Lure of Song and Magic

by Patricia Rice

  Damn, how could he prove she was wrong when all signs pointed in the opposite direction?

  Could she literally kill people with her Voice? He didn’t want to believe it.

  Chapter 30

  They ate lunch at a seafood restaurant on the pier overlooking the bay.

  Pippa washed the black streaks from her face and tucked her helmet into her backpack, daringly walking into Oz’s world with only rose-tinted glasses to disguise her turquoise eyes. Of course, using no cosmetics, with her hair short and back to its natural red and wearing clothes similar to those of every other grubby tourist on the pier, she hoped she bore little resemblance to a wealthy rock star.

  So far, people only glanced at her when she spoke.

  So, for Oz’s sake, she kept her Voice neutral while expressing her appreciation in other ways. She really was enjoying this day of escape. Since he was trying so hard to give her a good time, she would do her best to prevent it from turning ugly. Besides, she was having a blast pretending to be normal for a little while.

  She’d happily hugged Oz’s arm when they’d entered the restaurant and then reached across the table to press finger kisses to his cheek while they ate. He had looked a little perturbed by the biking experience, but he started to relax when he realized she wouldn’t have every customer in the place lining up for an autograph or falling in his oyster stew.

  Pippa loved her newfound anonymity. She loved that she could talk to Oz without restraint, as long as they weren’t in public. And she really loved that he responded to her touches as eagerly as others did to her Voice. As she responded to his heated looks.

  Definitely very adolescent of them.

  The peaceful interlude couldn’t last forever, she fully realized. This was just an escapist moment of avoiding the black hole of Monday. She feared failure to find Donal would be a blow from which Oz wouldn’t recover. She was fairly certain either way, it would end their relationship.

  But she appreciated that Oz had thought of a wonderful way to play and that he wasn’t telling her what to do, as he bossed everyone else around him.

  With his overlong sun-streaked hair, earring, and T-shirt, he should fit right into the crowd, but he couldn’t disguise his brawny shoulders, arrogant stride, and aura of privilege. Women turned to stare at him as much as the bikers had turned to stare at her singing. When a waitress leaned over to clear the table, flashing too much plastic cleavage, Pippa decided he’d had enough attention and began humming. The woman scampered.

  Oz eyed her with suspicion, and Pippa offered her best evil smile in return.

  “You have a hum that scares people?” he inquired without inflection.

  “Something from Tchaikovsky. My music teachers insisted that I listen to the classics. ‘Peter and the Wolf’ has some lovely dark notes.”

  “And you learned to use them how?” He handed over his credit card to pay the bill, and Pippa noticed the waiter did a double take, recognizing Oz’s name on the card. A wannabe actor, she suspected. And Oz was one of the important players.

  The server glanced at her with envy, and Pippa began humming under her breath again, not answering Oz until the waiter ran away.

  She shrugged. “That was a test run. When I got bored with the classics, I used to scale my Voice to the notes of the symphony. I learned the teacher would abruptly shut off the music or switch it to a happier tune when I did that. I discovered later that the notes were good ones for releasing my dark feelings. I use them in several of my songs, the angstier ones.”

  “So you can use your Voice as a weapon,” he suggested. “Like a porcupine raising his quills, at the very least.”

  “If I’d been trained, probably. But my knowledge is entirely accidental, and experimenting can be dangerous. If a few minor notes can chase people away, I don’t want to know what would happen if I really unleashed my anger.” Actually, she knew what happened. They turned to drugs and drove off cliffs.

  He signed the receipt and tucked his card back in his pocket, ignoring the murmurs and glances of the wait staff as he assisted her from the booth. Oz had his own shield of oblivion, Pippa realized with envy. He strode through the world, assuming people noticed him and expecting them to keep their distance. She wished she’d learned that technique.

  Oz could teach her. He’d already taught her that she could come out of hiding if she was careful.

  “If you weren’t actually angry, but just wanted to project anger, could you control the effect of your Voice?” he asked with interest as they strolled back into the sunshine.

  “I’ve only practiced control these past years. I can keep my Voice neutral, and I can use the mildly hypnotic tone you’ve heard when I read. Sometimes I can project soothing sounds, like with the drunk. This is the first time I’ve attempted to warn anyone away. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

  She was relieved that he finally accepted that her Voice was more than just sound but an instrument or weapon that could be used. She wasn’t certain she liked the direction of his questions, though.

  “Carousel or Ferris wheel?” he asked, leading her through the crowds in the direction of the park.

  “Much better question. Carousel. And cotton candy.” Holding Oz’s hand, swinging it, Pippa rejected their earlier conversation in favor of returning to their date with fun. “And then I’m going to beat you at every game on the midway.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. She admired the long brown column of his throat—as did all the women around them. She sighed with contentment, absorbing these moments to pull out and remember when she had to return to her loneliness.

  But she wouldn’t be lonely any longer. Thanks to Oz, she had a mother now. She prayed she could save Donal so she could return the favor.

  She’d eventually get over the heartache of missing Oz’s vibrant energy in her life. She hoped.

  ***

  Despite every hair on his head slowly turning gray while he worried over Donal, Oz enjoyed the distraction that was Pippa.

  She wasn’t so good at the water gun games, which he won hands down, thanks to his video game practice, but she had a deadly aim in the games involving throwing balls, beanbags, and other assorted oddments. Her focus was almost frightening. He’d spent his wayward youth on the pier and knew how the games were rigged and could direct his throws a little off center, where the hit really counted, so he could still match her. On whack-a-mole, however, she won, with a stunningly fast lead.

  “I’m never letting you come after me with a mallet,” he announced as they emerged from the midway with a stuffed monkey wrapped around his neck and a heap of cheap Mardi Gras beads layered over Pippa’s Tweety Bird shirt.

  “I think I have a new profession. I’ll hire myself out to whack moles. It could be fun,” she decided, grinning happily.

  Oz wished he’d spent days like this with his son and vowed he would spend every weekend enjoying Donal’s company if only he could have the boy back. He watched the other parents with envy, trying not to crush Pippa’s hand when he saw a towheaded kid who might be his.

  She hummed a soothing song, and he yanked her hair in retaliation, proving her Voice didn’t work on him. She was brilliant and talented, and her animation could make him feel joy and happiness as he hadn’t in years—but she couldn’t remove his anguish and fear, no matter how she tried. He almost wished he could be one of the poor saps she could tease and seduce so he could spend these next days in a hapless stupor.

  They’d decided to save the Ferris wheel for last, hoping the lights would be on before the concert began in the park. Except as the afternoon wound down, Oz doubted the wisdom of their plan. Even looking like an ordinary tourist, Pippa was incapable of blending in with the crowd. She was tall and distinctive, and she kept adorning toddlers with necklaces from the gaudy stack around her neck. The children loved her. And she
obviously adored them. But people turned to watch, and he felt stares follow in their wake. This was L.A. People were always stargazing, and Pippa possessed star quality.

  They ate junk food from the stands for their supper, and Pippa hummed over a damned tofu chili dog. She hummed when she was happy, and Oz loved hearing the sound. So did everyone else in the vicinity. Heads turned again. Remembering the bicyclists, he tensed up.

  He steered her between two stands, over an alley of electrical cords, and into a crowd on the other side when he recognized that puzzled I-know-her-from-somewhere look in the eyes of several couples who’d turned to look and listen. He’d been around enough to know when people recognized their favorite actor passing by—even when the stars were dressed in shabby jeans and a two-day beard. Some people were just good at faces.

  He bought her an overpriced ball cap at the next stand and yanked it down over her eyes. Pippa blinked and caught his concern immediately, checking over her shoulder.

  “Just in case,” he said easily. “Let’s hit the Ferris wheel now. We’ll be far above the masses and out of sight.”

  She nodded, and they stood in line, but Oz’s back itched, as if there were a target there, drawing stares. She’d have him believing he was actually empathic. Pippa switched uneasily from foot to foot, as if she felt it, too.

  “We should leave,” she whispered.

  “And not ride the Ferris wheel? You’ll let a few freaks spoil your fun?”

  “I think I may know the short guy,” she said, not hiding her annoyance. “This really is a small town, and I worked with a lot of people.”

  “So, he asks for your autograph. Will that hurt?” He didn’t want her to run. He wanted her to stand up to her fears. She was no longer a timid, frightened teenager.

  The glow of joy left her eyes. She stiffened and faced straight ahead. “Whatever happens is on your head.”

  Too late, he remembered she didn’t like being ordered about, as if her opinion had no relevance. Before he could change his mind, a little girl with a long braid ran up to Pippa, holding out an advertising flyer. “My daddy says you’re Syrene. Could I have your autograph?”

  He couldn’t blast a kid who wasn’t even old enough to know who Syrene was. Oz threw a cold glare over his shoulder but couldn’t find the parents who had put her up to this.

  “Your daddy is mistaken,” Pippa said, calmly leaning over to take the flyer and pen. “But maybe you’ll know this name.” She used Oz’s back for a writing desk. He could feel her signing Philippa James.

  The little girl looked at the autograph with puzzlement and then brightened. “I read your book at the library! Wow!”

  She scampered off into the arms of a perfectly innocuous couple who led their excited daughter away without incident.

  “Good move,” Oz murmured. “If you want to leave, I’ll take you.”

  “I’m still recognizable,” she growled, not leaving the line as they moved closer to the ride. “You know what will happen at the reading Monday?”

  “Conan will have bodyguards there. Nothing will happen,” Oz assured her. “Even if someone happens to recognize you, they can’t reach the stage, and we’ll have a car waiting outside so you can get away quickly.”

  She took off her ball cap and smacked his arm with it. Several times.

  He deserved that. If people thought Philippa James was Syrene, she’d never have peace again.

  And still he wouldn’t back out. A terrified little boy came before a woman whose narrow life was about to publicly explode.

  ***

  They were at the top of the Ferris wheel, staring into the sunset, with lights popping on all over the dusky landscape below, when Pippa remembered that the Santa Monica Pier was the end of Route 66, the road that had carried war-weary soldiers and their families across the country to the land of milk and honey.

  The road that could carry her out of California, into the wilderness where no one would know her. She should never have settled so close to L.A. It had been foolishly sentimental of her.

  She would have to leave behind all she knew and loved—her studio, her friends in town, her day care kids—Oz.

  Real tears slipped down her cheeks, but she understood what it was like to be hunted and stalked far better than Oz could ever imagine. Her life was about to become hell. And if madmen or power mongers really were hunting Malcolms, then it only made sense to take her mother and hide.

  It made even more sense than trying to fit into Oz’s world, where she would be a danger to him and his son and the rest of his family, even if she wanted to live in the city. Which she didn’t.

  Silently, she said farewell to the ocean, to the mixed-up, crazy world she’d loved for a while, to the relationship she could never hope to have.

  Flinging her arms around Oz, she kissed him as the wheel rotated, kissed him with all the love and passion she would never share again.

  Chapter 31

  Safely ensconced in Oz’s big bed, far from her sanctuary, Pippa dreamed of Oz’s kisses and snuggled closer to the furnace of a man spooning her. She dreamed of his hands stroking her breasts into arousal, and the need to caress him in return was as natural and instinctive as coming home. She caught his big hands and guided them, enjoying this moment of possession, the human contact she thought never to know again.

  His erection prodded her thighs, and she adjusted herself to his need, trusting the solace of his familiarity, the security of his strength.

  He murmured something insensible in her ear and rubbed against her. The piercing sensuality woke her from her dreams.

  And Oz was still making love to her. She was humming happily as he stroked, and she wasn’t entirely certain he was awake, either. She reached over her shoulder to rub her hand over his bristly beard, and he growled and thrust with more direction.

  “Yes,” he said in triumph. “Mine. I like waking like this.”

  So did she. This time, when she arched backward, he took what she offered. Their bodies recognized each other’s so well that they knew what to do without conscious thought. It was better without thought, without fear. Pippa threw herself into the exertion with joy. She could almost see fireworks when they climaxed together.

  She relaxed and fell asleep in his arms again.

  ***

  Sing.

  That’s all the Librarian’s text said on Sunday morning. Oz wanted to chuck the phone across his bedroom.

  Pippa was singing in his shower—probably with the dark notes she’d told him about yesterday. Her glorious voice echoed off the limestone tiles and danced across his ceiling. He didn’t need artwork if he had her voice. He could never tire of hearing her. Which did not bode well for the future, but he couldn’t think beyond Monday.

  He was fairly certain this message meant that the Librarian wanted Pippa to sing at the reading. He couldn’t allow that to happen. After yesterday’s near fiasco, he couldn’t let the entire world know that Philippa James, the author, was the missing singing sensation Syrene.

  He’d fooled himself into believing that no one would recognize her. He’d made believe that a recording would suffice. He’d bullied her into an impossible situation. And for what? The possibility that Donal was still alive? It wasn’t as if the Librarian had offered any hint of proof.

  Yesterday had confirmed Pippa’s worst fears—she was recognizable, no matter how she disguised herself. And they would be in Bakersfield, where she’d grown up. There were probably posters of Syrene hanging all over town, even after all these years. For the filming, Oz might bring in Audrey, the skinny actress understudy Nick had suggested, but he had to ask Pippa to go on stage this one time. He was praying her presence was all the siren call needed to lure Donal from hiding.

  They hadn’t gone to the concert last night. People had been standing around the Ferris wheel
when they got off, whispering and nudging one another and staring at Pippa. She’d hummed her off-putting tunes, but Oz had felt her fear building, even if he couldn’t hear it in her voice, as others must have. The entire crowd had started backing away before he’d hurried her into the darker corners of the park, out of sight.

  He’d had the shuddering notion that if she’d been any more scared, she would have projected her terror, and the happy holiday throng would have mushroomed into a mob scene.

  Syrene had once caused a riot. With her Voice? He understood her fear better.

  He hoped they were safe in the condo, that her Voice didn’t project beyond his walls. He didn’t know what she was channeling this morning, but despite their ecstatic lovemaking last night, she didn’t sound happy.

  Rather than risk taking her to a restaurant, Oz ordered up stuffed bagels and made his own coffee. He rummaged in his cabinets until he found tea bags someone had given him, probably in a company Christmas basket.

  He had plates on his glass table and wished he’d ordered a bouquet by the time Pippa emerged, dressed in a long, flowery sundress with a sleeveless turquoise turtleneck beneath.

  He had a feeling the turtleneck was a symbol of her drawing back into her cave.

  After the rapturous midnight sex, their lovemaking this morning had felt like a farewell. Pippa had cuddled and held him instead of playing games and teasing him or driving him to new heights of passion. Oz wasn’t at all surprised when she dropped her little bomb this morning.

  “I think I need to go home today and get ready,” she declared. “You need to work with Conan and his team on ways to locate Donal in the auditorium and make certain he escapes safely.”

  She serenely poured hot water from his kettle over the tea bag in her cup as if she’d simply said, “Good morning.”

  “What do you have to do to get ready?” he asked irritably. “We have dancers and magicians to fill the opening acts. All you have to do is walk on, read, and walk off while we play your recording. Conan is in control of whatever happens next.”