Sunshine Beach (10 page)

“Just text and let me know where to pick you up on Sunday,” Nikki said to Maddie late that afternoon as she pulled the Jag up to the curb in front of SunSpot Studios. “On second thought, maybe you should just give me a call.”

Maddie didn't respond to the jab about her texting. She was too busy searching for her backbone, the one that would allow her to open the door, get out of the car, then walk through the front door of the recording studio.

“Maddie?”

“Hmmm?” Her eyes were trained on the small sign above the entry of the perfectly ordinary-looking office building.

“You're not getting ready to walk the plank. You're here to watch Will record. And to enjoy yourself.”

“Absolutely.” Maddie grasped the door handle and eased out of the Jag. She stood on the sidewalk for a few moments holding her carryall in a death grip.
You're here to support Will. To be with Will.
“Thanks for the ride.”

She watched Nikki drive away before crossing the sidewalk. Pushing through the front door, she entered a lobby
done in cool grays and blacks with pops of turquoise and lots of glass and chrome. The glossy black reception desk was occupied by a stunning redhead in her early twenties. On the wall behind the desk, bold black letters spelled out
SunSpot Studios
.

The redhead looked her up and down. “Can I help you?” she asked in a tone that was neither warm nor welcoming and not at all helpful.

“Um, yes. I'm here for a recording session.” Maddie squared her shoulders, lifted her chin.

“Oh?” A beautifully shaped eyebrow sketched upward. The girl had flawless skin, delicate features, and even white teeth. Her green eyes turned appraising and Maddie could feel her taking in the “mom” jeans and the less-than-firm flesh she'd gone to such lengths to camouflage. It took everything she had to resist the overwhelming urge to suck in her stomach. “I'm a . . . guest of William Hightower.”

The eyes lit with surprise. That surprise was tinged with doubt. “Your name?”

“Madeline Singer.”

The redhead pulled out a clipboard. Her eyes skimmed down it. Stopped. Widened. She looked Maddie up and down once more. “Let me buzz the studio.” She held the receiver to her ear, not meeting Maddie's eyes. “Yes, I have a Madeline Singer here for . . . Oh. Yes. Okay.” She turned to Maddie with a puzzled expression. “Aaron will be right . . .” Before she could finish, a thirtysomething young man with intentionally messy brown hair, a boyish face, and a salesman's smile was striding toward her. “There you are, Maddie! I can call you Maddie, can't I?” He grasped her hand in his and looked her directly in the eye. “I'm Aaron Mann. Aquarian Records. Will's setting up to lay down the guitar tracks. Let me take you back to the control room.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope Sabrina offered you something to drink?”

The redhead's face fell.

“Yes, of course,” Maddie said. “But, I'm fine, thanks.”

“Well you just speak up if you need anything,” Aaron said. “Anything at all. We have instructions from Will to take good care of you.”

Sabrina's beautiful mouth gaped slightly. Maddie couldn't resist aiming a smile and a wink her way.

Aaron talked the whole way down a narrow hall and around a corner emitting a barrage of words that flowed right over her until they reached the control room, which was furnished with a leather sectional, chrome and glass tables, and lighting so low that stomach sucking seemed unnecessary. Plexiglas-framed album covers decorated the walls. A control board that looked like it could pilot a jumbo jetliner stretched beneath a thick glass partition that overlooked a studio. The engineer who sat behind it was wiry with gnarled hands, tattooed arms, and a graying ponytail. He nodded briefly when Aaron introduced them. “Nice to meet you. I'm Wiley,” he said in the raspy voice of a lifetime smoker before turning back to the microphone that hung in front of him. “Can you give me that again, Will?”

Maddie stepped closer to the glass, where she could see Will sitting on a stool in a darkened corner, his face illuminated by a single spotlight, a microphone in front of him. With a nod of his head he began to pick out the melody. His eyes were closed, his expression more peaceful than she'd ever seen it except in sleep. His fingers moved as if of their own accord. Each note that played from the speakers and reverberated in the control room sounded almost ethereal. She held her breath as she watched and listened. Even Aaron had fallen silent. It was like watching a bird take flight. Or a child reaching for its mother. Or praying in church.

When the last note sounded, no one moved. She thought
she heard the engineer sigh as Will adjusted his headphones and reached for a bottle of water. “I'd like to try that again,” he said after he'd taken a swig.

The engineer snorted, then flipped a switch to answer. “Hell, no,” he said, not even bothering to look at let alone ask Aaron. “I am not screwing around with perfection.” He switched off the microphone and shot Maddie an oddly sweet smile. “Will and me worked together a good bit back in the day. I almost forgot what a perfectionist he is. Even stoned out of his mind he'd never quit trying to make it better.” His gnarled hands moved bars and adjusted levers. “Why don't you go on in there and keep him from arguing while I get set up for the next tracks?”

The last of her discomfort faded when she entered the studio and Will's face lit up.

“Well there you are, Maddie-fan. I was thinking maybe you'd changed your mind.” He set his guitar in its stand and walked to her, taking her in his arms and deftly turning her back to the control room as he brought his lips down on hers. The kiss was long and thorough, so thorough that Maddie's initial self-consciousness disappeared and she began to forget not only who she was, but where they were.

An exaggerated throat clearing sounded in the studio. “Sorry to interrupt you all,” Wiley's voice rang out. “But the guys have gone all polite and whatnot. They're waiting to come in and cut the next tracks.”

“Oh!” Maddie's head shot up. Her knees, which had begun to resemble Jell-O, stiffened.

“Don't waste one single second being embarrassed, Maddie,” Will said as he let her out of the embrace but kept one arm around her waist. “I can promise you that was tame compared to the things that these guys have seen.”

“No doubt,” she said as the studio door opened and his bandmates Kyle, Dean, and Robert walked in grinning and
pretending to cover their eyes. Despite their effusive greetings and Will's assurances, Maddie could feel her cheeks heating. They'd picked up their instruments and were teasing Will unmercifully as the studio door shut behind her. But as she took her seat back in the control room, she still couldn't help wondering whether Will missed having “the wild” tacked onto his name.

Although she was more than a little ashamed of her wussiness, Nicole put off the conversation about Annelise Handleman and her expectations until Sunday morning. It was the middle of May, warm but not yet hot. They'd spent most of Saturday out on the boat and most of Saturday night in bed.

She woke slowly and reluctantly to sun streaming in through the sliding glass doors and the lovely scent of coffee brewing. She stretched and yawned and pulled the sheet up to her chin. It smelled of Joe and of their lovemaking, the memory of which twisted her lips up into a smile. She felt a hazy contentment steal over her, a sensation that was unfamiliar and unsettling.

Her smile fled. She did not do contentment. She had not pulled herself out of poverty by being hazy. Nor had she reinvented herself by relying on others. When she'd loved too much, her own brother had taken advantage of that weakness. At the thought of Malcolm her stomach twisted. The situation with Annelise wasn't the only one she'd been sidestepping.

“Are you awake?” Joe stood in the bedroom doorway in an old pair of running shorts, his bare chest tanned and lightly chiseled. A dusting of dark hair arrowed downward.

“Um-hmmm.” The sight of his naked torso banished Malcolm from her thoughts and reminded her of her own nakedness. She sat up, pulling the sheet with her, though given what had transpired between them the night before and the night before that, it was undoubtedly a bit late for modesty.

“Are you ready for breakfast?”

She stretched again. “God, you're going to spoil me. Food, wine, sex. You're a hard man to resist.”

“You've figured out my game plan.” His smile was easy, his body and face relaxed. But his eyes were sharp as he came and sat on the side of the bed. “Now, why don't you tell me what it is you're worried about?”

She pulled the sheet tighter under her chin. “You're not planning to get out the rubber hose and the bare light bulb, are you?”

“Not unless I need to.” His tone remained easy as he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then traced the curve of her jaw with one finger.

She shivered slightly at his touch. “Is this some sort of advanced technique devised by the FBI?”

“No, I just like touching you. But if it helps loosen your, um, lips, I might need to research the possibilities further.” His eyes dropped to the outline of her breasts beneath the sheet, which were practically begging for his touch. She crossed her arms over them, the traitors.

Gently, he placed his hands on either side of her, then leaned in to kiss her. Her eyes fluttered shut as his fingers trailed down her neck and skimmed across the sheet.

“I can't believe you think you can seduce it out of me.” Her voice came out in an embarrassing croak.

“I'm not sure who's seducing whom,” he said, smiling down at her. “You can tell me what's bothering you before or after, but I don't think there's any question that we're going to make love.” He lowered his head again and pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. To the hollow of her throat.

His fingers reached for the sheet, but she held on to it. If they made love now, she'd never say what she needed to. Or maybe she'd say too much. “I promised Renée's sister you'd come talk with her so she could be sure she was comfortable with you.” She closed her eyes but had no idea whether it was a feeble attempt to hide from his reaction. Or her own.

“She wants to interview me?” It wasn't irritation but amusement she heard in his voice. “Do I need to bring a résumé? References?” She opened her eyes to find him grinning. “Maybe she'd like to talk to my direct superior?” His hand settled on the sheet over her thigh. “I have no problem reassuring her that I'll do whatever I can to help.”

She looked away, unable to meet his eyes, and she could feel him studying her. When she forced her gaze up to his, the last vestiges of his smile were gone.

“I don't understand why it's so hard for you to ask me for anything when I've offered you everything,” he said quietly.

She pulled the sheet tighter, sat up straighter. “I hate asking. Especially when I can't offer anything in return.” She hesitated briefly, then forced herself to continue. “I can't go talk to Malcolm. I want to help you and, and, everybody. But I . . . I know I told you I'd do it, but I can't. Even thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach.”

She waited, miserable. Afraid he'd get up and storm off, afraid he wouldn't. He'd gone very still but she couldn't read his face anywhere near as easily as he could read hers. “You're mad, aren't you?”

“I am,” he said. Though he didn't raise his voice, it had turned decidedly cool. “But not because you can't talk to Malcolm. I'm angry that you don't seem able to take me at my word. That after all this time together you don't really know me and don't seem to want to. To me a real relationship is not a quid pro quo. My speaking to Annelise and asking the locals to take another look isn't dependent on you talking to Malcolm. It isn't dependent on anything.”

“But . . . I can't let you do that when I . . .”

“You're not
letting me
. I insist.” He searched her face for something, but she could tell by the way his eyes shuttered that he hadn't found it. When he spoke again, his voice had gone a few degrees cooler and was as sharp-edged as a knife. “I've always assumed I'd ultimately convince you that we
belong together for good. But I don't know.” He removed his hand from her thigh. “It looks like I've grossly overestimated my abilities of persuasion. And just how much you actually care about me.” Each word sliced through her, but it was the way he was looking at her that hurt the most. As if he were finally seeing her—the real her—for the first time. Just as she'd always feared he would.

“It's not . . . I . . .” Now when she needed them most, the right words eluded her. Her head fairly echoed with the old “It's not you, it's me,” which was completely true. But she couldn't toss clichés at him now. Not when she could feel everything hanging in the balance, could feel him shutting down. Shutting her out. Looking at her as he had when they'd first met and she was nothing more to him than a potential link to the man he'd set out to apprehend.