Книга - What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella: What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella

What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella: What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella
Karina Bliss

Amanda Berry


What the Librarian Did Is prim Rachel the only one on campus who doesn’t know who Devin Freedman is? The rebellious rock star certainly gets a kick out of Rachel’s refusal to worship at his feet, but could she be the one to help him find redemption?LA CinderellaCareer-driven accountant Natalie isn’t the type to wish for a Hollywood hero to rescue her. She prefers a simple life away from celebrity glitz. Too bad the man who drives her wild is sizzling hot A-list actor Chase Booker…










What The



Librarian Did



Karina Bliss

And

LA Cinderella



Amanda Berry










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


What The



Librarian Did





Karina Bliss




About the Author


New Zealander KARINA BLISS was the first Australasian to win one of the Romance Writers of America’s coveted Golden Heart Awards for unpublished writers. It took this former journalist five years to get her first book contract—a process, she says, that helped put childbirth into perspective. She lives with her husband and son north of Auckland. Visit her on the web at www.karinabliss.com.


Dear Reader,

My interest in writing an ex-rock-star hero came about through watching a couple of TV documentaries, including “Heavy—the History of Metal.” I expected grunts and expletives; what I heard were articulate, clever and often well-educated men looking back over extraordinary achievements in music.

Alice Cooper, Johnny Rotten … great guys.

A lot of them had been through the mill with drugs, alcohol and relationships, but those who’d come out the other side were bad boys made good. Still with that self-deprecating humour and world-weary twinkle that make rogues so irresistible to romance readers.

Another profession that often gets stereotyped is the librarian. What fun, I thought, to put these two together. Drop by my website, www.karinabliss.com, and tell me if you thought so, too.

Happy reading,

Karina Bliss


To my sisters—

Carolyn, Janine, Deryn and Natalie.

All women supremely capable of bringing a

strong man to his knees.


Acknowledgements

Thanks to Cheryl Castings, who suggested the

name Matthew Bennett in a “Name a character”

contest I ran through my website.




PROLOGUE


Seventeen and a half years earlier Suburban New Zealand

EVERYONE SAID ONLY a weirdo would turn down a date with Mary O’Connell’s older brother, home from university for the holidays. And Rachel was sick of being a weirdo.

Tentatively, she followed Steve’s lead in the kiss and wiggled her tongue. He responded with a flattering groan. Sweet sixteen and finally been kissed. She shivered, more from the loveliness of the thought than his gentle stroking of her bare arm. Then he touched her breast and she shied away. “Don’t do that.”

“I can’t help it.” Breathing heavily, Steve stared into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Am I?” She stripped the wistful note out of her voice. “Don’t be crazy.” She was passable, that was all. When she wasn’t in her school uniform she wore clothes that were Mom’s idea of what a young lady should wear. Rachel pulled at the button-up collar of her pink blouse. She hated pink. And plaid skirts. When she left home she’d always wear bright colors.

“You are beautiful.” Steve’s voice vibrated with intensity. “And smart. And funny.” He loomed closer again and her nervousness must have showed because he stopped with such an understanding smile that Rachel felt like a silly little girl.

Sure, they were a bit isolated, sitting here in his Toyota Celica, but across Hamilton Lake, suburban lights twinkled like stars. And obviously they couldn’t have a conventional date in case someone reported back to her parents. She shivered again, knowing how her father would react if he found out. But some risks were worth taking and Rachel yearned to live.

They’d drunk beer, which she’d only pretended to sip, watching Steve anxiously. But he’d stopped after one can. And he’d asked her about all sorts of subjects and listened—really listened—to the answers. As if her opinions mattered. Not even Chloe, her best and only friend, did that. Normally it was Rachel’s job to listen.

His sincerity reminded her of Holden Caulfield, the hero in her favorite book, Catcher in the Rye, except that Steve was good-looking. Not that looks mattered; Rachel would hate to be shallow. And Steve said it was his favorite book, too. It must be a sign. Before she lost her courage, she leaned forward and initiated another kiss.

This time when he touched her breast Rachel let it linger a few seconds before she removed his hand. “I should really be getting back,” she said. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow.” She took her education very seriously. It was her way out.

Steve didn’t get annoyed; he simply nodded and started the engine, and Rachel’s last doubt dissipated. When he dropped her off at the end of the street he lifted her hand and kissed it, a French gesture that thrilled her all the way to the bone. “Say we can do this again,” he begged, and she nodded because her heart was too full to speak. I’m in love.

Same time Long Beach, Los Angeles, U.S.A.

“GOT YOUR FAKE ID?”

Devin shouldered his bass guitar, checked his jeans pocket and nodded, but his attention wasn’t really on Zander. With a sixteen-year-old’s fascination, he was watching a stripper across the bar.

His brother’s volatile temper had left him a bass player short an hour before a gig, and Devin was the last-minute replacement. Now he was discovering heaven had many layers. The stripper winked at him and he blushed and dropped his head.

Then caught Zander exchanging grins with the drummer, and scowled.

His brother nudged him. “And don’t tell Mom I brought you here.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Yeah.”

It was seedy, the kind of place where people carried knives. Dimly lit, pungent with marijuana and sticky underfoot. But Devin didn’t care. As they set up their secondhand equipment on the tiny platform that constituted the stage, his heart pounded harder and harder until he thought he’d pass out.

This was his chance to become a permanent member of Rage instead of the awestruck kid brother sitting in the corner of the garage. When the band let him. On the rare occasions, Devin would go up to his room afterward and create riffs on his bass or Zander’s discarded electric guitar, which Devin played upside down because he was left-handed.

Zander had heard one, liked it and used it in one of his songs. After that, Devin had got more garage time. He knew every chord by heart—which was why he was here. So they didn’t lose out on three hundred dollars. Devin wondered whether he could ask for a cut.

“Don’t screw this up,” muttered Zander as he made his way to the microphone. Devin decided not to push his luck.

Instead he wiped his damp palms on his Guns ‘N’ Roses T-shirt and waited for his brother’s hand signal, too scared to look around in case he caught someone’s eye and got knifed, or worse, kicked out for being a kid. He couldn’t lose this big chance.

Chris, the lead guitarist, gave his shoulder a friendly punch. “Breathe,” he encouraged. Devin gulped as Zander grabbed the microphone and faced the band. His eyes and grin were wild and a charge crackled through the air and surged through Devin. He grinned back.

His brother raised one arm, revealing a flash of white abdomen between T-shirt and low-slung jeans. He must be the only person in L.A. without a tan, Devin thought irrelevantly, then Zander mouthed the count—three, two, one—and swept his arm down.

With Chris, Devin struck the first note of “Satan’s Little Helper,” and forgot his nerves, his hopes, forgot everything except coaxing emotion from his guitar. Lost himself in the music.

Much later, drenched with sweat, dazed from adrenaline overload, he sat at one of the scratched wooden tables in the bar. In the round of drinks, he mistakenly got a beer and drank it because he was so thirsty.

Zander noticed his empty glass. “Only one,” he warned, but he was too busy lapping up female attention to stop Devin accepting another.

After two beers he sat with a silly grin on his face, not feeling shy, not feeling anxious, not feeling anything but cocky. “Am I in, bro?” he called. Zander shrugged.

“Until we find someone better.”

And Devin thought, No one will be better than me. I’ll make sure of it.

He sneaked a glance at the stripper again and she wasn’t looking at him as though he was a stupid kid anymore, because being in a band somehow changed that.

I’m in love.




CHAPTER ONE


“ISN’T THIS THE SECOND marriage proposal you’ve turned down?” asked Trixie. “Face it, Rach, you’re a heartbreaker.”

“With that imagination you should be writing fiction, not shelving academia.” Kneeling on the floor, Rachel Robinson snipped through the tape on the carton of books addressed to Auckland University library, then glanced at her assistant.

“I’m a thirty-four-year-old librarian, not Scarlett O’Hara, and Paul is probably breathing a sigh of relief right about now.” At least she hoped he was. He’d been upset last night—and she still was. Both of them had expected her to say yes.

“That’s another thing,” said Trixie with the bluntness of youth. “Rejecting proposals is poor policy for a woman who wants a family. You may look twenty-nine but your ovaries are knocking thirty-five.”

Normally her protégée’s homespun lectures were entertaining, coming as they did from a twenty-year-old Goth-wannabe with dyed black hair and a nose stud. Today they struck a nerve. “Maybe I’m meant to devote my life to my work.”

“Now that’s just crazy talk.”

At the other end of the counter, a student approached the help desk and pressed the buzzer. “Yours,” said Rachel thankfully. The first day of the university year didn’t start until tomorrow, but the smart ones were getting in early.

Trixie bent and gave Rachel a fierce, parting hug. “I hate it when you’re unhappy. Go tell Paul you’ve changed your mind.”

So much for putting on a brave face. Hauling the books out of the carton and stacking them under the counter, Rachel wished it was as simple as that. Lately her left brain didn’t know what her right brain was doing. Tentatively prodding her feelings, she found no regret or remorse, only a guilty seam of rock-solid relief.

Standing, she closed her eyes, breathing in the heady smell of institutional tranquility, and tried to internalize it. Help me, she prayed silently. Why do I run every time I’m close to marriage?

Someone cleared his throat and Rachel opened her eyes. A man waited, impatiently frowning at her.

He was dressed in faded jeans with slashed knees and a too-tight olive-green T-shirt stretched over muscled biceps. Ruggedly tanned, he had sun-streaked russet-brown hair curling past his collar.

It wasn’t that he had a five o’clock shadow at nine-thirty in the morning that screamed “bad boy.” To Rachel’s eyes, that simply made him scruffy. And most certainly his menace wasn’t in his boots, butter-soft leather and, good Lord, purple?

No, it was the arrogant way he stood—feet planted wide, arms folded across his impressive chest. It was the dragon tattoo curling the length of one muscled arm. But mostly it was the sleepy sensuality in the hooded hazel eyes casually scanning Rachel as if she were part of a female buffet. She got the impression he was already very full but might possibly squeeze in dessert—if it was handed to him on a plate.

The woman in her bristled, but the librarian mustered a professional smile. “Can I help you?”

The man didn’t smile back. “I heard there was a library tour for those new to the college.” His voice was deep, his accent American.

Rachel reached for her timetable. “You’re a day early, but if you give me your name I’ll book you in for tomorrow.”

There was a brief hesitation. “Devin Freedman.”

“Devin. Spelled o-n or i-n?”

His mouth relaxed its tight line. “I-n.”

“I can give you an informal look around now if you like.”

For some reason his guard went up again. “I don’t want any special treatment.”

“You must be a student,” she said drily. “If you were a lecturer you wouldn’t say that.”

Narrow-eyed, he assessed her, and Rachel nearly told him to lighten up. Then a thought struck her. “Oh, Lord, you are a new lecturer.”

A smile broke through the guy’s suspicion. It did strange things to Rachel’s stomach. Or it could be she’d been too upset about Paul to eat breakfast.

“No,” he said, “not a lecturer. And I would appreciate a tour. It’s going to be hard enough tomorrow being the oldest student here.”

“Don’t worry, we have quite a few adult students. I assume you’re part-time?”

“Full-time.”

Rachel hid her surprise. Except for the boots, he didn’t look as if he could afford to pay the fees without working.

On the other hand, with that body, he probably made good money working nights in a male revue. She said briskly, “What degree?”

“Bachelor of commerce.”

“Okay, Devin … my name’s Rachel Robinson and you’re in luck. I’m the subject librarian for business and finance. Follow me.” She spent the next fifteen minutes walking him through the library, while he listened intently, saying little. “You’re American,” she commented at one point.

“No.”

Okay, we don’t do small talk. “We have a few library tutorials of interest to you. Let me get you some brochures.” She led him back to the counter and started rummaging through a filing cabinet.

“I’m sure I saw him come in here.” The voice was female, very young and slightly breathless.

Another responded with a giggle, “Do you think he’d sign my bra?”

Startled, Rachel looked up. Devin had vanished and three teenagers milled around the entry, two girls and a boy.

“You promised you’d be cool about this if I brought you,” the youth complained. Then he caught Rachel’s eye and lowered his voice. “Shush, let’s just go in and look.”

“Can I help you?” Rachel asked in her best librarian’s voice.

The boy dropped his gaze. “Uh, no, we’re just looking for someone.”

“Famous,” added one of the girls, smoothing down her skirt and scanning the rows of books.

Rachel stepped into her line of sight. “So you’re not here to use the facilities of the library?”

“No,” the girl replied, “but—”



“Then it’s better if you wait outside for whoever—”

“Devin Freedman.” There was worship in the boy’s tone.

“—you’re waiting for,” Rachel continued. “If you’re sure he’s here?”

That sowed enough doubt for them to start arguing among themselves as they left.

When they’d gone, she looked for Devin and found him leaning against a bookshelf in aisle three. He straightened at her approach, his expression wary. “As I was saying,” she continued, “we have a few one-hour tutorials of interest to you. A library and resources overview, an introduction to our online library catalog …” She stopped because he wasn’t listening, then added softly, “And I can show you the staff exit when you’re ready to leave.”

His attention snapped back to her. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, I still have no idea who you are,” she admitted.

“That makes two of us.” He saw her bafflement and shrugged wide shoulders. “I was a guitarist in a band that did well.”

And now you’re going back to school? But he probably had enough of people prying into his private life. “That’s why I don’t know your name then. I don’t keep up with contemporary pop.”

He winced. “Rock.”

“Excuse me?”

“We were rock.”

Something in his pained tone made her smile. “Was that like comparing Gilbert and Sullivan to Puccini?”

An answering glint lit his eyes. “Sorry, I’m not an opera buff. It’s always struck me as a bunch of overemoting prima donnas going mad or dying.”

“Whereas rock and roll …?”

Devin laughed. “You’re right,” he conceded, “no difference.” He thrust out a hand. “Anyway, thanks for your help.” She took the warm tapered fingers, careful to avoid the dragon’s tongue flicking at the tip of one knuckle. “I’ll hang around a bit longer till the coast clears,” he added. “Read the brochures.”

“If it’s any consolation, they run a tight ship here,” she said. “I doubt you’ll get harassed past the first day.”

“That’s one of the reasons I chose this campus. I wanted fossilized conservatives dressed in …” His gaze slid over her gray pin-striped trousers and pale blue satin blouse with short puffed sleeves. “Thanks again.”

Rachel felt a spike of irritation before her sense of humor kicked in. What did she care what a guy wearing purple boots thought about her vintage fetish? Still, she gave the boots a pointed look before she said kindly, “You’re very welcome.”

The edges of his irises were bright green, with copper-brown starbursts around the pupils. When he smiled with his eyes the effect was unnerving. “Ma’am,” he drawled, flicked an imaginary hat brim, then strolled toward a reading nook.

Smart aleck. People rarely challenged Rachel and never teased her; the world of academia was a civilized one. She sighed.

“Hell bod,” said Trixie, coming up beside her. Then she started. “Hey, isn’t that—”

“Devin Freedman,” said Rachel knowledgeably, and went back to unpacking books and brooding on why someone who was desperate for kids couldn’t cross the first threshold.

As though she’d conjured him, Paul reeled through the library’s double doors. Rachel gasped. The side part that normally flipped his gray-streaked black hair rakishly over one eye zigzagged across his skull as crookedly as he now staggered across the navy carpet.

His corduroy jacket—the same soft brown as his eyes—had pizza stains on it and the blue chambray shirt that normally buttoned neatly under his chin flapped open halfway down a pale hairy chest. And the designer jeans …

Rachel rushed over and jerked up his fly. “You’re drunk!”

“Are you surprised?” His voice rang loudly.

“Shush….”

She tried to drag him into the staff office, but he clutched at the countertop, swaying slightly. “You led me on!”

Heads began poking out from the aisles of books as readers took an interest. “Paul, please,” she begged. Regardless of whether she deserved this humiliation, he was jeopardizing his job by showing up inebriated. She had to get him out of here. Rachel grabbed his arm again, called over her shoulder, “Trix, help me.”

He flung them both off with a dramatic gesture, ruined by a loud belch. “When I’ve had my say.”

Until last night she and Paul hadn’t seen each other in six months because he’d been on sabbatical, studying some obscure Germanic dialect in Munich. Their reunion had come to an abrupt end on the way back to his apartment from the airport, when he’d proposed to her.

And Rachel had said no.

Their eighteen-month relationship had come to an even more abrupt end on his front doorstep as she’d desperately tried to explain a decision she couldn’t justify except by describing her feelings. Unfortunately, terms like “panic” and “claustrophobia” didn’t help him take the news any better.

Paul swallowed. “You broke my heart.”

“It’s not like you were crazy in love with me,” she reminded him gently. In fact, they’d never been as fond of each other as when they’d been apart and their unremarkable sex life had been supplanted by romantic telephone calls and e-mails.

He refocused on her with bleary-eyed outrage. “I proposed to you, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Rachel admitted. “Kind of.”

“Guess we should think about getting married,” had been his exact words. But their relationship had always been fueled by pragmatism, not passion. Paul wanted an independent, low-maintenance wife to support his brilliant career. And she wanted to start a family with a nice guy. Because Trixie was right, Rachel was running out of time. And her dating pool had always been the size of a goldfish pond. She was too self-sufficient for most guys … and too smart to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.

Paul seemed to realize she wasn’t reacting as she should. His face crumpled and he started to sob with a drunk’s easy tears. “You really don’t care, do you?”

Rachel blanched. Had his affections run deeper than she’d thought? “Of course I care.” But much as she hated hurting him, she couldn’t marry him. Even if only her right brain knew why. Seeing their audience growing, she tugged desperately on his arm. “Please, Paul, let me take you into the office, make you some coffee. You’re doing yourself no good here.”

“No!” He wiped his face with his sleeve and nearly fell over. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Devin Freedman appeared from out of nowhere and tipped Paul over one of his shoulders. “Where do you want him?” he asked Rachel.




CHAPTER TWO


THE SMART-ASS LIBRARIAN looked at him with none of the self-possession she had earlier. In fact her big gray eyes were haunted. “In here,” she said, ushering Devin into the office. “Trixie, take over.” With trembling fingers, she pulled the venetian blinds closed, then shut the door and leaned against it.

Devin dumped the drunk on the couch and ran a professional eye over him. He’d quit bawling and was rolling his head from side to side and moaning faintly. “Some kind of container might be useful,” he suggested. “He’ll hurl at some point.” Rachel looked at him blankly and he tried again. “Barf.” Still nothing. Where was a translator when he needed one? “Throw up … vomit.”

“Oh … oh!” She scanned the room, then found an empty cardboard box and bent over to pick it up. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed she had a nice ass. Rachel placed the box by the couch and backed away, her expression guilt-stricken. He suspected he knew what was worrying her. “Alcohol makes some people maudlin,” he offered. Particularly those who took themselves way too seriously. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You don’t understand,” she murmured. “He proposed yesterday and I turned him down.”

“That’s no surprise. There must be a fifteen-year age difference.”

“Seven years. I’m thirty-four.” Devin’s age. She didn’t look it. The librarian shook her head. “Not that age matters. The important thing now is that—”

“He’s acting like a wimp?”

“No!” She took a protective step toward the drunk. Anyone could see she had a conscience. That must be painful for her. “Paul had every right to expect me to say yes. I meant to say yes, only …” Her voice trailed off.

Paul sat up and grabbed the box. Rachel retreated and they both turned their backs, but couldn’t escape the awful retching sounds. “Only you realized you’d be making a terrible mistake,” Devin finished. Maybe the vintage clothes were an attempt to look older?

“I drove him to this.” The librarian’s slender throat convulsed. “And he’s not the first man I’ve let down. I … I’m a heartbreaker.”

As one who’d been given the description by the world’s press, as one who’d dated and even married the female heartbreaker equivalent, Devin was hard put not to laugh. Only the sincerity in her pale face stopped him from so much as a grin. She really believed it, which was kind of cute—if a little sad. And he thought he was self-delusional at times.

Not that she wouldn’t be pretty with a hell of a lot more makeup and a hell of a lot less clothes. The fastidious restraint of all those satin-covered buttons and dainty pearl earrings made Devin itch to pull Rachel’s sleek dark hair out of its practical ponytail. Mess it up a little. Understated elegance was exceedingly bland to a man whose career had depended on showmanship.

He’d deliberately dressed down to fit in today, and thought he’d done a pretty good job until the librarian’s gaze had fallen on his boots. No jewelry except one signet ring and one modest earring … hell, he was practically invisible.

The sound of retching stopped and they turned around. The drunk—Paul—had pushed up to a sitting position and was wiping his mouth on some copier paper. White-faced and sweating, he glared at Devin. “Who do you think you are, manhandling me like that?”

Devin shrugged. “Someone had to stop you making an ass of yourself.”

But Paul had already turned on Rachel. “I hope you’re happy reducing me to this state.”

“She didn’t force alcohol down your throat,” Devin said quietly.

The librarian swallowed. “Paul, I’m sorry. I had no idea you cared about me this much.”

“You think everyone’s as lukewarm as you are?” Paul balled the paper. “I did all the caring in that relationship. All the work in bed. You—”

“Have really, really bad taste in men,” Devin said, because Rachel was hugging herself and obviously taking this Paul’s rant way too seriously.

The librarian seemed to remember he was there. She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, but I can handle it from here.”

“You sure?” She was obviously out of her depth. “He’s likely to get more abusive. I can toss him in a cab for you.”

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly, opening the door, “but I’ll be okay.” Devin got the impression she wasn’t used to accepting help. Any more than he was used to offering it. For a moment he had an odd sense of his world shifting. But it had shifted so often lately he ignored it.

Something incongruous about her appearance had been bothering him, and as she bit her lip Devin finally figured out what it was. Her mouth—lush and full—was more suited to the L.A. strippers he’d shared stages with in the band’s early performing days than a prim librarian. He grinned just as Romeo grabbed the box and started hurling again.

Rachel stiffened. “I’m glad one of us finds this funny.”

“Your mouth doesn’t fit your profession,” he explained. “It’s like seeing something X-rated on the cartoon network.”

He didn’t think to censor himself because he’d been a rock star for seventeen years and never had to. And got a sharp reminder he was no longer in that world when she shut the door in his face.

“Lucky the librarian fantasy never made my top ten,” he told the door.

DEVIN WANTED TO BE treated as normal, and yet once his amusement wore off, Rachel’s reaction gave him a profound sense of dislocation.

She’d looked at him without his fame in the way and hadn’t liked what she’d seen. It was a scary thought, because whoever she saw was someone he was going to have to live with for the next forty plus years.

He strode across the road from the library into Albert Park, then stopped in a stand of tall palms that reminded him of L.A.—his home before his life depended on leaving it. For a full five minutes he looked up through the fronds to the blue, blue sky, homesick. Then he started walking again, around the quaint Victorian fountain, past oaks and a lot of trees he didn’t recognize.

This must be how refugees felt in a new land … displaced, wary. And yet he’d been born here, was still a citizen, though he’d left for his father’s country when he was two. He breathed in the smell of fresh-mown grass, only to regret it wasn’t L.A.'s smog.

“Your pancreas is shot to hell. Any alcohol and you’re dead.” The doctor had been blunt, and left him sitting in a private hospital room full of flowers from fans. The band had imploded at the same time as his health…. What the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life?

His car keys fell out of his hand; someone bent to pick them up. Another teenager—shit, this place made him feel like a dinosaur.

“Are you okay?” Gray eyes, intense in a pale face. Lank blond hair.

“Of course I am.” The kid stepped back and Devin took a deep breath. “I’m fine … thanks.” He couldn’t rush the ascent, but had to stop and acclimatize, then kick up a bit more. He reminded himself that the surface was there—even when he couldn’t see it.

“You’re Devin Freedman, aren’t you?” Nervously, the kid hitched up his baggy jeans. “I heard you’d be studying here this year.”

Living on a remote part of Waiheke Island since his arrival in New Zealand two months earlier, Devin had got used to being left in peace. Something else to give up. “Yeah,” he said grudgingly, “I’m him.”

In his drive to take control of his life, Devin had started taking online accounting courses to decipher his financial statements. A tutor had suggested university. When Devin stopped laughing he’d thought, why not?

And already his growing fiscal knowledge had paid off. He’d appointed a new financial advisor who’d found disturbing anomalies in some of Devin’s statements. It looked like someone had been ripping him off; unfortunately Devin suspected his brother. But he needed to be very sure before he acted.

“I’m a huge fan. Darkness Fell was a work of genius.”

“Not The Fallen or Crack the Whip?” Rage’s final albums.

The kid looked at his feet and shuffled. “I really liked the early stuff. I know the others sold well … I mean, not that’s there’s anything wrong with commercial albums….”

Devin put him out of his misery. “You’re right, they were crap.” By that point the band had barely been speaking.

“But you still had some phenomenal guitar riffs and—”

“You play?” Devin asked, cutting short the hero-worship. He gestured to the expensive guitar case slung over the kid’s shoulder.

“Bass mainly, but also some electric and acoustic—like you.” The next words came in a rush. “Would you sign my guitar for me?” At Devin’s nod, he unpacked a Gibson and scrambled in his bag for a Sharpie.

“What’s your name?”

“Mark White.”

Devin hesitated with his pen over the guitar.

“Your autograph will be fine,” insisted Mark. “I hate phoniness, too.”

Grinning, Devin signed, then handed back the bass. “See you around.”

MARK MANAGED A CASUAL NOD but sank onto a bench as soon as Devin disappeared. Mark’s knees were shaking. He clutched the neck of his instrument, looked at the manicured gardens of Albert Park and thought, I imagined that. No one meets a legend, a god among bass players walking through freakin’ rose beds.

He glanced down at his guitar and for a moment panicked because sunlight was bouncing off the lacquer and he couldn’t see it. But then he adjusted the angle and there it was scrawled across the maple. “To Mark, stay honest. Devin Freedman.”

And Mark grinned because one part of him wanted to run back to his apartment, jump on his computer and flog it on eBay, and the other wanted to sleep with it under his pillow. You are one screwed-up dude, Mark.

So what was new?

Still, he let himself be happy, because it wasn’t every day a guy got to meet his all-time hero. Then he looked toward the campus and his smile faded under the familiar gut-wrenching nausea, anger and terror. She was here … somewhere.

Mark had seen the University of Auckland envelope at the adoption agency when he’d asked the woman to check his file, claiming he was in an open adoption. Funny how people didn’t care about hiding envelopes. The woman had been very kind, considering he’d been lying to her. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

He’d lied again. “Sure.”

Abruptly, Mark stood and began walking. Why had his birth mother started out wanting an open adoption, then changed her mind and severed contact? The question had been eating away at him every since he’d discovered he had a different blood type to both his parents.

He’d searched through his parents’ private papers and found correspondence from an adoption agency. Mom and Dad still didn’t know he knew … and Mark tried not to blame them because it was clear she’d made secrecy a condition of adoption.

But his anger … his alienation had spilled over into his misbehavior. It had been a tough twelve months on everybody. He’d only talked his parents into letting him enroll at a university four hundred kilometers away because “honest, Mom and Dad, I see my future now and it’s all about getting an education and being normal like you want me to be.”

Like I used to be. When I knew who I was. But Mark had another agenda. He would confront his birth mother. She would sob an apology and beg his forgiveness. He would say, “You had your chance,” and walk away. Just like she had.

He’d worked out that she’d been seventeen when she had him. That made her thirty-four now.

It shouldn’t be too hard to find her.

THE FADED BLUE SEASIDE cottage was one of Waiheke Island’s first vacation homes, and unlike its newer neighbors, it was tiny and unpretentious. Not for the first time, Devin thought how well it suited his mother. He jumped the seaman’s rope fence and strode down the white shell path, giving a cursory pat to the concrete seal balancing a birdbath on its nose. Then he caught sight of the front door and frowned.

It was wide open and a gardening trowel lay abandoned on the doorstep. His pulse quickened, and though he told himself not to panic, he shouted, “Mom!”

Three heart-stopping seconds of silence and then a faint reply. “I’m out back.”

Devin walked through the dim interior to the rear garden, a sprawl of crunchy grass, lichen-covered fruit trees and roaming nasturtium. “How many times do I have to tell you to shut your damn door? Anyone could walk in.”

Holding a red bucket, his diminutive mother looked down from the top of a stepladder leaning against the peach tree. “And how many times do I have to tell you this isn’t L.A.?” She dropped a handful of small white peaches into the half-full bucket, then ran a hand through her short gray bob. “Any leaves in my hair?”

Devin put his hands on his hips. “Should you be doing stuff like this?”

“I’m not going to have another heart attack, honey.” Katherine held out the bucket. When he took it, she climbed sedately down the ladder. “Not now they’ve replaced the faulty stent.”

He reached out and helped her down the last couple of steps, and her hand seemed so frail in his. Briefly, her grip tightened, reassuring him with its strength.

Still, Devin said gruffly, “Is it any wonder I’m paranoid after two emergency flights in two months? If you’d listened to my advice earlier and got a second opinion—”

“Yes, dear.”

Reluctantly, he laughed. “Stay with me another week.” He owned the adjacent headland, sixteen acres of protected native bush shielding a clifftop residence.

“I’ve only just moved home. Besides, you cramp my style.”

“Stop you doing what you’re not supposed to, you mean,” he retorted.

“Dev, you’re turning into the old woman I refuse to become. I’m sure I wasn’t as bossy as this when you were in recovery.”

“No,” he said drily, “you were worse.”

She ignored that, instructing him to pick some lemon balm for herbal tea on their meander back to the house. “How was your first day at school?”

“The other kids talk funny.” Ignoring the kettle, he turned on the espresso machine he’d installed.

“Make any friends?”

He gave her the Devin Freedman glower, the one that Holy Roller magazine had described as the definitive bad rocker look. Being his mother she simply waited. “No, but then I don’t expect to.”

“You know I’m on the mend now, darling, so if you want to go back to L.A.—”

“I don’t,” he lied. “Got anything to eat?”

“There’s a batch of scones cooling on the counter.”

He burned his fingers snatching a couple, but feeding him distracted his mother from the subject of his future.

Five years earlier, when he’d quit rehab for the second time, she had told him she wouldn’t spend her life watching him self-destruct, and had moved back to her native New Zealand. It had been a last-ditch effort to snap him into reality. Devin had felt nothing but relief, then added insult to injury by minimizing contact. It hadn’t stopped Katherine from being the first person at his hospital bed.

Now she needed him to take care of her. Whatever she said.

His older brother, still living stateside, couldn’t be relied on. A keen sense of the ridiculous had kept Devin’s ego in check over the last crazy seventeen years, but the planet wasn’t big enough for Zander’s, who still blamed Devin for the breakup of the band.

The truth was Devin had held Rage together for a lot more years than its flamboyant lead singer deserved.

So if it turned out Zander had been screwing him over … well, Devin didn’t think he could put even his mother’s peace of mind before his need for justice.




CHAPTER THREE


“HE LOOKS LIKE HE NEEDS a friend,” Rachel said to Trixie two days later. She’d noticed the teenager yesterday during library orientation. Now, as then, he walked around with his shoulders slightly hunched, blond fringe falling over his eyes and a scowl on his young face that did nothing to hide his apprehension. She remembered what it was to be young, alone and terrified. “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

“Oh, hell, you’re not starting a new collection of waifs and strays already, are you?” Trixie complained as she sorted a pile of books for reshelving. “We’re not even a week into the first term.”

Rachel stood up from her computer. “You were a waif and stray once, remember?” Trixie had been a scholarship kid who’d practically lived at the library in winter because she couldn’t afford to heat her flat. Rachel had given her a part-time job, which turned full-time when she’d graduated last year.

“Which is why I’m protecting you now,” Trixie reasoned. “You’re useless at setting boundaries.”

“Tell me about it. I keep getting bossed around by my junior.”

The boy reached for a book on one of the shelves and the backpack slipped off his scrawny shoulder, spilling books and pens. A red apple rolled across the carpet. Rachel started forward.

Trixie caught her by the arm. “Leave some time for yourself this year. Especially now that you’re single again.”

Rachel freed herself, but the teenager had already fastened his backpack and was slouching out the door. She turned to Trixie. “Don’t do that again,” she said quietly.

Under her pale makeup, Trixie reddened. “I was only trying to look out for you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a babysitter.” She needed that reminder occasionally.

Ducking her head, her assistant nodded. Was there anything more pathetic than a sheepish Goth?

“You’re a good friend,” she added, “but, kid, I’m bruised not broken.” Trixie had no idea what Rachel could survive. “Anyway, Paul rang and apologized this morning.”

Trixie’s head jerked up and her kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “I hope you told him where to stick it.”

“Mmm.” She’d been tempted, but being in the wrong was punishment enough for Paul. Rachel knew how that felt.

“And you reckon you don’t need looking after?” Disgusted, Trixie picked up a stack of books and headed for aisle three. “At least date guys who can handle their drink.” She pointed one black-painted nail. “Someone like him.”

Beyond Trixie’s finger, Rachel saw Devin Freedman scanning titles in the business section. Instinctively, she sucked in her lips to minimize their natural pout at the very moment he chose to glance over. Amusement warmed his eyes and she froze.

Instead of politely looking away, he folded his arms and grinned, waiting to see what she’d do. Mortified, she turned her back on him and blew out a puff of irritation. Dreadful man.

When she’d recovered her composure, she turned back to find him standing right in front of the counter. “Hi, Heartbreaker,” he said casually. “How’d it go with Romeo the other day?”

Rachel frowned. “It’s not a subject I want to discuss with you. And please don’t call me that.”

“You’re still pissed about the comment I made about your mouth,” he guessed. “I did mean it as a compliment.”

She snorted. “That I have a mouth like a hooker? Still, it’s better than a sewer, I suppose.”

“Actually, I was thinking stripper,” he replied lazily. “But I love the outraged dignity. Put me in my place again.”

“I’m a librarian, not a proctologist,” she said sweetly, and he chuckled.

This guy had a thicker hide than an armadillo, and momentarily, Rachel envied him. She might have accepted Paul’s apology, but it would take a long time to forget being called cold and unfeeling. She had too many feelings; that’s why she protected herself. Maybe she should be grateful for any compliment, however insulting. At least Devin meant no harm.

“Look.” She adopted a conciliatory tone because one of them had to be a grown-up. “I was annoyed the other day by your comment, but I shouldn’t have shut the door on you. That must have been hurtful and I’m sorry.”

“You think you hurt …” This time he laughed out loud. “You’re really quite sweet under that Miss Marple exterior, aren’t you?”

She realized he was referring to today’s vintage outfit—a high-waisted black skirt paired with a white ruffle-front blouse, herring net tights and pewter ribbon-tie patent shoes. The man had just delivered another backhanded compliment.

Almost, almost she was amused. But Rachel’s ego was still too battered. She eyed his designer stubble and rumpled roan hair. Today the boots were black and the faded jeans set off by a black leather belt, complete with a big, ornate silver buckle, that sat low on his narrow hips. “At least I don’t look like a cowboy after a week on the trail. Even Trigger made more effort.”

His eyes narrowed appreciatively. But before he could answer, a shocked male voice said, “Rachel!” Looking left, she saw several of the university’s top staff. The vice chancellor flanked by her two deputies … one of whom was Rachel’s boss. “Why are you insulting Mr. Freedman?”

In that split second she comprehended that if the vice chancellor was in attendance, Devin was donating money—lots of it. “He’s.” she began, then stopped. Arrogant and cheeky, that’s why, didn’t seem like a good enough reason.

Devin decided to help her out. “Oh, Rach and I are old friends.” He could read every emotion that crossed her expressive face. The smart retort she had to bite back, the irritation at being beholden to him, a begrudging gratitude. “That’s why I suggested meeting in the library.” He twinkled at her. “She creates such a congenial atmosphere.”

She twinkled back. “So exactly how much cash are you giving us, mate?” Oh, she was sharp, this one. Still, Devin’s appreciation was tinged with annoyance. He liked to keep his philanthropy private.

The vice chancellor looked surprised. “I thought we were all keeping this a dark secret?”

Devin’s gaze pinned Rachel. “We are.”

Her chin rose. “Now that’s not a tone to take with an old friend.”

He’d never been great with authority and it amused him that she wasn’t, either—unless it was hers. On an impulse Devin leaned over and planted a light kiss on her compressed lips. “Well, see you later … old friend.”

He could almost feel the daggers thudding into his back as he steered the vice chancellor and his deputies toward the cluster of red leather armchairs out of view.

He’d discovered this space two days ago before Paul had disturbed the peace. Each corner of the library was glassed-in with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, towering silver birches swayed in Auckland’s constant wind, their leaves dappling light and shade across the utilitarian carpet. Sparrows peppered the branches and their noisy chirruping gave Devin an illusion of companionship.

He wanted solitude, yet when he got it, his thoughts became bleak. Too often lately he’d found himself in his mother’s cottage, which only made her worry about him. And that was intolerable.

The vice chancellor introduced himself as Professor Joseph Stannaway. Like his companions, he wore a suit, his short gray hair neatly marshaled to one side, and his strong face unlined … probably because he wore an expression of permanent solemnity. “As I said to your representative,” he began as they took seats, “we wanted to thank you personally for your generous donation.”

“Really, there’s no need—”

“And to try again,” the chancellor interrupted with a smile, “to persuade you into an official ceremony. It would garner a lot of media attention, which could only be good for the university’s profile. Perhaps the bank could produce one of those large checks … what do you say?”

Playfulness didn’t sit well on the man—he seemed too educated for it. It must be hard, Devin thought dispassionately, to devote your career to higher learning and then have to be grateful to someone who’d made a fortune writing lyrics like “Take me, baby, before I scream, you’re the booty in my American dream.”

“I’m sorry.” Devin deliberately shunned all publicity. Sticking his head up over the trenches for the paparazzi to take another shot at? Never again.

The delegation spent the next twenty minutes trying to change Devin’s mind with flattery, which only irritated him, chiefly because in the past it might have worked. Maybe that’s why he got so much enjoyment from Rachel’s barbed observations—they were novel. Of course, the kiss would really stir her up; a sensible man would regret it.

He grinned as Stannaway droned on. Not, unfortunately, one of Devin’s attributes.

RACHEL WAS REHEARSING her rebuke to Devin the next day when the boy she’d noticed came up to her station.

“What can I do for you?” Her smile must have had an edge because he eyed her warily as he shoved back his hair.

“I was wondering if you had any lists of all the university staff … you know, like everybody, not just the lecturers. And their ages.”

“Not here. You might be able to access some information through the registrar, but there’s possibly some privacy issues around their release.”

His face fell. “Oh.”

“What’s the name? Maybe I know the person and can save you the trouble.”

“Um, she’s an old friend of my parents. I was just hoping I’d … recognize something when I saw the list.”

Poor kid, he really was desperate for a friend if he was hunting down such tenuous connections. “Where are you from?” Rachel asked kindly. She was supposed to be leaving on her morning break but this was more important.

“A farm outside Cambridge.”

“Really? I grew up in Hamilton.” They were only twenty minutes apart. “Small world. First time living away from home?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“It’s hard initially, but you’ll find your feet soon. A lot of the first years are in the same boat, all scared—”

The teen glowered. “I’m not scared.”

Damn, wrong word. If Devin hadn’t rattled her, she wouldn’t have chosen it.

“I see you’ve got a book there … would you like me to check it out for you? It will save you joining the queue at the front desk.”

It was a peace offering for hurting his pride, and he took it. “Yeah, thanks.” He handed over the book along with his library card.

Which didn’t work. “They do this sometimes at the beginning of term,” she said. “Let me just check that all your details are filled in….” The screen came up. “Mark … nice name. Okay, one of the library’s ID codes is missing.”

Glancing at his address, she noticed he wasn’t living in residence, which was a shame; he’d make more friends that way. She nodded at the guitar case by his feet. “You know, the university has a lot of music clubs you might be interested in.”

“I’m not really a club-joining kind of guy.”

About to reply, Rachel caught sight of his birth date and her breath hitched. June 29, 1992.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Her fingers were suddenly clumsy on the keyboard as she reminded herself of the facts. On average, there were sixty-four thousand births a year in New Zealand. Which meant around one hundred and seventy-seven people—eighty-eight boys—shared her son’s birthday. But she had to ask. “So what do your parents do?”

Mark frowned. “You need that for the form?”

“No, it’s processing.”

“Mom’s a teacher.” Rachel’s pulse kicked up a notch. “And Dad’s a farmer.”

Not a policeman. As always, the disappointment was crushing enough to make Rachel feel sick. Her fingers were damp on the keyboard; she wiped them on her skirt, chiding herself for an overactive imagination. She gave the teenager his card.

“Here you go. All sorted now.”

Mark shoved it back in his jeans. “He used to be a cop,” he added, and the smile froze on her face.

Someone who knew how to keep her baby safe, she’d thought when short-listing the applicants with her social worker.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked.

“Fine.” Her heart was beating so hard he must be able to hear it. Rachel loosened the top button of her shirt, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. There was only one way to know.



“You have something in your hair,” she said abruptly, reaching out a trembling hand.

“Yeah?” He started flicking his fingers through the blond strands, “What is it?”

“A … an insect … let me.”

Obediently, he leaned forward, and she brushed the hair away from his right ear. “Turn your head a little.”

Just at the hairline behind his ear, she saw it. A birthmark the size of her thumbnail. Rachel gasped and he broke away, raking both hands through his hair. “What! Did you get it?”

She stared at him, unable to speak. Tall like his father, with his fairer hair. His eyes—shock jolted through her—were the same color as hers, but the shape was Steve’s. “It’s okay,” she croaked, pretending to flick something away. “It was a moth.”

“A moth.” Shaking his head, Mark picked up his guitar case. “Jeez, the way you were going on I thought it had to be a paper wasp at least.”

No, don’t leave. “You’ve heard of bookworms, haven’t you? Lethal to libraries.” Rachel memorized his features. “The term also applies to certain moth larvae. From the family oecophoridae.” Outwardly she smiled and talked; inwardly she splintered into tiny little pieces. “Of the order … now what was it?” My son, my baby. You grew up. “Starts with L.”

Mark shifted from one foot to the other.

“Lepidoptera,” she said brightly. “Of the order Lepidoptera.” The tiny bundle treasured in her memory, gone forever. But her son—her grown son—was here, and the reality of him shredded her with love and pain and need.

“Wow,” he said politely, stepping back from the counter. “That’s really interesting.”

“Wait!”

“Yeah?” He was impatient to get away from the crazy woman, and how could she blame him? With all her heart she wanted to say, I’m your mother.

But she couldn’t.

Two years earlier, she’d written a letter to the adoptive parents through the agency. If he ever wants to meet his birth mother, please give him my details.

Their reply was devastating. In keeping with your wishes at the time, we’ve never told our son he was adopted. We ‘re very sorry at the pain this must cause you, but you must understand to do so now would be detrimental to our own relationship with him.

“Have a good day,” she rasped.

THE WOMAN WAS A WEIRDO. No doubt about it. Mark stopped outside and shifted his guitar to his other shoulder so he could tuck the book into his backpack.

He didn’t have a class for another hour and he stood uncertain, glancing across the narrow, tree-lined street bisecting the university. Buildings in this part of campus were angular and geometric, to Mark’s eyes, hard and unfriendly shapes for the university’s social heart, holding the student union, the theater and the student commons. It was lunchtime and he was hungry, but the overflowing cafeteria was too raucous. Too … intimidating. He’d wait until later, when it cleared out somewhat before grabbing something to eat.

Coming from a small community where everyone knew everybody, he’d thought finding his birth mother would be relatively easy.

But the university employed hundreds, and trying to access lists only led to awkward questions. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth.

And he missed home. He missed his parents, which he kinda despised himself for because he hadn’t been all that nice to them before he’d left.

He still couldn’t believe they weren’t really his. That all the things he’d built his identity on—inheriting Dad’s musical ability and Mom’s aptitude for math—were a lie.

He wasn’t from the clan of Whites whose roots in the area went back four generations. His multitude of cousins weren’t his cousins and his grandparents weren’t his grandparents.

A group of students swept down the footpath, laughing and horsing around, nudging him aside like he was invisible. His classes were made up of eighty to a hundred strangers in huge auditoriums…. In a week he’d never sat next to the same person twice.

And so many of them seemed to know each other. How had they made friends so quickly? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t?

He’d thought staying with his air hostess cousin in her city apartment would be cool, but Suz was away two weeks out of four. And when she was home, her boyfriend was nearly always over, so Mark tended to hang out in his room. The guy was a stockbroker and a real phony.

Another bunch of kids brushed past, knocking the guitar case off his shoulder. Devin Freedman caught it before it hit the ground.

“You need to get out of the line of fire.” Still carrying the case, he stepped back into the library’s portico before handing it over. “It’s Mark, isn’t it?”

He remembers my name. Suddenly Mark’s day got a whole lot better.

DEVIN REMEMBERED THE KID because he had a good guitar. “What are you studying … music?”

“Business … I’m in some of your classes.”

“Really?” Devin hadn’t noticed him, but then the teenager wasn’t big on eye contact.

Mark obviously misinterpreted his surprise because he blushed and added in a rush, “But I’m not some wanker carrying his guitar case around all the time to be cool. I busk in town during lunch breaks. That’s why I’ve got my acoustic today.” He shrugged in a belated attempt to appear unconcerned. “The money keeps me in beer.”

Devin kept a straight face. “Not something parents allow for in their budget, I guess.” He looked toward the cafeteria and braced himself for stares. Having cut short the meeting, he had to hang around for his next class, and damned if he was going to go hungry because a bunch of kids would gawk at him. Delaying the moment, he asked, “Made any friends yet?”

“No. I mean I’m sure I will….”

Devin realized he’d hit a nerve. “Me, neither,” he said easily. “First day everyone wanted to sit with me. The dean gave a stern lecture about harassment and now nobody does. Who’ll let me copy their homework?”

The kid laughed; it sounded like he really needed to. What the hell. “Had lunch yet?” Devin had been going to ask the librarian as a peace offering, but she’d gone home sick, which was odd because she’d looked fine half an hour ago.

Color rose under Mark’s pale skin. “If you’re asking because you feel sorry for me—”

Devin raised his hands to the sky. “Fine, we’ll sit by ourselves like a couple of geeks.” He started walking across the road, heard Mark scramble to catch up, and hid a grin.

“Since I’m doing you such a favor,” Devin growled, “you’re buying.”

The kid shot him a glance. “Hey, you’re the rock star,” he protested.

“Which makes you the groupie,” Devin drawled. “I’ll have a coffee and a doughnut and it better have sprinkles.”




CHAPTER FOUR


RACHEL CAME BACK TO WORK two days later, all cried out. The aftereffects—sore eyes and red nose—led credence to her flu story, which only made her feel more guilty. A childhood of enforced deception had given her an antipathy to lying.

She was in an intolerable situation, aching to see her son but with no excuse to do so. Instead she had to depend on the occasions he chanced into the library during her shift, and not surprisingly, after her babble on Tuesday he tended to give her a wide berth.

Friday afternoon she’d just begun an informal workshop on finding and searching business resources when Mark and Devin came in together and joined the seven students already standing in a circle around her. Ignoring Devin, she smiled a welcome at Mark and summarized her intro. “Okay, everyone, let’s move on to search strategies.” Act cool, she told herself, he needs to think of you as normal.

As she distributed the handouts, Devin murmured provocatively, “Your hair’s much nicer down.” Rachel turned her back on him. She hadn’t seen him since the kiss three days earlier, and he wasn’t a bit repentant. But a slap on the wrist would have to wait for privacy.

She got the opportunity twenty minutes later, when she dismissed the group. To her surprise, Devin had asked some intelligent questions, made notes, acted like a regular student right down to calling her Ms. Robinson. “Can you stay behind a moment?” she asked him.

“Sure. Mark … go ahead, buddy, I’ll catch up to you.”

Rachel forgot her prepared lecture on respecting people’s boundaries. “How do you know that boy?”

“Who, Mark? He’s one of my classmates … nice kid. But no need to be jealous. You’re still my number one sparring partner.” He eyed her folded arms. “I expect you want an apology for that kiss.”

“That would be nice.”

“I know I should be sorry. Will that do?”

A smile trembled on her lips. If Mark hadn’t been involved she might have enjoyed this outrageous man. “About that teenager,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather hang out with people your own age?”

Devin raised a hand to his impressive chest in mock horror. “Why, Mrs. Robinson, are you coming on to a student?”

“Are you ever serious?”

He considered her question. “Oddly enough, all the time I’m not teasing you. You know, maybe we should go on a date, explore this little attraction we’ve got going.”

“So little I’m completely unaware of it,” she retorted.

“Really? I thought you were a clever woman.” He leaned closer. The man had charisma; she gave him that. The innate confidence that came from a lifetime of being desired. Lucky him.

Surprise came into his extraordinary eyes. Rachel thought it was because she’d held her ground. Until he sniffed. “Your perfume,” he said, “it’s sexy as hell.”

He smelled good, too. She banished the thought. “What were you expecting, lavender water?”

Devin blinked.

“But you’re right,” she added coolly. “I am clever. Too clever for you.”

He grinned, sending his charisma wattage through the roof, then to Rachel’s relief straightened up. “Maybe you’d enjoy slumming,” he offered.

“I won’t lower my standards.”

“The professor being such a class act.”

Rachel’s cheeks heated, but she held his gaze. “Speaking of classes, don’t you have one?”

He glanced at his watch. “Damn, it’s still hard working to a timetable. One more thing … don’t mention the donation to the university to anyone.”

It occurred to her that he’d bought himself a place here. Lovely.

He misread her disgust. “Please.”

Before she could answer, Mark came back into the library. With a cursory nod to Rachel, he said, “Hey, Dev, we’re late.”

“You were supposed to go on ahead … never mind.” Devin turned back to Rachel with a rueful smile. “I’d better run. I’m teaching that boy too many bad habits.” With a casual wave he left.

She watched them leave with a disquiet that turned into real alarm when, on her break, she took the opportunity to research Devin on the Internet. Though his musical achievements proved substantial, Devin Freedman was a man who comfortably juggled the seven deadly sins and still found time to break a couple of commandments.

The hair rose on the back of her neck when she read he’d admitted to using recreational drugs. He was also an unrepentant drunk. When, two years earlier, a writer for Rolling Stone magazine had asked if he had a problem with alcohol, Devin had replied, “No, we’re very happy together.”

He’d collapsed on stage eighteen months ago amid frenzied rumors of a drug overdose, then effectively vanished from the media … resurfacing in New Zealand before Christmas, pulling a Marlene Dietrich “I vant to be alone.”

There were a couple of pictures of him, Stetson pulled low, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes, palm outstretched to the camera. Otherwise nothing but speculation about the guy nicknamed the Prince of Excess.

Rachel shut down the Internet connection and stared unseeing at her screensaver, a model of the mountain bike she wanted to upgrade to. Her own experience of him did nothing to reassure her.

Beneath the banter he was self-indulgent and arrogant, a man who did what he wanted when he wanted, with no thought for other people.

And her son was under his influence.

“SO, MARK … HI!” Even to Rachel’s ears, her tone was too tinny; too bright. She’d been waiting five days for this opportunity to talk.

The teenager glanced at her, startled. “Hi.” He returned to scanning the library shelves.

“Need some help?”

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” He’d been taught nice manners; she’d already noticed that. It warmed her … and it blistered like acid.

“Are you sure? After all, that’s what I’m here for!”

Rachel laughed and it was a silly, high sound. She felt like a thirteen-year-old trying to impress a crush.

“Here it is.” Mark took a textbook off the shelf. “Well, see you.”

She fell into step beside him. “So, how are your classes going?”

“Um, fine.”

“Do you spend much time with Devin Freedman?” She hadn’t intended asking so baldly, but he’d picked up speed.

He slowed at that, his gray eyes suspicious. “A bit … why?”

“What about out of school?”

He stopped at the bank of high-backed chairs that made up a study corner. “Look, if you want his autograph I think you should ask him for it yourself.”

“His auto—” This time Rachel didn’t have to force the laugh. “Oh, no, I’m not a fan.”

“She’s a friend, aren’t you, Heartbreaker?”

Rachel jumped. One of the chairs swung around to reveal Devin.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“What … friend or heartbreaker?”

“Both.”

He chuckled and the light flashed off the heavy silver link chain around his neck. Today he’d accessorized his faded jeans, olive T-shirt and scuffed brown cowboy boots with way too much jewelry—silver hoop earrings and three rings including a skull with diamond eyes. Mark looked from one to the other, then plunked himself into a chair. “Oh, you guys know each other. That’s cool, then.”

About to tell Devin to take his boots off the coffee table, Rachel paused. “Sure, we’re friends,” she said. Advising Mark to be careful around the rocker would sound less hysterical if he thought it came from personal experience. “So, Devin—” she paused, trying to think of something “rock n’ roll” to say “—how’s it hanging?”

The twinkle in his eyes became more pronounced. “It’s hanging fine, thanks for asking…. What are you up to?”

The blush she’d managed to hold back through his innuendo heated her cheeks. “The usual. Actually, I’m due in an acquisitions meeting so I’d better go.” She looked at her son. “Bye, Mark.”

His nod was friendly. “See ya.”

She waggled her fingers at Devin, who waggled back. “Definitely up to something,” he said.

Fortunately, he was gone when she came out of her meeting forty minutes later, but Mark was still there, poring over books. Hungrily, Rachel studied him, noting the way he chewed his lower lip when he concentrated.

The hand cupping his chin was big; his body still had some catching up to do. And he was boyishly thin, his bony shoulder blades sticking through the striped T-shirt as he bent over the table and took notes. Surely he was too young to be fending for himself….

With the discipline of years of practice, Rachel stopped torturing herself. She had to trust the people she’d chosen for him. Had to accept he wasn’t her son—but theirs.

As though sensing her scrutiny, Mark glanced up and grinned. Something had made him happy. Encouraged by his first smile, she approached him. “Devin gone?”

“Yeah, but we’re meeting later.” Obviously bursting with news, he added, “I finally talked him into showing me his guitar collection.”

“In town?”

“No, at his place on Waiheke. You been there?”

Rachel sat down. “No.” His adoptive parents weren’t here to protect him and she was. “Listen, Mark, Devin might not be the best person to hang around with. He has a history of drug and alcohol abuse….” Her voice trailed off under his look of contempt.

“Aren’t you supposed to be his friend?” “Devin knows when I disapprove of his behavior.” That at least was true. “I just want to make the point that you’re only seventeen years old and living away from home for the first time. That makes you vulnerable—”

“Stop right there,” Mark interrupted. “Let me get this straight. I hardly know you and you’re giving me a lecture?” Shaking his head, he stood up, sweeping his books into his bag. “Who the hell do you think you are—my mother?”

“SHE’S RIGHT,” said Devin when Mark repeated the conversation. “I’m not the kind of person you should be spending time with.”

They stood on the deck of the Waiheke ferry watching the whitecaps as the boat surged against a brisk northerly toward the island that lay forty minutes off the mainland.

Their fellow passengers were a mix of commuters holding briefcases, tourists and the alternative lifestylers who’d once had the place to themselves. Now the island’s slopes were dotted with homes of the wealthy. Yet there was still a lull, a lazy charm about the place. Nearby a businessman loosened his tie, while two kids raced across the deck to the bow to point out the island to their mother.

Cool for the first time that day, Devin breathed in the salty air and felt the tension he always carried ease a little. “You don’t sound that bothered about it,” Mark replied.



Glancing sideways, Devin saw the kid’s hurt expression. Oh, great. He still didn’t quite know how Mark had talked him into inviting him over; it had something to do with Devin feeling he owed him.

A week and a half into university life his brain felt close to exploding under the weight of new information, and Mark had helped him out more than once, explaining concepts. The kid was bright, no doubt about it.

And so puppy dog enthusiastic about music. Devin remembered that kind of devotion; he still mourned its loss. Maybe that was really what this was about. He was warming himself at the fire of the kid’s idealism. “Listen, Mark. Don’t expect too much of me. You’ll only be disappointed.”

“I don’t … I mean, it’s not like … Look, I don’t have to come if you don’t want me to.”

Devin laughed. “What are you going to do, jump in and swim back?”

MARK WAS DISAPPOINTED at his first sight of Devin’s house. From watching reality TV shows on rock stars he expected some sort of mansion with white pillars, wrought-iron gates with a security keypad, a six-car garage and an entourage … definitely an entourage.

Especially since they rode from the ferry terminal to Devin’s property on a customized Harley-Davidson.

But albeit secluded—and white plaster—the place was pretty simple, a long, low-lying building with no distinctive features that Mark could see. Inside was better. Mostly white with red feature walls and white leather furniture. Art covered every wall, from big canvasses of bold swirls of color to old movie posters and some hot nudes. He recognized an Andy Warhol and wondered if it was an original.

The house perched on a cliff with dramatic glass walls toward the sea. Mark stood at the window and gazed out across the expanse of water and beyond to the far horizon. Below, several seagulls hovered in the updraft. “Wow.”

Musical instruments were scattered around the enormous open plan lounge—an antique snare drum, various types of guitars. A microphone in the corner and he spotted speakers so small they had to be state of the art. Memorabilia, but no Grammys or awards. Mark was disappointed.

Then his eyes fell on a bass guitar. “Is that the Fender Precision?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I touch it?”

Devin smiled. “You can play it.”

“No shit!” Reverently, Mark picked up the instrument, running his hands over the strings. One of rock’s most distinctive riffs had been created on this very bass. He became aware of Devin watching, and froze, embarrassed to show himself up as a meager talent.

“You want a drink?” asked Devin. “Coke, Sprite, juice?”

“A Sprite would be good.”

When Devin had disappeared down the hall, Mark turned on the amplifier and played the Rage anthem right through, thrilled to the bone. When he’d finished, Devin still hadn’t returned, so he picked up an electric guitar and started playing his own riffs. As an only child, growing up on a farm from the age of twelve, he’d often relied on his own company. That’s when he’d begun to play guitar.

He played one of his songs right through, forgetting his shyness, trailing off when he noticed Devin standing at the door holding two glasses.

“You’re good.”

Mark blushed. “Thanks,” he said diffidently.

Devin put the drinks on the table, picked up his bass guitar and said, “Play that last one again.”

Mark did, and Devin accompanied him, adding tonal qualities Mark would never have dreamed of. “I like that song,” said Devin. “Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

Devin looked up. For a long minute he didn’t say anything. “Let’s try that again,” he suggested.

Mark spent the next two hours in musical heaven. He didn’t ever want the day to end. But eventually Devin stopped and glanced at the clock. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

“Starving.”

Mark followed him into the kitchen and sat on a stool while the rocker opened his fridge and inspected the contents. “I’ve got a better idea. How about we go eat with my mom.”




CHAPTER FIVE


DEVIN WAS WALKING THROUGH Albert Park en route to class the next morning when he glimpsed the librarian sitting by the circular fountain.

Her gaze immediately dropped to the open book in her lap, but he’d been around enough stalkers—and better ones than this—to know he was her target.

Her skills needed work, but her choice of location was sound. All the park’s paths converged on the historic fountain, with its bronze cherubs and their water-trickling orifices.

He hid a grin. This should be interesting. Of course, she had no idea he knew she’d warned Mark to shun him. He braced himself for verbal sparks.

As he approached, she looked up in feigned surprise and Devin was conscious of another spark. One that with any other woman he would have called sexual … if she wasn’t wearing a fifties-style calf-length dress in a red-and-white diamond check with a matching fabric belt. Did this woman own any clothes from this decade? Red suited her, though. He particularly liked the matching lipstick.

He stopped in front of her. “Of all the fountains in all the world, somehow we meet at this one.”



“Isn’t that a coincidence!” She looked past him—checking for Mark—then back with such undisguised relief that Devin was provoked to tease her.

“You don’t happen to have any Tylenol, do you?” He put on his shades to hide his amusement. “I’m too old to keep partying this hard.”

She frowned slightly and he read her thoughts. Had Mark been with him? But the only way to get information. She opened her bag. “Sure.”

Devin sat down next to her and lifted his face to the sun. It was only eight-thirty but already humid. The scent of the park’s roses was heavy in the air.

The breeze changed direction. Fountain mist drifted toward Rachel, forcing her to move closer. She wasn’t wearing perfume today but she still smelled seductive. How did she do that? Maybe he shouldn’t torment her by making things up. He and Mark had eaten at Katherine’s, then been cleaned out in a friendly poker game with her elderly neighbor before the kid caught the 9:00 p.m. ferry.

Rachel said way too casually, “I didn’t think you knew many people here.” Fishing.

He took the pills she offered, shiny in their silver foil. “Heartbreaker, when you’re a rock star you can always find people to party with.” There was no bitterness in the observation. He’d long ago accepted that his real friends were people he knew before he’d become famous.

Except they were still treating him as fragile. Another reason to stay away from L.A. He was too close to broken to shrug off someone else’s doubt. How ironic that the only person who looked at him without deference or sympathy was this woman.

“Well, the last ferry from Waiheke leaves at midnight,” Rachel ventured. “So I don’t suppose things got too out of hand.”

She’d checked the ferry timetable? Her concern for Mark seemed a little excessive. “Oh, I have plenty of room for sleepovers and no one minds three to a bed.” Her lovely mouth tightened. “But it was all pretty tame … some bourbon, coke …” Devin winked to make sure she’d make the connection to the drug, not the beverage. “A hot tub filled with twenty of my closest friends, and rock blasting over the sound system …”

He noticed as he ran out of rock star clichés that she’d slid almost to the other end of the fountain edge, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek. “It was a spontaneous thing or I would have invited you. We could have done with some classier chicks.”

Devin had a sudden image of her in a hot tub, incongruous and unexpectedly appealing. It had been too long since he’d had sex, but the months of therapy and rehab had left him feeling like a peeled onion, exposed and vulnerable.

“Was Mark with you?” she asked bluntly.

“The kid? Hmm, let me just think…. We started the evening together. So hard to recognize people when they’re naked and wet.” He stopped when he saw the stricken look in her eyes. “I’m kidding.”

“Please leave him alone.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Who is that boy to you?”

For a split second Rachel looked guilty. “No one. I … I just don’t like seeing minors being led astray.”

Devin’s sympathy evaporated. Ignoring the fact that he’d just given her reasons to be concerned, he got pissed. She was being officious, no doubt basing her assumptions on what she read in the press. Well, if she expected depravity …

“If you don’t want me corrupting minors, then give me someone my own age to play with.” Lazily, his gaze traveled down her body, deliberately provocative.

Angry color flooded Rachel’s cheeks. She stood. “Grow up!”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Devin stood, too, stretched and yawned. “You know, I like a feisty woman, and this heartbreaker reputation of yours has me intrigued. Any time you want to take a ride with me—”

“I wouldn’t take a walk with you, cowboy,” she interrupted heatedly, “let alone a drive.”

“Darlin,’ “ he drawled, “who said anything about a car?”

BY WEDNESDAY OF THE following week, Rachel had confronted an unpalatable truth. Mark was deliberately avoiding her. She knew he’d been into the library because his online history showed he’d been taking out books. But he was obviously timing his visits around her shifts.

She’d blown it, warning him against Devin. In hindsight, it had been a stupid thing to do. But she seemed unable to do anything except react to her emotions where her son was concerned.

The yearning to see him was terrible, as bad as giving him up had been.

Fortunately, he’d struck an acquaintance with Trixie—it seemed only Rachel couldn’t make friends with him—so she was able to gather crumbs of information. It was through Trixie that she knew Mark still spent time with Devin. Apparently the rocker had become some sort of musical mentor, which Trixie thought was the coolest thing to happen to Mark, and which Rachel thought was the absolute worst.

But what could she do about it?

As she walked to the downtown parking lot after her shift, a thread of music in the city cacophony distracted her from her gloomy musings. Glancing up, she saw Mark strumming guitar with another teenager outside The Body Shop, their voices straining over the blare and honk of rush hour traffic. A meager collection of coins lay scattered in an open guitar case. Rachel stepped into a nearby doorway where she could watch unobserved.

Mark’s reluctance was evident as he joined in the choruses; he obviously knew he had an indifferent singing voice. She was to blame for that. The other boy’s voice was stronger and well served by a song that was both melodic and haunting.

She wasn’t an expert, but Rachel could see nothing in his performance to excite a music legend into mentorship. Her fingers tightened on her bag. Was that relationship more payback from Devin?

He’d breezed into the library several times this week, always calling across the room, “Keep me posted about that ride, won’t you, Heartbreaker.” Rachel had fielded a lot of interested questions from fellow staff members who were agog at the thought of one of their own attracting a rocker.

As if.

She knew damn well that Devin was baiting her as punishment for sticking her nose in something that didn’t concern her. What she couldn’t judge was how much of that depravity was feigned to annoy her.

In her worst moments, she even considered telling Devin the truth. But Rachel had kept this secret too long to trust it to an undisciplined rocker who probably had looser lips than Jagger.

The song finished; the buskers took a break. Flipping his hair out of his eyes, Mark caught sight of Rachel and scowled. She responded with a tentative smile and stepped forward. “Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”

“I don’t need another lecture.”

“I want to apologize.”

He searched her face, then shrugged. “Back in a sec, Ray.” They walked down the side street a few feet. It was quieter here. She steeled herself.

“I know my concern seemed intrusive—”

“It was the disloyalty that got me.”

She swallowed. “Disloyalty?”

“To Devin,” Mark said impatiently. “I mean, the guy’s your friend.”

“Oh.”

“He’s the one you should be apologizing to.”

Rachel murmured noncommittally and Mark’s expression grew even sterner.

“Especially when he agreed with you that he was a bad influence.”

That surprised her. “He did?”

“At least until you read him the riot act. Then he said I could hang out with him as much as I like.” Mark grinned. “Maybe I should accept your apology.”

Rachel bit her lip. So she’d provoked Devin into doing the very thing she’d set out to prevent. Mark really was better off without her. Except … this was the only chance she’d ever have to know him. “So are we okay again?” Will you stop avoiding me?

“I guess.” He was already looking beyond her as he waved to his mate. “Yeah, coming! So is that all you wanted?” He was taller than her by a few inches. Amazing.

Through force of will she matched his casualness. “Yes, that’s all.” As he walked away, Rachel knew she’d never be anything to him other than as the loopy librarian. Unless … “Mark?”

He turned back impatiently. “Yeah?”

“I will think about apologizing to Devin.”

He nodded in approval; she basked in it all the way to the parking lot.

She’d always had one imperative for her son. To keep him safe. And that hadn’t changed.

If the only way to Mark was through Devin Freedman, then so be it.

In the driver’s seat of her Honda hatchback, she passed a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted. She felt as if she was on a teeter-totter, up one minute, down the next. For years she’d worked hard to achieve serenity. Her childhood had held no security … even the long periods of relative peace were the only uneasy calm before an impending storm.

As an adult she’d organized her life into neat compartments. Now the drawer was a jumble again.

She needed to start thinking smarter. Apologizing wasn’t a fix; somehow she had to scrutinize that damn man. Then she could judge him herself.

An idea occurred to her and she grew thoughtful. If she befriended the rocker, then Mark’s attitude would soften toward her, providing an opportunity to get to know her son.

Not quite the threesome Devin had had in mind when he’d tried to shock her. Rachel chuckled. She’d thought of a way to get what she wanted and extract a little revenge on Mr. Rock Star.

The next day when Devin called across the library, “When are you going to put me out of my misery, Heartbreaker?” Rachel smiled.

“Right now.”

THINKING HE’D MISHEARD, Devin moved closer. “Excuse me?”

Rachel beamed at him. “I’m saying yes to a date. Well, really, it’s a way of apologizing for hurting your feelings last week.”

Hurting his … Okay, now he knew she was joking. “I realize I was out of line,” she continued earnestly, “and this is my way of making it up to you.”

Devin folded his arms, leaned on the counter and waited for the punch line. And waited.

“How does tonight sound?”

Good God, she was serious. He was so flummoxed he couldn’t think of an excuse. “Umm …”

“Seven o’clock suit you?” Without waiting for a response, she wrote it in her diary in neat script.

“Look, this really isn’t necessary. No hard feelings.”

“No, I insist. And my goodness, you need a reward for all that persistence. Which is sweet of you, incidentally.”

Devin winced. “The word sweet should only be applied to situations involving whipped cream and a supermodel,” he said, and sparked a frown from her. His confusion gave way to suspicion. Wait a minute. The librarian didn’t want to date him any more than he wanted to date her. This was counterterrorism. Intrigued, he decided to beat her at her own game.

“Give me your address,” he drawled. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Maybe it’s better if we meet at the restaurant.”

“Except I’m still deciding where to take you.”

Reluctantly, Rachel found a piece of paper and wrote down her address.

“You know, I’m kinda nervous about this,” he said as he accepted it. “Given your reputation as a heartbreaker and all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I had decided not to date until I’d got that situation under control. Are you sure you want to take the risk?”

“Hmm, good point.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe I should reconsider….”

Something oddly like panic clouded her expression. It was as if she really cared about this. Then she leaned forward and said softly, “Chicken?”

Devin chuckled. There were so many lessons he could teach this woman. Specifically, never take on a hell-raiser. Even reformed ones were dangerous. “Go ahead,” he dared, “break my heart.”




CHAPTER SIX


THE LIBRARIAN’S neighborhood was made up of immaculately restored colonial cottages, each with pocket-handkerchief front yards full of lavender and standard roses. Figured, Devin thought.

Few had garages, so everyone parked on the street, which meant he had to leave his car a mile down the road and walk. Having been raised in L.A., he bitterly resented it.

He also seriously resented being nervous. It wasn’t that he was hot for the librarian, simply that this was his first date ever without the social lubricant of alcohol.

Devin found number eight. The house was the same as every other except instead of being painted cream or white like its neighbors, it was honeysuckle-yellow and the garden was a subtropical jungle of banana palms, black flaxes, and orange and red canna lilies. He was picking up way too much plant lore from his mother. A well-used mountain bike was chained to the old-fashioned porch railing.

Sucker. She gave you the wrong address. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? He was about to turn away when the door was flung open. “You’re forty minutes late,” said Rachel. “I’d just about given you up.”

Devin checked his Hauer. She was right. “Timekeeping’s never been my strong point.” He saw she expected an apology, and shrugged. “Sorry…. So your roommate owns this place?”

“I live alone. You know, I tried ringing the number you gave me—” her gaze traveled from his Black Sabbath T-shirt down to his slashed stone-washed jeans “—but there was no answer.”

“The number goes to a message service. Only close friends get my direct line.” She actually had to think about why. Hello, I’m famous. He caught himself. Channeling his egotistical brother. Ouch. “Ready to go?” he asked politely.

“I was beginning to think you’d stood me up,” Rachel confessed. “It felt like the high school ball all over again.”

So the librarian had insecurities. “Yeah? What happened?”

Her expression shut faster than a poked clam. “I’ll just get my cardigan.”

Cardigan? He might not be a hell-raiser anymore but Devin valued his reputation. “Haven’t you got anything sexy?”

“Yes,” said Rachel. “My mind.”

Fortunately, the cardigan was a clingy black number and it did have the advantage of covering another hideous buttony blouse. It was a shame Rachel didn’t do cleavage because she had great breasts. Turning from locking the front door, she caught the direction of his gaze and stiffened. Oh, great, now she probably thought he wanted her.

“Let’s take my car,” she said, pointing her remote.

Devin looked at the little silver hatchback emitting a high-pitched beep, and pulled out the keys of the Aston Martin he kept in town. “Let’s not.”

“So yours is parked close?” she inquired too damn innocently. For a moment they locked gazes.

“Fine,” he conceded. “But I’m driving.” He held his hand out for her keys, but her fingers tightened around them.

“I’ll drive…. I don’t drink.”

“Neither do I.” When she looked skeptical, he added, “Anymore.”

An indefinable tension went out of her. She gave him the keys. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.”

“It figures you’d be an advocate of prohibition,” he commented as he opened the passenger door.

“I’ve noticed before that you typecast librarians,” she said kindly. “But as your experience of learning institutions is obviously quite new I’ll make allowances.”

Devin started to enjoy himself. “Now who’s stereotyping? Besides, if you don’t want to be seen as old-fashioned, you shouldn’t dress like that.”

He shut the door on her protest and crossed to the driver’s side. “I’ll have you know this is vintage,” she said as soon as he opened his door.

Devin folded himself into the ridiculously small interior. “I know what it is, I just don’t like it.”

“Is this how you usually talk to your dates?” she demanded.

“Actually,” he said, deadpan, “we don’t usually talk.”

Her lips tightened; she reached for her seat belt and Devin gave up on any expectation of fun. He turned the ignition and the engine spluttered into life. It sounded like a lawnmower on steroids. “I thought we’d drive into the city,” he said, “and wander around the Viaduct until a menu grabs us.”

“It’s Thursday night. We won’t get a table unless you’ve made a reservation. And if you’ll excuse my saying so, you won’t get in wearing torn jeans.”

Expertly maneuvering the toy car out of its tight parking space, Devin snorted. “Watch me.”

“IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE famous, I suppose.”

Rachel’s luscious mouth was set in a disapproving line. “You make that sound like a bad thing,” he joked. Mentally, he confirmed his game plan. Dine and dump.

They sat in a private alcove in one of Auckland’s most exclusive restaurants. Through the open bifold windows, city lights reflected in the harbor and the incoming tide lapped gently against the moored yachts.

Rachel unfolded the starched napkin and laid it on her lap. “I wouldn’t like to think anyone else missed out on their booking because of us, that’s all.”

Loosen up, will you? “Bread?” He passed the basket over. She took a whole wheat roll and declined the butter. “Why are you really here, Rachel?” She obviously wasn’t enjoying this any more than he was.

She looked guilty and he was struck with a sudden suspicion. “Did the chancellor want you to hit me up for another donation?”

“Of course not.” Her shock appeared genuine and he envied it. It must be nice not to suspect people’s motives in being with you.

“So you’re just punishing me then … for giving you a hard time?”

Her lashes fell, screening her eyes. “Sure.”

Maybe he should have chosen his words better. “I didn’t mean to imply spending time with you was a punishment,” he clarified. “Just that you’re not my type.” Oh, yeah, that made it better. “I mean—”

“Devin.” She lifted her gaze. “I’m not offended. You’re not my type, either.”

Perversely, he was piqued. “Not a nerd, you mean?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not housebroken.”

He chuckled. “Okay, I deserved that. Let’s try and be nice to each other.”

There was an awkward silence, then Rachel cleared her throat. “I understand your band produced a fusion of post punk and metal—” she paused, obviously trying to remember research “—which evolved into the grunge and later indie genres.”

“And here I thought it was about playing guitar and scoring chicks.” Devin dipped sourdough into herb-flavored oil. “Rachel, how the hell did you miss out on rock music?”

“I had … ill health in my teens, which forced me to drop out of school.” With tapered fingers she pulled the roll into smaller and smaller pieces. “Then spent all my twenties working days and studying nights to get my library degree.”

Devin was attuned to picking up wrong notes; her story was full of them. He shrugged. “Don’t tell me then.”

She glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to lie, just tell me to mind my own damn business.”

“You know, Devin, civility has a social purpose. It stops people from killing each other.”

He grinned. “I like to live dangerously.”

“That’s fine,” she said seriously, “as long as you don’t hurt bystanders.”

All alcoholics left casualties in their wake. Devin had to work to keep his tone flippant as he replied, “You say don’t a lot, you know that? You’ll make a great mother.”

She said nothing. Glancing over, he saw a bleakness in her expression that shocked him. He knew that level of despair intimately. Instinctively, he laid a hand over hers. “What did I say?”

“Nothing.” Sliding her hand free, Rachel gave him a small smile. “I’d have thought it would be easier studying business at an American university, considering most of your tax is paid there.”

He picked up his glass and took a sip of water before answering. “My royalties come in from a dozen countries and I’ve got more money in tax havens than I have in the States.”

“Don’t tell me then,” she said.

He laughed. “Touché. You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.”

When she dropped her guard—for about one millisecond—her smile was breathtaking. “Were you aware you have over four million Internet pages devoted to you?”

Devin leaned back in his chair. “If you’ve done your research there’s no point trying to impress you.”

“You could tell me your bio was grossly exaggerated,” she said lightly.

He could have played that card. It surprised him that momentarily he wanted to. “It’s not.”

If there were excuses, he wouldn’t make them. At sixteen he’d jumped on a roller coaster that had given him one hell of a ride for seventeen years. And if the gatekeeper had said, “Son, you’ll be famous, songs you help write will be an anthem for your generation, but it will cost you. You’ll all but destroy your body and soul, you’ll lose your identity, and when it’s over you’ll lie awake at night wondering if you’ll ever get it back,” Devin would still have bought a ticket.

They finished their bread in silence.

RACHEL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to think. The idea of Mark hanging around someone who could so coolly acknowledge such an appalling past made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

But she wanted to be impartial—or at least as impartial as she could be with her son’s welfare at stake. Heck, who was she kidding? She was a wreck over this. Fine, then. She’d factor in her emotional bias when weighing the evidence. Because it was important to her to be fair. God knows she’d had enough people judging her as a teenager not to jump to conclusions about someone else.

And while Devin was arrogant beyond belief, brutally honest to the point of rudeness and far too confident in his own sex appeal—flashing a charmer’s grin to the waitress delivering their meals—he also had an appealing self-awareness.

He took another sip from his water glass and Rachel wondered if she was being lenient simply because he’d given up alcohol. Having been raised by a drinker, she found it was a very, very big deal to her. Surely that meant some sort of rehabilitation had taken place?

But did it extend to drugs … groupies? She didn’t want Mark to be exposed to those, either, or any of the character traits she associated with rock stars—excess, selfishness, immaturity. She needed more information.

As she picked up her knife and fork, she asked casually, “Why study here … New Zealand, I mean?”

“When you’re running away, the end of the earth is a good place to go.” He glanced up from his steak. “I’m sure you read about my meltdown and the band’s collapse on the Internet.”

“Yes,” she admitted. But in his business, “taken to hospital suffering from extreme exhaustion” was all too often a euphemism for drug overdose or alcohol poisoning. As she ate her fish, her gaze dropped to his fingers, long, lean and powerful—musician’s hands. “Do you miss any of it?”

“I don’t need the temptations of the music industry right now.”

That sounded promising, but his clipped tone told her that she should change the subject. Reluctantly, Rachel backed off. “So, is your brother still in L.A.?”

“Yeah, Zander’s re-formed the band, with a new lineup.”

Devin’s curt tone hadn’t changed, but she was too surprised to notice. “Can he do that?”

He shrugged, putting down his fork. “He owns the name, and as the lead singer, he’s got the highest profile. For a lot of fans that will be enough.”

As Devin spoke he folded his arms so the dragon tattoo on his hand curved protectively over one muscled biceps. It struck her that he was suffering.

“But not all of them,” she said gently.

Devin looked at her sharply. “Did that sound maudlin? It wasn’t meant to. It was my fault as much as anyone’s that the band fell apart.” His mouth twisted. “Collapsing on stage disqualifies me from lectures on professional dignity. If Zander wants to try and wring a few more dollars out of the Rage brand, let him…. Shit, I am still bitter, aren’t I?”

There it was again, the self-awareness that made him likable.

“Speaking of bitter,” he added, “how’s Paulie?”

It was her turn to squirm. “Back in Germany.”

“You let him lay a guilt trip on you, didn’t you?” Devin picked up his fork again and stabbed a potato croquette. “I just bet he made the most of it.” His gaze trailed lazily over her face. “You’re too nice, Rachel. If you ever want tips on how to behave badly, come to the master.”

She frowned. “What exactly do you teach your disciples?”

His gaze settled on her mouth. “That depends,” he said, “on how bad they want to get.” Green eyes lifted to meet hers and a jolt of sexual awareness arced between them, catching Rachel completely by surprise.

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ABOUT?

Devin washed his hands in the restaurant’s washroom, taking his time. He’d made the comment to wind her up, and yet when she’d looked at him he’d been tempted to lean forward to taste that kiss-me mouth. Yeah, and get lacerated by that sharp tongue of hers. And he couldn’t even attribute his crazy response to the demon drink. Devin smiled. Still, it had been mutual—the attraction and the immediate recoil.

“I’m glad someone is enjoying their evening,” said a weather-beaten old man at the next basin.

“It’s taken an interesting turn.” Reaching for a hand towel, he glanced at the old guy in the mirror. He looked like Santa Claus in a polyester suit—big-bellied, grizzled white eyebrows. Only the beard and smile were missing. “Your date not going well?”

Santa grunted. “I booked our dinner weeks ago and we’ve got a makeshift table by the bloody kitchen.” The old man lathered up his hands, big knuckled and speckled with age spots. “Figure they stuffed up the booking but the snooty-nosed beggars won’t admit it.”

Devin experienced a pang that could have been conscience; he hadn’t had one long enough to tell. Tossing the used hand towel into the hamper, he said casually, “Big occasion?”

“Fortieth wedding anniversary. Drove up from Matamata for the weekend.” With arthritic slowness, the old man finished rinsing, turned off the tap and dried his hands. “We’re dairy farmers, so this time of the year’s a bit of a stretch for us, but the old sparrow wanted a fuss. Might as well have stayed home if we were going to eat in the bloody kitchen.” He grimaced. “Sorry, mate, not your problem. Have a good night, eh?”

Devin resisted until the old man reached the door. “Wait!” Damn Rachel. “Let’s swap tables. It’s not a big night for us.”

“No, couldn’t put you out.”

Devin said grimly, “Happy to do it.”

“Why should you have to put up with clanging pots and swinging doors?” The old man’s face brightened. “Tell you what, we’ll join you.”

“JUST CALLING TO SEE how the date’s going with the rock star?”

Shifting her cell phone to the other ear, Rachel glanced in the direction of the men’s room. “I told you, Trix, it’s not a date. It’s—” an interrogation that’s taken a disturbing turn “—just dinner.”

“Rach, the guy’s been in seclusion for months. It’s a real coup … ohmygod!” Rachel held the phone away as her assistant’s voice rose to a non-Goth squeal. “You should be selling your story to the tabloids! I’ll be your agent.”

Rachel speared a green bean. “Here’s your headline—I Had the Fish, He Had the Steak.”

“Obviously you’ll need to have sex with him to make any real money.” The bean went down the wrong way and Rachel burst into a fit of coughing. Trixie read that as encouragement. “You can’t deny there are plenty of women who’ve got famous through sleeping with a celebrity,” she argued. “You could even get a place on a reality TV show … you know, celebs surviving in the Outback.”

Rachel dabbed her streaming eyes with a napkin. “Tempting as the prospect is,” she croaked, “I think I’ll pass.”

“You’ll never get famous as a librarian,” Trixie warned her.

“Oh, I don’t know. Melvil Dewey invented the Dewey Decimal System over one hundred and thirty years ago and everybody knows his name.”

At least Trixie’s nonsense was steadying Rachel’s nerves. So she’d been momentarily sideswiped by the guy’s sex appeal. She was female and he was prime grade male.

“For God’s sake, don’t tell him one of your hobbies is finding wacky facts on Wiki.” Trixie sounded genuinely horrified. “You’ll lose whatever credibility we have.”

Rachel laughed. “Goodbye.”

“Who was that?” Devin asked from behind her, and she jumped, her nervousness returning. Not for a minute did she believe he was seriously attracted to her, but she had an uneasy feeling he’d try anything—or anyone—once.

“Trixie, my assistant. She—” told me to sleep with you “—had a work query.”

Devin took his seat and signaled for their waitress. “There’ll be another two people joining us.” He filled Rachel in. “And this is all your fault.”

But she was impressed by his gesture—finally, signs of a conscience. And secretly relieved they wouldn’t be alone.

She was starting to have doubts about her ability to manage him.

The Kincaids—Kev and Beryl—arrived. Only halfway through the introductions did Rachel realize the downside of Devin’s generosity. She’d lost her opportunity to grill him further about his ethics.

“So, Devin, you’re a Yank,” said Beryl as they’d settled at the table. Plump and pretty, she was like a late harvest apple, softly wrinkled and very sweet.

Rachel tried to remember if Yank was an acceptable term to Americans.

“Actually, Beryl,” Devin said politely, “I was born here, but moved to the States when I was two. My dad was an American, my mother’s a Kiwi.”

Beryl looked from Devin to Rachel. “And now you’re repeating history. How romantic.”

“We’re not—” Rachel began.

“She’s my little ray of Kiwi sunshine,” Devin interrupted.

Rachel said dryly, “And he’s the rain on my Fourth of July parade.”

Devin chuckled. Beryl murmured, “Lovely.”

Her husband eyed Devin from under beetled brows. “What do you do for a crust?”

He looked to Rachel for a translation. “Job,” she said.

“Student,” said Devin, after a moment’s hesitation.

“You’re a bit old, aren’t you?” New Zealand country folk were only polite when they didn’t like you. Rachel hoped Devin understood that, but the way his jaw tightened suggested otherwise.

“Changing careers,” he answered shortly.

“From?” Kev prompted.

“Musician.”

“How lovely,” Beryl enthused. Rachel suspected she often took a peacekeeper’s role. “Would we know any of your songs?”

Devin’s smile was dangerous as he turned to the older woman. “Ho in Heels?” He started to sing in a husky baritone. “Take me, baby, deep …”

“Oh, Kev,” Beryl clapped her hands in delight. “Don’t you remember? Billy—that’s the agricultural student who worked for us over Christmas—played it in the milking shed.”

“Cows bloody loved it,” said Kev. “Let down the milk quicker.”

Rachel looked at Devin’s stunned expression and had to bite her cheek. “Was it a ballad by any chance?” Her voice was unsteady.

“Slow? Yeah, not that the other bloody rubbish … sorry, mate.”

Devin began to laugh.

“Did you know,” Rachel said, fighting the urge to join him—one of them had to keep it together, “there was a study done at Leicester University that found farmers could increase their milk yield by playing cows soothing music.”

“Is that bloody right?” marveled Kev.

Devin laughed harder.

Kev and Beryl looked to Rachel for an explanation and she dug her nails into Devin’s thigh to stop him. It didn’t. “Conversely,” she said, hoping the effort not to laugh was the cause of her breathlessness, and not the warm unyielding muscle under her fingers, “Friesians provided less milk when they listen to rock music.”

“Well, I never.” Beryl smiled indulgently at Devin, who was wiping his eyes with a napkin. “You Yanks have a different sense of humor from us, have you noticed?”

Devin bought the restaurant’s best bottle of vintage Bollinger for Beryl and Kev, who insisted that Rachel accepted half a glass for the toast.

Devin explained to the old farmer that even a sip of alcohol would kill him, then gave Beryl a ghoulish description of how his pancreas had almost exploded.

Rachel thought he was laying it on a bit thick, and told him so while Beryl and Kev debated the menu. He looked at her with a gleam in his eye. “You see right through me, don’t you, Heartbreaker?”

“Heartbreaker yourself,” she said tartly, but somehow it came out as a compliment.

“Frenzied Friesians,” he murmured, and Rachel gave in to a fit of the giggles.




CHAPTER SEVEN


DEVIN SAT BACK and admired her. Laughter lightened Rachel’s seriousness, made her accessible. He was pretty cheerful himself. For the first time in New Zealand he didn’t feel like an outsider.

However weird his life had been as a rock star, it had nothing on Beryl and Kev and the obscure facts that popped out of Rachel’s luscious mouth. There was something appealing in the librarian’s quirky nerdiness. She didn’t give a damn about his fame or his opinion and Devin wanted her.

In a corner of the restaurant, a guitarist propped himself on a bar stool and started strumming on a Lucida. The playing was average but his voice was true enough for the flamenco ballads.

Kev thought Sinatra would be nice and requested “Blue Moon,” then sang along in a surprisingly good tenor. “Played the captain in the local production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore last year,” he confided to Devin. “Bloody great night this, mate. All it needs is dancing.”

On the quiet, Devin handed over some bills to the management and a few now-empty tables were cleared away. Delighted, Kev and Beryl did an anniversary waltz, moving lightly around the floor. One number led to another.

Touched by the elderly couple’s obvious nostalgia, other diners joined them.

The effects of champagne still sparkled in Rachel’s eyes. Devin held out a hand. “Shall we?”

“I haven’t danced for years … you okay with a shuffle?”

She did better than that. As long as Devin distracted her with conversation, her body moved with his in perfect rhythm. She only stumbled when she concentrated on the steps. Which was unfortunate, because Devin didn’t want to talk—he wanted to savor the softness of Ms. Rachel Robinson.

So he encouraged her to expand on her theory of why musicians were so often good at math. “They’re both about playing with nonverbal patterns so there’s a lot of commonality there.”

As she warmed to her subject Devin found he could get away with an “Mmm” and a “Really?” Gradually he drew her closer, until her body was right where he wanted it.

“Mmm.”

THERE WAS SOMETHING in that last “Mmm” that jolted Rachel into awareness that she was dirty dancing with Devin Freedman.

One of his muscular thighs cleaved snugly between hers, his chest was a wall of hot muscle against her breasts and his “Mmm” still vibrated on the top of her head, where he’d been resting his chin.

And the hand supposed to be around her waist was caressing the upper curve of her bottom. About to protest, she became conscious that both her hands were in exactly the same position on his anatomy. She jerked back. “Excuse me a minute.”

In the bathroom she splashed her face with cold water and sprinkled a few drops down her neckline, appalled and ashamed. Obviously, three sips of five-hundred-dollar champagne was an aphrodisiac. Why hadn’t there been a warning on the bottle?

“Remember you’re here to assess his character,” she admonished her guilty reflection.

Rachel put her hair up in the tight ponytail Devin hated. She’d outgrown her partiality for bad boys after the last one got her pregnant.

Back in the main restaurant, the music had stopped and a small group—which included Kev and Beryl, diners and kitchen staff—milled around Devin, who stood with his arms folded, scowling. The dragon on his forearm was a guardian across his chest.

Kev caught sight of Rachel. “Talk him into it, love … all we want is that song the cows like.”

One glance at Devin, and Rachel knew not to try. “We don’t have that kind of relationship,” she said quietly, hoping to remind people of their own tenuous connection to him.

“We weren’t trying to be pushy or anything, mate,” Kev assured Devin, who raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Of course you weren’t, Kev,” Rachel answered. She took Devin’s arm, unconsciously patting the dragon. His hand closed firmly over hers. “I imagine if Devin picks up a guitar in public the media will start hounding him.”

“I’m not going to give up my privacy.” Under her hand, the muscle relaxed. “But I could have explained it better.” His thumb began a gentle circuit of her knuckles. “I’m sorry for being so defensive.”

Everyone apologized then, with back slaps and handshakes all around. Devin signed autographs, a camera was produced and he stood patiently while everyone had their photo taken with him. Rachel shook her head when he held out a hand for her to join them. She needed to reestablish some distance.

He closed it and her pulse sped up at the heat in his eyes. “Shall we go?”

“No,” she said firmly, practicing the word. “I promised Kev a dance.” Satisfied that Devin had got the message, Rachel dragged the bemused farmer to the dance floor.

SHE WANTED HIM.

That was all Devin needed to know to be patient. While Beryl went off to get a recipe from the chef, he sat at their table and ordered coffee, watching Rachel on the dance floor. In one date, he’d gone from indifference to fascination. He wasn’t used to challenge in his relationships with women. He decided he liked it.

He cast his mind back to his two marriages, the first in his late teens, to an indie rock chick in an all-female band. He’d wanted a port in the storm, but Jax had proved to be as angry offstage as she was on it.

Ten years later he’d hooked up with a Swedish actress during one of his frequent blackouts. It had been a trophy marriage on both sides, the mirror over the bed reflecting two clichés going through the motions of intimacy. They’d separated after three months.

There was no point regretting a past he couldn’t change; still, Devin couldn’t help wincing.

He heard a muffled ringing and tracked it to a cell phone in Rachel’s bag. It wasn’t a model he was familiar with and a text message flashed up when he tried to answer the phone.

Dnt blow chnce 2 screw a rck str. Trix

He stared at the message, then replied, Nt tht kd of grl?

A few minutes passed. R now, rmber our tlk!

Grimly, Devin returned the cell to Rachel’s bag. He was a trophy date, and the librarian was only acting hard to get. Increase her chances of banging a celebrity, he guessed. The fact that it had nearly worked infuriated him.

When Rachel arrived back at the table five minutes later, he regarded her coldly. “I’ve settled the bill.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to contribute?”

“Let’s not spoil a great evening.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He pulled himself together—never let them know you care—and steered her toward Beryl and Kev. They left with a promise to visit if they ever got to Matamata. Wherever the hell that was.

“Close to Hamilton, where I grew up,” said Rachel. She filled the silence on the way home with Wikipedia trivia. If Devin hadn’t known better he’d have said she was nervous.

But he did know better. His anger grew hotter, barely contained. Outside her house, he handed over the car keys, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and turned away. “Good night.”

“I said I’d lend you that book on music and math. Wait, I’ll run and get it.”

Another ploy. Damn, this woman needed a lesson. “Sure,” he drawled.

He undressed her with his eyes as she led the way to the house. Rachel opened the door and started groping for the light switch. “It won’t take me long to find it.”

Devin cut the game short. “I’ll bet.” He stepped inside and spun her around to face him.

“Wha—”

In the darkness, he found her mouth. She wrenched away from him. “What on—”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about doing this?”

She hesitated too long.

He kissed her again, pulling her close, cupping the nape of her neck with one hand. With a moan, she settled into him and he forgot everything but exploring that incredible mouth—moist, full, bitable.

Following her lead, he kept it tender, reveling in the contrast between her tentative tongue and the unconscious pressing of those lush breasts against his chest.

They came up for air.

“Do you always kiss like that?” she gasped, and he struggled to remember she was using him. And then felt disgusted all over again.

“Why, are you taking notes?” Backing her up against the wall, he nudged her thighs apart and ground his erection against her. “If you want to screw a rock star, this is how we do it, babe—standing up, right here, right—Owww!” He reeled backward from a knee to the groin.

“You narcissistic bastard!”

“Okay, I get it.” Devin groped for the wall behind him. “You changed your mind.”

“Changed my—” The light snapped on and Rachel advanced on him. “I was never going to sleep with you!”

“Take a look at the text messages on your mobile and let’s cut the crap.”

“What?” Frowning, she pulled the phone out of her handbag and checked it, then looked up, exasperated. “So one of Trixie’s stupid jokes allows you to treat me like a groupie, is that it?”

Devin eyed her closely. “Was it a joke? Or something to boast about?” He’d been caught before.

She drew herself straighter. “I’ve never met anyone with such a high opinion of himself. What gave you the idea I was even interested?”

“Oh, I don’t know…. Maybe it was when your hands were on my butt.” When she blushed, he folded his arms. “Quit acting coy. I even asked you if you’d thought about it.”

Her mouth tightened. “Kissing you. That’s all.”

“Kissing?” Devin stared at her incredulously. “When a grown woman tells a guy she’s thinking about it, Heartbreaker, he’s not imagining kissing.”

“I didn’t give you permission to imagine anything, mate. And if you’ve ever dated a grown woman I’d be very much surprised.” Color high in her cheeks, she opened the front door. “Now, please leave!”

“Happy to,” Devin said grimly. Didn’t she know how many women wanted to sleep with him? “Frankly, I’m amazed I hit on a cardigan-wearing, pass-on-the-butter, book nerd anyway.”

As he walked out, he caught his shin on the serrated pedal of the mountain bike. “Sh—”

The rest of the expletive was cut off as Rachel slammed the door behind him.

Dammit, that gave her the last word.

MARK WAITED ALL MORNING for Devin to notice he had hurt feelings. By lunchtime he gave up.

Walking to the cafeteria between classes with Devin, he stopped abruptly. “I waited for you an hour at the ferry terminal last night.” It was two hours but he didn’t want to seem that much of a loser.

Devin looked at him blankly and Mark’s sense of grievance grew.

“You invited me for a jam session, remember?”

“Did I? Sorry, buddy, I forgot.” Devin continued walking, as distracted as he’d been all morning.

Mark’s hurt smoldered into active resentment. “You know what?” he said to Devin’s back. “Since you obviously don’t even notice I’m around, I’m gonna skip lunch and catch up on some homework in the library.”

Turning impatiently, Devin scowled at the last word, and Mark immediately regretted his temper. “I’m sorry, okay?” he said. The last thing he needed to do was piss off one of his few friends here. “It was just … well … never mind.” He’d had a frustrating few days piecing together a staff list from old yearbooks and faculty newsletters, but it wasn’t comprehensive or age-specific. He’d have to visually scan every female staffer on campus and confront anyone who seemed the right age.

“What? I’m not mad at you.” Devin walked back to him and Mark avoided his eyes. Sometimes the musician saw too much. “Why don’t we get food to go and I’ll give you that guitar session I promised you now?” They were blocking the path through the quadrangle and Devin steered him to one side. “I’ve got an apartment in town and our next class isn’t for a couple of hours.”

“You have another place?” Mark was impressed.

“Yeah, I bought it to stay in the city during week, but found I prefer going back to Waiheke. Mom uses it more than I do.” Devin hesitated. “Do me a favor? A textbook I need has come into the library. Go pick it up while I get the food?” He handed over his library card.

“Is it because you don’t want to see her?”



Devin said evenly, “What makes you say that?”

Immediately, Mark knew he’d said the wrong thing. “Um, because she told me you were a bad influence? Except that … I mean … she said she was going to apologize.”

“She did. Everything’s sweet.”

It didn’t sound sweet. And the guy’s scowl had come back. “So you don’t think she’s—”

“I don’t think of her at all,” Devin interrupted. “Let’s meet back here in ten minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

He started walking to the library, then hurried back, scrambling in his pocket for change. “Dev … let me give you some money.” He didn’t want the rocker to think he was a leech.

For the first time that day Devin’s expression softened. “My treat.”

Rachel was behind the counter when Mark walked into the library, and her face lit up when she saw him. She always looked so pleased to see him that it made him feel slightly awkward. But he guessed being cool wasn’t in a librarian’s DNA.

Then he caught sight of Trixie in a black leather dress and kick-ass boots and revised his opinion. She’d told him she’d toned down her look for the library job … only one pair of earrings and her most conservative nose stud.

He kind of had a crush on her even though she was three years older and scary. She was dealing with someone but called out, “Have you been to that vegetarian café I recommended?”

He nodded. In the farming community he came from, everyone ate meat. But you didn’t argue with a militant vegetarian, you meekly ate your lentil stew and tried not to be on a bus when the gas hit.

“So you like vegetarian food?” said Rachel. She always sounded like she was filing away information for the FBI.

“Love it,” he lied, and handed over Devin’s card to collect the reserved book. Rachel looked at the name and her smile faded.

“Devin said it was okay for me to collect it,” Mark stated. Maybe they had a policy or something.

“That’s fine.”

She found the book. “He told me what you did,” Mark added, and she froze with the book over the scanner. Gray eyes lifted to his.

“Apologized,” he prompted. “Good on you. Friends shouldn’t fall out.” It occurred to him that he’d helped smooth the way. It was nice to do something for Devin for a change.

“Have … have you seen Devin today?”

“Yeah, we’re heading over to his apar—” He stopped, wondering if Devin wanted him telling his business. “We’re going to hang out for a couple of hours.” He really shouldn’t be so proud of it, but Mark couldn’t help himself. It was such a buzz to be an icon’s friend. Well, not really a friend. But then Devin was encouraging his songwriting and …

Rachel was turning Devin’s library card over and over in her hand. “Did he mention we had dinner last night?”

“No.” Some of his smugness at being the peacemaker dissipated, then Mark laughed. “He stood me up for you, you know that?”

HER SON’S FACE transformed when he laughed. It was like glimpsing land after spending six months in a leaky boat. Rachel swallowed hard. She’d seen him shy, angry, solemn, even a little melancholy, but she knew instantly.

This is who you are.

She started to laugh with him, then registered the implications of what he’d said. He thought she and Devin had kissed and made up.

She’d gone to bed in a rage, tossed and turned until 2:00 a.m., thinking about the cutting things she could have said to Devin, and wishing she’d kneed him harder.

Then she got up and cleaned the grout in the shower with an old toothbrush. Labor-intensive cleaning was Rachel’s cure for insomnia; generally she’d be back in bed within fifteen minutes because she hated cleaning.

This morning the shower was sparkling. So was the range hood.

Mark looked at his watch. “I’m gonna be late meeting Devin.”

He took the light with him. There was no question whose side Mark would be on when Devin told him about their disastrous date.

Even mistrusting Devin, Rachel had been temporarily disarmed by the Freedman charm. She still couldn’t believe she’d fallen for it. Now she would become public enemy number one.

Rachel recalled Mark’s laugh, their shared moment, and tears pricked her eyes. She hurried into the staff bathroom.

Five minutes later, Trixie barged in and found her, sitting on the floor and dabbing at her face with toilet tissue.

“Rach … ohmygod, what’s wrong?”

Her red-rimmed eyes made a denial stupid, so Rachel said what she needed to believe. “Nothing I can’t handle.” She managed a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

Trixie’s boots squeaked as she crouched in front of her and took her hands. “Says the woman who never cries? I don’t think so.”

“Don’t give me sympathy, please. I’ll get worse.” Standing, she went to the sink and splashed her face briskly with cold water. Defeat wasn’t an option. She’d just have to think of another way to watch out for Mark. “Anyone on the counter?”

Trixie ignored her. “Didn’t the date go well?”

Better for Trixie to think that. Rachel met her assistant’s gaze in the mirror. “Devin saw your text message.”

“About screwing a rock star?” Trixie’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you tell him it was a joke?”

“Egotists rarely laugh at themselves.”

“What a butt-head.”

Rachel remembered the feel of Devin’s butt. “The misunderstanding wasn’t one-sided,” she admitted. “I should never have kissed him back.” In the cold light of day she couldn’t understand why she had.

“You kissed!”

Damn. “Let’s get back to work, hey?” She turned the handle but Trixie leaned against the door.

“Just tell me what the kiss was like.”

Fantastic. “Like kissing a wet dog. Look, the whole date was a bad idea, but no harm done.”

“Then why were you crying?”

“Because …” Unable to tell the truth, Rachel floundered.




CHAPTER EIGHT


“BECAUSEYOUACTED LIKE an asshole, Rachel’s really upset.”

Devin looked down at the baby Goth barring his way into the lecture hall. “You’re the text sender … Trixie, isn’t it? And this is another one of your oh-so-funny jokes. Because Heartbreaker doesn’t get upset, she gets mad.”

The young woman frowned. “No, this time I’m serious. I don’t know what went down, other than the fact that you kiss like a wet dog, but—”

Devin laughed. “You see? Mad.”

“You made her cry.”

“I doubt that.” He tried to step past her; she blocked him.

“I found her in tears this morning. She tried to make light of it, but Rachel never cries. I mean never. Even when her dad died a couple of years back.”

He didn’t need this. It had been enough placating Mark. Devin figured he wasn’t due to make another apology for at least a year. “You’re making too big a deal of this.”

“You mean it isn’t a big deal to you,” said Trixie. “But it must be a big deal to Rachel or she wouldn’t be so upset. She’s not like us. She’s led a sheltered life and hasn’t learned to protect herself.”

Devin recalled Rachel’s well-placed knee. “Trust me, she can take care of herself.”

“I mean emotionally,” Trixie said impatiently. “She doesn’t protect herself against being hurt.”

He wasn’t used to being taken to task over bad behavior. The band had been on the road so much it was easy to sidestep consequences, and if they hadn’t been touring … well, there was the house in Barbados to escape to if he needed to get out of L.A. for a while.

“I’ll think about apologizing.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” But it was a tactic to get rid of her. Devin didn’t “do” hurt feelings and he wasn’t about to start.

So he couldn’t explain how he ended up knocking on Rachel’s front door at 6:00 p.m. Friday evening.

When she was feisty he could ignore her, stay pissed. But Rachel hurt niggled at his peace of mind. And that peace was too hard won to surrender lightly.

Her shadow appeared through the stained glass door panel, hesitating as Rachel recognized him. Then she opened the door. They eyed each other warily.

Devin saw immediately that Trixie had been telling the truth. Rachel looked washed out. Suddenly an apology wasn’t hard. Whatever his faults, he wasn’t such an asshole that he couldn’t admit when he was wrong.

“I jumped to conclusions, last night.” When she didn’t say anything, he forced himself to give more. “I’m still learning to give people the benefit of the doubt instead of suspecting their motives in being with me.”

She glanced away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like we expected anything from the date.”

“No,” he admitted. “We had too many prejudices for that.”

“I was trying to keep an open mind.” Stepping back, she started to close the door.

And Devin realized his arrogance was about to lose him a friendship with the first woman to interest him in years.

“Before I go, let me give you a few more tips on bad behavior,” he said brusquely. “Develop an alcohol addiction and get married a couple of times—at least once in a ceremony you can’t remember because it was during one of your alcoholic blackouts.

“Try and keep the marriages short and make sure you write a song about eternal love to play at each wedding, which will have you cringing for the rest of your life. Become an arrogant, opinionated prick because no one ever said no to you.” Devin stopped, disorientated. Overhead, the sound of a distant rumble drew his gaze. A 747 glinted in the blue sky. Wishing to God he was on it, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I guess I’m still getting the hang of normal.” He started to leave.

“Normal’s overrated,” she said behind him, and he turned. She was staring after the jet’s vapor trail. “You know how certain songs take you back to key times in your life? Times when you were happy or sad, confused or needing courage?” She looked back at him. “Writing the soundtrack to people’s lives is no small thing,” she said softly.

Devin cleared his throat. “What was your special song?”

“ ‘Letting You Go.’ Sam … Samantha Henwood. I was sixteen.”

“I don’t know it.”

She started to hum, then to sing, and it was painful to hear because the librarian was tone deaf.

Devin put his hands over his ears. “You’re killing me.”

Rachel smiled and sang louder.



Stepping forward, he clapped a hand over her mouth. Above his fingers, her eyes were still smiling. Devin had never thought of gray as a warm color before, but now he dropped his hand before he got burned. “Will you accept my apology?”

“As long as you admit that the world doesn’t always revolve around you.”

“As long as you realize it has for the last decade.”

“And for the record,” she told him tartly, “I didn’t eat butter because before Beryl and Kev joined us I intended having dessert. I wear cardigans because I like vintage. Not sleeping with a guy on the first date doesn’t make me a prude, and if you ever call me a book nerd again I’ll ram my mountain bike down your throat.”

Damn, but he liked this woman. “I get it. Librarians are people, too.” And because he couldn’t resist teasing her he added, “Next you’ll be telling me you have a vice.”

“I do.” She hesitated, long enough for his imagination to jump to the bait. “I don’t make my bed.”

Devin laughed. “Let’s try another date.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“Admittedly, most of the time we engage in interplanetary warfare and yet …” Devin tucked a strand of loose hair behind her hair. “And yet, Heartbreaker …”

Rachel knew what he meant. There was something between them, an odd, unexpected connection. And that kiss … But it was wrong to use him as a means to Mark, and she couldn’t kid herself that that wasn’t the primary temptation. She shook her head. “I just broke up with someone I thought I’d marry. You’d only be a rebound.”

He grinned. “See, that’s what I like about you, you keep giving me firsts. I’ve never been the rebound guy before. What’s the drill?”

He was incorrigible … and far too appealing. Rachel wavered. He was also offering her another chance to find out more about him. Wasn’t that her goal? And a repentant Devin was more likely to reveal himself…. She was skirting dangerously close to her ethical boundaries. Was it fair to use him like this?

“Any sensible person would run a mile,” she hedged.

“I’ve had a million words written about me,” he said. “I don’t think sensible was ever one of them.”

Rachel remembered the other things written about him, things he hadn’t denied. This wasn’t about her. Or Devin. It was about protecting her son. “Maybe we could go out to formalize our peace treaty,” she suggested, “but no date. Strictly platonic.” Attraction only made things tougher. Her motives murkier. This way no one got hurt.

“Sure.” His lopsided, sexy-as-hell grin belied his easy acquiescence. “The Flying Dutchman opera is coming to town, isn’t it? I’ve been seeing billboards.”

“Next weekend, but the tickets are expensive.” Which was why she hadn’t booked. Most of her income went toward her mortgage. Rachel remembered who she was talking to when he laughed.

“Consider it part of the apology.”

She trusted his meekness even less than she trusted that sexy grin. “As long as we’re quite clear,” she stressed, “that I’m only using you to get to Wagner.”

“I think I can hold my own against a dead guy.” Devin’s expression grew serious. “So you’re not upset anymore?”

How did he know that she’d been … “Wait a minute! Did Trixie make you apologize?” I’ll kill her.

Devin frowned. “No one makes me do anything.”

But the apology hadn’t been his idea. Rachel stopped feeling guilty about her mixed motives.

“HI, MOM, it’s Rachel.”

“Rachel, are you in trouble again?”

Eighteen years later, it was still the first question her elderly mother asked.

“No, everything’s fine. I always call Sunday morning to see how you are.”

“Well, you know, bearing up.” Maureen sighed. “Still missing your father terribly, of course.”

“Did you get that book on heritage roses I sent you?” Rachel swapped the phone to her other hand and wiped her suddenly damp palm on her dress.

Maureen’s voice brightened. “Yes, it’s wonderful, particularly the section on English hybrids.” She rattled on about cuttings and placement, and Rachel stared out the window at her wild garden. “And Peggy and I are our club reps in the regional district’s floral arranging competition.”

“Sounds like you’ve got plenty going on.” Since her father’s death, her seventy-nine-year-old mother had taken up a multitude of new interests. Blossomed, in fact.

“Oh, and the most exciting thing? The council is recognizing your father’s years of service by naming one of the new benches in the park for him.”

Rachel caught her breath. “Well, it’s great to hear you’re doing so well.”

“Honey, did you hear what I said? Your father—”

“You know I don’t want to talk about him, Mom, and you know why.” She took a few deep breaths because otherwise she’d scream, He’s dead and you can stop pretending!

But it would do no good. “Please, let’s just concentrate on what you and I are doing, okay?”

Her mother sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry about your attitude, though.”

A familiar sense of betrayal tightened Rachel’s throat. “Listen, this has to be a short call today. I’ve got a roast in the oven that needs basting.” She always made sure she had a good reason for a short call. Because sometimes they were all she could cope with.

“Have you started your charity lunches again?”

“It’s not charity, Mom,” she reminded her patiently. “Just a handful of first year students desperate for a home-cooked meal.” She’d been inviting strays to her first semester Sunday lunches for five years. The event had become such a fixture around campus that staff and counselors would often send lonely scholars to see her in the library. Overseas students and out-of-towners for the most part.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’ve retained some of the values we taught you.”

“Take care, Mom.”

Hanging up, Rachel wiped her hands on her skirt again. Her jaw ached; she unclenched it. The weekly calls she’d initiated after her father’s death, following seventeen and a half years of estrangement, had been a mistake. Foolish to think that after an adult life spent in denial, her mother would break character and admit anything had ever been wrong—with anyone except Rachel, that is.

She gripped her apron in her fist and stared at it in confusion, then with an exclamation ran into the kitchen and opened the oven to a billow of smoke and heat.

Grabbing an oven mitt she hauled out the roasting pan and inspected the sizzling leg of lamb. There was a layer of scorched fat around the base, but nothing that couldn’t be saved. If only everything in life was so easily salvaged.

ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Mark stood outside classroom 121 of the human sciences block waiting for the tutorial to finish. A classmate had mentioned this sociology tutor had handed out cake to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday.

Through the door Mark could hear her voice … at least the tone of it, light yet authoritative. It gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. The talking stopped, and a shuffle of chairs signaled the end of the tutorial. He moistened his lips and straightened, trying to get some oxygen in his lungs.

The door opened and students streamed out, the industrious ones first, looking at watches and picking up their pace to get to their next class, then the easygoing chatterers.

Heart kicking against his ribs, he nervously looked over every woman coming through the doorway. Too young … too young … too old.

“Excuse me.” Mark forced himself to approach the most likely candidate. “Are you Rosemary Adams?”

The blonde shifted her heavy satchel to her hip. “No, the tutor’s still inside.”

“Thank you,” he said through bloodless lips. In the classroom, a dark-haired woman stood with her back to him, vigorously clearing the whiteboard of equations. Mark tried to remember what he’d been planning to say to her but his impassioned yet aloof denunciation had fragmented into a terrified jumble in his mind.

He cleared his throat and she turned around. “Did you forget something?”

She was Maori.

Unable to speak for the crushing disappointment, Mark shook his head and backed out of the room. In the corridor he picked up his pace until he was running, heedless, through clusters of students.

A car horn honked in warning as he jumped off the curb and ran along the gutter because people weren’t moving fast enough. Only when Mark reached the park did he stop, doubling over to catch his breath. His disappointment was matched by his enormous relief.

“HALLELUJAH, you’re finally going out.” Holding a bag of peaches, Katherine Freedman stood on Devin’s doorstep and sniffed him appreciatively. “Look hot and smell gorgeous … it must be a woman.”

Resigned, Devin opened the door wider and gestured her in, leading the way to the open-plan kitchen. “Okay, who told you?” Five-thirty on a Saturday evening was not the time to be delivering peaches.

“Bob Harvey at the ferry office happened to mention you’d booked in a 7:00 p.m. vehicle crossing. As luck would have it I’m also heading over, for dinner and a meeting with the Coronary Club. How about a lift from the ferry building into town?”

In the kitchen, Devin accepted the bag of peaches and tipped them into the fruit bowl with all the others, unsettling the fruit flies. “You’re not meeting her, Mom, and I’m taking the bike.”

“You think I can’t straddle a Harley?”

“You still look good in leather,” he conceded, “and I guess a helmet hides the wrinkles.”

She picked up a peach and threw it at him, but Devin was expecting it and made a neat catch.

“Fortunately for you,” she continued, “I’m going across with Susan, so you won’t have to think up an excuse not to take me.” She tut-tutted, eyeing the fruit bowl. “You should probably stew those.”

“Yeah, because I’m a ‘bottling preserves’ kind of guy.” Devin poured her a cold drink, then turned to find her rifling through the kitchen drawers. When she pulled out a chopping board and a paring knife, he took them away from her. “And I don’t need to think up excuses. I’m perfectly comfortable telling you to mind your own business. Shouldn’t you be going home to get ready?”

“Unlike you, I can be ready in five minutes.” Katherine took the utensils back. “Now find me a pot.” Perching on a bar stool at the marble-topped island, she started peeling and chopping peaches straight out of the fruit bowl. His mom never sprayed her trees and there were spots of brown rot on some. Devin shook his head as she carefully pared away the good flesh before discarding the rest.

Only a couple of months earlier he’d thought he would lose her. “You’ve got a big birthday coming up.” He found the pot she wanted and placed it at her elbow. “How would you like to celebrate?”

“Quietly.” Katherine tipped the peaches she’d already sliced into the pot. “I intend staying sixty-nine for at least another four years.”

Devin got the compost bucket she had insisted he buy, and cleared away the discarded peelings. “So dinner at the island’s best restaurant with your son sound okay?”

Katherine didn’t answer. Glancing over, he caught her pensive look. “No big deal if you’ve already made plans with girlfriends.”

“Let me get back to you on that. So tell me all about your date.” Katherine dropped the knife and gripped her thumb. Blood welled above her nail. “Bother!”

Grabbing a paper towel, Devin wrapped it around her thumb, then guided her to the sink, where he rinsed the cut and inspected it. “Nothing a bandage won’t fix.” He found the first aid kit, dug around for the right size and handed it to her.

“Your date?” she prompted.

“Technically it’s not a date.” No woman had ever insisted on platonic before.

“Really?” Katherine finished applying the bandage and looked up. “What is it then?”

Devin started to laugh. “Deluded.”

You’d have thought a smart woman like Rachel would know better. Nothing could have stoked his interest more than her No Trespass sign. If the librarian had been genuinely indifferent, Devin could have accepted it, but she wasn’t. The kiss had proved that. And the challenge inherent in her nonnegotiable decree … what kind of wuss would he be if he let the gauntlet lie?

Katherine rinsed her other hand, still sticky with peach juice. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally met a nice girl,” she said hopefully.

“I’m not telling you anything,” he reminded her.

“Spoilsport. In that case I might as well go.”

“What about the peaches?” he teased.

She poked her tongue out at him. “I know you’ll throw them out as soon as my back’s turned so give them to me. I’ll finish stewing them at home.” Drying her hands on a tea towel, she added, “Have you heard from Zander lately?”

Devin stopped smiling. “No.” When he’d raised the subject of financial anomalies, his big brother had cut the phone call short. Since then Zander hadn’t returned any messages.

“Careful with those peaches, Dev,” Katherine protested. “You’ll bruise them.”

He slowed the tumble of peaches from the fruit bowl into the bag, and glanced at her. “So, how is he?” While Zander rarely initiated contact, Katherine kept the relationship going by phone.

“I can’t seem to get hold of him lately.” She busied herself searching in her bag for her car keys, which Devin could plainly see near the top. “But he must be terribly busy arranging the new tour.”

Running scared more like, if he was avoiding even Katherine’s phone calls.

“I’m sure he’ll phone soon,” he told her.

“Oh, I’m not worried.”

Which meant she was. Unfortunately, the mounting evidence suggested his brother had been siphoning off more than his share of royalties on the early songs they’d cowritten. But surely Zander trusted Devin not to involve Katherine? Damn it, this situation was getting more and more complicated. On impulse Devin kissed his mother goodbye, something he rarely did. “Have a great night.”

For a moment Katherine looked startled, then she patted his cheek. “You, too … and I expect to hear all about it.” On those ominous words she left.

All going well, he reflected as he closed the front door behind her, the evening’s activities wouldn’t be fit for maternal ears. Checking his watch, Devin calculated time zones, then rang Zander’s cell and left another message: “Call your mother!”

Then he finished getting ready for his date, turning his mind to more pleasurable thoughts. Like teaching the librarian to forgo restraint, caution and common sense in favor of spontaneity, recklessness and instant gratification. And that was even before they reached her unmade bed. Her so-called vice perfectly complemented the only one he had left.

Sex.




CHAPTER NINE


RACHEL DIDN’T WANT to be nervous.

It made the evening ahead feel too much like a date.

Which it wasn’t.

Peering past the mottled green patches in the antique oval mirror on her dresser, she applied a shocking pink lipstick and decided she was satisfied with her appearance. She wore a tight-fitting fifties cocktail dress of pink crepe overlaid with black lace, which had a scalloped edge at the strapless bodice and a mermaid ruffle hem. After straightening the black velvet bow at the Empire waist, she hunted for the lacy tights that went with the outfit. Holding them up, she frowned. They had a run, and the ladder was long enough for a fire brigade.

Reluctantly, she settled for patterned knee-high stockings—figuring the three-quarter-length skirt would cover them. She finished the outfit with a pair of dainty black ankle boots with a high heel, and clipped on velvet bows to match the one at her waist.

Opera presented a rare chance to dress up, but she was also trying to prove a point. Of course vintage could be sexy—look at Dita Von Teese, the famous striptease artist once married to shock rocker Marilyn Manson. Rachel hesitated, then picked up a tissue and scrubbed off the slutty lipstick, replacing it with a less provocative nude shade.

She glanced at the diamanté watch strapped to her wrist. Her car was being serviced so they’d go in his. She hoped Devin was allowing enough time for them to walk to wherever he’d parked.

The full-throttle throb of a powerful engine brought her to the door. Nervously wrapping herself in her fringed silk shawl, she stared at the leather-clad figure on the Harley-Davidson.

Devin lifted the black visor on his helmet. “No pre-car street layout defeats a red-blooded American,” he said with satisfaction, then scanned her shawl-swathed figure. “I brought a jumpsuit in case you wore a dress.” Reaching into a side satchel, he pulled out what looked like a pair of orange mechanic’s overalls, then unclipped another helmet from the pillion.

Rachel finally found her voice. “I’m not going to the opera on a motorbike!”

“Why not? It’ll be fun.” His gaze dropped to her feet. “Those boots should be okay on the bike.”

She tugged the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “What about my hair?” It was piled on her head, with loose tendrils softening the diamanté sparkles at her earlobes and throat.

Devin looked at it critically. “Very pretty.”

She had a sudden feeling he was doing this on purpose. “We’re catching a taxi.”

“Okay.” To her surprise, he got off the motorcycle without a murmur. “How long do they take on a Saturday night? Not that I mind missing the first half …”

Rachel held out her hand for the jumpsuit and helmet. “Wait here.” Inside, she put on the offending items, knowing better than to check her appearance in the mirror.

When she came out, Devin sat astride the bike, engine idling and his face hidden behind the visor again. “If you’re grinning behind that …”

He raised a gloved hand holding two tickets. “Front row mezzanine, overlooking the stage.”

Gingerly, Rachel approached the bike. “How do I get on this thing?”

“Put your left foot on the foot peg, then swing your right leg over the seat. Watch out for the exhaust.”

She followed his instructions, trying not to touch him, and he checked the position of her feet. “You can hold on to the grab rail or me. If you haven’t ridden before you’ll probably feel more secure with your arms around my waist.”

Rachel reached behind her for the grab rail. “This is fine.” She couldn’t see his face, but it sounded as if he was trying not to laugh.

“Let’s go then.”

He accelerated slowly, but her knees tightened instinctively around his hips. The Harley picked up speed and Rachel dropped the grab rail and clamped her arms around his waist, hanging on for dear life. A rumble of laughter vibrated through his torso, matching the rumble of the bike’s engine.

She’d never been on a motorbike before, never comprehended the delicious assault on the senses. Speed cooled the air and pushed the scents of the city under her visor. Exhaust fumes, a sizzle of food from passing restaurants, the whiff of trash from a downtown Dumpster, and from the waterfront the salty tang of the sea.

Devin knew the streets well, bypassing traffic lights to detour down narrow alleys. If she wanted to, Rachel could lean out and touch the parked cars, talk to passing pedestrians.

There was no barrier between her and the pulse of the neon city, the pulse of the powerful bike vibrating beneath her.

Under the thin jumpsuit the skirt of her dress had hiked up, and Devin’s legs warmed her where she gripped him, from knees to inner thighs. Her spirits soared with a heady sense of freedom. Naughtiness was addictive. She could have been a teenager again, but a teenager without responsibility, without the burden of having to make adult choices.

Rachel felt an almost overpowering urge to stand on the foot pegs with her hands on Devin’s broad shoulders and yell, “Forget the opera! Let’s just ride until we run out of gas.” Except she had a disquieting feeling he would agree.

“Hey!”

Twisting, she saw a stranger waving and gesturing from the sidewalk. Rachel waved back. Twice more, she returned salutes—from two openmouthed kids staring out the back window of a passing car, and from an old lady waving her walking stick. Amazing who turned out to be Harley fans.

Too soon they were at an underground parking lot on Queen Street where Devin cruised into a parking bay. In the enclosed space the rumble of the Harley was deafening.

Rachel touched his shoulder and pointed to a sign, Owners Only.

He turned off the engine. “I’ve got an apartment here,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll dump the gear first, then walk across the road to the opera house.”

Standing on the foot pegs, Rachel swung her right leg up and over the seat.

That was when she noticed the rubber heel of her dainty boot was on fire.

TAKING OFF HIS HELMET, Devin turned at the sound of Rachel’s gurgle of laughter, then caught sight of her smoldering boot. “Hell!” Hunkering down, he grabbed her foot with his gloved hands, wrenched down the zip and hauled off the boot, dropping it on the concrete.

“All those people—” peals of laughter escaped under the visor “—waving and yelling—” she hauled off her helmet, gasping for air “—and I—” another paroxysm of laughter shook her “—I thought they were just being friendly.” Leaning on the bike for support, Rachel dabbed at her eyes.

Devin inspected her ankle. The stocking wasn’t touched. Dropping her foot, he stood up. “What the hell part of ‘keep your feet on the foot peg at all times’ didn’t you understand?”

Without waiting for a response, Devin launched into a blistering reprimand. Rachel bit her lip and tried to stop laughing. It felt almost like an out-of-body experience, looking down at himself—the never-loses-his-cool Prince of Excess—ranting at his passenger on the importance of following the damn rules. Finally he ran out of steam and stopped for breath.

Holding her helmet, Rachel bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I promise to be more careful on the way home.” She didn’t sound contrite, she sounded as though she was still laughing. And when she raised her head, her eyes confirmed it. “But you have to admit it’s quite funny.”

Tomorrow it might be funny. Right now he wasn’t ready to let her off the hook for giving him such a scare. Scowling, Devin picked up her boot, looked at the indentation where the rubber had melted, then waved it under her nose. “On your leg this would be third-degree burns.”

Rachel’s face fell. “And they were so expensive,” she said, remorseful for the wrong reason. “One hundred dollars on sale.” The boots he wore were worth three grand, U.S. “Will it last through the opera?”

In answer, Devin snapped off the fragile heel. “We’ll knock the other one off upstairs. That will get you through the performance at least.” Leading her to the elevator, he used his key to access his floor.

The elevator opened into a private lobby. Rachel stepped out and, like all his guests, immediately gravitated to the panoramic view through the hall’s archway. “My God, I thought you said you had an apartment … this is a penthouse.” As her gaze swung around the living room, with its rough-hewn stone columns and steel spiral staircase, Devin willed himself not to stiffen. Seeing his wealth changed some people. He didn’t want the librarian to view him any differently than she did now.

“I like the casual comfort,” she commented, stroking the saddle-brown leather couch, “but I would never have picked you as a flower man.” She gestured toward the orange poppies on the sideboard, ignoring the expensive cast-bronze sculpture beside it. “Those are a homey touch.”

His mother did the flowers. Devin relaxed. Nothing had changed.

“Right,” Rachel said briskly, dumping the helmet. “Let’s take off this gear, fix my shoe and get Cinderella to the ball.”

He peeled off his leathers, but when he turned around she was still in her jumpsuit, staring at him. “I should have told you to dress up,” she said in dismay.

Devin looked down at his black jeans and bloodred, V-neck silk T-shirt. The pin-striped jacket had been personally tailored for him by top American designer Tom Ford. A dragon motif, the exact match of his tattoo, was embroidered in red silk down the length of one sleeve and across his shoulder. The whole ensemble, including the red snake-skin boots, cost more than her pip-squeak car. Manfully, he resisted the impulse to tell her that.

She misread his inner struggle as hurt.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have mentioned that men wear tuxedos to the gala opening night.”

He grinned. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“You’ll get stared at.”

The woman was a delight. “Okay,” he challenged, “show me what normal people wear.”

Self-consciously, Rachel wriggled out of the overalls and smoothed the skirt of her satin-and-lace dress. Devin shook his head. “As I thought, still channeling the fifties. Although—” he assessed the outfit again “—lose the bow, drop the lace to get some cleavage and Dita Von Teese would probably wear it to the Grammy’s.”

For some reason Rachel started to laugh. “You’ve got helmet hair,” he said. “Let me fix that.” Removing the pins, he ran his hand through the silky, shoulder-length mass to loosen it. She used a peach blossom shampoo and for a moment Devin was back in his mother’s orchard, in that fleeting new state he’d come to recognize as peace.

Without conscious thought he lowered his head. His lips brushed Rachel’s. They were as soft as petals, and parted in surprise, but he didn’t deepen the kiss.

Something in the moment stopped him … a freshness, an innocence. A promise? Shocked, he lifted his head.

Rachel cleared her throat. “We’re not doing that, remember?”

“Why?” He needed to know.

She had to think about it, which was good, because he didn’t want to be the only one shaken by this. “I don’t know you well enough.”

“What do your instincts tell you?”

For a moment she stared at him, then shrugged helplessly, unable—or unwilling—to answer. Devin didn’t push it, simply touched his lips lightly to hers and stepped back. He could seduce her; he’d had the power too long to doubt himself. But suddenly this … thing wasn’t about what he wanted.

In silence, he levered the heel off her remaining boot with a screwdriver. In silence they walked to the elevator.

RACHEL FOUND her legs were trembling, and it had nothing to do with her reconstituted boots. Something odd had just happened and she felt light-headed and breathless. While they waited for the elevator she stole a look at Devin.

He was watching her in a way that made her want to kiss him. It wasn’t desire, it was awareness. He attracted her. He just did.

Before she could rationalize her action, she lifted a hand to the nape of his neck, slowly drawing him down until their lips were inches apart. And stopped. They were both deadly serious. Then he closed the gap and the heat of his tongue set off a rush of sensation. They kissed, broke apart, then kissed again. Her hands roamed restlessly under his jacket and over the silky fabric delineating every taut muscle in his back.

The ping of the elevator sent them springing apart.

The lift doors opened. They looked at each other. Long seconds passed and neither moved. The doors closed. Rachel moved into his arms like a woman used to indulging in spontaneous passion with unsuitable men.

She didn’t think, didn’t question. She didn’t do anything Rachel Robinson normally did. It didn’t seem to be that important. She couldn’t stop. Not even when his mouth settled on hers with a possessiveness Devin wasn’t entitled to, and his hands slipped under the flounces of her dress and pulled her closer to the erection under his jeans.

Tugging out his shirt, she slid her hands beneath it and across his broad chest to the tight male nipples. His body was extraordinary, every ridge and indentation a moving, living landscape for her exploring fingers. Someone was panting, and Rachel became conscious that it was her and tried to shut up. But he kept doing things that made her gasp as he steered them toward the bedroom.

When they came up for air, she saw a white bed on a black granite floor in a starkly beautiful room that overlooked a thousand twinkling city lights. Devin kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off his shirt. The dragon on his right arm glared at her. Under his right pectoral, another tattoo began—an abstract of curves and spirals in the Maori style, tracing over his ribs and disappearing into his jeans.

“You okay?” Devin asked, and Rachel realized she’d stalled.

“Yes.” Trying not to feel self-conscious, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, remembering too late she was wearing those awful knee-high stockings.

Devin’s gaze roamed hungrily over her lingerie and stopped below her knees. “What the hell are those?”

“Sex toys … you never know when you’ll need ties.”

“Great, let’s use ‘em.”

“Have you no inhibitions at all?”

“None.” He took her into his arms once more. When he bent to kiss her again she couldn’t remember which way to turn her head, and they bumped noses.

“Sorry.” Her arms were suddenly wooden around his waist. “Devin, I don’t—”

“My fault,” he said. “I’m overthinking this. To tell the truth, I never had sex completely sober. And I haven’t had sex at all for over a year.”

Rachel lost her self-consciousness. Of their own volition, her arms lifted to wrap around his neck. “I’ll try and be gentle,” she whispered, and Devin chuckled. This time when they kissed there was no mistiming, no awkwardness. They’d recaptured the lazy, electric ease that narrowed their world down to this room.

His fingertips were light on her face as he traced her features, watching her through half-closed lashes, a smile tugging at his mouth. By touch, she learned the slight bump in the strong bridge of his nose, the scar under his right eyebrow. Above the raspy jaw, his cheeks were baby-soft.

Her nipples tightened as his thumb dipped between her breasts in the black strapless bra and began a gentle circling under the lace. She pulled his head down for a kiss, warm, liquid, and they fell on the bed, where they bounced on the springs and broke apart, laughing.

Lifting his knuckle, Rachel kissed the dragon’s head, then followed its sinuous length up Devin’s arm. Under her lips, his skin broke out in goose bumps.

His fingers tangled in her hair. “Before we go too far, let me get some condoms from the bathroom.”

Rachel didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He rolled over her to go get them and somehow her bra ended up at her waist and his mouth at her breast, his hands teasing circles on her inner thighs. She pushed him off. “Go!”

Sitting up, Devin cupped her face and smiled. Somehow it was a gesture more intimate than anything they’d been doing on the bed, and her throat tightened. “How did we end up here, again?” he asked.

“Wrong turn I guess,” she said lightly. She’d learned a hard lesson eighteen years ago. Never confuse sex with love.

“No,” he said. “Sooner or later I would have got you here.”

Something in his male arrogance took her straight back to another charmer, and Rachel instantly stiffened. “You … sound like you planned this,” she said, watching him closely.

She caught the telltale flicker of guilt before he smiled at her. “This I didn’t plan.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

So good, she thought, stunned, at faking sincerity. And oh, my God, she’d nearly fallen for it. Humiliated, Rachel hauled up her bra and covered her breasts.

Except she wasn’t sixteen anymore and no man got away with making a fool of her. Reaching for her dress, she paused. She had an idea. Did she dare?

When Devin came back, she was lounging seductively against the pillows in her underwear. Rachel held up the stockings. “Let’s use these.”

He blinked, then chuckled as he rejoined her in bed, jeans tightening over muscle. “You nearly had me.”

“And I want to have you.” She dropped her tone to husky. “Tied up.”

Half smiling, he scanned her face, and Rachel hid it against his chest, right over the place where his heart should be. His hand caressed her nape and she resisted the urge to turn her head and bite it. “I’ve always wanted to try it,” she murmured instead, “and you’re the perfect guy to do it with.” Under her cheek Devin’s ribs rose and fell in what felt like a sigh. But when she glanced up he gave a lazy shrug.

“Sure, babe, whatever you want.”

“Lie down.” All business, she looped one of the nylons around his wrist, then tied it to the bedpost.

“You put your bra back on.”

Rachel grabbed his other hand. “I’m shy.”

“You know,” Devin said thoughtfully, “I never thought I’d say this, but I was kinda looking forward to old-fashioned sex for our first time … ouch. Maybe you could loosen the tension on that one.”

She yanked his trapped wrist against the post and double knotted the second stocking. “So you’re suggesting they’ll be other times, then?”

His eyes narrowed. “Okay, what’s really going on?”

Rachel clambered off the bed and glared at him. “This wasn’t something that just happened. You had every intention of seducing me tonight, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but you changed my mind and then …”

“And then?”

“Hell, I don’t know … you changed it back.”

With his arms tied to the bedposts above his head he looked like every Amazon’s idea of a human sacrifice, pagan, muscular and deliciously vulnerable. Furious at the direction of her thoughts, she bent and scrambled for her dress. “You’re pathetic.”

“Rachel, you know we’re about more than sex.”

Hand frozen on her dress, she barely registered his comment. There was a pair of red stilettos under the bed. Lying on their sides at right angles, as if they’d been kicked off in a hurry.

I haven’t had sex at all for over a year.

The son of a … Enraged, she picked them up and tossed them onto his washboard abs above the hip-hugging jeans, hoping the heels left a mark. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re a cross-dresser.”

She waited for signs of guilt. For shame. Devin looked at the shoes and started to chuckle. The chuckle grew into a laugh that shook the bed. He laughed until his head was rolling helplessly on his shoulders.





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