Deeper Than Dreams (9 page)

“When you record new music, we will be sure to air an exclusive.” The reporter didn't miss a beat. “Sources say the band is priming for a world tour?”

“Argentina is lovely in spring.” Adrian winked, but kept us moving. “And fall.”

“So are the rumors true?”

My date paused.

“You're eyeing a three-sixty deal?” Cameron Cook prompted.

Adrian's jaw did a visible shift as he considered his response and obviously thought better of it. “If rumors were true, they'd be fact, mate. And the only fact I'm concerned with right now is being late for this gala if we don't move on. Cheers.”

There was more clamoring behind us, but he didn't give another glance to the crowd. “Pay them no mind.” He reached for my elbow to steer me, but I pulled away.

“How many people am I going to hear it from before you tell me yourself?” I snapped at him.

“Come on, Kat. You heard me tell Kevin last night we were working on tour routing for the spring.”

“I thought you meant a couple of club dates around town. Not . . . not . . . stadiums in South America,” I sputtered. “I also heard you tell a five-year-old girl this morning that you weren't going anywhere, anytime soon. You can't have it both ways, Adrian. You just . . . you just can't. I'm sorry.”

***

Like Cinderella in reverse, I broke from him and marched up the stairs on my own.

“Kat! Katrina!” As nimbly as he had pursued me in Strawberry Fields, Adrian caught up and grabbed ahold of my arm. “Do you really want to do this here? In front of them?”

I turned to look down at the sea of expectant people below us, then back at his pained expression. Years of carefully protected privacy were swirling down the drain, but who was to blame? Who was the one “feeling great” being back? But I had, after all, encouraged him. Because I loved him. Shame flooded my face. “Let's get inside,” I managed.

We ascended the steps of the library while Patience and Fortitude, the stone lions I had introduced Adrian to on our first real date, stood guard outside the doors.

Names were murmured, tickets were flashed, and we were ushered into the white-marble entrance of Astor Hall, its cocktail hour already in full swing. The space was just as regal as I remembered from my days of working for the library system, bathed in warm light for the evening's events. Low cocktail tables of white birch awaited, merrily lit by candles and decorated for the season with mossy centerpieces. A trio of classical musicians added their brand of background music to the festivities. But the tension flowing between Adrian and me created a dissonance hard to ignore.

He pulled me under an empty archway, pacing there like a caged beast. “I
can
have it both ways, Kat. You know why? Because I've thought long and hard about this, and I've paid my dues.” His cuff link caught the light as he slammed a fist to his chest. “And I'm going to do it the right way, on your schedule, with as little disruption to Abbey's life as possible. You've got to trust me on this.”

“I do, but . . .”

“I know it's a crazy ride. But this time around,
I'm
calling the shots.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “I'm controlling the roller coaster. Who gets a ride, and who gets off. It's gonna go at my pace, all right?”

“Once it picks up speed, it's going to be hard to stop,” I whispered. “Even if you want to.”

Adrian dipped his head down, searching out my eyes. “Okay. So are we going to close our eyes and fight it the whole way? Or are we going to let go and enjoy the thrill of it?”

I placed my hands on his where they rested on my shoulders. He must not have seen an answer he liked in my eyes, because he broke away before I could speak. “I need a drink,” he muttered. “Do you want one?”

I bit my lip, shaking my head. I could barely handle the carousel ride in Central Park. Could I sign myself on for this? Or Abbey?

I stood and watched couple after well-dressed couple glide by me. Young ones, old ones. Lovers, friends, family. I thought about how I'd bandied about Corroded Corpse lyrics in conversation with my brother earlier. The song had been the aptly named “Trust in Me,” and another verse came to mind.

Let's live for today

Think of the demons we'll slay

Plenty of stories for when we're old and gray

Could I throw all the worries and “what ifs” to the wind? Adrian and I had gotten this far without a plan, after all.

“I don't want to fight,” I told him when he returned. “But I need to understand. What's a three-sixty deal?”

Adrian downed his first drink of the night and drummed his fingers on the rough-hewn table in front of us. “That's nothing. Totally unconfirmed.”

“It's something,” I said. “You were right next to me, and now you are a million miles away at the mere mention of it.”

A gusty sigh escaped, causing the decorative votive in front of him to flicker. “Just considering the source of the rumor, that's all.”

“Something tells me a three-sixty is not even close to 398.2 on the Dewey Decimal number line.”

My lame library joke brought a soft smile to Adrian's face.

“Say this is your band, your star power.” Reaching across the cocktail table, he centered the small, lit candle. “Then you've got all your music-related projects. Your studio recordings ”—he set down his whiskey glass at the midnight position—“your live shows”—my evening bag was plunked down at six o'clock—“and your merchandise, your TV ads, your movie soundtracks . . .”

He systematically emptied his pockets of his wallet, loose change, and his ever-present guitar picks, assigning a place around the table to each item in turn, each representing a piece of the pie.

“And depending on which devil you make your deal with, whether it's the record label or the promoter”—he counted them off on his thumb and forefinger—“they take the rights to it all. And round and round it goes, until your bright star burns out.”

To emphasize his point, he licked his thumb and pinched out the flame. “The end.” Unflinching, he took back custody of his whiskey glass and drained its dregs.

Talk about your grim fairy tales, I thought. “That's crazy.”

“That's the new music model,” came a voice from behind us. Rick picked up one of Adrian's picks, inspected its gauge, and pocketed it. “But you forgot a piece.”

“Ah, yes. The money grab. The band gets a cool five million—”

“Ten,” Rick corrected. He handed Adrian back his wallet. “Up front.”

“If we sell our soul to them for the next ten years.”

“No, five.”

Adrian swept the rest of the sundry items back into his hand. “Someone's been negotiating.”

“Someone's been exploring the options.” Rick shook up the ice in his glass and consulted it, as if the cubes might take on a shape and tell his fortune, like tea leaves.

“How about you take the night off, Magellan. No brave new world to discover here.”

Rick frowned slightly. “Wasn't planning on even bringing it up, mate. Until I heard you speak of it.”

“Really.” The word fell flat from Adrian's lips. Not so much a question but a testing statement. “You didn't leak it to the music press, then?”

“Sam,” Rick said instantly. “I warned you not to even tell him, Dig.”

Adrian slowly shook his head. “And I didn't.”

I placed a hand on my date's arm, which seemed to bring him back to his surroundings.

“Enough, no matter.” He glanced around. “Are your in-laws here tonight?”

“Out of the country. Hence the extra seats at this little slice of literary heaven. Kat,” Rick leaned to kiss my cheek. “You're a vision.”

“Thank you. For both the compliment, and the tickets.”

After poring over all those old band pictures, I had to jolt myself back into reality as I stared up at this twenty-first-century version of Riff Rotten. Just a hint of stubble shadowed his scalp, where long, ebony locks once flowed. His features were classic Mediterranean, from heavy brow to strong nose, and even more striking without the mane of hair to hide behind. Facial hair was trimmed to a minimum, neatly surrounding his sculpted jaw and meeting in a dark point under a full bottom lip. One detail remained the same. His onyx eyes burned with the same hungry intensity.

“Well now,” Adrian conceded, flicking Rick's starched collar. “Aren't you the dog's dinner?”

Like its guitarist, the band's customarily shirtless and screaming front man was a different animal when attired in formalwear. Adrian may've held the title for Most Deliberately Rugged Tuxedo-Clad Male, but Rick? He wore a tuxedo like it was his job and calling. Like he was the James Bond of heavy metal.

“Either way you slice it,” Rick deadpanned.

“Slumming it solo tonight?” Adrian asked his best mate. There had been women to the left and right of the singer backstage the night before.

He just gave a noncommittal shrug. “Guess I'm a free agent now. What are you two lovers drinking tonight?”

Servers had been mingling with flutes of champagne on trays, but I wasn't in the mood for the bubble and fizz. “I feel something classic calling, standing between you debonair gents. How about a martini? Dry and dirty.”

Rick's brow shot up, then he nodded his approval.

“Basil Hayden. On the rocks.” Adrian handed Rick his empty glass.

“Ah, behaving yourself. Noted.”

Adrian turned to me, once Rick ambled toward the bar. “Dry and dirty, eh? 'Tis a pity we've given up showering
together, luv. However will I get you wet . . . and clean?”

A slow smile spread across my face, but desire moved like a wildfire across the desert plains within me. “You'll just have to get creative, I guess.”

Fingers ghosted the tiny pleats of material swathing my waist as Adrian claimed it. His touch was warm and welcoming. “First order of business when we get home,” he said. “After I steal you away from the intellectually chic this evening.”

It seemed I had successfully taken his mind off music business for now. But in my own mind, we still had some unfinished business of our own. The argument felt small and petty now, hanging high above our heads in the hallowed hall.

***

Threading my bare arm through his jacket-clad one, I snuggled up against him and we turned to people-watch. Well-dressed socialites and philanthropists mixed and mingled, and it was fun to take in their clothing styles and try to decide whether they were famous or not. I thought I spotted Candice Bergen and Barbara Walters. Adrian pointed out an elegant woman and claimed she was a Jordanian princess. “I've heard she's a big patron of the arts.”

“What do you think people are saying about us?” I joked, squeezing tighter.

“Hmmm . . . ‘There's the prettiest librarian in the room, whatever does she see in that ruffian?'” Adrian was back to trilling each
r
like a dog wrestling with a chew toy, and he nuzzled his final word against my temple.

“Oh, please!” I whipped to face him, and tested out the kissable factor of my lipstick. “You're my diamond in the rough.”

“Pardon me . . . I couldn't help but overhear you say she was a librarian.” A slim gentleman approached, his business card extending from between two fingers. “
Town & Country
magazine
.
We're running a feature on the gala next week. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on the importance of tonight's benefit, from a librarian's perspective.”

“Oh goodness,” I said hastily. “I haven't worked for the library in several years, I don't know if I—you see . . .”

“Once a librarian, always a librarian.” Adrian stroked my arm fondly, and gave the man a winning smile. “I fell in love with her in a library.”

“Full circle,” the man murmured, taking notes in his head. “I'm afraid I must hurry to catch the library president before dinner begins, but please do call me this week. My cell and office numbers are on the card. I'd love to include both of you in the article.” With a pleased smile, he rushed off.

“Adrian!” I practically belted him with the brass knuckles of my evening bag. “Don't go telling tales out of school.”

“What? I did fall for you that day.” He grinned. “And each day after.”

“You had beer goggles that day.”

“That's tosh! I was smitten . . . even after I had sobered up. And it was Jack Daniels, for the record.” Adrian rocked back on his heels. “I'm surprised you let me within fifty feet of those children.”

“Well, let's not share
that
story with the press, okay?” Call it a lapse in judgment or a leap of faith, but I had believed
in Adrian Graves and the magic of his music that day, and he had not disappointed. “I'm sure they will run wild at the mere notion of the ‘librarian and rock star' stereotype.”

“Speaking of that day, Ms. Lew-
is
 . . . if you would be so good as to excuse me?”

“Going for a slash?” I couldn't resist teasing Adrian with the British slang he'd used upon our first meeting, causing him to erupt in a full-on belly laugh.

“Stop, please! Yes, before I burst.”

I gave his arm a push. “Go, you goof.” He gave a mock bow in thanks as he backed away, and then hurried off in the direction of the restrooms. Chuckling, I checked my phone. Luke had texted earlier, reporting that all was fine with Abbey, but I hadn't had a chance to respond. I quickly thumbed back:
Kiss her good night for me. You should see this place—unreal!

I glanced around, trying to decide if I could do any of the scenery justice by snapping a photo. My pro-photographer brother-in-law adored taking pictures of New York landmarks, and I was sure he would appreciate an exclusive peek, even through my not-so-very-artistic eye. I moved to snap a stealth photo of an elaborate pyre-like structure of birch logs that flanked a tall candelabrum.