by Grimm, Sarah
“My brother? His name is Paul.”
She tilted her head. “Older or younger brother?”
“Older by two years.”
“Are you alike?”
“Total opposites,” he replied with a grin as he set his untouched coffee aside. “Paul is business suits and loafers; I’m worn-out Levi’s and boots. The only music he listens to is classical. Or yours—he’s a big fan of your music.”
“You don’t consider my music classical?”
“No. It’s...I don’t know what I’d call it, but not classical.”
She thought for a moment but couldn’t come up with an accurate description of her music either. “Is Paul married?”
Slowly, his grin became an all-out smile. “It’s one of the greatest mysteries in life, how Paul managed to woo Anne.” Despite his mocking words, his love for his brother was obvious. “The kids, they take after her. Good looking. Smart.”
Did he know how lucky he was? To have the love of a family whom he loved in return? She’d never had more than her mother and Thomas. Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself a moment to wonder what it would be like to have Noah talk about her the way he spoke of his family—with obvious love and connection. Her heart pounded. Or maybe that was her head. Was the stereo still playing?
Tucking her hand into her back pocket, she retrieved the remote she carried with her habitually, aimed it at the wall behind the bar and powered off, enveloping the room in silence.
“What are their names?”
“Megan and Robert. Megan’s the oldest at twelve, and Robert’s ten.”
Her eyebrow went up. “I’m impressed. There are a lot of fathers out there who can’t tell you the ages of their children. You’re an uncle.”
He shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. To her it was.
“Your father, could he tell me your age?”
“Depends on which one you asked. My biological father never bothered with such trivial details.”
“What would Thomas say if I asked?”
“He’d tell you I am twenty-five. He’d be right.”
Noah scrubbed a hand down his face. “Jesus.”
“What?”
He shook his head. His laugh was soft, and not necessarily amused.
“What is it?”
“It just occurred to me that…I’m old.”
He didn’t look old to her. He looked like the most beautiful man she had ever seen with his leanly muscled body and those gorgeous green eyes. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know better.”
She gave him a look.
“Forty-one,” he supplied.
“You’re right, that’s old.”
“Thanks.”
She laughed aloud and it felt good. She was enjoying herself, his company and conversation. He had worn her down, come in night after night over the past few weeks. Never discouraged, no matter how little attention she gave him, or how rude she was. He always sat in the same booth, the one in the darkest corner, remaining long enough to order two beers before slipping away as quietly as he appeared.
She’d grown accustomed to him and to the effect he had on her system in that time. At least, to the music continually dancing through her head. She doubted she would ever get used to the way one look from him made her entire body tremble.
As it did now.
“You’re talking more than usual,” she observed, in a desperate attempt to distract herself from her body’s reaction to him.
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve watched you. Even with Dominic, you’re more of a quiet observer.”
“There’s only so much you can learn about someone watching them,” he said simply. “If you want to know someone, eventually you have to talk, ask questions, give of yourself.”
“And you want to know me?”
“I do.”
“Because I made music once.”
“Partly,” he admitted.
“Partly,” she repeated. She didn’t know how she felt about his admission. She feared he wanted something more from her than she could give him. “Why else?”
His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The move narrowed the distance between them considerably. “Does there have to be a secret agenda? Dom’s managed to befriend you. What’s the difference?”
Isabeau fought the urge to lean back. Her gaze moved from his eyes to his mouth and back to his eyes. “Dominic doesn’t...He doesn’t…”
“Dominic doesn’t what?”
Dominic didn’t melt her bones with a glance. He didn’t make her senses spin by stepping in the room. “Dom’s in love with Rebecca.”
His eyebrow shot up. “I’m impressed. He doesn’t normally talk much.”
“Dominic? He never stops.”
“He doesn’t say much of Becca,” he corrected.
Actually, Dominic had told her quite a lot. That Becca loved him once, until he got scared and hurt her. That he loved her still—missed her desperately. She considered that for a moment, how Dom would talk with her for hours about a subject he usually avoided. “Maybe he wanted a woman’s opinion.”
“Did you give him one?”
“I did. I told him not to give up so easily. That personally, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for love.”
“Good advice.” He gave her a long look. “So what you’re saying is you don’t find Dom threatening.”
“I don’t.”
“And me? Do you find me threatening?”
God, yes. She needed to be careful with him. “Very.”
Triumph surged in his eyes. A satisfied smile curved his lips. He reached for her hand. “Good.”
“Noah…” Her throat tightened. Her pulse skipped.
He turned her hand over, traced his thumb across her palm. “There’s something I want to ask—”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what? Touch you?”
Her gaze moved from his face to their hands. She withdrew her left hand from his, cupped it in her right. Her heart beat erratically. Her stomach trembled. “Don’t ask,” she whispered.
“And if it’s your favorite color I want to know?”
“That’s not what you want to ask me.”
“Are you sure?”
Slowly her eyes lifted.
The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “You do have a favorite color, don’t you?”
“Red,” she admitted. She knew what he was doing, and she let him do it. He was gentling her again, as he had done when she cried. Only this time, it was in pretending something as innocuous as her favorite color was what he’d wanted to know. “Not hearts and flowers and Valentine’s Day red, but deep, rich, brick red.”
“I’ve never seen you in red.”
“I don’t wear it, I decorate with it. I like rooms to have lots of color. I don’t know how you live out of a hotel—so drab and institutional. Don’t you find it depressing?”
“It’s not so bad. The bedcover is...colorful.”
“I bet,” she replied with a smile. “But the walls are white, aren’t they? And the bath—also white.” She cringed.
“You’d hate my house. Every room there is white.”
“On purpose?”
She seemed so genuinely horrified Noah couldn’t help but laugh. Truth be told, he never paid much attention to such things. It was only four walls and a roof, a place to sleep.
“A place to unwind,” she continued as if reading his thoughts. “To relax. To entertain. A home should be an expression of self. What does yours say?”
“That I only just bought it and haven’t gotten around to having it painted?”
“Will you get around to it?”
“Honestly? Probably not. Once the studio is complete, I’ll spend most of my time there.”
“Studio?”
“I’m having a recording studio put in the basement.”
She tilted her head. “When will this happen?”
“And when it’s done, you’ll leave here.”
Her words weren’t a question, but he answered her anyway. “Yes.”
“For where?”
“Auburn, California.”
She fell silent for several long moments. Her gaze swept around the room, looking everywhere but at him. Her hand rubbed absently at her upper arm, at the bruises forming beneath his shirt.
He was afraid to read too much into her quiet, afraid to hope that the thought of him leaving would disturb her. Finally her eyes returned to his, carefully neutral.
“How’s your arm?” he asked.
“It aches.” Her hand stilled, dropped to her lap. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Every night you come in you order a dark lager but never drink it—not more than a few swallows. Sometimes you order a second, and that one goes untouched as well. Why?”
Surprised, he straightened. Whatever he’d expected her to ask, this was not it. It was no simple question, with no simple answer. Of course, maybe she’d sensed that.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you, the whole ugly story, if you answer a question in return.”
“Is it that bad?”
“It is.”
“What’s your question?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not until after you agree.”
Her war of emotions played out in her eyes. Those pale, wide, expressive eyes of hers. They got to him. Nodding, she took a deep breath. “All right.”
“How come I order drinks I never consume, is that your question?”
“Yes.”
“Because at one time, I had a problem with alcohol,” he replied, oversimplifying.
“A problem?”
“One I prefer not to repeat.”
“Then why order anything? Why come in at all? Are you testing yourself?”
“It’s not a test.” He avoided answering her, put off revisiting the ugliest time of his life for as long as she’d allow him to. He wondered how long she’d let him get away with it.
“I don’t understand. What happened to make you change?”
Not long.
“Something must have happened. Most people don’t stop drinking without a good reason.”
She was right about that. He had a reason, a damn good one. “Are you sure you want to hear this? You might not like my answer.”
“Yes.”
Noah leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He rubbed at a day’s worth of stubble on his chin with his palm before dropping his hands to hang between his knees. “My best friend died.”
“I’m sorry,” she stated quietly.
“Danny Treybourne, our original drummer?” He waited to see whether she knew the name, continued his tale when she tipped her head in acknowledgment. “We grew up together, around the corner from each other, raising hell, chasing girls. We always dreamed of playing in a band, making it big. Though I don’t think either of us ever truly believed it would happen.”
He couldn’t believe he was actually going to share his story with her—tonight of all nights. The night she’d finally broken her silence and talked with him, given him the chance he’d wanted for weeks. Sharing with her the ugliest time of his life wasn’t likely his smartest move.
He did it anyway.
“We were fifteen when we first put the band together—Dominic, Nick, Danny, and me. We spent six years playing the local clubs before we got any recognition, two more before we were signed.”
He recalled the day they signed that first contract—the excitement, the belief in their dream and their music. He could recall exactly what he and Danny had done to celebrate that day—they’d gotten pissed. It was a tradition that continued for years.
“The sudden jump to fame is a hard one. You work your whole life for something, go nowhere fast, and then one day, you’re labeled an overnight success. Anything we wanted was suddenly ours for the taking. Drugs. Alcohol. Women. Bloody hell, the women. Each of us handled it differently, some of us better than others. Me, I took advantage,” he admitted, chagrined. “After all, I wasn’t stupid. Okay, maybe a bit stupid.”
Incredibly stupid. Of course, years later, he saw the mistakes, the risks. He knew how differently his story could have ended. “I was reckless, I admit, we all were. But we never considered the risks. Nothing was going to happen to us, we were invincible.”
She remained silent, allowing him to tell his story in his own way.
“It got out of hand—the drinking, women, and touring. We were touring steadily, city after city after city. After a while, it all blurs together. There were times I don’t know how I functioned, how I got through a show. It got so I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning without a shot of bourbon to get my blood moving.
“One night, I can’t tell you where we were—I put my glass down and looked around. I looked at the mass of people crowding the room and I asked myself, ‘who are these people?’ The room suddenly came into focus. For the first time I realized I didn’t know half of the people about me and those whose names I did know, didn’t know the real me.”
He had her complete attention. She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, eyes sober as she looked at him.
“They only saw who they wanted to see. They didn’t see that I was miserable. That I hated the turn my life had taken and was drowning my sorrows in alcohol and meaningless sex.”
“What did you do?” she asked softly.
“What could I do? I got pissed.”
Her mouth thinned. “You got drunk,” she stated in disbelief.
“I did. The night Danny died, I was drunk. Not a big surprise. By that time, I had a bottle in my hand day and night. I didn’t know Danny had started using, that he was mixing drugs and alcohol.”
He’d been too busy fighting his own demons, dealing with his own disillusionment to notice his friend’s.
“I didn’t know...until it was too late. I found him,” he said, his voice tight with anguish. “It was so unreal. It didn’t seem possible that he could be dead. I mean, how could he be dead? He was always so alive. But he was cold when I touched him, pale and unresponsive.”
Danny!
“I tried to bring him back, to will him back to me.”
Don’t do this, Danny.
“I was too late.”
Her eyes glimmered with sympathy. She offered no meaningless platitudes, and he was glad.
“That was it for me. I stayed long enough to fulfill our contractual obligation, then I quit. Quit drinking, quit making music. I went back to London, found a real job.”
“Which you hated.”
“You’ve heard this story?” He brushed his knuckles down her cheek, ridiculously pleased when she didn’t shift away. “I found I could not deny what I am. I’m a musician. So I’m back to making music. Only, this time, we’re older, wiser. It’s about the music now, not the fame. I’d sing to a group of ten as eagerly as a sold-out stadium.”
She studied him for a minute before stating, “I have one problem with your story.”
“Just one?”
“You still drink.”
“It’s not something I do with regularity.”
“I see you in here pretty regular.”
He grinned. “I order lager, but I don’t drink it. Isn’t that what sparked your question?”
“Then why do you come here?”
“It’s not for the alcohol.”
“I don’t…understand.”
She really didn’t. “Isabeau.” He cupped her chin, smoothed his thumb across her bottom lip. “I come here to see you.”
Her breath hitched. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” She got to him, dammit. He wanted to kiss her. Pull her off her stool and onto his lap in one fluid motion. Bury his hands in her hair and kiss her until she forgot her name.
Instead, he stood, ba
cked toward the door. “You look tired. I’ll let you get some rest.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.” Before he ruined everything by giving into his impulses. “As long as you’re feeling steadier.”
She blinked. Something he couldn’t identify sparked in her eyes. “You never asked your question.”
“It’ll keep,” he assured her, turning the lock.
“Noah.” She rose, walked the few steps to where he stood and put her hand on his forearm.
Her fingers were chilled.
The jolt that arced through his system was red hot.
“You don’t need an excuse to come here, Noah.”
Emotion swamped him. He managed to turn and leave, but once on the sidewalk, he stopped, tipped his head to the sky, and checked the alignment of the stars.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t what he expected.
Noah stood in Isabeau’s doorway, having come up the back steps, as instructed by Clint. Her door was wide open. She was nowhere in sight.
He could see pretty much the entire upper level of the building that housed her bar. It had an open floor plan and wooden floors with a long rag-rug runner that started at his feet and ran down the center of the space. “Isabeau?”
He stepped onto the rug, into her home.
Directly to his left, on the other side of the bar-style counter, was a galley kitchen. The kitchen segued into the dining area, where a long, scarred table sat surrounded by mismatched wooden chairs of varying color. In the center of the table was an oversized vase filled with wildflowers.
An entire wall of bookshelves started just past the kitchen and continued around the end wall to stop opposite him, at a large set of windows. The shelves were covered in books, photos, and whimsical knickknacks. At the far left corner of the room, surrounded by those shelves, was a large, wooden-based bed.
An old brick fireplace occupied the center of the wall to his right. More flowers, red this time, filled the hearth, artistically spilling out into the room. Before the fireplace a brown leather couch with a low back and rolled arms faced a tan fabric couch of modern design. He’d never seen anything quite like it—tan walls and mismatched neutral furniture—tied together with deep, red accents. It was warm, comfortable.
Like Isabeau.
At the far right end of the room, near the windows, a grouping of three theater chairs caught his interest. He started down the rug for a closer look.
