by Nora Roberts
“What’s hot to like? He’s gorgeous, talented, smart, funny.” She grinned. “Maybe he’ll dump you for me.”
“I’d really hate to have to murder my best friend, but …”
“I figure I’m safe. He doesn’t look at anyone but you. Why, I don’t know; just because you’ve got those incredible cheekbones and big blue eyes a yard of blond hair and no hips. Some guys have no taste.” She leaned back. “You look ridiculously happy.”
“I am.” She took a deep breath, drawing in the scents of wine and flowers. Of Paris. “I think I’m in love with him.”
“No kidding? I’d never have guessed.” With a laugh she patted Emma’s cheeks. “Pal, it’s all over your race. If I were to paint you right now, I’d call it Infatuated. What does your dad think of him?”
Emma picked up her cold coffee and sipped. “He has a lot of respect for Drew’s talent both as a musician and as a songwriter.”
“I meant what does he think of Drew as the man his daughter’s in love with.”
“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”
Marianne’s brows disappeared under her sharply cut bangs. “You mean you haven’t told him that you’re involved?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Emma shoved the coffee aside. “I guess I just want to keep it to myself. I want it to belong to me for a while. He still thinks of me as a child.”
“All fathers think of their daughters that way. Mine calls me twice a week to make sure I haven’t succumbed to some lecherous French comte. I only wish.” When Emma didn’t smile, she tilted her head. “You think he’ll disapprove?”
“I don’t know.” Restless, she moved her shoulders.
“Emma, if it’s serious between you and Drew, he’s going to find out sooner or later.”
“I know. I’m just hoping it’ll be later.”
IT WASN’T MUCH later.
Emma enjoyed the morning sun on the terrace of her room in Rome. Though it was late for breakfast, she was still in her robe, her coffee growing cold, as she checked over her current batch of prints. In the back of her mind she was assessing them not only for Pete but for her own idea for a book.
Smiling, she took out her favorite of Drew. She’d taken it in the leafy shade of the Bois de Boulogne. Only moments after she’d taken the picture, he’d kissed her. And told her he loved her.
He loved her. Closing her eyes, she reached her arms up to the sky. She had hoped, and she had wished, but she’d had no idea how happy she could be until he’d said the words. Now that he had, she could begin to dream what it would be like to be with him always, to make love with him, to be married to him, to make a home and raise a family.
She hadn’t realized how badly she wanted that. A man who loved her, a home of her own, children. They could be happy, so happy. Who understood the life and problems of a musician more than a woman who had been raised by one? She could comfort and support him in his work. And he would do the same for her.
After the tour, she thought. After the tour they could begin to make plans.
The knock on the door broke into her thoughts. She hoped it would be Drew, come to share breakfast with her as he had once or twice. Her smile of welcome faltered only slightly when she saw her father.
“Da. I’m surprised to see you out of your room before noon.”
“Maybe I’m too predictable.” With a newspaper folded in his hand, he stepped into the room. He glanced first at the bed, then at his daughter. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.” She studied him with a puzzled frown. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“You tell me.” He slapped the paper into her hand. She had to unfold it, then turn it right side up. But the picture was clear enough. The picture of her and Drew. It wasn’t necessary to read Italian to get the drift. They were locked in each other’s arms, her face tilted up to his, her eyes slumberous and dreamy as a woman’s became when she’d been kissed by her lover.
She couldn’t tell where it had been taken. It didn’t matter where. What mattered was that someone had intruded on a very private moment, then had splashed that intimacy in newsprint.
Emma tossed the paper across the room, then stalked to the balcony. She needed air. “Damn them,” she muttered, knocking her fist lightly against the rail. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”
“How long have you been seeing him, Emma?”
She looked over her shoulder. The wind blew strands of pale hair over her eyes. “Since the start of the tour.”
Brian jammed his hands into his pockets. “For weeks, then. For weeks, and you didn’t bother to tell me.”
She tossed her head back as she turned. “I’m over twenty-one, Da. I don’t have to ask my father’s permission to go on a date.”
“You were hiding it from me. Dammit—come inside.” He bit the order off. “The bloody press has their telescopic lenses trained on this place.”
“What difference does it make?” she demanded, holding her ground. “Everything we do ends up as public fodder eventually. That’s part of the price.” She gestured to the piles of prints on the table. “Hell, I do it myself.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it.” He stopped himself, dragging a furious hand through his hair. “It hardly matters at this point. I want to know what’s going on between you and Drew.”
“You mean am I sleeping with him? No, not yet.” She braced her hands on the rail. “But it’s none of your business, Da. Just as you told me, years ago, that your sex life was none of mine.”
“I’m your father, dammit.” He heard himself. He was her father. Somehow he’d become the father of a grown woman. And he didn’t have a clue what to do about it. He waited until he was sure his voice would be calm. “Emma, I love you, and I worry about you.”
“There’s no need to worry. I know what I’m doing. I’m in love with Drew, and he’s in love with me.”
Now he couldn’t speak. In defense, he picked up her cold coffee and downed it. A dove flew by the terrace, soft gray wings flapping. “You’ve only known him for a few weeks, that means you don’t know enough about him.”
“He plays a guitar for a living,” she pointed out. “You’d sound ridiculous criticizing that.”
“The last thing I want for you is to see you involved with someone in the business. For Christ’s sake, Emma, you know what it can do to people. The demands, the pressures, the egos. I don’t know any more about this kid than that he’s ambitious and talented.”
“I know all I need to know.”
“Listen to yourself. You sound like some bubble-brain. Like it or not, you’re not in a position to trust a man just because he has a pretty face and says he loves you. You’ve got too much money, and too much power.”
“Power?”
“There’s no one who knows me who would doubt I’d do anything for you. Anything you’d ask me.”
It took her a minute, but the words slowly sank in. Angry tears blurred her vision as she stepped toward him. “So that’s it? You think Drew is interested in me because I have money, because he thinks I could sway you to help him in his career? It’s impossible, isn’t it, that he or any man might be attracted to me, might fall in love with me? Just me.”
“Of course not, but—”
“No, that’s just what you think. After all, how could anyone look at me and not see you?” She spun around, pressed her palms against the rail. The sun glinted off a lens in the garden below. She didn’t give a damn. Let them take their pictures.
“Oh, it’s happened before. Yes, it has. Emma, how about dinner Friday—and by the way, can you get my cousin tickets and a backstage pass to your father’s concert in Chicago?”
“Emma, I’m sorry.” He reached out, but she jerked away.
“What for? You really can’t help it, can you? And I learned to live with that, even to be amused by it. But this, this time I’ve found someone who cares about me, who’s interested in my fe
elings and my thoughts. Who hasn’t asked me for anything but to be with him, and you want to spoil it.”
“I don’t want to spoil it. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You’ve already hurt me.” Her eyes were dry when she looked at him. “Leave me alone, Da. And leave Drew alone. If you interfere with this, I’ll never forgive you. I swear it.”
“I’m not going to interfere. I only want to help you. I don’t want to see you make a mistake.”
“It’ll be my mistake. You’ve made your own, God knows. For years I’ve watched you do whatever you wanted, with whomever you wanted. You ran away from your happiness, Da. I won’t run away from mine.”
“You know how to twist the knife,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t realized.” He walked out of the sunlight and left her alone.
DREW SLIPPED AN arm over Emma’s shoulders. They were standing on another terrace, in another city. The old-world graciousness of the Ritz Madrid was lost on Emma. She could hear the tinkle of the fountains, smell the lush garden below, but she might have been anywhere. Still, she found Drew’s arm comforting and rubbed her cheek against it.
“I hate to see you sad, Emma.”
“I’m not. Maybe a little tired, but not sad.”
“You’ve been upset for weeks, ever since you and Brian argued. Over me.” He removed his arm and moved aside. “The last thing I wanted to do was cause you trouble.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” He turned, and in the moonlight his eyes gleamed dark. “It doesn’t really. He would have had the same reaction no matter whom I was seeing. Da’s always been overprotective. A lot of it comes … because of what happened to my brother.”
He kissed her, gently, on the temple. “I know it must have been rough for you, and for him, but it happened a long time ago.”
“Some things you don’t ever forget.” She shivered, suddenly cold in the warm summer night. “It’s because I understand how he feels that it’s so difficult for me. He’s done everything for me, not just materially, but in every way.”
“He adores you. You can see it every time he looks at you.” Smiling again, he brushed a hand over her cheek. “I know just how he feels.”
“I love him, too. Still, I know that I can’t go on living my life to please him. I’ve known that for a long time.”
“He doesn’t trust me.” His lighter flared, followed by the sharp sting of tobacco. “I don’t blame him. From where he stands I’m on the first rung of the ladder, still fighting my way up.”
“You don’t need me to reach the top.”
He blew out a stream of smoke. “Still, I see where he’s coming from. It’s easy since we’re both crazy about you.”
She moved to him then to press a kiss against his shoulder. “He’ll come around, Drew. He’s just not ready to admit that I’m grown-up. And in love.”
“If anyone can soften him up, it’s you.” He flicked his cigarette away, then turned her into his arms. “I’m glad you didn’t want to go out tonight.”
“I’m not big on clubs and parties.”
“Just an old-fashioned girl, aren’t you?” His lips were curved as they touched hers.
“Do you mind?”
“Spending the evening alone with you?” His hands moved up and down her rib cage as he toyed with her mouth. “Do I look crazy?”
“You look wonderful.” Her breath caught as he skimmed his fingers over her breasts. She was small and firm. He felt himself harden as she trembled against him.
“Sweet,” he murmured. “Always so sweet.” His mouth grew hungrier on hers, more demanding, less patient as he circled her off the balcony and toward the bed. “The tour’s nearly over.”
“Yes.” She let her head fall back when his lips raced down her throat.
“Will you come back to London when it’s done, Emma?”
She shuddered again. It was the first hint he’d given her that he meant what they had to last. “Yes. I’ll come to London.”
“We’ll have nights like this.” He lowered her to the bed, keeping his voice soothing, his hands easy, not wanting to break the mood. “Night after night together.” Smoothly, his clever hands tugged her blouse from the waistband of her slacks. “I’ll be able to show you, over and over, how I feel about you. How much I want you. Let me show you, Emma.”
“Drew.” She moaned his name as his mouth roamed lower, as his tongue stroked over and under the slope of her breast. The pleasure and the passion streaked into her. This time, she told herself as his long, callused fingers glided over her skin. This time.
She could feel the tension in his shoulders where her own hands gripped. He had strong shoulders, strong arms for such a slim, delicate-looking man. She loved feeling the bunch and flow of his muscles.
Then his hand roamed down to the waist of her slacks. Those clever fingers fumbled impatiently with hooks.
“No.” She hated herself as the word burst out, but she couldn’t stop it. When he continued to tug, his mouth coming back to close over hers, she struggled. “No, Drew, please.” She was on the verge of tears when she managed to pull away. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I’m so sorry. I’m just not ready.”
He didn’t speak. She couldn’t see his face. In the dark, she huddled on the bed until her system leveled.
“I know I’m not being fair.” Annoyed with herself, she dashed a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know whether the nuns did a better job than they could ever imagine or if it’s because of Da, but I need more time. You’ve every right to be angry, but I just can’t do this. Not yet.”
“You don’t want me?” His voice was quiet and oddly flat.
“You know I do.” She groped for his hand and tried to soothe his rigid fingers in hers. “I guess I’m a little frightened, and a little unsure.” Ashamed, she brought his hand to her lips. “I don’t want to lose you, Drew. Please, give me a little more time.”
Her sigh shuddered out when she felt his hand relax in hers. “You couldn’t lose me, Emma. Take all the time you need. I can wait.” He brought her close, stroking with one hand. The other curled into a tight fist in the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
IT FELT ODD spending the summer in London again. During her childhood at least a few weeks of Emma’s vacation had been spent there each year. But it was different now. She was no longer a child. She was no longer staying in her father’s home. And she was in love.
She knew Drew was hurt that she had refused to move in with him. It wasn’t morals—or perhaps only a small part of it was morals. She wanted the romance to go on a little longer—those lush bouquets he sent to her, the funny notes that arrived in the mail or were slipped under the door. She wanted time to enjoy it—the thrill of falling in love. The terror of being in love. The glassy-eyed, light-headed exhilaration that every woman has the right to experience at least once.
And most of all, she wanted time to be sure she had at last stepped out from her father’s shadow.
She didn’t love Brian any less. Emma doubted she could. But she’d discovered that she wanted more than her photographs to stand on their own. Then there was Bev.
For most of her life Emma had been cheated out of a mother. In the weeks as summer drifted into fall, she made up for a longing of a lifetime by moving into one of Bev’s guest rooms.
If Drew was impatient with her, she had to put him off. She needed this time with Bev, not to feel like a child again, but to reforge a bond. How could her new relationship work if she left older ones unresolved?
She had her work. The city where her father had spent his childhood caught her imagination. Emma could spend hours scouring the streets and parks, finding subjects. An old woman who came day after day to feed pigeons in Green Park. The ultratrendy set who walked Labradors or pushed prams along King’s Road. The tough-faced punks who haunted the clubs.
So she stayed on, a month, then two months longer. She celebrated with Drew when Birdcage Walk’s album settled into Billboard’s number
twelve slot. She watched in amusement as Lady Annabelle ruthlessly pursued a baffled P.M. She cut asters and mums from Bev’s garden. And at last, she took a step forward and submitted prints and a book proposal to a publisher.
“I’m meeting Drew at seven,” Emma called out as she tugged on a short suede jacket. “We’re going to dinner and a film.”
“Have fun.” Bev gathered up an armful of samples. “Where are you off to now?”
“Stevie’s.”
“I thought he was under the weather.”
“Apparently he’s on the mend.” She took time for a quick