Treasure Me (One Night with Sole Regret Book 10)

by Olivia Cunning

  When he reached Owen’s front door, he tried to open it, but found it locked. He rang the doorbell, knocked, banged on the polished mahogany surface until his entire arm ached, but no one answered his summons.

  “Owen, please, we need to talk. I didn’t mean—” He cut off his own lie. He had meant it. Maybe not at first, but once their lips had met, he’d meant every caress, every shred of lust swirling through his body. What he hadn’t meant to do was hurt Owen, not in any way. “I’m sorry. Please, just . . . We need to talk.”

  The door opened, but it wasn’t Owen who faced him. It was Caitlyn. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Owen’s new girlfriend. Would she be furious? Upset? Hurt? Strangely, she seemed sad. Was his ability to read people slipping?

  “Bad timing, Kellen,” she said. “He’s devastated over his brother, and you pick that moment to finally be honest with him?” She shook her head. “I think you should leave. He might forgive you later, but right now? He feels betrayed.”

  “He told you?” And why wouldn’t he? Owen hadn’t done anything but accept Kellen’s advance until he’d come to his senses enough to push him away. “I want to talk to him. Apologize. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “I don’t think he’ll talk to you right now. He’s got a whole lot of anger brewing inside him over Chad, and you gave him something to direct that anger at.”

  “That’s fine. He can kick my ass if that’s what he needs to do, but I couldn’t stand it if we leave this as it is. If he shuts me out.”

  “I’ll talk to him on your behalf,” she said, but Kellen wasn’t sure if she’d say the things that needed to be said. What if she made the situation worse? Right. How could anything she said be worse than what he’d done?

  “I—” Kellen licked his lips, searching for words. He should apologize. Not just to Owen, but to Caitlyn. And to Dawn. Oh God . . . Dawn. What was he going to tell Dawn?

  “Just so you know, I’m not letting you have him,” Caitlyn said, and before her words had sunk in, she shut the door in his face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Prague had always been one of Dawn’s favorite cities. The red rooftops and countless spires puncturing the skyline were pleasing to the eye, and the Czech people were kind and patient—if not perpetually amused—as she struggled to communicate in their language. She’d always been better at understanding foreign languages than speaking them, so while she caught most of what was said to her, she was pretty sure she’d told the taxi driver that her cat liked yellow pillows. Dawn didn’t even have a cat.

  Though she adored the local beer—in her experience, the best pilsner on the planet—touring the mix of ancient attractions and the art nouveau buildings of downtown, and gawking at the amazing workings of the astronomical clock for an hour or two, what really cemented Dawn’s link to the city was the music. String quartets accompanied by flutes often entertained passersby right on the street. Live classical music could be heard in ordinary bars as well as more formal venues. The entire area had a healthy obsession with Mozart. Every time she visited, she felt she’d found the city of her heart. Well, that title was a toss-up between Prague and Warsaw. She loved both cities dearly. She’d been in Prague just a month ago for the Spring International Music Festival, but had jumped at the chance at a repeat performance. She wished Kellen had come. Even though he was a rock musician, she felt that every music lover should experience Prague at least once in their life. If this had been a leisure trip, she’d have taken in several concerts, an opera or two, and maybe even a ballet, but she was short on time and still not sure if she was signing that contract to compose for Hollywood. If she was, she’d have to be in Venice by the end of the week. Would she even have time to sneak in a few days in Texas to comfort Kellen about his band breaking up?

  She’d never meant for her stint in Hollywood to become permanent. Truthfully, she wanted to compose the type of symphonies that musicians would still be playing in Prague and around the world a hundred years in the future. But the money Hollywood offered was hard to pass up. No starving musician truly wanted to starve; she was proud to be able to wring out a living with her creative work. Then again, no musician wanted to be a sellout either. As she browsed a farmers’ market for lunch, her mind churned her worries into a hot mess. How could she follow her head or her heart when neither part knew what it wanted, much less what she wanted?

  Her walking and sightseeing did a lot to clear her head, easing her into the right frame of mind to perform that evening. If she’d cloistered herself in her hotel suite all day, she’d have become a pacing basket case; she’d learned that the hard way long ago. Dawn was accustomed to being alone before her shows, so it was probably a good thing that Kellen wasn’t with her. He would have undoubtedly destroyed her focus, and focus was truly what she needed before a performance. She arrived at the concert hall a few hours early to give herself time to get to know the piano she’d be playing.

  “Miss O’Reilly, we have refreshments for you in the green room,” said a helpful staff member who spoke perfect English. “My name is Bridget. I am here to offer any assistance you require.”

  Refreshments would be nice, but Dawn wanted to get in a practice run of her set list before concertgoers arrived. Now that she was at the venue, her belly was aflutter with nerves. She doubted she could keep a cracker down.

  “I’d like to check my instrument before the performance.”

  Bridget stiffened slightly, as if Dawn’s comment was a personal affront to her ability to properly do her job. “The tuner just left and assured us that the piano is ready to go.”

  Dawn smiled, figuring her nervousness was coming across as haughtiness. She was sure it wasn’t the easiest job in the world to deal with demanding virtuosos on a regular basis.

  “I’ve no doubt of that,” Dawn said. “I know it sounds odd, but I like to become acquainted with an instrument before I perform on it.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “I also want to make sure I remember how to play.”

  Bridget laughed, her tense expression melting into a smile. “Of course, Miss O’Reilly. This way.”

  Dawn followed her to the backstage area and into the wings of the elaborate stage surrounded by gleaming wood carvings and lavish golden curtains. A magnificent mahogany grand piano set center stage, and Dawn felt an instant connection with the gorgeous instrument. She was pleased to recognize the same piano she’d played the month before. It had a beautiful, resonating sound. They played well together.

  “I’ll get someone to turn up the lights,” Bridgett said.

  “It’s fine. I like to play in the dark.”

  The stage wasn’t completely dark. The dim lighting added to the subdued mood she’d soon banish from the theater—from pit to rafters. She would bring the place alive with sound.

  “Won’t you need lights to see the scores?” Bridgett asked.

  Dawn shook her head. “I don’t need printed scores. I know my set list by heart.” Including the less familiar concertos someone had selected for her to play.

  Dawn crossed the stage, her worn tennis shoes silent on the floorboards, and took a seat on the bench. She put her feet on the pedals and squirmed around—a luxury she wouldn’t have when the crowd had congregated—until she found a comfortable position. She scooted the bench over to the right and back a few inches and tested the comfort again. Satisfied with the position of the bench, she lifted the fallboard. She played a few scales, paying attention to the way her wrists, elbows, and shoulders felt. Her set list was long and the pieces challenging. She didn’t want to wind up with kinks in her muscles halfway through her performance. She’d been in that position more than once and had ended her set list in agony. She repositioned the bench yet again, and took several deep breaths. Starting with her first piece for the evening—from Chopin’s Piano Concerto no. 1—she played the stirring excerpt from beginning to end. She didn’t miss a note, but didn’t feel settled enough into her zone—damn her real-life issues, anyway—so s
he started over and played it again. About halfway through her second attempt, she found her stride. Every thought melted from her mind. She wasn’t even thinking about the music anymore. It poured from her soul as if glad to finally be free from its cage inside her. Without more than a few seconds pause, she segued into her second piece of the evening—Chopin’s Nocturne 20—one of her all-time favorites. By the time she concluded her entire set list an hour later, she felt rejuvenated, free, and grateful to Chopin for writing music that touched, inspired, and evoked so many moods.

  No, she would not be giving up her performances to become a full-time composer. Composing was frustrating. It took long hours, and while the final product did give her that rush she craved, it might take months to get to that point. She needed to perform to get her musician’s high. And while playing alone on a near-dark stage fulfilled a need within her, she knew it in no way compared to have an entire audience holding their breath, least the sound of their own airflow interfere with their enjoyment of her playing.

  “Play ‘Freebird’!” a familiar voice called from the dark stage-left wing.

  “Wes?” She squinted toward the wings, and her agent emerged from the shadows, clapping as he approached her bench.

  “Phenomenal as always,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?” Attending one of her overseas performances was not normal behavior for him.

  “I’m supposed to put the squeeze on you. Steinberg and Everlong want an answer.”

  “I’m still not ready to give it,” she said.

  “Are you going to let this opportunity pass you by? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted? I don’t understand your hesitation. Talk to me, kiddo.”

  Dawn pushed her fingers into her hair, shifting the heavy mass of curls from her shoulders, and sighed. “I still want to perform. I need it in my life.”

  “Okay. And that’s fine. There is no conflict of interest in that. But that can’t be the reason you’re hesitating. We already know you can handle both.”

  She cringed. He’d never seen her try to write before. Never witnessed the turmoil. The anxiety. The frustration. He never had to sit on a hard piano bench for hours on end and hear nothing, feel nothing, but silence. Wes just got the end product as if it magically fell out of her ass or something.

  “I don’t want to go to Venice,” she said, hoping that was enough of a reason to put them off.

  “I thought you loved Venice.”

  “I do, but I’m not prepared to pack up my life and move to a foreign city for months on end.”

  Wes cocked a brow at her. It was hard to read his expression in the dim light, but she read it as confused.

  “What are you talking about? The trip to Venice is for a week. Then you’ll spend a week in the studio in Los Angeles. Only if Pierre and Everlong are still blocked do they plan to go to Rome after that.”

  “So since I’m not blocked, I can skip Venice?” Though she could tolerate a week away from Kellen. Maybe. She knew he was struggling with the band breakup, no matter how calm he claimed to be about it.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Traveling with them will give you the chance to get to know your co-writers in a less formal setting. And come on, kiddo—it’s freaking Venice. You love Venice.”

  But she loved Kellen more, and she was very concerned for him. She’d already arranged her flight out of Prague for a day earlier; she’d be leaving for Houston in the morning. She’d tried for a flight directly to Austin, but couldn’t find an empty seat to any airport closer than Houston. Her crazy travel plans probably weren’t the best for avoiding the jetlag that was sure to knock her on her ass, but even though Kellen had insisted he didn’t need her and that he was fine, she wanted to be there for him. Needed to be there for him.

  “Can I go to Venice for just the final three days of their trip? Do you think they’ll compromise?”

  “Kiddo, I’m sure they’ll compromise. They’re trying to play it cool, but it’s not normal for them to hound a new star’s poor agent ten times a day, and it’s really not normal for them to send him to Prague to encourage her to sign their contract. You tell me what you want, and I’m sure I can get it. Dream big, kiddo. Let’s make it happen.”

  She hugged him. He’d been her champion from the beginning, learning how to represent a classical artist because he’d always been more of an agent for popstars and rappers and the occasional rock band. She’d never understand how she got so lucky to have someone as keen as she was on making her dreams come true. Of course, the ten percent commission he earned from her had to be one of his motivations, but his dedication was more than that. Her success was his success.

  “Okay,” she said breathlessly. Just admitting that she wanted to go forward with the deal added a new twist to the knot that had been churning in her gut all day.

  “I’m going to go make a call and tell them you’re willing to negotiate but want some provisions. We’ll work on the specifics after your performance.”

  He squeezed her hand and patted her back.

  The nervousness that had vanished while she’d been practicing began to bubble up inside her again. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t perform with shaking hands.

  Wes rubbed her back. “Why don’t you go through your set list again? It’ll calm you down.”

  “So I look as freaked out as I feel?” Perhaps her face wasn’t obscured in shadows as his was.

  “You’re trembling.” He squeezed her hand again. “You got this, kid.”

  Dawn smiled, not sure if he could see her gratitude. “Thanks. I do need to hear that on occasion.”

  “I’ll try to remember that. It’s hard when someone blows you away every time you see them work.”

  “Quit,” she said, giving him a playful shove.

  “See you later.”

  He climbed from the bench, and she played him off the stage with her classically inspired version of “Freebird.”

  *****

  Her performance earned her a standing ovation, and she treated the audience to Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 21 as an encore, which earned her an even longer ovation, which led to a second encore—her souped-up version of “Flight of the Bumblebee.” And they loved it. By the time she was escorted to the green room, her initial exhilaration had waned, leaving her exhausted. She spoke to a few local fans—could she call them fans?—who showered her with compliments in a mix of English and Czech. Well, she assumed they were being complimentary by their grins and nervous twittering. They could have called her a twisted goat herder and she’d have smiled and thanked them anyway. She was given several bouquets of roses, champagne—which she planned to drink straight from the bottle—and even more compliments. Wes stood off to the side of the room, talking to a manager or agent or some other bigwig in the music industry. He’s lovely wife, Corrine, stood at his side. Wes spared Dawn the occasional glance and proud smile. He was the type of man she’d wished for in her father, and maybe that was why she adored him so much. Wes was only fifteen years her senior, though, so while it was biologically possible for him to have a daughter her age, she didn’t think he held a paternal affection for her. Not exactly.

  When the dressing room finally cleared out, it was quite late. Only early evening, stateside, however. Dawn was wiped out, her fingers stiff, her back and shoulders achy.

  Wes shared a few words with Corrine, and after she kissed her husband’s cheek and gave Dawn’s arm a squeeze punctuated with heartfelt congratulations, she left the green room and closed the door behind her.

  “I wouldn’t mind if she stayed,” Dawn said, feeling bad for sending Corrine out on her own in a foreign place.

  “She wanted to go stand on the stage. She misses it.”

  Dawn had forgotten that Corrine had once been a pop singer in a girl band. At least as a classical musician Dawn wouldn’t be kicked to the curb for having the audacity to age.

  “I spoke to Everlong. Steinberg was unreachable.”

  “And?”


  “He wants you in Venice. So bad he can taste it.”

  Dawn laughed, wondering what that would taste like.

  “He wants me to keep pressuring you to sign, and my every instinct wants to do exactly that. Dawn, you aren’t going to get an opportunity like this ever again. I don’t understand why you’re even hesitating.”

  “Let’s sit,” she said, nodding toward a small plum-colored settee. She carefully laid her roses on a coffee table and set her bottle of champagne aside.

  “Let me explain my hesitation. I know it’s your job to help me make the best career decisions, but hear me out.”

  “You already explained this in L.A.,” he said, sitting next to her. “I know you’re afraid that you’ll be trapped as a ghostwriter and never be able to succeed on your own, but I don’t think that’s going to happen, kiddo. I won’t let that happen. This opportunity will be your step up.”

  His assertion made her feel marginally better, but she knew there were no guarantees in life. “That’s some of my hesitation,” she said. “There’s more.”

  Wes sighed. “This is about your new guy, isn’t it?”

  Was she that transparent? She chuckled. “He is part of the puzzle, but not what I wanted to discuss. My ultimate goal—that’s what I need to tell you about.”

  “Writing scores for Steinberg movies isn’t your ultimate goal?”

  “No.”

  Wes blinked at her. “You want to work for a different director, is that it? Do you have an ethical aversion to fantasy and science fiction or something?”

  Now she was laughing; it was fun to listen to his guesses. It proved to her that he really didn’t see past the Hollywood sign. “No.”

  “Well, don’t keep me guessing. We’ll be here all night.”

  “I want . . .” She licked her lips and folded her hands in her lap. She’d never told anyone—except Kellen and Pierre—about this dream of hers, and only Kellen had taken her seriously. She doubted Wes would be impressed. “I want to compose the kind of timeless symphonies that orchestras play.”