roadie rushing in and out, desperate to fix the last of the inevitable glitches. She took her shots, then leaving the technicians and grips to do their job, she headed toward the dressing rooms to do hers.

  She wanted pictures, like the ones she remembered so well in her mind. Da and the others sprawled around a dressing room, chain-smoking, joking, popping gumdrops or sugared almonds. She was just beginning to smile at the thought when she all but ran into Drew. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for her.

  “Hello again.”

  “Hi.” She smiled, nervously adjusting the strap of her camera. “I wanted to thank you for the present.”

  “I thought of roses, but it was too late.” He stood back. “You look incredible.”

  “Thanks.” Struggling to steady her breath, she took her own survey. He was dressed for the stage in snug white leather studded with silver. Boots of the same style and color came halfway to his knees. With his hair tousled and the half-smile on his face, he made Emma think of a smartly dressed cowboy.

  “So do you,” she managed when she realized how long she’d been staring. “Look incredible.”

  “We want to make a splash.” He rubbed his palms on the thigh of his pants. “All of us are half sick with nerves. Don—the bass player—he’s all the way sick. Got his head in the John next door.”

  “Da always says you perform better when you’re nervous.”

  “Then we ought to be a hell of a smash.” Tentatively, he took her hand. “Listen, have you thought about maybe going out after, having a drink?”

  She had thought of nothing else. “Actually, I—”

  “I’m pushing.” Drew let out a long breath. “I can’t help it. As soon as I saw you—it was like, wow, there she is.” He dragged a hand through his carefully mussed and moussed hair. “I’m not doing this very well.”

  “Aren’t you?” She wondered that he couldn’t hear her heart thudding against her ribs.

  “No.” He took her hand. “Let me put it this way. Emma, save my life. Spend an hour with me.”

  Her lip curved slowly until the dimple winked at the corner of her mouth. “I’d love to.”

  SHE HARDLY HEARD the cheers. Her brain barely registered the music. When it was over, and her father, dripping sweat, came off the stage for the last time, she knew that if a fraction of the dozens of pictures she’d taken turned out to be worth anything, it would be a miracle.

  “Christ, I’m starving.” Mopping his face and hair, he headed for the dressing room, cheers and screams still ringing in his ears. “What do you say, Emma? Let’s drag the rest of these rock relics out for a pizza.”

  “Oh, well, I’d love to but—” She hesitated, not sure why she felt uncomfortable. “I’ve got some things to do.” Quickly, she reached up to kiss him. “You were wonderful.”

  “What did you expect?” Johnno asked as he elbowed his way down the crowded hall. He dropped his voice to a creaky whisper. “We’re legends.”

  His red face streaming, P.M. stopped beside them. “That Lady Annabelle—with the hair.” He held his hands out to the side of his own head to demonstrate.

  “The one in the red suede and diamonds?” Emma offered.

  “I suppose. She wangled a spot backstage.” P.M. swiped a hand over his brow. Though his voice was aggrieved, laughter sparkled in his eyes. “When I went by, she—she—” He cleared his throat, shaking his head as if he could hardly go on. “She tried to molest me.”

  “Good God, call the law.” Johnno swung a comforting arm around his shoulder. “Women like that should be locked up. I know you must feel used and dirty, dearie, but don’t you worry. Come tell Uncle Johnno all about it.” He started to lead P.M. off. “Just what did she touch, and how? Don’t be afraid to be specific.”

  Chuckling, Brian watched them go. “P.M. always attracts the blatant sort. Hard to figure.”

  There was affection in his tone. Emma caught it, wondering if her father knew he’d forgiven his old friend. Then she saw the smile fade. Stevie stood a few feet away, resting a shoulder against the wall. His face was pale, both it and his hair running with sweat. Emma thought he looked ten years older than his contemporaries.

  “Come on, son.” In a casual move, Brian slipped an arm around his waist, steadying, taking the weight. “What we need’s a shower an
d some red meat.”

  “Da, can I help?”

  With a brisk shake of his head, Brian turned toward Stevie’s dressing room. This wasn’t something he would turn over to his daughter or anyone else. “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll—see you at home,” she murmured, but he had already closed the door. Feeling a little lost, she went to find Drew.

  SHE EXPECTED HIM to pick a loud, crowded club with hot rock music—Tramp or Taboo. Instead, she found herself sitting in the dim corner booth of a smoky jazz club in Soho. There was a trio spotlighted in dreamy blue on the stage, a pianist, a bass player, and a vocalist. They kept the music low and moody, like the lighting.

  “I hope you don’t mind coming here.”

  “No.” Deliberately, Emma unlaced her hands and relaxed her shoulders. She was grateful for the low lighting so that Drew couldn’t see her nerves—or Sweeney, smoking lazily a few tables over. “I’ve never been here before. I like it.”

  “Well, it can’t be what you’re used to, but most of the other places, it’s hard to talk or to be alone. I wanted to do both with you.”

  Her fingers knotted together again. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you how good you were tonight. You’ll be looking for your own opening act soon.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot.” He laid a hand on hers, gently stroking his thumb over her knuckles. “We were a little stiff on the opening set, but we’ll loosen up.”

  “How long have you been playing?”

  “Since I was ten. I guess I can thank your father.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “I had a cousin, he did some road work for Devastation when I was a kid and snuck me into a concert. Brian McAvoy. He just blew me away. As soon as I could save up, I bought a secondhand guitar.” He grinned. Her hand was firmly lodged in his now. “The rest is history.”

  “I’ve never heard that story.”

  “I guess I’ve never told anyone else.” He shrugged restlessly. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “No.” Enchanted, she moved closer to him. “It’s touching. That’s just the kind of story that endears someone like you to fans.”

  He looked at her, his eyes dark gold in the dim light. “I’m not thinking about fans right now. Emma—”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  Emma tore her gaze away from Drew’s to blink at the cocktail waitress. “Oh, a mineral water.”

  Drew’s brow lifted, but he didn’t comment. “Guinness.” He continued to look at Emma, continued to toy with her fingers. “You must have heard your fill about musicians,” he murmured. “I’d rather hear about you.”

  “There’s not that much to tell.”

  “I think you’re wrong. I want to know everything there is to know about Emma McAvoy.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Everything.”

  She spent the evening in a haze, with the sultry music the perfect backdrop. He seemed to hang on her every word. And touching, always touching her—his hand on hers, or brushing through her hair, skimming along her arm. They never moved from their shadowy corner, never glanced at the other couples huddled at tables.

  They left the club to walk along the Thames in the breezy moonlight. It was late, much too late, but it didn’t seem to matter what time it was. She could smell the river, and the cool spring flowers. Emma thought of gallant knights when Drew stripped off his jacket and spread it over her shoulders.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.” She drew in a deep breath and shook her head. “It feels wonderful. I never remember, until I come back, how much I love London.”

  “I’ve lived here all my life.” Walking slowly, he watched the starlight play on the dark surface of the river. He wanted to see other rivers, other cities, and knew his time was coming. “Have you ever thought of moving back here, to live?”

  “No, I haven’t. Not really.”

  “Maybe you will.” He stopped her, gentle hands on her shoulders. “I keep wondering if you’re real. Every time I look at you, it’s as if you’re something I dreamed up.” His fingers tensed as he pulled her closer. The quick, unexpected strength, the sudden intensity of his eyes, his voice, made her mouth go dry. “I don’t want you to vanish.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.

  Her heart scrambled as he lowered his head toward hers. She felt the warmth of his mouth, light, and so tender. He drew away, an inch only, then slowly, watching her eyes, pressed his mouth to hers again.

  Sweet, so sweet, she thought. So kind. Accepting, she skimmed her hands up his back and let him lead her. With a master’s touch he stroked his lips over her face, then brought them back to hers for one long, last caress.

  “I’d better get you home.” His voice was thick, unsteady. “Emma.” As if he couldn’t keep from touching her, he ran his hands up and down her arms. “I want to see you again, like this. Is that all right?”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “That’s absolutely all right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  SHE SPENT ALL her free time with Drew over the next weeks. Midnight suppers for two, long walks in the starlight, a stolen hour in the afternoon. There was something more exciting, more intimate, more desperate about the hours they spent together, because they were so few.

  In Paris she introduced him to Marianne. They met at a little café on Boulevard St.-Germain where both tourists and locals would sit over red wine or café au lait and watch the world strut by.

  Marianne looked more like a native in her lacy white tights and slim short skirt. Gone was the spiky hairdo. The bright red hair was worn sleek and short, and very French. But her voice was pure American as she squealed Emma’s name and jumped up to embrace her.

  “You’re here, I can’t believe you’re here. It seems like years. Let me look at you. Christ, you’re beautiful. I hate you.”

  With a laugh, Emma swung her hair behind her shoulders. “You look precisely the way a French art student should look. Très chic et sensual.”

  “Over here that’s as important as eating. You must be Drew.” Marianne kept an arm around Emma’s waist and extended her hand to him.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Emma’s told me all about you.”

  “Uh-oh. Well, sit down anyway. You know, Picasso used to drink here. I come all the time, and try a different table. I know if I ever find his chair I’ll go into a trance.” She picked up her glass. “Would you like wine?” she asked Drew. At his nod she signaled the waiter. “Un vin rouge et un café, s’il vous plaît. “She sent a wink to Emma. “Who’d have thought Sister Magdelina’s boring French lessons would have come in handy?”

  “Your accent’s still a C minus.”

  “I know. I’m working on it. So how’s the tour?”

  “Devastation’s never been better.” Emma smiled at Drew. “And their opening act’s creating quite a sensation.”

  He laid a hand over hers. “The response has been great.” He shifted his gaze from Marianne to Emma. “Everything’s been great.”

  Marianne sipped her wine, measuring him. If she had been into religious art, she would have painted him as John the Apostle. He had that dreamy, dedicated look. Or skipping a few centuries, Hamlet. The young prince shadowed by tragedy. She smiled as the waiter served the fresh drinks. Then again, she could have dipped back only a few years and used him as a model for the young Brian McAvoy. She wondered if Emma saw the resemblance.

  “Where to from here?” she asked.

  “Nice.” Drew stretched out his legs. “But I’m not in any hurry to leave Paris.” He glanced toward the street where cars and bicycles whizzed by with careless disregard for life and limb. “What’s it like to live here?”

  “Noisy. Exciting.” She laughed. “Wonderful. I have this little apartment right over a bakery. There is nothing, believe me nothing, that smells like a French bakery first thing in the morning.”

  They spent an hour loitering over their drinks before Drew leaned over to kiss Emma. “L
ook, I’ve got to get to rehearsal and I know you want to talk. I’ll see you tonight. You too, Marianne.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” She, along with half the women around the café, watched him walk away. “I believe he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” She leaned over to grip Marianne’s hands. “You do like him, don’t you?”