Sheet Music

by Tibby Armstrong

  Brent stepped back and David slid back in his seat, closing the window as he directed the driver to the Red Lion.

  “Red Lion?” she asked.

  “It’s a tucked-away pub near the hotel,” he replied with a smile.

  His smile was an addiction. She found herself craving it, wishing he’d bestow it upon her as he looked into her eyes and leaned in to kiss her. Her tongue skimmed her lips at the thought and she looked away. She’d promised herself not three hours ago that if she ever saw him again she was going to put a stop to their sexual relationship.

  She snorted and murmured, “Fat chance.”

  “What’s that?”

  He leaned closer and she inhaled deeply. She’d never get enough of his scent. He smelled of the air during a rainstorm, heavy with electricity and newly washed earth. In fact, everything about him crackled with sexual energy and power.

  “Were you born like this? Or is it something you cultivated?” she asked as much out of curiosity as to avoid his question. Besides, he’d as much as invited her in with the offer of quid pro quo back there.

  He took the bait.

  “Like what?”

  “Charismatic? Polished? Confident?” She couldn’t put her finger on the exact words.

  He looked out the window away from her. Something she’d asked had hit a nerve, and she was reminded of his interrogation of her the night before. She knew what he was feeling right now, and almost retracted the question before he spoke.

  “Are we off the record, Kyra?”

  He was holding out an olive branch. He’d attempt to trust her if she told him he could.

  “We won’t be on the record until you say we are.”

  He swiveled to look at her.

  “Why are you so certain I will?”

  “Allow me to interview you at some point?” She shrugged. “Instinct?”

  Any vestige of good humor fled, and the dark, dangerous David returned.

  “The same instinct that told you it would be a good idea to beard me in my den yesterday?”

  A hard swallow. “Probably.”

  He ran his fingers along a seam in the leather seat and she was reminded of how he had skimmed them along the underside of her breasts before swirling up and around her nipples.

  “I came to see you. To meet you. Just in case something went wrong at the Ritz and I never had the opportunity,” she continued.

  He slanted his gaze at her. “Playing groupie?”

  “No!” She was not a groupie. “I enjoy your music, but it was for the story. So I could say I’d seen you in person.”

  “And the sales pitch?”

  “Just came out. It was bad timing.”

  His questions came at her rapid-fire and she felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath her feet.

  “And bribing the floor attendant? Was that an accident too?”

  “No. That was plain old-fashioned rudeness. I’m sorry.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Are you surprised I apologized?”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised you even admitted it.”

  “Why?”

  “Some journalists wouldn’t think there was a problem with what you did.”

  “I’m not just anyone,” she bit back.

  He studied her for a moment, his eyes skimming over her mouth, her breasts, then back to her face.

  “No. You’re not just anyone.”

  It was her turn to look out the window. When had he turned the tables on her again? What kind of game was he really playing?

  “Thanks. I’m not sleeping with you again.”

  She caught the chauffer’s gaze on her in the sedan’s rearview mirror and wished she had duct tape for her mouth.

  The car slowed as they became snarled in late afternoon traffic. It had begun to drizzle and the wipers beat a bleak rhythm in the otherwise silent car.

  Finally unable to bear the silence, Kyra looked at David. His eyes were like a newly banked bed of coals and she couldn’t tell if it was arousal or anger that made him look at her that way.

  He took her hand in his, bringing her calloused fingertips to his mouth, and her solar plexus zinged. He ensnared her eyes, his lips suckling each of her fingers within the raw heat before he folded her hand in on itself with a gentle squeeze and placed it in her lap.

  It was a long moment before either one of them composed themselves and the sound of her breathing returned to normal.

  “I haven’t given an interview since…” He rubbed a palm over his face.

  “Your divorce,” she said, understanding him better in that moment than she had in the past twenty-four hours.

  “Precisely.” The look he gave her was appraising.

  “For what it’s worth, nobody worth their salt thinks you hit her, and no one I know would have printed that trash about you and Weber.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But you never gave interviews all that freely before then,” she mused aloud. “Why was that?”

  She got the look for that one.

  “So,” she said and scrambled to change the subject. “What about your new album? Why the creative turn?”

  The traffic inched along, but she saw they were almost to Pall Mall and the pub.

  “I didn’t always speak like I do now, and I wasn’t always so confident.”

  The abrupt change of subject threw her for a loop until she remembered the questions she had asked him earlier.

  “What did you speak like before? What made you confident?”

  He looked at her, breathed deep, and said, “Foike it an’ ye moike it.”

  “Fake it…and you make it? Oh! You spoke with a Cockney accent!”

  His nod was terse.

  The driver came around to the side of the car to open the door, an umbrella already open to cover them.

  David took the umbrella and held it over her.

  “We can walk to the hotel from ‘ere,” he said to the driver, his accent still holding a choppy lilt.

  Pulling a face as if fur had grown on his tongue, he ushered her underneath a square stone archway running under the Quebec government house and into a quaint shop-lined alley. When he spoke again, it was in the smoothly clipped syllables she was used to. Neither stuffy nor scruffy, but just right.

  “Your turn. What’s your dirty little secret?” he asked, snapping the umbrella closed.

  His tone held an edge of gritty seduction that made her shiver with delight. He might be refined on the outside, but they both knew he had no qualms about letting that passion out in his music, or in the bedroom.

  “Other than sleeping with you?” she asked, surprised at the echo in the covered walkway.

  “I imagine it’s not such a secret anymore,” he murmured in quieter tones than she had used.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked, dreading that he might have leaked the tidbit to the press himself to thwart her.

  “Because I can hear a camera flash charging from one hundred paces.”

  “A camera…? Oh!”

  The flash that went off in her face was momentarily blinding and she instinctively held up a hand to shield her eyes.

  “Frank. Fancy meeting you here,” she quipped when she could see.

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth when David grabbed the camera in a flurry of motion and shot the memory card from the slot into his palm.

  Kyra had heard he didn’t like being surprised by paparazzi, but he gave her firsthand evidence when the camera went to pieces on the pavement.

  “You fucking bastard! That’s me month’s wages there!”

  A wad of bills appeared from nowhere and dropped next to the camera.

  “Have a nice day, Frank,” David snarled.

  “Shagging for a story, Martin?” the paparazzi called and scooped up the bills.

  Both she and David stiffened at the insult. She had no delusions he was affronted on her behalf, but she pulled against his arm just the same when he attempted to turn back. Brawling
in the street would get them nowhere.

  “Let it go,” she whispered.

  He shrugged off her hand in a movement that was pure street fighter, but took her advice, opening the door for her.

  The place was quiet on Tuesday afternoon. Only well-read tourists seemed to know of the tucked-away pub. A plaque by the door proclaimed it one of the oldest in London. Kyra worked on calming her heart rate and took in the old English oak and traditional high-backed wooden snugs. It was a cozy place to quaff ale and pass a rainy afternoon.

  David led her to an empty booth in the corner, away from the leaded glass windows and out of the view of the door, before getting their drinks from the bar. Kyra spent the interval wondering how Frank had known they would be there. Was it just a lucky coincidence?

  “Does Frank know you like the Red Lion?” she asked as David slid a pint of dark brew her way. Its nutty flavor rolled over her tongue and warmed her empty stomach nicely.

  He looked at her over the glass as he took several long pulls, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that made her want to run her tongue down his throat and tease his neck with her teeth. The door opened and more patrons entered, bringing the damp air with them and Kyra shivered.

  “I doubt it. I’ve never been inside,” he said. “You?”

  “Me? Here before?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No. Never.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How do you know him?”

  “He used to cover New York for the U.K. papers. We’ve crossed paths a few times on assignment.”

  She could see him assessing the situation as he looked at her, his expression rigid with tension that made little lines come to prominence at the corners of his eyes. He would remember she had been with him the entire time. That she couldn’t have had time to alert anyone to where they were going. Saw when he came to that conclusion and relaxed a fraction.

  “Must have been coincidence.”

  Someone took the snug behind her, making her seat shift with the counterweight.

  “Seems like,” she said and took another sip of her own ale.

  “Where’s your bodyguard?” she asked, coming to the realization that it was the first time she’d seen him without one of his entourage.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  “They?”

  “Usually Günter and a backup come along when I’m out. I needed him to check on something for me, so Fin and Marcus are with us.”

  She twisted around to try to spy the men in the room.

  “They’re trained to blend in,” he warned. “Don’t give them away. They don’t like it.”

  Kyra gave a low whistle and sat back.

  “Does Günter usually pack?”

  “Heat?” David asked, his ale poised halfway to his mouth.

  She nodded and sipped her own drink.

  He nodded. “Sure. They all do.”

  “Is that standard protocol for the rich and famous?”

  David raised his eyebrows at her, but broke the look when a teenage girl with doe eyes and brown silken hair cascading around her shoulders stepped up to the table. Her features were awash in a mixture of awe and timidity.

  “Are you David Tallis?” she asked with an East Ender’s inflection.

  Kyra cringed inwardly at the idea of how he would react, but David smiled and her lips parted with surprise.

  “I am. And you are?”

  “Jenny. Jenny Sheridan.” The girl’s tone was breathless.

  A shadow flickered across David’s face.

  “I used to know a Jenny. You remind me of her. She had brown eyes too,” he said and reached in his pocket.

  Jenny smiled and blushed, but couldn’t so much as stammer out her next question. Putting her out of her misery, David grabbed the cardboard coaster from under his ale and flipped it over.

  “To Jenny,” he said, and paused to cast a glance at Kyra before continuing. “For keeping it real. Love, David Tallis.”

  He handed the coaster to the girl with a kiss to her cheek. She walked away with one hand to her cheek, the other clutching the coaster.

  Kyra giggled and David looked back to her, his eyes misty. As quickly as it had risen, her humor fled.

  “Are you okay?”

  He cleared his throat and took a sip of ale.

  “I’m fine.”

  She couldn’t stand it. He was obviously not fine, and it was the woman in her, not the journalist who goaded, “So why do you feel like you have to hide your past?”

  He laughed.

  The sound was unexpected and welcome, a spring rain washing away the tension and sadness. She noticed the emotion made his nose crinkle slightly at the bridge, adding a spark to his eyes.

  “You just don’t give up.”

  She shrugged, not sure how to respond.

  When he answered he met her eyes with a steady intensity.

  “This is who I want to be. How I want to be perceived. Just because you’re born a certain way doesn’t mean you can’t become someone else.”

  The depth of planning that must have gone into the idea struck her and she studied him. How had he managed to bury his childhood so completely? If he didn’t want the attention, why had he courted fame? Why did he have his own personal police force shadowing him everywhere?

  “What are you searching for?” he asked after she had examined him for a full minute.

  “It must have taken a hell of a lot of effort and determination,” she replied, fighting with herself to stay on topic.

  “To change who I was?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was easier than being who I didn’t want to be.”

  “How did you keep it out of the press all these years? You know they’ve been digging,” she said finally, succumbing to her curiosity.

  “I know people.”

  “And Jessica?”

  “Never told her.”

  Kyra blinked and set down her glass. This was a man who knew what he wanted…and always got it. Nothing he did was ever by accident. She sat back and hugged herself with her arms.

  He knew people?

  She shivered at the thought of what kind of people they must be.

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  He shrugged, the motion highlighting the ridge of muscle along his shoulder.

  “Is it a test?”

  The look he gave her held a hint of the feral alley cat she guessed he’d once been, and left her with no doubt he’d learned more than one dirty trick before he’d spit-polished his star persona.

  “Will the real David Tallis please stand up?” She laughed shakily and slugged down the rest of her ale.

  His expression, flickering between anger and chagrin, told her she’d hit her mark. Sometimes the great performer didn’t know who he was anymore, she’d be willing to bet. A smidge of his veneer had worn away and she was beginning to see him as a real person. While the man underneath the luster was a little tarnished, she found she strangely preferred him to the pristinely packaged version.

  Come to think of it, the music she’d heard him perform today was more revealing of who he really was than probably even he knew, or would want to admit.

  “Your music. You’re changing your style,” she prompted and sat forward again.

  “These are some songs I’ve been saving up for a few years. They seemed to go together.”

  “What do you think the critics will say?”

  He cocked his head to one side.

  “What do you think the critics will say?”

  She let a slow, sensual grin spread over her features at the memory of him in the studio.

  “It’s got depth. It’s gritty. Real.” She held his eyes for an elongated beat and said in a husky whisper, “It’s you.”

  Electricity sparked between them and his gaze became so intensely private she would have sworn they were the only two people in the room.

  “You ought to give that look to the camera the next time you shoot a cov
er for your CD,” she said, drinking in the look he gave her. “It’ll sell millions.”

  He reached under the table to roll his thumb along her palm, his expression sizzling with desire. “Should I think of you when I do?”

  Kyra moaned aloud. He was making love to her with his eyes as well as his hand.

  Fuck it. She wasn’t going to be able to resist him any more than she could stop breathing. She’d probably succumb to his spell even if he were a hit man. Letting her hand speak for her, she slid it under the table and up his rock-hard thigh.

  His expression turned languid with desire, eyes darkening with the dilation of his pupils. She felt his hunger with every pulse of his blood under her hand and she knew without a doubt he was going to take her before they could reach the hotel.

  Chapter Seven

  Rain poured down as she ran hand in hand with David along the alley of posh shops. Every time her feet impacted the ground it jolted the swollen flesh between her thighs, making her acutely aware of how badly she wanted him inside her, pounding her the way he’d done last night.

  When he ducked them into a clothing store, she protested.

  “No. Keep going!”

  “Shh, love,” he murmured and took her face in his.

  Raindrops tipped his lashes. Water beaded down his face, highlighting the darkness of his stubble and spiking his hair.

  A shop woman stepped forward just as David’s mouth met hers, his tongue a hot, driving lance jousting with her own. The thrust and parry left her breathless and she laced her hands through the hair at his nape to hold her upright.

  “Sir! You can’t…”

  The woman trailed off as she realized who she was talking to, and Kyra combated a brief impulse to open her eyes and take in her expression.

  Kyra heard the shop door lock.

  “Two thousand pounds and it’s yours for an hour.”

  David didn’t answer, just pulled the bills from his wallet and scooped Kyra up into his arms. He strode directly toward the opulent dressing area, surrounded in mirrors and graced with a satin-tufted slipper chair. Either he’d been here before, or he had killer instinct. She was willing to bet on the latter.

  Her back against his chest, he faced her to the mirror and slid her short skirt up to reveal a red-bowed, black garter belt and matching panties.