Any Way You Want It. Kathy Love

      The one and only thought going through Ren’s mind was that he wanted to kiss this woman. She had a small mouth, bowlike, sweet, and he wanted desperately to taste it. But given the way she’d frozen when he’d touched her, he didn’t think she’d be very receptive to a kiss.

      Man, he’d lived this life way too long. Only in New Orleans, only in the bar scene, was it even remotely acceptable to make out with a woman that you’d said less than fifty words to. Add that he was a musician, and he could usually knock off another twenty-five words.

      But this woman wasn’t a part of that world…his world. She had an intelligence and innate innocence that was clear in her wide gray-green eyes. Even in the way she held herself—a little closed off, a little distant. As if she knew she was too close to something dangerous. The virtuous standing before the fires of hell.

      What? When had he gotten so colorful in his thought processes? Night after night of the same old rock and roll and the same debauchery had drained all the creativity out of him. Even back at his most creative, that image would have been a tad dramatic.

      For a moment, his gaze left her and focused on the building she’d pointed to earlier. A large, popular hotel…now. The original building, The Opera House, was gone. The beautiful building once filled with music and applause and talent, gone, reduced to ashes.

      Perhaps the fire analogy wasn’t so far off after all. It certainly was a good reminder of what could happen if he got too involved with a mortal. He destroyed them, and he could easily destroy all the appealing things he saw in her.

      But instead of walking away, as he should have, he returned his attention to her. Maggie. He studied the woman in front of him.

      Was it so wrong to simply talk with her? To let her freshness clear away a little of the dirt that had settled into him? But he wanted to do more than talk, didn’t he? That’s when things got tricky; that’s when he was playing with fire.

      Or rather, he was allowing her to play with fire. He slid another glance at the hotel, a looming reminder of how dangerous things could get if he went too far.

      But instead of ending things here and now, he asked, “So what do you do back in D.C.?” A safe enough question. For both of them.

      But again, she regarded him with a wariness that easily rivaled that of a cornered rabbit.

      “I’m an authenticator. I do a lot of work for the Smithsonian and other museums.”

      Interesting. “What do you authenticate?”

      Again she seemed reluctant to say, but she did. “I actually research and authenticate classical music.”

      Now it was Ren’s turn to freeze. Classical music. Was that why she’d reacted the way she had when he’d noticed her there at the stage, staring up at him as if she was seeing a ghost?

      Of course, she had been seeing a ghost. But there was no way she could know that. That piece had never been heard outside of his father’s music room. Played in public once—and then forgotten. Except by him. It was still there, even after he longed to forget it, forget that night.

      “You are a very good pianist,” he heard her say, and he shoved that long-ago night out of his mind.

      “Not really.”

      “That song you were playing at the beginning of the night—”

      “You know, it is late.”

      His abrupt words shut her down instantly. He knew they would. It wasn’t hard to crush a butterfly—and she was fragile and delicate as one. Just as he’d seen the pureness, he’d seen the vulnerability too, right from their first gaze.

      But he could not talk about this, even though she couldn’t possibly know who he was. He wasn’t a pianist anymore. He wasn’t a composer. Renaldo D’Antoni was dead. A ghost.

      “Oh,” she said, pink coloring her cheeks. “Right. I didn’t mean to—”

      He couldn’t listen to her apology when she had no reason for making one. “I just didn’t realize the time. And I have a long night tomorrow.”

      “Right,” she said again. Then she glanced around her, and for a moment he wondered what she was searching for. Then he recalled her friends.

      The two women appeared as if they’d been watching. They stepped out of the bar to join them on the street, right at her side once they were aware Maggie needed them.

      Ren liked that they’d remained close. New Orleans could be a dangerous city. It made him feel better to know his butterfly wasn’t alone.

      They flanked their friend like tall, lovely bodyguards.

      “Maggie,” the one with short brown hair asked, “who’s your friend?”

      Ren could tell the friend’s inquiry was really just a way to gauge Maggie’s feelings. He watched Maggie closely too, even though he knew her emotions. He could feel them in the air—she was embarrassed. He hated that feeling on her. It was like a noxious perfume, as noxious as her wariness. More so—because embarrassment also involved pain.

      But he managed to remain stoic as he offered a hand to the friend.

      “Hi, I’m Ren.”

      “Jo,” she said, not offering him a smile and only accepting his hand for a moment.

      Jo wasn’t a vampire, but she obviously could sense her friend was uncomfortable. Of course, Maggie’s emotions were easy to read, every one of them flashing in her eyes.

      “And I’m Erika,” the black-haired one said, regarding him with a small smile, and a look that was more speculative than judging.

      But both women were ready to protect their friend. That should have made him feel a lot better, but instead he was filled with an odd desire to join her friends’ ranks. Maggie seemed to need protection.

      Yeah, from you more than anyone, he thought.

      He immediately decided he’d been wrong to even approach this woman. She wasn’t his type. Totally wrong. He should have chatted up the buxom babes who’d shimmied on the dance floor all night.

      Maybe it wasn’t too late to find them. Then he looked back into Maggie’s big eyes, and a sinking feeling told him it was already way too late.

      “Nice to meet you all,” he said, stepping back from the women. “I hope you have a great time in New Orleans.” He didn’t even bother to temper the abrupt good-bye. The whole point was to make sure she didn’t return.

      Maggie Gallagher was a risk he couldn’t take. Who knew a butterfly could be so dangerous?

      Chapter 5

      Maggie picked up the beignet, taking a huge bite. Powdered sugar dotted the front of her shirt, and she didn’t rush to brush the powder away. Instead, she closed her eyes and savored the mixture of chewy dough, sweet sugar, and just enough grease to make the pastry heavenly. Yes, she was comfort-eating, and she really did not care.

      “That guy was a twit,” Jo said, pulling off a corner of her beignet and popping it in her mouth. Erika nodded, doing the same thing with her pastry. Neither of them had a speck of sugar on their clothes. Damn them.

      “What was his name again? Ren? What kind of name is that?” Erika rolled her eyes as if the man’s name was an offense to the human race,