Love's Rhythm (2 page)

Closing his eyes, he scrubbed at his face. What should he do?

Find her. If for no other reason than to…

What?

He didn’t know. Say sorry?

Yes.

An image of Lauren filled his mind, her lips parted in a smile as she slid the key into the lock of their newly rented apartment. Their future was so clear-cut then. He would be a famous musician and she would be a successful, well-loved teacher. A happy-ever-after to write songs about.
Their
happy-ever-after.

Opening his eyes, he un-crumpled the wedding invitation in his hands and read the gold embossed script there once again.

Mack and Aidan’s wedding. Two people who were meant to be together from the get-go. Two lovers who became a happy-ever-after Nick knew would last forever.

The lump in his throat sank into his chest, growing heavier, almost painful in its pressure. Damn it, he didn’t want to take just
anyone
to Mack and Aidan’s wedding. He wanted to take Lauren. And if that meant taking Lauren’s more-than-likely husband and their more-than-likely brood of adorable children, he would take them too. And afterwards, he’d kiss her cheek, look into her eyes and tell her how monumentally sorry he was for fucking up, for hurting her. And once he did that he’d leave, letting her get on with
her
happy-ever-after. Maybe, if the gods of music and lyrics were nice to him, he’d find a song in the pain he knew his heart would become.

He reached into his back pocket, withdrew his phone and dialed Frankie Winchester.

His agent answered on the second ring, her voice a low, husky laugh. “I just got a very pissed call from my dad, Nick.”

Nick snorted. “So Aslin’s let him go, I take it?”

“From what I can figure out from Walter’s incensed ranting, that walking mountain you call a bodyguard threatened to shove Dad’s dick in Dad’s throat if he came after you.”

“Err…sorry about that.”

Frankie laughed again. “Don’t apologise. He’s my dad and your record producer, but we both know he’s a heartless money-hungry prick. Now, tell me why you up and walked out of the first recording-studio session you’ve had since that miraculous event I like to call Nick’s second coming.”

Nick chuckled. “That’s what you call it, eh?”

“That’s what I call it. When I saw the phone footage of you singing “Tropical Sin” at Bandicoot Cove I knew you were back. When I saw that same footage hit over four-hundred million hits on YouTube I knew you weren’t just back but reborn. Who is she and where do I send the thank-you flowers?”

Nick’s heart slammed hard in his ears. For a moment he thought of playing it cool, just to string Frankie along a bit. She wasn’t soulless like her father, but she was just as ruthless and tenacious when she wanted to be. One of the reasons she was such a brilliant agent. Married life had softened her acerbic tongue somewhat, but when it came to her job, she was still brutal. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time for messing with Frankie Winchester this morning, even in jest.

He swallowed, knowing what was about to come next. “I need you to find out where Lauren Robbins is.”

As he suspected, Frankie was silent. For a good ten seconds. She knew exactly who Lauren Robbins was. In fact, she was one of the few people who truly did. “Is this your heart asking, Nick?” she finally said, all mirth and bite gone from her voice. “Or something foolish like your head?”

“Both, Frankie. I want to ask her to come to a wedding with me.”

There was another short silence. “Are you sure you’re ready to open that particular closet again?”

Nick drew in a long breath and let it out with a shaky sigh. “Yeah. I am. Nick’s second coming isn’t finished yet, Frankie. Until I open that closet I can’t close it for good, can I?”

He heard his agent chuckle. “Okay. Although something tells me closing the door isn’t what you have in mind. Good for you, boyo.”

Nick shook his head, smiling. “Married life has turned you into a romantic, Mrs. Harris.”

Frankie chuckled once more. “Yeah, yeah, tell anyone and I’ll sic my husband onto you. He could bury you under a pile of manure in forty seconds flat. Now, give me a couple of hours. I’ll call you back.”

She disconnected without a goodbye, leaving Nick grinning in the street. He felt good. Nervous as shit, but good. What had begun as a new chapter of his life two years ago, when he’d not only discovered that he was adopted but also that he had a kid brother, was now becoming
the
chapter. The chapter that would decide where Nick Blackthorne would go next. Here he was, world-famous rock star about to lay his heart on the line to the woman whose heart he’d torn out and cast aside fifteen years ago. He had no idea how it was going to pan out, but he felt good.

Now all he needed was an address.

And the guts to find himself there.

Chapter Two

Twenty-two six-year-olds gazed up at her, some with snotty-noses—it was winter, after all—some with wind-kissed cheeks, all with wide eyes and open mouths. All silent and enrapt. All sitting motionless on the reading rug.

Wombat Stew
. Worked every time.

Lauren Robbins turned the page of the classic Australian picture book, revealing a colourful illustration of a dingo stirring an iron pot while the poor wombat watched. Unbeknownst to the dingo, however, the wombat’s friends were about to teach him a lesson. Lauren gave her class a sideways grin before effecting a shocked expression, waiting to see who would spot the other animals’ plan first.

“‘The very clever Dingo stirred and stirred’,” she read, letting the singsong quality of the narrative dance through her voice. She watched the children’s reaction, her lips curling at the first hint of a comprehension. Thomas Missen was the first. The little boy realised the dingo was going to be without his stew a mere heartbeat earlier than Rachel Jones to his left. As the words of the story rolled off Lauren’s tongue, the rest of the class caught up, giggling and squirming with delight as the lucky wombat escaped being devoured by the egotistical dingo thanks to the help of his clever friends.

“Again!” Thomas cried when—the last page read—she closed the book and placed it gently on her lap, cover down.

“Again!” the rest of the class called out, eyes bright and wide and happy.

She let out a sigh and shook her head. “Alas, my cherubs, the day is almost done. Any minute now the bell will sound and you will all flee to your homes, forgetting all about me and the wombat and the hungry dingo.”

“No we won’t.” As one, all twenty-two students shook their heads emphatically, their expressions part mortified she would suggest such a thing, part frantic the bell would indeed ring before the afternoon ritual was complete and the book read again.

She huffed out another melodramatic sigh, slumping her shoulders and pouting out her bottom lip. “And I shall be left here with a messy room because my sweet, impatient students neglected to tidy their desks and tuck their chairs under their—”

Before she could finish, the six-year-olds were on their feet, scrambling for their tiny work areas, shoving papers and books and pencils into their respective places and pushing chairs with gusto beneath knee-high tables.

Lauren watched them, unable to contain her smile. As always, their enthusiasm for the simple joys of life—an entertaining book and a soft rug on which to sit—made her happy. The innocent joy of a child. Unlike the unpredictable moodiness of a teenager. The thought drew a grimace and she shook her head. She’d deal with the teenager when she got home. For now, it was her kindergarteners and
Wombat Stew
.

“Please, Miss Robbins—” Thomas was back on the rug, back ram-rod straight, legs perfectly crossed, hands on knees, elbows locked, “—again.”

Twenty-one children all but flew to the carpeted area to join him in his plea, all eyes wide and fixed on her, their small bodies squirming with pent-up delight and anticipation.

She cast their desks an exaggerated inspection from her low reading chair, her fingers curled around the edge of the picture book on her lap. “
Well
,” she drew out the word, knowing what was coming next.

“Please, Miss Robbins!” the class erupted as one, a jubilant cacophony of young voices. “Please, please, please?”

She rolled her eyes and wriggled her bottom, grinning at them as she made a show of lifting
Wombat Stew
from her lap. “Oh, okay then. One more time, but only because you asked nicely.”

Her class giggled, a short burst of laughter that fell to elated silence when she opened the book to page one.

“‘One fine day, on the banks of a billabong, a very clever dingo caught a wombat…’”

The rest of the book was listened to with just as much enthusiasm and appreciation as the first two readings, and by the time the bell
did
ring for the day’s end, Lauren was more in love with it than before. It was a perfect way to end the day—quiet children hanging on to every word she uttered, an almost tidy room and Saturday and Sunday waiting for her on the other side of the door. As soon as she finished packing everything away, her weekend would begin. She’d take a relaxing walk to her car on the other side of the school to unwind, the cool winter air a refreshing kiss on her skin. The traditional after-work margaritas with Jen would come next, then it was a weekend spent with Josh doing little but watching movies and experimenting with the new fondue thingamabob she’d won in the school’s last fund-raising guessing competition. How she knew there were exactly 2,442 M&Ms in old Mr. Bateman’s milking bucket was beyond her, but hey, she wasn’t going to turn down a thingamabob that gave her an excuse to eat melted chocolate, was she?

Forty minutes after the last child waved goodbye, Lauren collected her bag, a rather beat-up leather satchel someone she refused to think about had given her during a life she
also
refused to think about. She slung the satchel over her shoulder, checked that the class goldfish, SpongeBob, had been given his weekend feed-block and exited her room, closing the door behind her.

The sky had already begun to turn pink with dusk by the time she’d made her way halfway across the small school’s smaller playground. Winter played with the leaves and branches of the ancient gum trees standing guard around the grassed area that served as a Stuck-in-the-Mud arena, a marble-playing stadium and, for the older students, a Catch-and-Kiss amphitheater. She lifted her face into the whispering rasp of the breeze, taking a deep breath of the unpolluted afternoon. That she had ended up here, in Murriundah, the parochial country town she’d grown up in five hours away from Sydney, didn’t surprise her in the slightest.

Well, not any more. She had to admit, fifteen years ago she’d thought she’d kind of be anywhere else but—

“Hello, Lauren,” a deep male voice said behind her.

Lauren squealed. An honest to goodness squeal. At the same exact second she spun on her heel and swung her satchel, weighed down with two textbooks, her uneaten lunch, car keys, half-empty water bottle, twenty-two hand-drawn self-portraits tucked in a sturdy cardboard folder, her purse and her iPad.

The satchel smashed into the temple of the man standing behind her.

There was a solid thud, a surprised
oof
, followed by an even more surprised, “shit that hurt,” before the man went down like a bag of bricks, collapsing to the ground in one fluid, graceful drop. No, not just the man, the rock star. The rock star the whole world idolised, the one who’d grown up in this very parochial town with her.

The rock star who’d stolen her heart in that life she refused to think about.

Lauren’s mouth fell open. Her pulse turned into a sledgehammer. She stared at the motionless man lying at her feet, refusing to believe what her eyes were telling her. Nick Blackthorne was here in Murriundah, and she’d rendered him unconscious with the very satchel he’d given to her fifteen years ago.

“Oh, no.”

The words were a whispered breath. She dropped to her knees, the ground’s winter-damp seeping through the linen of her trousers as she reached out with one hand and gave Nick’s shoulder a gentle push. “Nick?”

He didn’t move.

Oh boy, Lauren, you’ve KOed the world’s biggest rock star.

She shoved him again, a little harder this time. “Nick?”

He didn’t make a sound. Not a bloody one.

“Shit.”

Her heart slammed into her throat, just as hard as the satchel had hit his head. She licked her lips and brushed a strand of his black hair from his forehead. He was just as gorgeous as always. Older, yes. He was almost thirty-seven after all, but the years looked good on him, so good. In fact, they suited him. When he’d been a teenager, he’d been god-like in his beauty. When he was in his twenties, that god-like beauty had verged on painful to look at. She’d spent many nights lying in the bed they’d shared for a year and a half, gazing at him while he slept, wondering at his perfection, her belly knotting with love, her sex constricting with longing. And then it had become just her bed, Nick nothing but a ghost in her heart.

She’d stopped reading articles about him somewhere in his late twenties, knowing each one would only make her stupid heart ache. But it was impossible to avoid seeing images of him. He kept popping up on the national news. Australia loved one of their own, especially when they’d won a Grammy or Billboard Award, or when they were dating Hollywood royalty or British royalty, something Nick Blackthorne seemed to do on a regular basis. Even worse was the local
Murriundah Herald
, the small newspaper constantly keeping the town aware of their famous
son
and his activities. Those images were hard to escape, and when she had let herself stare at them for longer than a heartbeat, she’d noticed his late twenties and early thirties only elevated his looks to a lived-in sexiness. The tiny seams around his eyes, the lines by his nose, they all heightened what she’d never forgotten—Nick Blackthorne was a sexy, sexy man. And now here he was, unconscious on his side in the Murriundah Public School’s muddy playground, looking even sexier than she remembered.