Читать книгу Always On Her Mind - Emily McKay, Catherine Mann - Страница 15

The strains of “Playing for Keeps” echoed in his head even after he’d finished the last encore, reminding him of a time when he’d actually believed that idea. The audience ate up the simple melody and sappy premise.

Exiting stage right, he began to doubt the wisdom of rolling out that old tune to soften up Celia. He couldn’t read her face in the shadowy wings, but he damn well knew his insides were a raw mess. Thank God his Alpha Brotherhood buddies were backstage with her, a wall of protection behind her while a couple of the wives kept her company. So his pals had her back—and his—until he could get himself on level ground.

This whole trip down memory lane was a double-edged sword, but he wouldn’t lose sight of the goal. He and Celia needed to see this through. To settle the past before they could move forward with the future. The applause and cheers swelling behind him meant nothing if he couldn’t find some resolution with Celia.

God, she was gorgeous in a silky sapphire dress with a hint of ruffle teasing her knees. And the plunging neckline—he couldn’t look away, especially as throughout the concert she’d toyed with those tiny strands of pearls twisted together. Her feminine curves had always driven him to his knees and drained him of the ability to think. But holy hell, he could feel.

Turned on and turned inside out.

He wanted to have her naked in his arms again more than he wanted air. More than he wanted another concert or even another assignment. Getting into her bed again had become his mission of the moment. She was, and always had been, the woman he wanted more than any other.

As he drew closer to her, though, he realized he’d made a big, big mistake with the song. Her lips were tight, her eyes sparking with anger and something even worse.

Pain.

Crap. The sight of her distress sucker punched him. He’d meant to tap into her emotions, not hurt her.

Stepping into the backstage shadows, he reached out to her. “Celia—”

She held up both hands, keeping an arm’s distance between them. “Great concert. Fans adored that new love song of yours. Congratulations. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m ready to turn in for the night. Looks like I have plenty of guards, so you’re officially absolved of protective detail.”

With a brittle smile, she pivoted on her heel and walked away, pushing through the crowd double-time.

Hillary Donavan studied him with perceptive eyes before nudging Jayne to join her in racing to catch up with Celia. Bodyguards melted from the backstage melee, encircling the women in an almost-imperceptible bubble of protection.

Malcolm slumped against a pallet of backup amps. How could he win over stadiums full of people yet still be clueless when it came to this one woman?

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he damn near jumped out of his skin. Troy Donavan stood beside him to his left, Conrad Hughes to his right. The international casino magnate was a lot less brooding these days since he’d reconciled with his wife.

Troy thumped Malcolm between the shoulder blades again. “Woman troubles?”

“Always,” Malcolm said simply.

Troy charged alongside. “My advice? Give her space—”

Conrad interrupted, “But not so long that she thinks you’re avoiding her.”

Troy continued, “Enough time to cool down about whatever lame-ass thing you did.”

Fair enough and true enough, except, “I can’t afford to give her space, not with—”

“A stalker.” Troy finished his sentence. “Right. She has guards. We’ll be in the room next to hers playing cards. Meanwhile, smile your way through the reporters and let’s get back to the penthouse.”

An offer his stressed-out brain could not resist.

The limo ride through the night streets of Paris with the Arc de Triomphe glowing in the distance was as awkward as hell. With Celia looking anywhere but at him, the others in the vehicle made small talk to fill the empty air.

Finally—thank God, finally—they reached their historic hotel. The women smiled their way past reporters as they charged up the steps between stone lions. And before Malcolm could say “What the hell?” he found himself staring at Celia’s closed door in the penthouse suite.

He turned back to the spacious living room connecting all the bedrooms. While he tried not to take the wealth for granted, the carved antiques and gilded wood were wasted on him tonight. His longtime buddies were all doing a piss-poor job of covering their grins.

“Gentlemen.” Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his bristled jaw. “There’s no reason for the rest of you to hang out here in the doghouse with me. Granted, it’s a luxurious doghouse. So enjoy your cards and order up whatever you want on my tab. But I’m done for the night.”

Troy straddled a chair at the table in the suite’s dining area. “Like hell. We’re not letting you check out on us any more than you would let us leave. The rest of our party should be arriving right about—”

The private elevator to the penthouse dinged with the arrival of …

The rest of the party? Crap.

The brass doors slid open in the hall to reveal three men, each one an alumni of the North Carolina Prep School. Alpha Brotherhood comrades. And recruits of Salvatore for Interpol.

Malcolm’s concerts gave them the perfect excuse for reunions. First out of the elevator, Elliot Starc, a Formula One driver who’d just been dumped by his fiancée for playing as hard and fast as he drove. Behind him, Dr. Rowan Boothe, the golden-boy saint of the bunch who devoted his life to saving AIDS/HIV orphans in Africa. And lastly, Malcolm’s manager, Adam Logan, aka The Shark, who would do anything to keep his clients booked and in the news.

Shoving away from the window, Malcolm shrugged off his jacket, which still bore the hint of sweat from the concert. “We’re gonna need a bigger table.”

His manager grinned. “Food and drinks are on the way up.” He took his chair at the far side. “There are going to be a lot of brokenhearted fans out there once they realize this thing with Celia isn’t just a new fling.”

There was no escaping his pals, who knew him so well. Better to meet their questions head-on—and bluff. “Logan, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

Conrad shuffled the cards smoothly. “Seriously, brother, you’re going to play it that way?”

The saintly doctor dropped into a seat. “I thought you were over her.”

“Clearly, I’m not,” he said tightly and too damn truthfully. Everywhere he looked in the room, he already saw reminders of her—and it was just a hotel room, for God’s sake.

Elliot poured himself a drink at the fully stocked bar. “Then why the hell did you stay away for eighteen years? It’s all I can do to stay away from Gianna since she gave me my walking papers.”

When had his brothers started ganging up on him? “That’s the way Celia wanted things then. Now our lives are very different. We’ve moved on.”

His manager tapped his temple. “Two musicians who’re obviously attracted to each other. Hmm … still not tracking your logic on being wrong for each other.”

“Breaking up was best for her,” Malcolm answered, irritation chewing his already churning gut. “I wrecked her life once. I owe it to her not to do that again.”

Logan kept right on pressing. “So even though you let her go, you’ve been making billions to show up her old man.”

“Or maybe I enjoy nice toys.”

Troy tipped back in his chair, smoothing a hand down his designer tie. “You’re sure as hell not spending it on clothes.”

“Who appointed you the fashion police?” Malcolm unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. “Start dealing. I’ll be back.”

He strode over to the bulletproof window for a better signal and pulled out his phone to check for messages from Salvatore. He’d seen his old mentor in a private box at the performance, a glamorous woman at his side. But even when he socialized, the colonel was never off the clock. Malcolm’s email filled with data from Salvatore’s intelligence on the principal Celia had been “sort of seeing.” His references, his awards and a dozen other ways he was an all-around great guy.

So why didn’t he have even partial custody of his kids? Strange, especially for a principal. Malcolm typed an answer to Salvatore then shut down his phone.

He turned, finding the saintly doc lounging in the doorway.

“Damn, Rowan,” Malcolm barked, “you could have spoken or something to let me know you were there.”

“You sound a little hoarse there, buddy. Is the concert tour already wearing on your vocal cords? I can check you over if you’re having trouble.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” He clipped his phone to his belt, and still Elliot didn’t move. “Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, there is,” the golden boy pressed, but then he never gave up trying to fix the world. “Why are you tearing yourself up this way by being with her again?”

“You’re the good guy. I would think you’d understand. I let her down once.” Malcolm started toward his bedroom door to ditch his sweaty coat and give himself a chance to regain his footing. “I need to make up for that. I have to see this through.”

“And you’ll just walk away when you figure out who’s after her?” he asked, his sarcasm making it all too clear he didn’t believe it for a second.

“She doesn’t want the kind of life I lead, and no way do I fit into hers now.” The last thing he wanted was to go back to Azalea, Mississippi. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. What she and I had was just puppy love.”

“What happens if someone breaks into her house next month? Or a student lets the air out of her tires? Are you going to come running to her side?”

Rowan’s logic set Malcolm’s teeth on edge.

“Quit being an ass.” He charged past, back into the living room.

His manager leaned back in his chair and called over to him, “Quit being delusional. Either claim the woman or don’t. But time to commit to a course.”

“Damn it, Adam,” Malcolm growled, closing in on the round table. “Do you think you could speak a little softer? I don’t think they heard you over in Russia.”

He looked down the hallway toward Celia’s room. Once he was confident the door wouldn’t open with an angry Celia, he sat as Conrad dealt the cards.

“Claim her?” the casino magnate repeated. “I can almost hear my wife laughing at you if she heard that. Brother, they claim us. Body and soul.”

Elliot grimaced, “You’re sounding like one of those sappy songs of Malcolm’s … ‘Playing for Keeps’? Really, dude? Be straight with us. You wrote that one to get some action.”

Malcolm bit back the urge to haul him out of the chair and punch him the way he’d done when Elliot ran off at the mouth in school. Only the image of Celia’s pained face made him hold back, humbling him with how much he’d screwed up somehow. “Hope you’re going to be happy growing old alone with your race cars and a cat.” He gathered his cards. “Now, are we playing poker or what?”

Even as he pretended to shrug off what his friends had said, he couldn’t deny their words had taken root. For tonight, he would let her cool down. But come morning, he needed to quit thinking about seducing Celia and actually get down to the business of romancing his way back into her bed. Romancing her, seducing her, was not the same as falling for her. He could make the distinction and so could Celia.

And by learning that, they could both quit glorifying what they’d shared in the past and move on.

Celia tipped her face toward the morning sun, the boat rolling gently under her feet as it chugged along the Seine River. Hillary Donavan told her they’d set up a private ride for their group to see some of the city before they flew out for the next stop on the tour. Such a large group of friends and their wives. While she understood their school connection, she wondered why Malcom’s entourage included such luminaries. Usually artists traveled with lesser folk, always remaining the star of their circle. But Malcolm traveled with very high-placed friends from an array of backgrounds. His lack of ego was … appealing.

Gusts channeled down the canal, fluttering her gauzy blouse against her oversensitive skin. She needed this breather before she saw Malcolm again. He hadn’t been in the limo with them this morning, and she’d pushed down the kick of disappointment. No doubt he must be sleeping in, exhausted after the performance.

Taking in the image of the Eiffel Tower set against the backdrop of the historic city, she appreciated the thoughtfulness, as well as the chance to escape the hotel suite. She needed this opportunity to air out her mind before they climbed onto the claustrophobic luxury jet again.

The restless night’s sleep hadn’t done much to settle her tumultuous nerves over how Malcolm had used that piece of their history—onstage, no less—to play with her emotions. He’d always been driven, but she’d never expected him to be ruthless. Her hair lifting in the breeze, she gripped the brass railing of the boat powering along the canal.

“Why are you ignoring me?” a male voice rumbled behind her.

Malcolm’s voice.

Rich, intoxicating tones that sent a shiver down her spine.

Her toes curled in her sandals.

Celia turned on her heel to face him, leaning back against the rail. How much longer before his voice stopped making her knees go shaky? Plus the sight of him? Equally dreamy. The past and present blended in his look of faded jeans with designer loafers and a jacket. He wore a ball cap and sunglasses, likely to hide his identity, but she would have known him anywhere.

And just her luck, all of his buddies were making tracks to the other side of the boat, leaving her here. Alone. With Malcolm.

She blinked back the sparks of the morning sun behind his broad shoulders. “I thought you were still at the hotel asleep when I left.”

“I came to the boat ahead of the rest of you, slipped on board with the boat captain to reduce the chances of the press finding me.” He captured a lock of her hair trailing in the wind and tucked it behind her ear. “Back to my question. Why did you avoid me last night, after the concert?”

“Ignoring you?” She angled her head away from his stirring touch. “Why would I do that? We’re not in junior high school.”

“You haven’t spoken to me since those few brief—vague—words after the concert last night.” He frowned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Are you pissed because I kissed you on the plane?”

“Should I be upset that you kissed me without asking?” A kiss that still made the roots of her hair tingle. “Or should I be angry about the photos of us together plastered all over tabloids and magazines? Oh, and let’s not forget TV gossip shows. We’re—and I quote—‘The Toast of Paris.’”

“So that is why you’ve refused to talk to me.” He pressed a thumb against his temple, just below the ball cap.

“Actually, I got over that. But the way you mocked me by playing a song you wrote about us in high school—” her anger gained steam “—a song you recently called a puppy-love joke? Now, that made me mad.”

“Damn it, Celia.” He hooked a finger in a belt loop on her jeans and tugged her toward him. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“Then what did you intend?” she asked, unable to read his eyes behind those sunglasses. She flattened her palms on his chest to keep from landing flush against him, body to body. Still, with their faces a breath apart, her heart skipped a beat.

“Hell, I just wanted to pay tribute to what we shared as teenagers. Not to glorify it, but certainly not to mock it,” he said with unmistakable sincerity. “We did share something special back then. I think we can share that again.”

Air wooshed from her lungs, making it almost impossible to talk. The sound of the flowing water alongside the boat echoed the roar of blood rushing through her veins. Her fingers curled in the warmth of his jacket. “You missed the mark big-time in getting your meaning across on the stage, Malcolm.”

“Let me make it up to you.” Pulling off the shades, he rested his forehead against hers, the power of his deep blue gaze bathing her senses.

“You don’t have to do anything. You’re protecting me from a stalker. If anything, I owe you.” She squeezed his jacket tighter. “But that’s all I owe you.”

His hand slid around her. “I don’t want you feeling indebted to me.”

Her face tipped to his, so close to kissing, so close to bliss. Her mouth tingled in anticipation. It was getting tougher and tougher to remember why this was a bad idea. The roaring of the water and her pulse grew louder and louder until she realized it wasn’t the river or her heartbeat.

“Damn it, the press,” Malcolm barked softly, stepping back and sliding his sunglasses on again.

Paparazzi ran along the shore with cameras in hand. Shouts carried on the wind, disjointed phrases.

“—Douglas.”

“Kiss her—”

Celia raced alongside him toward the captain’s cabin. “I thought you intended for us to kiss for the camera.”

“Changed my mind,” he called, pulling open the door. “Keeping you happy suddenly became a higher priority.”

He tucked her inside, the boat captain glancing over in surprise. Malcolm waved for him to carry on. Apparently Elliot Starc hadn’t him given boat-driving lessons, too, she thought, hysterical laughter starting to bubble inside her. Her nerves were seriously fraying.

“What now?” she asked.

Malcolm nodded to the floral bag dangling from her arm. “You could answer your phone.”

She looked down fast, the chiming surprising her until she almost jumped out of her skin. “I didn’t even hear it.”

Fishing inside, she dug through until her hand closed around the phone. She pulled it out and saw her father’s number blinking on the screen.

“Hello, Dad. What do you need?”

“Just checking on my baby girl,” he said, concern coating every word, “making sure you’re all right. I, uh, saw the newspapers this morning.”

She grimaced, avoiding Malcolm’s eyes. “I’m fine. The pictures were … staged. It’s all a part of making sure everyone knows I’m very well protected here in Malcolm’s entourage.”

“Staged, huh?” her father answered skeptically. “I never knew you were a theater person, because that was some mighty fine acting in the photo.”

Her chest tightened with every word from her father. “I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

“Well, I’ve been fielding calls all day.”

“From the press?” The thought of them hounding her dad made her swallow hard—not easy to do when she was finding it tougher and tougher to breathe.

“My number’s unlisted. You know that. The calls are from your friends at school, even that high-school principal you went out with a couple of times.”

“I didn’t go out with him.” She glanced at Malcolm quickly as the enormity of this washed over her. Being with Malcolm now had changed her life in ways she could never undo. Her ordered existence was falling apart. She was losing control—but for once, that didn’t seem to be such a bad thing. “We just happened to sit together at events we both attended for work.”

“Who drove?”

“Stop it, Dad,” she snapped, then backtracked, guilt pinching her. She started pacing restlessly in the small cabin. “I love you, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m an adult.”

“Malcolm’s standing there with you, isn’t he?”

“Why does that matter?” And why couldn’t she bring herself to just end the call? God, she hated being caught between them again.

Her father sighed through the phone lines. “Just protect yourself, Celia. You’ll always be my baby girl.”

His voice stirred more guilt as she thought of his pain over losing his oldest daughter. She pressed a hand to her head, dizzy from lack of breakfast and, yes, pangs of guilt. She thought of her own ache for the baby she’d given up, but at least she knew her child was alive somewhere, growing up loved. Worrying for her father heaped on top of her nerves, which were already stretched to the max by trying to sort through her feelings for Malcolm.

“Dad, I promise I’m being very careful.” She measured her words carefully, trying not to let her perceptive father hear the quaver in her voice. “And you? Are you okay? Have you gotten any threatening messages?”

“I’m fine. Blood pressure is in the good zone, and there hasn’t been so much as a peep of a threat.”

“Thank God,” she said, praying that wouldn’t change. “I really do appreciate the call. Love you, Dad.”

Her heartbeat sped up, new worries crowding her head and making her chest feel tight. Oh, no. She knew the old symptoms. Knew what might happen next if she didn’t pull it together.

She thumbed the off button and dropped her phone back into her Vera Bradley bag with shaky hands. “Well, your plan is working. The whole world—even my father—thinks we’re having an affair.” She gasped for air, trying to fight down the encroaching panic and not succeeding all that well. “Do you think we could just go back to the hotel?”

“Are you okay?” Malcolm asked, just before she could have sworn the boat began listing to the side.

Ah, hell. She reached for Malcolm’s hand just before she blacked out.