After Midnight (15 page)

“He was the man pulling me away from Thomas, yes.”

Eyes eloquent, he reached up and cupped his hand against the side of her face. His thumb swept back and forth across her cheek. She closed her eyes. It would be so easy to fall for him, to forget that he wasn’t the guy for her. There was something about him that made her want. More than she’d ever wanted before.

A lot more.

Shifting away from him before she did something she would regret later, she circled the couch and reclaimed her spot on the end. “Enough about me. Tell me something about you.”

He leaned his hip against the back of the couch. “What do you want to know?”

“What did you do after you stopped singing? You said you went back to London?”

“Yes, for about six years. The first few months of which I did nothing but wallow in grief. I drank too much, didn’t sleep enough, and was very unpleasant to be around. Then my grandfather decided he’d had enough. He came over and dragged me back to life, literally. Right out the front door and into the rain. Left me out there until I sobered up, after which he hauled me back inside, sat me down, and explained to me how things were going to change. He made certain I understood that my behavior would no longer be tolerated.”

“An intervention.”

His mouth curved. “I guess it was.”

“He loves you, he didn’t want to see you waste away.”

His smile faded as he gazed at her. She curled her left hand around his wrist. “What’s the matter?”

“Henry’s not a young man any more. I’m worried about him. I could see the last time I spoke with him that his health is failing.”

Without thinking, she slid her hand down and linked her fingers with his. She ached for him, knowing how difficult it was to lose a loved one. “When is the last time you saw him?”

“Right before I moved to the new house. About six months ago.”

“You should go see him again, once your demo is done.”

“I plan to.” He shifted their joined hands, used his free hand to trace the length of her pinky and ring finger. “Your fingers are cold.”

“They always are. They sustained too much damage in the accident.”

“Any nerve damage?”

“Yes. Not the way you’d think though. They’re actually more sensitive than the other fingers.” Overly sensitive. The brush of his fingertips sent a shock of electricity up her arm, jolting her already raw nerves. Her body hummed as his warmth began to seep into her hand, then into her bloodstream.

“It’s a miracle you can still play at all,” he commented softly.

Her stomach crawled into her throat. At one point in her life she would have agreed with him, but that time was long past. “I don’t play anymore.”

His hand tightened on hers as she tried to pull away. “Because you choose not to.”

“Yes.”

“But you regained the ability, should you ever change your mind.”

She met his gaze. “I won’t change my mind.”

His lips curved, but his smile was not reflected in his eyes. “After Henry’s intervention, I straightened up my act. I was happy—I had a job, a woman—I never thought I’d go back to performing.”

She didn’t miss performing. She would never admit it to him, but there were times she did miss playing. Like the night they’d met, when she longed to relive the joy only the piano brought her. But performing, sitting in a hushed symphony hall, with all those eyes focused on her…

She would never go back to that. “We’re two different people, Noah.”

“I’m just saying that you can only pretend for so long. When you live music, the way we do, you can’t push it aside. Eventually, it comes back into your life and when it does...it’s not always pretty.”

They were two different people, she silently repeated. Just because she could no longer silence the music in her head, didn’t mean that she had to give in to it. She wouldn’t let it rule her life.

Or ruin it.

Wondering how ugly his return to music had been, she asked, “What happened?”

“Beth and I had been living together for about two years, when I quit my job. I remember the night I told her I wanted us to move across the pond, so I could get the band back together. She laughed. I guess she thought I was joking. When she realized I had never been more serious, she accused me of deceiving her.”

“Deceiving her?”

“I never talked about singing, not once while we were together, not even to reminisce. She was blindsided by my sudden change of heart.”

“What did she do?”

“She yelled and she cried, then she left me. I was no longer what she wanted. She wanted marriage and family—a husband who worked nine-to-five and could be home with her in the evenings. I wasn’t willing to give her that last bit.”

She swallowed around the knot in her throat, “There’s nothing nine-to-five about the music industry.”

“No, there isn’t.”

She noted he didn’t say he hadn’t been willing to give her marriage and family. Family. Her free hand shifted to rest on her abdomen, as her eyes slid closed. It wasn’t difficult to picture his child, a child with his striking green eyes and incredible smile. There was no doubt about it, he would have beautiful children. Just not with her. Never with her.

Her chest ached. Her throat tightened.

“Is something wrong, Isabeau?”

Her eyelids snapped open. He waited, eyes warm as she struggled with control. A sharp rap on her door stopped her from having to explain.

Isabeau slid off the couch and crossed the room. She swung the door open. “Dad. You’re out late.”

“We need to talk to you.”

“We?” That’s when she noticed Tommy standing to his right, eyes bloodshot, the left one bruised. Cold seeped into her bones. Her father couldn’t have done that to him. He wouldn’t.

Her gaze lowered to Thomas’s hands.

“Izzy?” he questioned.

“Come on in.”

Her father acknowledged Noah with a tip of his head, then looked back at her. “Tommy has something to say to you.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Dad,” Tommy replied caustically. “I can manage my own apology.”

“You wouldn’t know it by the way you act.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. He let out an audible breath and skimmed his gaze over her arm. “You were right to cut me off the other night.”

“Tommy, I—”

“I’m not done!” he hissed, his hands fisted.

She took an automatic step in retreat.

Tommy frowned. He swore under his breath and shoved a trembling hand through his hair, which only left it more disheveled.

Bloodshot eyes. The shakes. He was suffering from alcohol withdrawal. She’d witnessed the effects enough times to recognize them. More than once, a patron came into the bar in much the same condition as Tommy, desperately in need of a drink to ease the discomfort. Despite everything, it pained her to witness Tommy’s suffering.

“I have a problem,” he admitted. “A problem with alcohol. It’s my problem. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

She waited, making sure he was done before she responded. “I appreciate you coming here, Tommy.”

“Yeah. Listen, the cops came to my place yesterday. They said your car was vandalized. I want you to know I didn’t do it. Damn cops. Woke me up, pounding on my door.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it. That’s what I had to say.” And with that, he turned and walked out the door.

Relief flooded her. She knew Tommy wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt her with both Noah and her father standing right there. Still, his presence unsettled her.

“Lock your door tonight.”

At the firm command in her father’s voice, her muscles tightened all over again.

“If Tommy isn’t responsible for the damage to your SUV, then there’s still someone out there who has a problem with you.” Thomas scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Next time, Izzy, tell me yourself when something like this happens. I don’t appreciate having to hear about it from the cops.”

“They questioned you, too?”

“Yes, they did.”

“I’m sorry.” More sorry than he knew. Thomas Cahill and the New York City police had a long history. One he didn’t deserve. Because of her. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Dad.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Noah, watch out for her.”

“I will.”

“And get that wrap off. It’s been on there long enough.”

“Straight away.”

Thomas left, pulling the door closed behind him.

“He’s right, you know, you need to be careful.”

Her stomach clenched painfully. She didn’t see the damage to her vehicle as a threat. Maybe because in the back of her mind she agreed with Noah that Tommy was the most likely suspect. But Tommy denied the vandalism, and Isabeau believed him. If not Tommy, who?

She needed a distraction. “Take the wrap off. I think I have some triple antibiotic ointment in the medicine cabinet.”

She did, and she returned to the kitchen with it, along with a two clean washcloths.

Noah held the wrap from his arm in his hand. “Where’s your trash?”

“Under the sink.”

She ran a washcloth under warm water. Ringing out the excess, she turned to him and pushed his sleeve out of the way. The area was a bit swollen and had scabbed in a few places. It was because of this totally natural reaction to getting a tattoo that her father had wrapped his arm in plastic wrap. Had he used something like gauze, it would have stuck to the area, and removing the gauze would pull the scabs loose, bringing the ink with it. As a result, scarring of the area, and blotching of the color could occur.

His shirt sleeve slipped down as she pressed the warm cloth to his skin. She shoved it back out of the way.

“Wait,” he said as it slipped a second time. He reached his arm over his head. Fisting his hand in his shirt, he pulled it off.

There was something so inherently male about the move that she didn’t look away. Then, once he stood before her wearing nothing but his jeans, she couldn’t look away. He was built. His body was sleek, smooth, and leanly muscled. Lightly tanned, with hard six-pack abs and a dark blonde line of hair that started below his navel and trailed down to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Not that she was looking.

Or drooling.

There was no doubt about it, he looked better than most men half his age.

“Is something wrong, Isa?”

Arousal clouded her mind. Her body thrummed with it. “What? No.”

But as she pressed the cloth against his skin, her hands shook.

She tried to keep her focus on the task at hand and off his chest, but it was right there. Suddenly she was hyperaware of the heat coming off him, of the scent of musk and man that swam through her senses.

“So what do you think?” he asked, his voice a whisper against her temple.