by Chant, Zoe
And it probably belongs to Mrs. LaFleur. She laughed at herself as they got out.
The house was Spanish style, white with a red tile roof that deeply overhung the windows, and archways leading into what seemed to be tiled patios, with trellised vines screening portions. Its size was impossible to gauge, but Jan had a feeling it was ginormous. Weird, to find a beautiful place like this in California’s most boring town.
The front door opened, and a tall, brown-skinned, glamour-thin woman of about sixty stepped out onto a tiled terrace, her black hair perfectly coifed. “Okay, duchess, here we are,” Shelley breathed without moving her lips.
Once again Jan smothered a laugh, turning it into her politest smile as the woman advanced, right hand out. “Shelley, it is lovely to have you back among us again. And this must be your friend.”
Shelley performed the introductions as Jan held out her hand. Mrs. LaFleur’s grip was the politician’s handshake, barely there and gone again as she uttered words of welcome.
“I must apologize. I’ve been called to an emergency town council meeting, but I have just enough time to take you through the rose garden to the dell,” she said.
And she led the way around the side of the house into a rose garden bisected by a curving footpath lined with white stones. Jan stared, avidly curious. The house was definitely enormous, and she counted four private patios, two of them gated off, before the path turned downward into an gently bowl-shaped area screened by honeysuckle hedges and roses in trellises.
“Wow,” Shelley exclaimed.
Jan stared down into a state of the art shell partially obscured by carefully trained trumpet vines and tall trees. The dell (Do they call it the shell in the dell? Jan looked at Mrs. LeFleur’s prim, poised profile, and answered herself, Probably not) sloped down toward the shell’s stage. The lawn was beautifully manicured, a deep, velvety green. The air carried the heady scent of roses.
“Wow,” Shelley said again.
Mrs. LaFleur’s smile widened. “It will look much nicer by your wedding day, I promise. The garden staff will create a bower of flowers for you, but in this heat it must be done at the last . . .” She let the sentence hang as she turned her head.
Jan’s breath caught. Somehow she felt his presence before she turned, or maybe it was just hope. Her body flashed with sunlight when she saw him walking down the pathway. He was once again dressed in an expensive blazer, a fine shirt buttoned all the way to the throat, and knife-edge creased slacks.
His gaze met Jan’s , causing heat to kindle deep in her core. “Good morning, Shelley. Jan.” At the sound of his voice, the heat flared bright.
“Hey, JP,” Shelley said easily, and Jan managed to croak out a strangled “Good morning.”
Jan turned her attention to the stage as she fought to get a grip. How could the mere sound of a guy’s voice get her wet?
Mrs. LaFleur said, “It seems the meeting is starting a little earlier than I thought, but my son will serve as host. It was nice seeing you again, Shelley, and meeting you, Jan. I look forward to our tea.”
“Hi, JP,” Shelley said, in the same tone she would have greeted one of her giant, exuberant sports-mad brothers. “So you don’t have to go to this meeting?”
“My part is done, freeing me to play host,” he said.
Jan shivered, and tried not to cross her legs.
“Awesome,” Shelley exclaimed, totally oblivious. And then, disaster! “Hey, Jan. Want to try out the stage? It’s supposed to have great sound.” To Jan’s excruciating embarrassment, Shelley went on enthusiastically, “JP, Mick told you that Jan is going to sing, right? She’s got an incredible voice.”
JP had an incredible voice. He wasn’t a trained singer, but he could have been, Jan thought as he spoke, his tones warm with amusement, “I’m the one who found the quartet that will accompany her. They’ll be here before the wedding rehearsal, at four.”
“Hear that, Jan?” Shelley exclaimed. “Go on, try it out. You said you wanted to check the sound.”
The subject had now passed into that awkward place where saying 'No' would drag it out even longer. And Jan needed to get distance from that voice, that presence. So she walked up onto the stage, her ears catching the whisper of her sandals on the floor.
Oh, the acoustics were perfect.
Shelley’s voice carried on the rose-scented summer air as she went on, “Jan’s going to sing my favorite song. Not that I know much about music. But there was this one January when we were at UCLA. We were roommates, you know. I was sick with a fever, and she was humming this thing, and I kept asking her to sing it over and over. I swear it made my fever come down whenever she sang it . . .”
* * *
Shelley went on about her illness and her friend’s wonderful voice as JP watched Jan walk slowly to the stage as if she crossed a field full of live grenades. Reluctance? Embarrassment? Irritation?
If only she would turn around! But she seemed determined to ignore him as she looked up and to the sides, her back to him, so all he saw was the perfect curve of her shoulders bisected by the thin straps of her gauzy top that fell softly to her beautifully rounded hips. He liked Shelley because she was in so many ways a female edition of Mick. No interest in style, interesting in outdoors more than the arts.
But Jan was stylish from the hair curling around her expressive face to her pretty toes in the strappy shoes. Her clothes enhanced her female curves, making him want to run his hands under those filmy drapes. He knew she would feel like silk.
Shelley was still talking, and JP tried to listen, though every cell of his body willed Jan to turn, to meet him eye to eye.
He watched Jan square her shoulders and draw a deep breath. Unconsciously he held his breath as well, and then she hummed, so softly he had to strain to hear her. But gradually she increased the volume on that one note, gently filling the shell with exquisite sound. Sweet fire sparked inside him, bright with promise.
Then she stopped.
“Go on, Jan, sing something,” Shelley said.
The blond curls shook. “I haven’t practiced for two days. Haven’t even warmed up. And this place is too perfect. It’ll reflect back every raw note.”
And that is my cue if ever I heard one, JP thought, and strove to keep his voice casual. “We have a music room that you can use.”
Jan turned at last, and he braced himself for the impact of her dense blue gaze. God, she was beautiful. “I would not want to impose,” she said, her golden voice resonant with sincerity. She was embarrassed!
“There is no imposition,” he said, trying to project sincerity instead of his rising desire. “There’s a grand piano just sitting there. I don’t have time to play, and no one else uses it. That room is at the back end of the house, not to mention soundproofed, so you couldn’t possibly disturb anyone.”
JP saw Jan’s lips move—grand piano—and he said to Shelley, “Let me show you,” suspecting that she would sweep her friend along.
Sure enough. “Jan! It’s perfect,” Shelley enthused. “Come on!”
JP led the way out of the dell, gesturing across the lawn to the line of eucalyptus half a mile distant. “As the crow flies, Mick’s family lives straight that way. Boring ancient politics are responsible for the road going around three sides of a square to get here, but as boys, we ran back and forth across the field beyond the eucalyptus, which line the edge of our property. If you want to practice,” he said to Jan, “you are welcome to come across any time you wish. Truly, you will have perfect freedom to come and go.”
As he began to lead them toward the side garden, Shelley stopped, pulled out her phone, and sighed. “Go, on, I’ll follow. It’s Mom—again.”
JP said, “This was my grandmother’s Shakespearean herb garden.”
Jan walked slowly, looking intently at the flowering plants, and sniffing appreciatively. “Oh, what heavenly scents. I wonder if England smells like this?”
“Only in Shakespearean gardens,” he said, an
d she looked up and laughed, her face flushing delightfully.
“I guess that was a stupid remark,” she said ruefully, as in the background Shelley muttered, “Yes, Mom. No, Mom! Yes . . .”
“If it’s stupid then we’re both a couple of dummies,” he said. “As I thought the same thing until I actually got to England.”
“What did it smell like?” she asked.
He braced himself to meet her wide blue gaze, but he could not fight the heat crackling down his spine. And lower. “It was London, actually. Cigarettes and diesel fuel. My first visit, as a teen, with my father. The countryside smelled pretty much like here in winter, like wet grass . . .”
He heard himself blathering, but she listened with an intense air. He remembered her little story about the choir, and it occurred to him that she might wish to travel. It was all he could do not to blurt, I’ll take you there—
And then her pretty feet in those sexy, strappy sandals turned on one of the flagstones, pitchforking her straight into his arms.
A pair of delightfully soft breasts thumped against his ribs, and heat seared him. For an endless, mind-blowing moment they stood there, pressed together, his arms locking around her to steady her.
And she melted against him.
His breath hitched. His brain stuttered. His dick, already half-hard, stiffened. Down, he thought furiously as she made a little noise and stirred in his arms, pressing against his length as if she had been made for him.
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was muffled by his chest, and he realized he had locked his arms around her.
He instantly let her go, appalled at his total lack of self-control.
She sprang back, flushed rosy, obviously embarrassed, and altogether adorable with her hair tousled around her and the fluffy fabric of her top slipping over one round shoulder, revealing the upper swell of one of those enchanting breasts.
She said to the ground, “I didn’t mean to ram into you so rudely.”
He put his hands behind his back and gripped them against the nearly overwhelming wish to press a kiss to that exact spot at her slipping neckline—and travel lower—and then his mouth spoke before his brain could catch up, “You are welcome to ram into me any time.”
Way to sound like a total sleazeball, JP! He moved away quickly—as if to leave his awful faux pas behind. He grimaced, covering the last few yards of the herb garden, as in the background, he heard Shelley saying, “Okay, see you soon, Mom.”
Striving for normalcy, he lifted his voice. “This is the back of the house. No one comes this way,” he said to Jan. I will not stare at her neckline. “This was my grandmother’s lair until she died. The grand piano was hers. I keep it tuned in hopes I can get back into serious practice.” You’re blathering again.
He shut up and lifted the latch to the French doors. He heard Jan’s soft breathing as he led the way inside the foyer, to the left, and into the music room.
He gestured to invite them into the cool, quiet room with the piano in pride of place. Opposite stood the glass-door curio cases containing instruments, some quite old, played by various members of the family over the past two centuries. JP watched Jan looking around from treasure to treasure, her lips parted.
Next to her, Shelley shifted from foot to foot, her expression polite as Jan moved slowly to the piano and then tentatively pressed a G major, F major, A major, her eyes half shut. The light from the window caught in strands of her hair, glinting like candlelight, and glowed in the tips of her lashes. They were blond, he noticed. The urge to step closer to her, to lock his arms around her again and bury his face in that cloud of shining hair, to explore that entrancing dip in her blouse, took all his strength to resist.
Shelley’s cell vibrated, breaking the spell. “It’s Mick,” she said, looking uncertain.
The reminder of the outward problems steadied JP. “Go ahead,” he said.
“Excuse me. I’ll just take a sec.”
She let herself out, the murmur of her voice muffled by the sound-baffled door. Leaving JP alone with Jan.
She backed away from the piano to the wall, arms tight across her chest. Topping the snarl of conflicting emotions roiling in him now was the importance of making sure she felt safe in his house.
So he dropped onto the piano bench and idly ran his hands up and down the keys in elementary scales as he watched obliquely. Sure enough, Jan’s tight posture relaxed. “You really don’t play it?” she asked, her voice high, unsteady. “I mean, now.”
“Not this week,” he said. “Too busy. As for the rest of the time, the best I can do is occasionally noodling around. It helps me think,” he said, and felt a jet of victory when her arms loosened their grip on her elbows and she took a step away from the wall.
Encouraged by this sign of her lessening tension, he played a few chords, saying, “It’s interesting, what people do to cut their minds free. Fooling around on the piano is one of mine. My mother tends roses. My father plays chess. Dennis’s dad field strips his weapons.” As her brows shot up, he laughed. “Dennis’s dad is a Master Gunnery Sergeant in the Marines.”
“Oh! Well, that makes sense.”
“He makes an art of it. Even when blindfolded. That used to impress us as boys.” He paused, waiting for her to offer her own escape, but it seemed she was not ready for sharing yet. So he forced himself to talk on. “I’ve never understood people who watch TV to let their minds free, not even noticing the noise. If I hear voices I have to listen to them.”
“Me too,” she said, sounding more natural. “Pitch. Timbre. Mood. On the bus I . . .” She stopped.
“On the bus you?” he prompted.
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, tense again. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t find anything you say stupid,” he murmured.
“Oh, on the bus I listen. To tones. Sometimes people sound like instruments.” Then her chin lifted, her gaze turning his way in question, and her tone changed as she took a step toward the piano. “You noodle Stravinsky?”
He looked down, appalled to discover that he had begun the “Danse Infernale” in the Firebird Suite. Shit! Deep down his dragon stirred yet again.
With a lifetime of practice he locked that side of him away, and concentrated on recovering his self-control. “Did both of you study opera? I thought Mick said Shelley studied theater.”
“She did theater while I focused on voice,” she said. “Shelley and I roomed together, and overlapped in a lot of General Ed classes our first couple years. But later, while she was doing stunts and bit parts for her friends in the film department, I was mainlining classical music.” She nodded at the piano, and in a tentative voice, said, “If this is too nosy, you don’t have to answer, but you studied classical piano?”
“I did,” he said, eliding softly to a well-known piece by Brahms that had nothing to do with firebirds, dragons, or any kind of shifter. “Thought I was the world’s next great composer—until I got to Juilliard and discovered that I was incapable of anything original. Pause to imagine my crushed genius.”
She uttered a chuckle that struck him like the sparkle of diamonds, as she took another step toward him. “I composed soundtracks for Mick, and Dennis before he went into documentaries, until they were successful enough to hire professionals.”
“Shelley said you are an A&R scout?” she asked.
“Yes. Part time. I scout for Mick as well as several producers, and a couple of classical record labels. Even the L.A. Philharmonic. When I bought my place in Hollywood I told the real estate agent to find me something equidistant from the major theaters. Going to every classical performance I can has never become just work. Have I seen you on stage?”
All the light went out of her face. He could have kicked himself—too late he remembered what Mick had said about her losing a gig.
Shelley reappeared, and he lost the chance to make it up to her.
“Sorry, guys,” Shelley said, and turned JP’s way. “Um, I think Mick
might be looking for you.”
Never had there been worse timing. But duty had ruled his life with iron bars for far too long for it to be anything but business as usual.
“Excuse me,” he said, and turned to Jan. “I hope we can talk music again. Meanwhile, please. Consider this room yours for the week.”
He walked out, disgusted with himself for his blunders, like he was a kid again. I’ve been alone too long, he thought, knowing it for the truth.
No, only half the truth.
He had fought long and hard to accept the fact that duty to the community must come first, leaving him to follow his musical career during free time. All worthy, and artistic, uses of his time, leaving others to find the happiness he knew he would never have.
Economically and politically he was next thing to a king of a very small kingdom. Intellectually he was master of two careers and a formidable opponent to any who threatened his family, his clave, or his town.
But emotionally?
I have been so insulated I did not know how isolated I was.
He grimaced and pulled out his phone.
Mick said, “Jeep, I’m pretty sure these guys not only know about shifters, they have at least one among them.”
“I know that,” JP said, and briefly described his flight of the evening before, leaving out Jan and the fireflies.
“There is worse,” Mick said with a low, bearish growl. “They set a couple hyenas on Josh Walker when he went to demand their ID. If I hadn’t happened to be right behind his patrol car, they might have killed him.”
“Did you do some damage?”
“Yes.” Mick’s voice was rough with satisfaction. “Broke several bones apiece before they yelped in retreat. And they hauled ass out of there so fast they left part of their metal detector. Chief Albert’s got it.”
“Excellent,” JP said. “Though I suppose we can expect them to step up their game. So I’d better get more of us out on watch, especially at night.”
Chapter Seven
