Deep in the Heart

by Alexa Padgett

  “Cam’s fine.”

  “Right.” I turned back to Ben. “I’ll need to ask you to leave so I can work with my client.”

  Ben’s scowl deepened, his hands clenching into fists.

  Cam dipped his head to acknowledge a large man now peering through the glass. Sunglasses covered his eyes, but his crossed arms meant no-nonsense. His brown hair was buzzed short, and his arms showed off well-defined biceps.

  The man opened the door and strode in like he owned the place. “You all right?” he asked Cam. He sounded like a bear—even deeper and growlier than Cam and without that melodic quality.

  “This man doesn’t want to leave the premises even though the lady’s asked so nicely.”

  I dropped my gaze and bit the inside of my lip to keep from smiling. Polite might be as far as I’d take my request. Nice shouldn’t signify—in part because Ben never deserved kindness. Not from me, anyway.

  Ben’s expression darkened as he looked between us. “I’m going. I’ll be back.”

  “I hope not,” I said. “In fact, I’d prefer not to see you again.”

  Ben leaned back into my personal space and said, “We have unfinished business.”

  I turned back to Cam, ignoring Ben. “So, what are you looking for, Mr…um, Cam?”

  My shoulders unbunched when Ben strode from the shop, the door slamming loud enough to make me jump. Cam’s bodyguard wandered forward, placing himself near the glass door, probably so Ben knew he was being watched.

  “Not your favorite person?” he asked.

  Man, that rough voice sent shivers up and down my spine. Tingles upon tingles danced across my skin. I looked away to cover my reaction.

  “Let’s focus on your guitar.”

  “It’s not my business,” Cam said. He ran his index finger over the redness around my wrist. “And I get you don’t want me to pursue him being here further, but he hurt you.”

  My gaze slammed back to his, eyebrows arched in shock.

  “Fear rolled off you when I stepped in here. You don’t like him.”

  I shrugged, unwilling to comment on my nonexistent relationship to a stranger—more, a rich and famous customer. “I don’t.”

  “You need anything else, Cam?” the bodyguard asked.

  Cam raised his eyebrows at me. When I didn’t answer, he said, “I think we’re okay now, Chuck. Just…keep an eye out, will ya?”

  “I’ll hang out here.”

  “I’ll get you a chair,” I said as I turned toward the back. I still gripped my bat. I set it down in the corner, trying to be unobtrusive.

  “No need, ma’am.”

  My steps stuttered at the address—I was twenty-four! I couldn’t be a ma’am yet. Whatever. More significant issues to focus on, Jenna. Like staying calm. Icing my throbbing wrist.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  Chuck nodded. He turned toward the door and crossed his arms. While he looked relaxed, his eyes continued to rove the parking lot. With his big body, short hair, and all-seeing eyes, I’d bet he was former military.

  I ran my hands down my thighs and closed my eyes, taking a moment to realign my world—and my place in it.

  “Want to come on back, Mr. Grace?”

  “Told you, it’s Cam. And sure. My leg’s not interested in standing today.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry! I saw you limping…”

  “Shrapnel. From a bomb in the sandbox.” At my look of askance, he said, “Iraq.”

  Golly gee green jelly beans. He played guitar and he was a wounded war vet? I’d missed plenty of details about Camden Grace—probably because I’d never been that into country music even when I lived here during high school.

  “You were in the army?”

  He raised a brow. “Army Ranger at your service, ma’am.” His scowl darkened. “Medically retired, though, thanks to my bum leg.” For the first time, he appeared uncertain. Lost, even. “Been a long time now.”

  I motioned him to the back and he moved slower this time, concentrating on each step from his right leg.

  “Bad, then? The shrapnel?” I said, gesturing to his leg.

  “Took out a chunk of muscle. Never going to win any beauty contests.”

  I held out a chair and he settled in, wincing. I wasn’t so sure—he was beautiful. But he was also a customer, and Ben’s physical attack created a severe case of freaking out…which, come to think of it, I hadn’t done any of since we started talking. Huh.

  I pulled another piece of flannel from my back pocket and twisted it. I needed to take my pills.

  I blinked, then flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve gotten that look in your eye. What did that flannel ever do to you?”

  I laughed, but it was a flat, hollow sound.

  “You going to tell me if I need to beat up that kid who was in here before? What I saw—he harassed you.”

  This time, I smiled with actual warmth. “No, but thank you. Ben and I have a history.”

  “Got that. What I don’t get is why you didn’t kick him in the balls like you wanted to.”

  “It’s not his balls I want to drop kick to Saturn,” I said, mostly to myself. “That leaves too much of him here.”

  “Ah. There’s a bit of humor. Sass suits you.”

  “Right.” I cleared my throat and settled into my desk, pulling out a paper and pad. “So. A new guitar?”

  Cam scratched his cheek, the whiskers making a raspy sound. “Yeah. I busted the last one.”

  “Well, if you bring it in, we can repair it.”

  The ruddy stain of embarrassment crept up his neck and crested his cheeks. “Not this one. I—ah—smashed it.”

  I jerked back, my mouth falling slack. Pop-pop’s guitars were expensive, even for a wealthy country singer. Dropping ten grand—or more—to bust a guitar, especially one as beautiful as my grandfather’s, was a shame.

  “On purpose?”

  “Things got a little carried away on the bus, and I took out my temper on the guitar.”

  He pronounced it the Texan way: gi-tar. I liked that, too. Oddly. I wasn’t much for an accent of any kind, preferring the men I dated to be as vanilla as possible. Not that I’d dated much—at all—since I’d lived in Seattle. Being a star witness in a trial was hard on anonymity. Being the woman who slept with the drug dealer... I hadn’t known Charles dealt drugs at the time, but that didn’t make me look any better in the media.

  My hand shook and I blinked multiple times, trying to keep my mind here in the present.

  No good.

  Pre-pills was not the time to think about love, romance, and the lack of sex in my life.

  I dug around in my purse and pulled out my pill case. I dumped the two capsules in my hand before dropping them onto my tongue. Then I opened my yogurt smoothie and drank most of it down along with the pills.

  Cam watched me, questions building in his eyes. I ignored them as I placed my pill box back in my bag and then shut it in my desk drawer.

  “That bothers you. Me busting the instrument.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He rubbed his hand over his lip and swung his left leg forward and back, like a pendulum. I kept my gaze fixed there, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I’m not violent. Usually.”

  I picked up my pencil and tapped it on my pad in front of me. “This new instrument. Got any idea what you’re interested in?”

  “First I need to address your concerns.” He waited until I looked him in the eye. “I found out my father died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “I handled the news poorly. He and I…” Cam sighed, dropped his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. “As you said, my father and I had a history. Not all good. If it makes you feel any better, I regret my reaction. I regret busting my guitar, and I regret having to call your grandfather to tell him what I did.”

  “Okay.”

  “Buried my father two weeks ago. Held my
mother through the funeral.”

  What to say? No words came.

  Cam sighed. “All right. Down to business. Something flashy. It’s going to be my new stage guitar.” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I’ve been asked to perform at Fort Bliss. For the Fourth of July concert they’re putting together.”

  I’d read an article about Camden Grace headlining the Soldier Celebration tour. All the proceeds from the event went to war veterans and their families. I approved of that cause. But one of the reporters sniped earlier this week that the performance was supposed to help rebuild Cam’s deteriorating reputation. “That’s in just a few weeks.”

  His eyebrow shot up and there was the entitled jerk the world loved to hate. “That a problem?”

  I sat up straighter, met his eyes. “Yes,” I said. “I’m booked.”

  He leaned in a little closer as he smiled, flashing those damn adorable dimples as his eyes lit up. Confidence. Best aphrodisiac ever.

  Of course, he knew he was hella sexy. The man graced magazine covers, billboards.

  “Your grandfather spoke highly of your skill, your work ethic. Said if anyone could make me a guitar that sings sweeter than Faith Hill, it was you.”

  “It’s not a question of if I can make you a custom guitar,” I began.

  “Actually, it is.”

  He leaned in a little closer. I smelled caramel as his warm breath slid over my skin.

  “Unfortunately, creating a quality instrument is a process,” I managed to say without growling. I’d just dealt with Ben. No way I was letting another man push me around. “My name is attached to your instrument. I only allow the highest quality to leave this building.”

  Cam settled back on his stool and eyed my hands. “I understand a need for perfection.” His gaze rose to mine and the heat in his eyes slammed back through me. “Me, I’m all about it. In fact, that drives my team crazy.” He settled his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward again, using that sexy-as-sin face to his advantage. “This is about what your pop-pop said you could do for me. And the fact I’m looking for a perfect-for-me instrument that I plan to boast about at my concert and for the rest of my career. So, question is, can you help me out so I can help you out?”

  2

  Cam

  Her eyebrow shot up and fire leaped into her eyes. Eyes that had been wary when I walked in now screamed confidence, competition, irritation, and…yeah, hot, steamy sex.

  This woman was too cute. I mean, she was beautiful with all that thick, silky blond hair and big blue eyes, but she faded from professional and even a bit sassy to unsure, which she covered up with the right amount of composure.

  Hell if I wasn’t still a sucker for a gal in need of a thick arm and a strong back. I had both of those and, as my dad liked to point out, I offered them to ladies in distress.

  I frowned. Hadn’t worked out well with Kim. I laced my fingers and dropped my hands between my knees so Jenna wouldn’t see them shake. Did a number on me and my family. And fool that I was, I missed all the signs.

  Like most of the world, I knew Jenna’s name because she’d been the central witness in one of the most-watched litigations of our times. Talk about notoriety.

  The girl who didn’t die. That was the headline I’d hated then and still found disgusting now.

  At least my reputation was well-deserved. Sort of. I destroyed a twelve-thousand dollar instrument two weeks ago, so, yeah, I deserved the digs at my character. But Jenna…from the reports that came out in the trial, she’d been a pawn. In military terms, higher-ups called her hospitalization “collateral damage.”

  I hated that term near as much as I hated anything that might take the fire, the confidence from this young lady’s pretty eyes. Protective instincts locked into full engagement. This time, my need to keep this gal safe had nothing to do with her stunning looks. Almost nothing.

  Dammit. She was too much for me to take in. If I didn’t need this new instrument so bad, I’d limp on out of here. As Chuck said, I reaped what I sowed. Smashing up everything on my bus that night proved damn stupid.

  Better than turning to booze again.

  Or drugs.

  Hadn’t tried those yet, though I’d been tempted a few times. Mighty tempted after Kim. Good. Jenna was talking and I could leave my own damn, messed-up head.

  “You’re right, your backing will help my career.” She sighed, and I could practically see her counting hours in the day. “I’ll look up the design for your last guitar and start recreating that.”

  “Don’t want another one of those. I want something you design and create.” I waved my hand to the main area of the shop where twenty or so instruments hung from hooks or sat in stands.

  She narrowed her eyes, probably thinking I was hitting on her. Maybe I was. “Okay. What do you want?”

  “You make anything flashy?”

  Her lips flipped up like she couldn’t believe I asked the question. “Sure. I just shipped guitars to Hayden Crewe and Asher Smith.”

  I whistled.

  “Those guys don’t play to your kind of fan, though. Their stage guitars needed to be extreme. Hmm, Dane Klein uses one of my designs. He’s a member of Lummi Nation—an alt-country band that’s closer to your genre.”

  “Holy cow,” I said with a smile. “You only named some of the best musicians on the planet.”

  Jenna grinned. “There are a few others here in various stages of completion. Jake Etsam asked me to make him a bass. And I have a few other orders, but I’m not at liberty to give out those names or specs.”

  This gal didn’t just wake up with that kind of client list. I might not know much about making a guitar, but I knew the process was meticulous and time-consuming. I also knew she hadn’t been back in Austin that long. Less than three years. “Show me some of yours?”

  She rose and strode from the room. Her eyes dripped wariness, jerking from my eyes to my hands to anything not related to me, but her gait was smooth as warm oil over hot steel. Damn, she could swing those hips. Best part, the grace was innate, subconscious. Sexy as…

  “So, here’s one I finished earlier this week. The second one is for Clay Rippey. He’s also a member of Lummi Nation—”

  “Band based in Seattle. Plays with Dane Klein, who you mentioned a minute ago.”

  She blinked in surprise. “I have a few others if you don’t like these.”

  I took the first one she held out, her light blue eyes darkening further to a stormy near gray as I took the instrument. The color of Lake Travis on an overcast day.

  Fantastic. I was waxing poetically about this woman. Hadn’t been so interested in anyone since…well, since Kim.

  Time to puzzle over my reaction later. For now, I focused on the instrument she handed me. The wood was smooth, the neck formed from a darker tone than the body or headstock, which were still richer than the typical maple. Mahogany or something like that. The guitar itself was more substantial than my current one—scratch that, the one I used to have. Not heavy or clunky but solid. I wrapped my fingers around the neck and strummed. A rich F-chord filled the space.

  “The resonance here is amazing,” I murmured. I strummed again, head tilted toward the sound chamber. I nodded my head as I played A, then C.

  “Nice. I like this one’s sound. And the heft. What’s it made of?” I traded her the guitar I held for the other instrument. It had a wider body and was made of the more traditional woods. She seemed to brace herself for the exchange.

  My chest tightened as I watched her hands shake.

  Did she fear me? Because I’d told her I busted my guitar?

  Our fingertips brushed. Heat flashed up my arm and coiled tight in my belly. I raised my eyes to hers and swallowed.

  Her cheeks flushed and she licked her lips.

  Well, now. Much better than fear. This kind of reaction I could work with.

  “The first one is alder. With a walnut stain.”

  “And Clay’s?”

  “Bas
swood with a maple overlay. The sides and back are Madagascar rosewood and the fingerboard inlays are sea glass I found on Alki Beach. That’s in Seattle.”

  I studied the small, milky green inlays. A lovely, custom touch that would mean something to the owner. The effort she’d gone to, even if this was a custom guitar, surprised me. “You seem young to be a guitar maker.”

  Absolute wrong words to try to ease the tension building between us. Her back snapped straighter than my former drill sergeant’s and her eyes cooled.

  “I enjoy the process. It’s soothing and rewarding. I can’t say that about many other jobs.”

  “Not many women choose to make guitars. There’s another family place out in North Carolina, I think. She used to be some kind of fancy rocket scientist or something until she got bit by the bug.”

  Jenna turned away to settle the first guitar into its stand with inordinate care. “I’m not a rocket scientist.”

  “But one helluva guitar maker.” I strummed this instrument. “That sounds mighty fine. You really only been doing this a couple of years?”

  “Full time for almost three. But I apprenticed with Pop-pop from the time I was twelve.”

  I never planned to tell Jenna her grandfather spoke about her at length one of the times I was in the shop—back before she started. Her grandfather liked me for some reason, and I didn’t mind listening to him prattle on, so long as I could sit and watch him work.

  I had a feeling Jenna wouldn’t like that, and I wanted her to be comfortable around me. Better, I wanted her to want to spend time with me.

  I was thirty-one. Too old for this visceral, shaking-in-my-boots reaction to a woman.

  Jenna offered me an electric model this time, and I avoided touching her fingers because even that minimal contact lit me up like a sparkler on Fourth of July. The guitar’s body was sleek, a streamlined take on the traditional body shape. I smiled at the Swarovski crystals inlaid in an intricate snowflake pattern.

  I strummed again, perturbed by the thoughts racing through my head. Yeah, I wanted Jenna. At least the chance to get to know her better. Kiss those berry-red lips and stroke my thumbs down her supple neck.