Always On Her Mind: Playing for Keeps / To Tame a Cowboy / All He Ever Wanted. Emily McKay
him.”
“We share a lot of history.” Understatement of the year.
“And we’re nosy. Just ignore us both, and let’s enjoy the concert.”
Grateful to have the spotlight off her for now at least, she turned her attention to the stage, where the focus narrowed to a true spotlight on a lone bar stool with a guitar propped against it.
Malcolm sat, his foot on the lowest rung, and settled the guitar on his knee. “I have a new song to share with you tonight, a simple song straight from the heart….”
The heart? She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she thought of how he’d vowed he didn’t believe the love songs he sang. She watched with a new, more jaded perspective.
With the first stroke of his fingers along the strings, Celia gasped. Her stomach knotted in recognition.
Each strum of the acoustic, unplugged moment confirmed her fears, touched her soul and rattled her to her core. A completely low blow, unfair—and designed to bring her to her knees. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream as he sang the first notes of the song he’d written for her years ago.
He sang “Playing for Keeps.”
The strains of “Playing for Keeps” echoed in his head even after he’d finished the last encore, reminding him of a time when he’d actually believed that idea. The audience ate up the simple melody and sappy premise.
Exiting stage right, he began to doubt the wisdom of rolling out that old tune to soften up Celia. He couldn’t read her face in the shadowy wings, but he damn well knew his insides were a raw mess. Thank God his Alpha Brotherhood buddies were backstage with her, a wall of protection behind her while a couple of the wives kept her company. So his pals had her back—and his—until he could get himself on level ground.
This whole trip down memory lane was a double-edged sword, but he wouldn’t lose sight of the goal. He and Celia needed to see this through. To settle the past before they could move forward with the future. The applause and cheers swelling behind him meant nothing if he couldn’t find some resolution with Celia.
God, she was gorgeous in a silky sapphire dress with a hint of ruffle teasing her knees. And the plunging neckline—he couldn’t look away, especially as throughout the concert she’d toyed with those tiny strands of pearls twisted together. Her feminine curves had always driven him to his knees and drained him of the ability to think. But holy hell, he could feel.
Turned on and turned inside out.
He wanted to have her naked in his arms again more than he wanted air. More than he wanted another concert or even another assignment. Getting into her bed again had become his mission of the moment. She was, and always had been, the woman he wanted more than any other.
As he drew closer to her, though, he realized he’d made a big, big mistake with the song. Her lips were tight, her eyes sparking with anger and something even worse.
Pain.
Crap. The sight of her distress sucker punched him. He’d meant to tap into her emotions, not hurt her.
Stepping into the backstage shadows, he reached out to her. “Celia—”
She held up both hands, keeping an arm’s distance between them. “Great concert. Fans adored that new love song of yours. Congratulations. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m ready to turn in for the night. Looks like I have plenty of guards, so you’re officially absolved of protective detail.”
With a brittle smile, she pivoted on her heel and walked away, pushing through the crowd double-time.
Hillary Donavan studied him with perceptive eyes before nudging Jayne to join her in racing to catch up with Celia. Bodyguards melted from the backstage melee, encircling the women in an almost-imperceptible bubble of protection.
Malcolm slumped against a pallet of backup amps. How could he win over stadiums full of people yet still be clueless when it came to this one woman?
A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he damn near jumped out of his skin. Troy Donavan stood beside him to his left, Conrad Hughes to his right. The international casino magnate was a lot less brooding these days since he’d reconciled with his wife.
Troy thumped Malcolm between the shoulder blades again. “Woman troubles?”
“Always,” Malcolm said simply.
Troy charged alongside. “My advice? Give her space—”
Conrad interrupted, “But not so long that she thinks you’re avoiding her.”
Troy continued, “Enough time to cool down about whatever lame-ass thing you did.”
Fair enough and true enough, except, “I can’t afford to give her space, not with—”
“A stalker.” Troy finished his sentence. “Right. She has guards. We’ll be in the room next to hers playing cards. Meanwhile, smile your way through the reporters and let’s get back to the penthouse.”
An offer his stressed-out brain could not resist.
The limo ride through the night streets of Paris with the Arc de Triomphe glowing in the distance was as awkward as hell. With Celia looking anywhere but at him, the others in the vehicle made small talk to fill the empty air.
Finally—thank God, finally—they reached their historic hotel. The women smiled their way past reporters as they charged up the steps between stone lions. And before Malcolm could say “What the hell?” he found himself staring at Celia’s closed door in the penthouse suite.
He turned back to the spacious living room connecting all the bedrooms. While he tried not to take the wealth for granted, the carved antiques and gilded wood were wasted on him tonight. His longtime buddies were all doing a piss-poor job of covering their grins.
“Gentlemen.” Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his bristled jaw. “There’s no reason for the rest of you to hang out here in the doghouse with me. Granted, it’s a luxurious doghouse. So enjoy your cards and order up whatever you want on my tab. But I’m done for the night.”
Troy straddled a chair at the table in the suite’s dining area. “Like hell. We’re not letting you check out on us any more than you would let us leave. The rest of our party should be arriving right about—”
The private elevator to the penthouse dinged with the arrival of …
The rest of the party? Crap.
The brass doors slid open in the hall to reveal three men, each one an alumni of the North Carolina Prep School. Alpha Brotherhood comrades. And recruits of Salvatore for Interpol.
Malcolm’s concerts gave them the perfect excuse for reunions. First out of the elevator, Elliot Starc, a Formula One driver who’d just been dumped by his fiancée for playing as hard and fast as he drove. Behind him, Dr. Rowan Boothe, the golden-boy saint of the bunch who devoted his life to saving AIDS/HIV orphans in Africa. And lastly, Malcolm’s manager, Adam Logan, aka The Shark, who would do anything to keep his clients booked and in the news.
Shoving away from the window, Malcolm shrugged off his jacket, which still bore the hint of sweat from the concert. “We’re gonna need a bigger table.”
His manager grinned. “Food and drinks are on the way up.” He took his chair at the far side. “There are going to be a lot of brokenhearted fans out there once they realize this thing with Celia isn’t just a new fling.”
There was no escaping his pals, who knew him so well. Better to meet their questions head-on—and bluff. “Logan, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
Conrad shuffled the cards smoothly. “Seriously, brother,