“Hey, wait a minute.” He had been sitting comfortably, but he was suddenly standing, gripping her arms and staring deeply into her eyes. Amusement was gone; his golden gaze was as hard as the tension about his features.
“They don’t coincide, Miss Keller, not in the least. I didn’t buy you dinner, or be nice to the kids, in hopes of any kind of trade. I enjoy children, and frankly, a dinner check is no big deal. Yes, I still want to go to bed with you. It’s a rather natural urge when a man meets a truly beautiful woman. But that doesn’t mean that I want to use you. Any more than you would be using me. I’m talking about something that should be thoroughly enjoyed by both parties—that gives to each.”
Why did she have to swallow so much when he stared at her, Bryn wondered, nervously moistening her lips. Because he was right? She had felt the attraction before she had known him. And now…she could feel his heat and energy, and the soft texture of his shirt. His grip was firm, but not painful, and she could think of nothing but the touch of his hands on her arms. She had to tilt her head to meet his eyes, and his thumb moved to her chin, caressing it with a touch of rough magic.
“Lee, you can probably have any number of women….”
He emitted an impatient oath. “Bryn, you keep trying to label me with archaic attitudes. Do you think that all a man wants is a sound body attached to a nice face? I do not run around having indiscriminate affairs. There was something about you that fascinated me from the moment I saw you.”
“It’s a nice line,” Bryn heard herself say harshly.
“Line? Damn it—”
“Yes, line, damn it! Or are you swearing eternal devotion?”
“Is that what you want—eternal devotion? I can’t believe that. We’ve just met. I’m trying to get to know you better, but you’re making it damned hard. Maybe there is eternal devotion in it. But how can any of us know where any path leads unless we take the first steps and then follow it?”
“I don’t want to get involved!” Bryn flared. “I don’t want to get—”
Hurt. That was the word. But she didn’t want to say it. It had a very vulnerable sound about it.
“I don’t want to get involved,” she repeated coldly. Panic was setting in. The longer he stood there, the more she wanted to throw herself against him. The more excitement she felt. How exhilarating it would be to lie down beside him, to explore the taut, muscular length of his body. How nice to be with a man whose very presence spoke of strength and character, power and tenderness. To wake up beside him, feel his arms securely about her…
“Bryn…”
Suddenly his arm was about her, pressing her close until she felt scorched by his body heat, touched by the thunder of his heart. The bronze fingers on her chin held her firm as his lips lowered to hers, firm like his hands, commanding, but persuasive. A touch like lightning. Like the warmth of the sun. So sensual that she felt dizzy, as if her body were spinning along with the earth. His tongue rimmed her lips with a subtle expertise, parted them, delved beyond them. Deeper, deeper, sweetly, firmly exploring, filling her with a current of swiftly burning desire. Somehow hinting of another fulfillment with the crush of his hips against hers, a touch so close that it blatantly spoke to her body of the force of his need…
“No!”
He didn’t stop her as she jerked away from him. If he had attempted to, he would easily have succeeded. She was well aware of his strength.
“Please!” she murmured, meeting the disappointed narrowing of his eyes. Panic swelled again. He knew her. Too well. Frighteningly, threateningly. Knew that she didn’t dislike him, that she did want him. She had to say something that would dissuade him before she set herself up for the biggest fall of her life.
“Damn it!” she spat. “Are you incapable of believing that someone seriously might not want your…attentions? Listen to me! I—do—not—want—to—get—involved. I do not like rock stars—or any form of ‘star,’ for that matter. I don’t like your type of man. Please! I— You’re making me very nervous. I’m asking you to leave my house.”
She expected anger; she even flinched involuntarily. But his contemptuous stare was worse than anything she could have anticipated. “Relax, Miss Keller. I’m not sure what my ‘type’ of man is, but I don’t run around raping women, or striking them. I’m just sorry that you feel compelled to be such a liar. And to shield yourself in a glass house. Good night.”
Bryn bit her lip, feeling the tears well into her eyes. What was she doing? He had every right to fire her, and she would much prefer that he did strike her than fire her! God, what was she doing?
Watching the breadth of his shoulders and his proud carriage as he moved to the door, she felt shamed by the extent of his quiet dignity.
“Lee…” she gulped out quickly. “The phone…uh…you need to call Mick or Perry.”
“Thanks—I’ll find a pay phone. I can use a nice brisk walk in the evening air.”
“Lee, you don’t understand. I—”
He stopped at the door and turned back to her with a grim smile. “There are wonderful benefits to being a ‘tom-tom’ player, Bryn. You can go and beat the hell out of the drums and control all your savage tendencies with that outlet. You can close your mouth, Bryn. And don’t look so terrified. I would never fire an employee over a personal problem. You still have a job. In fact, Barbara should be calling you over the weekend. We’re doing the pictures on Monday. Rehearsal at the Fulton place is still at 9:00 A.M.; but have your equipment with you, because we’ll be going directly to the Timberlane Country Club right after to do some shots with the group.”
Bryn stared at him, feeling her face flame crimson. Words! The power of words! She had carelessly issued a few in front of the children—words she had spoken only in frustration and anger—and now it seemed she was to pay for them forever.
I’m sorry….
The thought welled in her throat; she wanted to tell him that she had never meant anything cruel. She even wanted to explain that she could be hurt too easily by any involvement, that she couldn’t trust a man to care for a woman—and three young children.
She had wanted so badly to get rid of him. And now, right now in this moment, she wanted nothing more than to explain. But she had shouted and she had been cruel, and now it was too late. Words—words that she desperately needed now—refused to come to her aid.
The door opened quietly.
And it closed just as quietly behind him.
CHAPTER 4
He hadn’t dreamed in a long time. And during swatches of semiconsciousness, when he realized that his restless sleep was being pierced by dreams, he mentally assured himself that it was probably a normal occurence. Bryn Keller’s words would combine with Victoria’s face and the sense of helplessness that had assailed him at the time would come back with a painful force.
Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, the dreamworld took him back. Far back. It had all been fairly simple in South Dakota. Half the people in his small town had Indian blood. He had loved being a Blackfoot then. Loved the days with grandfather. Peaceful days, perfect days. Days in which he had eagerly learned to stalk deer, to watch the flight of the hawk and move through the night as one with it.
But then had come the move to New York. And the taunts from the kids in the streets. And the fights.
And his mother’s soft voice.
“You must learn to smile at the taunts, my love, for they are only testing you. And courage is not always in violence, Lee, but in the dignity to stand against it. You needn’t call people names in return. You are part Blackfoot. And part German American. Be very proud of them both. You are young, Lee. But you know that your father and your grandfather are two of the finest men living….”
He had started playing the drums then. And started gymnastics. The two had settled his restless soul, and he had found the peace—and price—that he had sought.
There had been attacks of a different variety when the band had formed. Professors who ranted agains
t the new music and said that Lee was wasting a God-given talent with “noise.”
The service and military action in the Middle East had put hold on things, but when he had come back, it had been his father who set his mind at ease.
“Each man follows his own path—his own destiny, if you will. And only he is responsible for the choice. You know where your heart longs to fly; give it wings.”
And so the group had formed. Each year they knew one another better; the music grew. Their lyrics grew. The crawl to the top was slow, but steady. Their talents had blossomed along with them.
But then there had been Victoria….
Violet eyed, golden-haired. Fragile and beautiful. He had met her on tour in Boston and fallen violently in love.
“She is very, very, delicate, like thin crystal,” his father had warned. Lee hadn’t cared; he had been madly in love. Victoria was everything that he was not. So fair, so ethereal, so lovely…
Too fair; too fragile. The first years were good ones; he still liked to think so. But then he had taken her to the Black Hills, and he had had to bring her to the hospital in the middle of the night because a bear had brought on a case of severe hysteria….
Was it that night that she had turned from him? Or the night of the break-in at their Ft. Lauderdale home? He had crept up on the robber and wrestled him to the ground. Victoria had screamed and screamed. What should he have done, he demanded. Let the guy rob the place and perhaps attack them in their sleep? No argument did any good; he had become a “savage.” And no matter how softly he spoke, or how gently he touched her, she claimed that he was rough…and savage. He left her alone, baffled and hurt. And he had taken her to doctor after doctor, because he had never stopped loving her.
Then had come the shock of learning that she was pregnant, when he hadn’t touched her in countless months. Strange, but he hadn’t been furious, just horriby confused. And hurt to the depths of his soul. He talked to her, he promised her that things would be okay, that they would raise the child together and learn to trust each other again….
Where had he failed?
In his sleep he covered his head with his hands and began rocking as the pain threatened to rip apart his insides again. He would never, never forget the doctor calling.
Victoria was dead. She had tried to abort the baby herself….
Somehow none of it had gotten into the papers. He had returned to the Black Hills and slowly nursed the deep and bitter wound with his grandfather’s wisdom.
“Along our chosen paths, we all meet up with demons. We must meet them, and battle them, even when they are nothing but mist in the night. Your wife could not meet her demons, and you could not battle them for her with all your strength, for such demons lurk in the soul. But now you must battle those that plague your own soul.”
Lee shot up in the bed, suddenly wide awake. His skin was covered with perspiration, despite the coolness of the night.
He slid his legs over the side of the bed and padded silently out to the terrace, naked. The fresh breeze cooled his damp flesh, and the last vestiges of his dreams were swept away.
There was a full moon rising, he noted. Shadowed to silver by drifting clouds. It would rain tomorrow he thought. There might even be some snow in the mountains.
Damn her!
The thought flashed thought his mind even as he tried not to allow it. Damn Bryn Keller.
Damn her to a thousand hells….
No, he thought with a soft sigh. It wasn’t her fault that he had felt more than fascination. Each time he saw her, he saw something new. Her beauty was in her movement, in the determined straightness of her spine, in her eyes when she pleaded that Adam was not a bad child, just lost and lonely and groping….
“We’re all groping, Miss Keller,” he said softly to the night breeze. “But if you would just let me touch you… You hold so desperately to your independence and pride. I wouldn’t take those from you. I would just be there…a hand, a heart, to reach across and lift you when you stumble….”
He stared at the moon, and at the beautiful velvet stretch of the stars across the heavens. And then he laughed out loud at himself. “Talking to the night, eh, Condor? Standing naked on a balcony—and talking to the moon. Even the Blackfoot would call you crazy!”
He walked back into his bedroom, leaving the French doors to the terrace open. He liked the night air. And nature’s sounds of the night. The night could embrace a man as no woman could; and yet, there was a similarity there, too. Loving a woman was like loving the night. It was knowing the dangers and respecting them; knowing all the secret fears and frailties and tenderly protecting them. Learning what was needed, and giving it.
He had failed once. And he had never thought to allow himself to care again. But this woman…
Bryn was strong in her own right. He could make her stronger.
A scowl tightened his ruggedly handsome features.
Savage, he reminded himself.
He started to crawl into bed to go back to sleep. Instead he glanced at his bedside clock.
Six A.M. It was already Monday morning. He might as well get dressed.
Dawn was just breaking when he reached the old Fulton place. They had picked up his drums and set them up on the second-floor landing yesterday afternoon, because they wanted to see the effect of certain camera angles before they started actually shooting everyone in full costume.
He was glad to see his drums. He could feel the rhythm flow through his blood when he climbed up the stairs and approached them.
As the sun blazed a streak in the sky, he picked up his drumsticks and heralded the morning with a wild and chaotic rhythm.
He was still pounding the drums when Bryn Keller walked in two hours later.
* * *
She felt the thunder of the beat long before she slipped in the front door.
The weekend had given her a certain courage and strength; she had done the right thing. It was hard now to pull away from him but it would be far more difficult if she allowed herself to be swayed. Loneliness was easier when you became accustomed to it, and since she had cried herself sick after the breakup with Joe, she had become accustomed to managing on her own.
But when she heard the drumbeat, she knew it was going to be a long day.
Bryn closed the door softly behind her, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had slammed it. The sound wouldn’t have been heard.
Tony Asp and Gary Wright were already there, standing in the rear of the ballroom and somehow managing to discuss the work for the day. Mick Skyhawk was sitting backward on the piano bench, his long legs stretched out before him. Perry and Andrew McCabe—the last of the group—were lounging on either side of him.
Mick saw Bryn enter and waved at her. She smiled a little nervously in return and walked over to join him and the others. But her eyes strayed up the staircase as she walked through the entryway, and shivers rippled along her spine.
Lee was shirtless as he belted out the rhythm. A fine sheen of perspiration made his bronze torso gleam and clearly delineated the muscles in his arms and chest. His features were intense; his eyes were narrowed in concentration. He might have been alone in the world, alone with his drums and a primeval beat. It was somehow an awesome sight. Primitive, but beautiful. The sheer power of it, the male perfection and the thunder that touched the heart, were beautiful.
“Want some coffee, Bryn?”
She started when she realized she had backed into the ballroom until she was almost on Mick’s lap.
“Yes, thanks,” she murmured.
She was pretty sure that it was Andrew who set the cup in her hand, and she mumbled “Thanks” again.
“It’s going to be a long day!” Perry sighed.
Bryn smiled at him. “Why do you guys show up so early? You don’t really have to be here through the tedium of all the rehearsals, do you? Especially this early.”
“Ouch!” Perry chuckled.
“We do have to be here, love,”
Andrew told her, the soft flicker of his native Cork accent not at all affected—just weary. “You see, we’re like a miniature democracy. We vote on all decisions: musical, business and aesthetic. Our names and faces are out on the album so it’s in our own best interest.”
“Oh,” Bryn murmured.
The drums were struck in another tempestuous burst of sound.
“It’s going to be a long day.” Mick reiterated Perry’s words bleakly.
“A long day,” Andrew agreed.
The pounding rose to a shattering crescendo, and then the silence became overwhelming.
A second later Lee came briskly down the stairway, wiping his face with a towel, then throwing it around his shoulders.
“Ah, good morning, Miss Keller! Let’s get right to work, shall we? Hey, Mick, mind playing the piece for this? That recording is awful.” His eyes, full of nothing but intense energy, turned to Bryn. “The sound will be mixed in the studio for the real thing, of course, but we’re going to have to do better even to take it here for the cameras. Some decent speakers or something. Are you ready?”
“Yes, of course.”
Bryn gulped down her coffee and accepted the hand that gripped hers to lead her across the room.
Somewhere during the next hour she became convinced that he was a sadist, and that his drumming was a ritual to summon the devil, who rewarded him with superhuman energy and endurance.
They rehearsed on the staircase for an hour; then the other dancers arrived, and they rehearsed for another hour. She was able to breathe for ten minutes when he donned an infantry uniform so that they could take the shots of him playing on the stairway in the thick mist rising from a large block of dry ice.
Then they were dancing again. Shots were taken of Mick at the piano, Andrew with an old acoustic guitar and Perry with a fiddle. Bryn loved the fiddle music, but she only heard it for a few minutes, because then Tony led her away because he wanted to see what would happen if they tried working six steps up the stairway instead of five.
Night Moves (60th Anniversary) Page 7
