by Grimm, Sarah
She would never go back to that. “We’re two different people, Noah.”
“I’m just saying that you can only pretend for so long. When you live music, the way we do, you can’t push it aside. Eventually, it comes back into your life and when it does...it’s not always pretty.”
They were two different people, she silently repeated. Just because she could no longer silence the music in her head, didn’t mean that she had to give in to it. She wouldn’t let it rule her life.
Or ruin it.
Wondering how ugly his return to music had been, she asked, “What happened?”
“Beth and I had been living together for about two years, when I quit my job. I remember the night I told her I wanted us to move across the pond, so I could get the band back together. She laughed. I guess she thought I was joking. When she realized I had never been more serious, she accused me of deceiving her.”
“Deceiving her?”
“I never talked about singing, not once while we were together, not even to reminisce. She was blindsided by my sudden change of heart.”
“What did she do?”
“She yelled and she cried, then she left me. I was no longer what she wanted. She wanted marriage and family—a husband who worked nine-to-five and could be home with her in the evenings. I wasn’t willing to give her that last bit.”
She swallowed around the knot in her throat, “There’s nothing nine-to-five about the music industry.”
“No, there isn’t.”
She noted he didn’t say he hadn’t been willing to give her marriage and family. Family. Her free hand shifted to rest on her abdomen, as her eyes slid closed. It wasn’t difficult to picture his child, a child with his striking green eyes and incredible smile. There was no doubt about it, he would have beautiful children. Just not with her. Never with her.
Her chest ached. Her throat tightened.
“Is something wrong, Isabeau?”
Her eyelids snapped open. He waited, eyes warm as she struggled with control. A sharp rap on her door stopped her from having to explain.
Isabeau slid off the couch and crossed the room. She swung the door open. “Dad. You’re out late.”
“We need to talk to you.”
“We?” That’s when she noticed Tommy standing to his right, eyes bloodshot, the left one bruised. Cold seeped into her bones. Her father couldn’t have done that to him. He wouldn’t.
Her gaze lowered to Thomas’s hands.
“Izzy?” he questioned.
“Come on in.”
Her father acknowledged Noah with a tip of his head, then looked back at her. “Tommy has something to say to you.”
“I’m not a kid anymore, Dad,” Tommy replied caustically. “I can manage my own apology.”
“You wouldn’t know it by the way you act.”
Tommy narrowed his eyes. He let out an audible breath and skimmed his gaze over her arm. “You were right to cut me off the other night.”
“Tommy, I—”
“I’m not done!” he hissed, his hands fisted.
She took an automatic step in retreat.
Tommy frowned. He swore under his breath and shoved a trembling hand through his hair, which only left it more disheveled.
Bloodshot eyes. The shakes. He was suffering from alcohol withdrawal. She’d witnessed the effects enough times to recognize them. More than once, a patron came into the bar in much the same condition as Tommy, desperately in need of a drink to ease the discomfort. Despite everything, it pained her to witness Tommy’s suffering.
“I have a problem,” he admitted. “A problem with alcohol. It’s my problem. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
She waited, making sure he was done before she responded. “I appreciate you coming here, Tommy.”
“Yeah. Listen, the cops came to my place yesterday. They said your car was vandalized. I want you to know I didn’t do it. Damn cops. Woke me up, pounding on my door.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it. That’s what I had to say.” And with that, he turned and walked out the door.
Relief flooded her. She knew Tommy wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt her with both Noah and her father standing right there. Still, his presence unsettled her.
“Lock your door tonight.”
At the firm command in her father’s voice, her muscles tightened all over again.
“If Tommy isn’t responsible for the damage to your SUV, then there’s still someone out there who has a problem with you.” Thomas scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Next time, Izzy, tell me yourself when something like this happens. I don’t appreciate having to hear about it from the cops.”
“They questioned you, too?”
“Yes, they did.”
“I’m sorry.” More sorry than he knew. Thomas Cahill and the New York City police had a long history. One he didn’t deserve. Because of her. “I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“Dad.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Noah, watch out for her.”
“I will.”
“And get that wrap off. It’s been on there long enough.”
“Straight away.”
Thomas left, pulling the door closed behind him.
“He’s right, you know, you need to be careful.”
Her stomach clenched painfully. She didn’t see the damage to her vehicle as a threat. Maybe because in the back of her mind she agreed with Noah that Tommy was the most likely suspect. But Tommy denied the vandalism, and Isabeau believed him. If not Tommy, who?
She needed a distraction. “Take the wrap off. I think I have some triple antibiotic ointment in the medicine cabinet.”
She did, and she returned to the kitchen with it, along with a two clean washcloths.
Noah held the wrap from his arm in his hand. “Where’s your trash?”
“Under the sink.”
She ran a washcloth under warm water. Ringing out the excess, she turned to him and pushed his sleeve out of the way. The area was a bit swollen and had scabbed in a few places. It was because of this totally natural reaction to getting a tattoo that her father had wrapped his arm in plastic wrap. Had he used something like gauze, it would have stuck to the area, and removing the gauze would pull the scabs loose, bringing the ink with it. As a result, scarring of the area, and blotching of the color could occur.
His shirt sleeve slipped down as she pressed the warm cloth to his skin. She shoved it back out of the way.
“Wait,” he said as it slipped a second time. He reached his arm over his head. Fisting his hand in his shirt, he pulled it off.
There was something so inherently male about the move that she didn’t look away. Then, once he stood before her wearing nothing but his jeans, she couldn’t look away. He was built. His body was sleek, smooth, and leanly muscled. Lightly tanned, with hard six-pack abs and a dark blonde line of hair that started below his navel and trailed down to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Not that she was looking.
Or drooling.
There was no doubt about it, he looked better than most men half his age.
“Is something wrong, Isa?”
Arousal clouded her mind. Her body thrummed with it. “What? No.”
But as she pressed the cloth against his skin, her hands shook.
She tried to keep her focus on the task at hand and off his chest, but it was right there. Suddenly she was hyperaware of the heat coming off him, of the scent of musk and man that swam through her senses.
“So what do you think?” he asked, his voice a whisper against her temple.
She thought she wanted to reach out and see if his skin was as soft as it looked, his body as hard. She swallowed. Her dry throat stuck together. “What do I think?”
“About the tattoo.”
“The tattoo?” Perfect. She sounded like an idiot.
Heat flooded her cheeks. She could feel his eyes on her and knew he
noticed. He had a habit of watching her in a way that made her toes curl, her stomach turn over. She’d caught him doing it on more than one occasion and knew if she tipped her head up, she’d catch him doing it now.
So she focused on his tattoo, and smiled. Thomas had given him a small skeletal body, wings and a halo above the over-sized and even more animated skull. “It’s perfect.”
Trading the wet washcloth for a clean, dry one, she patted his arm dry, then applied a thin layer of ointment. “There you go.”
“Thank you.” Reaching up, he tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.
Her breathing shallowed when his fingers grazed the side of her throat, caught as his other hand settled on her hip. Slowly her eyes raised, moved up his throat, past his dangerously tempting mouth, before she met his gaze and felt a punch of awareness.
“You have the most beautiful eyes,” he said, and shifted just a little closer.
Never had her eyes been called beautiful. Strange? Yes. Beautiful? Never.
“They change color depending on what you’re feeling, did you know that?”
“I…no.”
“Right now they’re blue—a very pale blue. What does that mean, Isa? Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
Desire. Need, unlike she’d ever felt before. She’d had no idea how much she’d craved a physical touch, his touch. Her stomach fluttered. Her heart skipped a few beats. She slicked her tongue over her lips, and his hand flexed against her hip.
“I have to know,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Your taste.”
He slipped his hand from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her against him. Their bodies molded, soft to hard. His thigh slid between hers and desire curled her toes, tightened her nipples into hard, aching points. And still, he didn’t kiss her. Why didn’t he kiss her? Then he did. Finally, he did. He teased her lips with his tongue, and she opened to him, drank in his dark seductive flavor.
She settled her hand against his chest, reveling in the feel of hard muscle and hot male. Good God the man could kiss. His body surrounded her, engulfed her as his mouth continued to seduce. She arched into him, and as his erection pressed against her stomach, she couldn’t hold back a moan.
The tube of ointment dropped to the floor. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her heart raced and she realized his was pounding a matching rhythm against her breasts. Deep inside her, something quivered.
He pulled his head back, easing out of the kiss. His left hand still cupped her throat, his thumb slowly brushing back and forth. His skin was flushed, his eyes full of emotion. He leaned down and kissed her softly one more time before releasing her and stepping back.
“Noah?”
His gaze ran the length of her, his attention paused on her erect nipples before returning to her face. He let out a slow breath as if struggling for control. “I think I’d better leave,” he said, his voice all low and husky.
Sexy.
Arousing.
She squeezed her thighs together. He must have caught the action because his pupils dilated.
“Oh, yeah, it’s time to go,” he said softly, scooped his shirt off the floor and pulled it on.
He walked to the door, opened it and started outside as if desperate to get away from her. Then he stopped, half in and half out the door and looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to lock your door.”
“Right.”
“Isabeau?” He waited until her gaze returned to his. “Pleasant dreams,” he said, and then he was gone.
Chapter Eight
“You should join us.”
Isabeau placed the studio’s lunch order next to Dominic’s elbow, then slipped through the pass thru and took her place behind the bar. It was still about forty-five minutes before any of her employees arrived, so she had the time for a friendly chat. “Join you and do what?”
“Play, of course.”
“You want me to play soccer with the four of you?” she asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism. “Have you looked at the size of me compared to the rest of you?”
Dominic placed his elbows atop the bar and leaned forward. He gave her an engaging smile. “Your build will work to your advantage, trust me. We’re not talking about your American football, Isabeau, but soccer. In soccer it’s about speed and agility.”
“And fancy footwork.”
“There’s a bit of that, too.”
She thought about all the photos of the professional soccer players she’d seen in her lifetime. They always depicted a player hanging in mid-air, feet out to the side as they kicked the ball, or worse, chasing down the field, ball between their feet while a slew of the other team’s players attempted to steal it. She looked up at Dominic, who stood around the same height as Noah, then she pictured four guys that size swarming her on the soccer field. It may not be American football he was talking about, and tackling might not be a part of the game, but the thought of being the tiny girl in the middle of that much testosterone and competitive spirit didn’t thrill her.
“How often is one of you injured during one of these games?”
The corners of his mouth turned down.
“That’s what I thought.”
“We’d take it easy on you.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” she replied dryly, turning his frown into a wide grin.
“Come on, luv,” he challenged. “I’ve seen you run. Combine that with your size, and I bet you’re a bleedin’ dynamo on the field.”
She was crazy to even consider it.
“You can be on my team.”
“Is that supposed to convince me?”
“I’m a good player,” he said modestly.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Brilliant!”
She glanced at the clock on the wall behind her, and frowned. Her fingers danced atop the bar, unconsciously playing along with the song on the stereo. Where was her father? When she’d called him up this morning, and asked him to come by because she needed to speak with him, he’d assured her that he would arrive before her lunch rush.
“What’s with you today, Isabeau?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have somewhere you need to go?”
“No.”
“Something’s up with you. You keep looking at the clock, and you’re fidgeting.”
Her hand stopped moving. She curled her fingers against her palms. “I’ve got a lot on my mind this morning.”
“I see. That would explain why you forgot to turn on the stereo.”
“I didn’t…” she began to argue, but then stopped as she realized that he was right, the only music in the bar was what was playing in her head. Dread settled in. It was getting worse.
She was losing her mind.
Without comment, she turned and flicked on the stereo. She tucked the remote into her back pocket, then turned back to Dominic only to find him looking at her, an odd look in his eyes. “What?”
His gaze drifted down the front of her and stopped on her lower half. “I like your trousers.”
She glanced down at her airbrushed jeans. “My pants? A friend made them for me.”
“A friend made your pants?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t comment for a full minute. Just stood there, his mouth hitched up on one side, blue eyes twinkling. “Can I see them? I’ve never seen custom-made pants before.”
“You’re looking at them.”
“No, I’m looking at your trousers,” he replied with a devilish grin. “If you removed your trousers, then I’d be looking at your pants.”
Surprise jolted through her and her mouth dropped open. “You mean my panties? You’re talking about my panties, aren’t you?”
He raised a palm and said with complete innocence, “I complimented you on your trousers. You’re the one who brought your knickers into the conversation.”
She laughed; she couldn’t help it. He’d done it on purpose, of cou
rse, managed to twist the conversation in a way that made her head spin. “How long have you lived in the States and you still don’t know the difference between women’s underwear and jeans?”
“It seems to me, you were the one confused.”
“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told. But to answer your question, I don’t live here. I live in London.”
She leaned against the bar. “That explains a lot.”
“Meaning what?”
“For one thing, it explains why your accent is stronger than Noah’s.”
“Yes. He’s been in California almost three years now.” He arched an eyebrow, his gaze slowly sliding down the length of her. “Is that what’s got you all jittery this morning? You finally gave that sorry bloke a chance, did you?”
“A chance at what?”
“A chance at you.”
She was still searching for the right response when the inner door swung open and Thomas walked in, stiff-necked and forbidding in his black leather vest and matching skull cap. His narrowed gaze drifted over Dom and settled on her.
“You wanted to see me,” he stated acridly.
She glanced pointedly over her shoulder. Over two hours had passed since she’d called him.
He followed her gaze to the clock. “I was with a customer,” he supplied, daring her to argue.
She knew his moods, knew his intimidation tactics. They didn’t work on her. “Now I am. Have a seat, I’ll be right with you.”
Thomas harrumphed and crossed to the nearest table, where he chose a chair facing the bar. He openly scrutinized Dom as he said, “Do your old dad a favor and bring something for me to drink, will you?”
Although he was purposely trying to rile her, it wasn’t going to work. She understood why he was short with her. After all, she hadn’t given him an explanation that morning when she’d called and asked him to come. He hadn’t been happy about it at the time, and apparently he still wasn’t. That couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t have this conversation over the telephone. It had to be in person.
