The Magic's in the Music (Magic Series Book 5)

by Susan Squires

  *

  Greta felt a little better now. She’d gotten an hour or two of disturbed sleep after sunrise, after her stomach had calmed down a little. What a night. The whole mutual masturbation thing with the Ghost in the garden under the moonlight seemed unreal. Waking with sticky thighs argued that she hadn’t dreamed it. Her panic when he’d turned his head and stared straight at her was real, too. What must he think of her?

  She peered at herself in the mirror. If Kevin Anderson could see the circles under her eyes, he’d cast her as the superhero’s mother, not his girlfriend, or maybe as the smart-aleck CGI raccoon. She was stiff, too. Her knees were bruised and scabbed. She sighed and darted a glance over to the lovely electric-blue, silk blouse and black, tailored slacks hanging on the hook inside the bedroom door. Apparently she’d slept soundly enough to miss the welcome wagon visit. Obviously, her benefactor wasn’t blonde, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was very nice of one of the Ghost’s sisters to lend her clothing. They’d even left some soft ballet shoes—the kind with elastic around the outside, so the fit didn’t matter as much. She’d have the clothes cleaned and returned when she got home.

  If it was home anymore. She couldn’t look at her phone. She’d be all over the Internet by now in horrible, grainy pictures. And those articles were forever. They’d come up when anybody Googled her from now until she was eighty-five. Getting pictures just whetted those ghouls’ appetite for more, too. There was no doubt they’d be camped outside her apartment.

  She dressed, surprised that the clothes fit pretty well, and sat stiffly on the edge of the bed to call Bernie. She had to look up his number in her contacts list. She wasn’t one of those starlets who had their agent on speed-dial. It occurred to her that she actually didn’t talk to him much, and yet he was the only person she could think of to call on in a pinch.

  “Hey, Jennifer, Gretchen here. Is Bernie in?”

  “Hi, Ms. Falk. I’m afraid not. He’s in New York at the Television Buyers conference.”

  “Oh.” Greta pressed on in spite of her disappointment. “When do you expect him back?”

  “He’s got a flight back on Saturday.”

  As in almost a week. Greta felt her heart sink.

  “Is it an emergency? I can have him call you between meetings.”

  Greta wanted to scream that of course it was an emergency. But was it? All she’d wanted for the last seven years was to stand on her own two feet and control her own life, and here she was calling her agent to come fix things because the nasty men had taken bad pictures of her. She’d never wanted to be one of those sniveling, entitled brats who needed constant handholding. “No, it isn’t,” she said with as much control as she could muster. “Just let him know I called.”

  “Will do, Ms. Falk.” Jennifer sounded so cheerful. It was enough to turn one’s stomach even if one’s stomach wasn’t already fragile.

  Greta clicked off. Where did this leave her? In some strange family’s house, brought home by their very errant son. No parents wanted their son to be somebody like the Ghost. He had probably been in trouble twenty-four-seven all his life. Who knew how many times they’d had to bail him out of jail? And now he’d brought some girl home like a stray cat in the middle of the night, said stray cat being her. Greta hadn’t felt so humiliated since…

  Well, she wouldn’t think about that.

  She took a deep breath and stood. Better get this over with. A quick thank you, call for a cab, and this whole sorry incident would be over. She’d just brave the gauntlet at her apartment and stay locked inside until Saturday. Maybe the Ghost had slept even later than she had, and she could slip away before she had to face him.

  Oh, this was just awful.

  She pressed her lips tight and went to the door. Cracking it open, she peeked out. Nobody evident, just dark, polished wood floors with a beautiful red-and-blue Turkish runner. Next to each door, an antique table held a small, Spanish-looking lamp. The one next to her door had a note on it in beautiful penmanship on heavy cream paper.

  She opened it.

  Good morning. We’ll be in the kitchen. Turn left at the bottom of the stairs and go past the living room. You’ll see the archway. There will be breakfast.

  It was signed, ‘Drew’. No doubt the sister who’d left the very expensive clothing for her.

  Greta could feel her flush of embarrassment already. But there was no way she could sneak away without saying thank you. So she’d better get to it. She started for the stairs.

  *

  Tris came down the stairs from his and Maggie’s apartment over the garage earlier than usual today, but still later than he’d wanted. He’d had to supervise Jesse dressing himself while Maggie took care of the baby. He might already have missed seeing that poor girl Lan had brought home last night. He hailed Ernie as the security guard came around the side of the house.

  “Hey, Ernie. What’s up?”

  “Morning, Tris.” It had taken a while to get them to stop calling him Mr. Tremaine. That always made him nervous. That was Senior’s name. By now, the security crew was practically part of the family. They’d been through a lot together, so most of them had finally started calling him Tris. At the moment, Ernie looked really serious. Not good.

  Maybe Tris had missed the girl after all. “Anybody, uh, leave last night?”

  Ernie nodded. “Lanyon. About four—four-thirty this morning. Took that sweet Softail Nightrider you gave him. Rory couldn’t open the gates fast enough.”

  “Girl go with him?”

  “Nope. She’s still here.”

  Hmmm. This could be bad if what he thought was happening was really happening. And Tris knew that dance too well. “Thanks, guy. I’ll check in with you later.”

  When Tris walked through the arch and into the kitchen, Jane was cooking eggs and bangers. Devin manned the toaster and was squeezing oranges with the industrial-strength manual juicer. The Parents were already sitting at the breakfast table. Kemble was just sitting down.

  “Lan’s gone again,” Tris reported. “Took off about four this morning.” It was hard to watch his mother’s disappointment. Kemble frowned. He and Tris were in agreement for once. Lan denying what might be happening would do no one any good.

  “Tell me who this girl is, then,” his mother said. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Might as well have somebody in the house get some sleep,” Kemble grumbled.

  “Her name is Gretchen Falk,” Jane volunteered from over at the stove. His middle sister, Kee, brought a plate piled high with eggs and bangers, toast and hash browns for Kemble. Kee wore one of her wildly-flowered dresses. Did artists all dress like they were painting a picture?

  “The Gretchen Falk?” Tammy came in through the French doors dressed in boots and breeches. Her voice held some of the girl from before the attack, and Tris was glad to hear it, even if there was no actual shrieking. The Tammy who had shrieked in excitement was probably gone for good.

  “The very one,” Kemble muttered. “My termagant wife wouldn’t let me look her up last night, but I sneaked Internet time this morning. Just to be prepared before she came down.”

  “Oh, my God,” Tammy exclaimed, wide-eyed. “She’s here?”

  “Lan brought her last night,” Tris explained.

  “Who is Gretchen Falk? Should I know her?” his mother asked. Senior looked wary.

  “An actress,” Kemble said, sending a damping look Tammy’s way. “She starred in a kid’s series of movies…the ones about the mind readers.”

  “N-never heard of them,” his father said. Tris liked that, too. Senior was at least contributing to conversations these days.

  “We probably wouldn’t, dear,” his mother said, patting Senior’s hand.

  “They were extremely successful,” Kemble said. Jane set a plate in front of him. “She’s done some smaller art films more recently.”

  “I feel like I know her,” Tammy effused, sliding over to a stool at the bar. “She grew up in
front of the cameras. I think she was eleven when the series started.”

  “Nine,” Kemble corrected. “And maybe she grew up a little too much. She sued for emancipation from her mother at fifteen.” Kemble’s statement made everyone stop and stare at him, concern on their faces. Tris got that. He had tried running away from the family for a year or so, sort of like what Lan was doing now. Maybe that was a little like suing for emancipation. But he’d been twenty-eight at the time. In the end, he’d learned a family that loved you was too precious to deny. Which meant what about Gretchen Falk’s family?

  “Yeah. Her mom took all her money or something,” Tammy said, frowning.

  “Pretty much,” Kemble agreed. “But the court made her mother give back what was left. She’d spent a pile, but there were still several piles for little Gretchen, who has continued to add to her financial resources in the ensuing years.”

  “Technical term, brother? Pile?” Kee asked, chuckling.

  Kemble gave a rueful half-grin. “I had to make it understandable to the masses.”

  “The real question is,” Devin said, spearing each of them with a hard glance. He brought a pitcher of orange juice to the table. “Why did Lanyon bring her here?”

  Tris and Kemble glanced at each other. Tris tried to make his look clear. I’m not telling them. You’re the Prince of Wales. Kemble got the message. He cleared his throat and started with the facts. “She was apparently under siege by some paparazzi and some over-eager fans. Lanyon rescued her.”

  Their mother gave a soft smile. She’d been more worried about Lan than any of them, and that was going some. But Lanyon’ss chivalrous action would remind her of the sweet boy she’d raised.

  “She could be…C-clan,” his father said, frowning.

  Damn, Tris thought. His father was actually venturing an opinion, and one that took some consideration. He really was making progress. That warmed up Tris inside. Though, of course, Senior only saw what he had lost. Natural. But frustration was the biggest enemy to progress.

  “My first thought,” Kemble said, but he sounded unsure. “She’s lived a pretty public life though, and Morgan doesn’t like publicity. Doesn’t seem like she’d be Clan.”

  Tris looked to Jane. Should they tell the family what they thought? Jane shook her head minutely. She was right. Why get their mother’s hopes up? And since Lan had hightailed it out before first light, maybe they were wrong.

  Drew and Michael came in and sat beside Tammy at the bar. Apparently they’d overheard part of the conversation. “She should be down soon,” Drew said. “I heard some stirring in there.” Drew and Michael had the room next to the blue guest room.

  Tris had a thought. “So, uh, Drew. Had any visions lately that might include a blonde girl you didn’t recognize at the time?”

  Drew looked struck. “I didn’t get a good look at her this morning. She was burrowed down into her pillows, but…” Tris could see his sister clicking through visions like someone thumbing through photos on their phone. Never ceased to amaze him that she could see the future.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “There’s a blonde in the background in a couple of them. The one with the fire. And the one that’s mainly stars. Oh,” she exclaimed, surprised. “That’s her against the exploding neon.”

  “She’s in all the visions of Lanyon,” his mother whispered, her eyes getting big.

  The others exchanged glances.

  Well, that secret was out.

  *

  Greta heard them in the kitchen, so she hardly needed the directions in the note. She’d been stiff and uncomfortable coming down the stairs because of her knees, but as she turned at the bottom she could see people through the archway ahead. She was glad for the soft ballet shoes. Her heels would have clicked on the tiles of the foyer, and somehow she didn’t want to announce her presence. Maybe she felt too much like an interloper. She glanced down into the sunken living room as she passed by on the raised hallway. It held a grand piano in an alcove with windows that looked out on greenery, a big fireplace, and comfy furniture that seemed lived in. A bar off to one side held racks of expensive crystal overhead. Was that statue a Remington? It was the one with the cowboy and the bucking bronco. Paintings hung in various niches and alcoves, all tastefully framed. Southwestern pottery and beautiful Asian brass pieces occupied the bookshelves along with the books. The house looked… warm. Not like the showy living rooms in the huge houses of stars and studio executives who threw parties meant for A-listers only. Greta always ended up hanging out in the kitchen with the staff at those.

  Her steps slowed as she approached the kitchen. Oh, dear. There were so many of them. They were talking about…exploding neon? She knew the exact minute they realized she was there. All conversation stopped. The big guy in the leather jacket, blocking some of her view, turned around. He looked remarkably like the Ghost, only older, but he wasn’t the one in the bathrobe from last night. This one had green eyes. She came to a stop just outside the arch. Jane, who she’d met last night, was over by a big Viking range. An older couple sat at the table, along with the guy in the bathrobe. He was wearing slacks this morning, though, and a button-down shirt and tie. The older man looked like a gray-haired version of his sons. The woman was still a beauty, like a movie star from the ‘Forties now past her prime. An ineffable aura of sadness hung around her. Three gorgeous women who looked like her, except one had flaming red and another rich chestnut hair, were scattered about the room, along with a wolf-size black dog with long hair, a Rottweiler lurking under the table, ready for scraps, and a very black cat with large chartreuse eyes that looked up momentarily from a dish on the counter before returning to his breakfast.

  “Welcome, Gretchen,” Jane called over her shoulder. That started everyone else in motion. The big guy in the leather jacket nearest to her held out a hand. She shook it, feeling more fragile than she liked. They were a little overwhelming. But his handshake was warm and firm. He exuded down-to-earth.

  “I’m Tristram. People just call me Tris. Let me introduce you around.”

  Before she knew it, he’d gathered her into the room. The black, long-haired dog came up to sniff her hand.

  “That’s Lancelot,” the red-haired girl called. “The Rotty under the table is Suzie, and Bagheera is busy eating.”

  “Now that you’ve met the important members of the family, can I continue?” Tris gave the redhead a pointed glance but saved an easy grin for Gretchen. God, but this family was good-looking. “You met the Prince of Wales, otherwise known as Kemble, though maybe you don’t recognize him without that stylish bathrobe.”

  “Kemble, you didn’t greet her in your bathrobe,” the older woman said, tsking.

  “It was almost three in the morning,” Kemble grumbled. At the stove, Jane chuckled.

  Tris continued. “This is my sister, Kee, short for Keelan. Most of the paintings in the house are her fault. Her husband and my brother, Devin.” He pointed to a blond guy with brown eyes, the only one in the room with a pronounced tan. “Dev’s a surfer and an oceanographer. No idea how that happened.”

  The young couple nodded, smiling warmly at her. There was something funny about that introduction, but Greta couldn’t put her finger on it. Tris was already moving on. He skipped the redhead at the breakfast bar. “Her I’m saving until last because she’s going to want to monopolize you.” The redhead rolled her eyes. “Drew here is the one responsible for the loaner clothes.” Tris pointed to the black-haired woman. She was dressed exquisitely in a vibrant red, knit dress that clung to her lithe figure and then swirled out below the waist. It had taken a lot of money and a lot of design to look that simple. Of course she would be the one behind the clothes.

  “Thank you,” Greta murmured. “And for the note, too.”

  Drew sketched a salute and smiled, but she was watching Greta carefully. As Greta glanced around, she realized they all were.

  “Her husband Michael is the Italian of the bunch. He…uh…finds things.”


  Greta held out her hand. “Like a detective?”

  Michael gave her a very attractive grin. Even the family-by-marriage members were extraordinarily handsome. “Something like that.” His hand swallowed hers. “Good to meet you.”

  “My mother, Brina Tremaine, and my father.” Here Tris cleared his throat. Why was he nervous? “Brian Tremaine.”

  Greta managed a smile. “Nice to meet you all. I’m so sorry to intrude on you like this.” The dog, Lance, nuzzled her. Greta knew what that meant. She pulled on his ears and was rewarded by a slit-eyed look of satisfaction.

  “You can’t ignore me forever, Tris,” the redhead protested. “I’m Tammy, and I promise not to monopolize you. It’s just that I’ve never met a movie star before. Well, I mean we used to see people at the museum openings all the time, but they were all old people, not like stars I would actually care about, so this is sort of a first. I’ve seen your movies, of course. I practically grew up on them…”

  Tris made an effort to stem the tide. “Tammy has been down exercising her horses.”

  “And she does not usually come to breakfast in her boots and breeches,” Mrs. Tremaine said with mock severity, proving she was the matriarch of the bunch. Not like Greta’s mother, of course, because there was so much love behind that gentle chastisement. Mrs. Tremaine was like what mothers were supposed to be.

  “Are you all getting introduced and leaving me out?”

  Greta turned to see a cute woman with an upturned nose and freckles, all of five feet tall, leading a little boy of about five by the hand. She carried a baby, maybe six or nine months, in the other arm. She wore jeans, cowboy boots and a plaid shirt with pearl snap buttons. That was a surprise. The giant tough guy, Tris, gathered her in for a smooch and took the baby. It was so incongruous to see the tiny, pink-clad baby cooing and gurgling in those big, leather-clad arms.

  “I’m Maggie,” the baby’s mother said in a no-nonsense tone. “That one’s wife.” She jerked her head to Tris.