What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella: What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella
- -
- 100%
- +
The breeze changed direction. Fountain mist drifted toward Rachel, forcing her to move closer. She wasn’t wearing perfume today but she still smelled seductive. How did she do that? Maybe he shouldn’t torment her by making things up. He and Mark had eaten at Katherine’s, then been cleaned out in a friendly poker game with her elderly neighbor before the kid caught the 9:00 p.m. ferry.
Rachel said way too casually, “I didn’t think you knew many people here.” Fishing.
He took the pills she offered, shiny in their silver foil. “Heartbreaker, when you’re a rock star you can always find people to party with.” There was no bitterness in the observation. He’d long ago accepted that his real friends were people he knew before he’d become famous.
Except they were still treating him as fragile. Another reason to stay away from L.A. He was too close to broken to shrug off someone else’s doubt. How ironic that the only person who looked at him without deference or sympathy was this woman.
“Well, the last ferry from Waiheke leaves at midnight,” Rachel ventured. “So I don’t suppose things got too out of hand.”
She’d checked the ferry timetable? Her concern for Mark seemed a little excessive. “Oh, I have plenty of room for sleepovers and no one minds three to a bed.” Her lovely mouth tightened. “But it was all pretty tame … some bourbon, coke …” Devin winked to make sure she’d make the connection to the drug, not the beverage. “A hot tub filled with twenty of my closest friends, and rock blasting over the sound system …”
He noticed as he ran out of rock star clichés that she’d slid almost to the other end of the fountain edge, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek. “It was a spontaneous thing or I would have invited you. We could have done with some classier chicks.”
Devin had a sudden image of her in a hot tub, incongruous and unexpectedly appealing. It had been too long since he’d had sex, but the months of therapy and rehab had left him feeling like a peeled onion, exposed and vulnerable.
“Was Mark with you?” she asked bluntly.
“The kid? Hmm, let me just think…. We started the evening together. So hard to recognize people when they’re naked and wet.” He stopped when he saw the stricken look in her eyes. “I’m kidding.”
“Please leave him alone.”
He frowned, puzzled. “Who is that boy to you?”
For a split second Rachel looked guilty. “No one. I … I just don’t like seeing minors being led astray.”
Devin’s sympathy evaporated. Ignoring the fact that he’d just given her reasons to be concerned, he got pissed. She was being officious, no doubt basing her assumptions on what she read in the press. Well, if she expected depravity …
“If you don’t want me corrupting minors, then give me someone my own age to play with.” Lazily, his gaze traveled down her body, deliberately provocative.
Angry color flooded Rachel’s cheeks. She stood. “Grow up!”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Devin stood, too, stretched and yawned. “You know, I like a feisty woman, and this heartbreaker reputation of yours has me intrigued. Any time you want to take a ride with me—”
“I wouldn’t take a walk with you, cowboy,” she interrupted heatedly, “let alone a drive.”
“Darlin,’ “ he drawled, “who said anything about a car?”
BY WEDNESDAY OF THE following week, Rachel had confronted an unpalatable truth. Mark was deliberately avoiding her. She knew he’d been into the library because his online history showed he’d been taking out books. But he was obviously timing his visits around her shifts.
She’d blown it, warning him against Devin. In hindsight, it had been a stupid thing to do. But she seemed unable to do anything except react to her emotions where her son was concerned.
The yearning to see him was terrible, as bad as giving him up had been.
Fortunately, he’d struck an acquaintance with Trixie—it seemed only Rachel couldn’t make friends with him—so she was able to gather crumbs of information. It was through Trixie that she knew Mark still spent time with Devin. Apparently the rocker had become some sort of musical mentor, which Trixie thought was the coolest thing to happen to Mark, and which Rachel thought was the absolute worst.
But what could she do about it?
As she walked to the downtown parking lot after her shift, a thread of music in the city cacophony distracted her from her gloomy musings. Glancing up, she saw Mark strumming guitar with another teenager outside The Body Shop, their voices straining over the blare and honk of rush hour traffic. A meager collection of coins lay scattered in an open guitar case. Rachel stepped into a nearby doorway where she could watch unobserved.
Mark’s reluctance was evident as he joined in the choruses; he obviously knew he had an indifferent singing voice. She was to blame for that. The other boy’s voice was stronger and well served by a song that was both melodic and haunting.
She wasn’t an expert, but Rachel could see nothing in his performance to excite a music legend into mentorship. Her fingers tightened on her bag. Was that relationship more payback from Devin?
He’d breezed into the library several times this week, always calling across the room, “Keep me posted about that ride, won’t you, Heartbreaker.” Rachel had fielded a lot of interested questions from fellow staff members who were agog at the thought of one of their own attracting a rocker.
As if.
She knew damn well that Devin was baiting her as punishment for sticking her nose in something that didn’t concern her. What she couldn’t judge was how much of that depravity was feigned to annoy her.
In her worst moments, she even considered telling Devin the truth. But Rachel had kept this secret too long to trust it to an undisciplined rocker who probably had looser lips than Jagger.
The song finished; the buskers took a break. Flipping his hair out of his eyes, Mark caught sight of Rachel and scowled. She responded with a tentative smile and stepped forward. “Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”
“I don’t need another lecture.”
“I want to apologize.”
He searched her face, then shrugged. “Back in a sec, Ray.” They walked down the side street a few feet. It was quieter here. She steeled herself.
“I know my concern seemed intrusive—”
“It was the disloyalty that got me.”
She swallowed. “Disloyalty?”
“To Devin,” Mark said impatiently. “I mean, the guy’s your friend.”
“Oh.”
“He’s the one you should be apologizing to.”
Rachel murmured noncommittally and Mark’s expression grew even sterner.
“Especially when he agreed with you that he was a bad influence.”
That surprised her. “He did?”
“At least until you read him the riot act. Then he said I could hang out with him as much as I like.” Mark grinned. “Maybe I should accept your apology.”
Rachel bit her lip. So she’d provoked Devin into doing the very thing she’d set out to prevent. Mark really was better off without her. Except … this was the only chance she’d ever have to know him. “So are we okay again?” Will you stop avoiding me?
“I guess.” He was already looking beyond her as he waved to his mate. “Yeah, coming! So is that all you wanted?” He was taller than her by a few inches. Amazing.
Through force of will she matched his casualness. “Yes, that’s all.” As he walked away, Rachel knew she’d never be anything to him other than as the loopy librarian. Unless … “Mark?”
He turned back impatiently. “Yeah?”
“I will think about apologizing to Devin.”
He nodded in approval; she basked in it all the way to the parking lot.
She’d always had one imperative for her son. To keep him safe. And that hadn’t changed.
If the only way to Mark was through Devin Freedman, then so be it.
In the driver’s seat of her Honda hatchback, she passed a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted. She felt as if she was on a teeter-totter, up one minute, down the next. For years she’d worked hard to achieve serenity. Her childhood had held no security … even the long periods of relative peace were the only uneasy calm before an impending storm.
As an adult she’d organized her life into neat compartments. Now the drawer was a jumble again.
She needed to start thinking smarter. Apologizing wasn’t a fix; somehow she had to scrutinize that damn man. Then she could judge him herself.
An idea occurred to her and she grew thoughtful. If she befriended the rocker, then Mark’s attitude would soften toward her, providing an opportunity to get to know her son.
Not quite the threesome Devin had had in mind when he’d tried to shock her. Rachel chuckled. She’d thought of a way to get what she wanted and extract a little revenge on Mr. Rock Star.
The next day when Devin called across the library, “When are you going to put me out of my misery, Heartbreaker?” Rachel smiled.
“Right now.”
THINKING HE’D MISHEARD, Devin moved closer. “Excuse me?”
Rachel beamed at him. “I’m saying yes to a date. Well, really, it’s a way of apologizing for hurting your feelings last week.”
Hurting his … Okay, now he knew she was joking. “I realize I was out of line,” she continued earnestly, “and this is my way of making it up to you.”
Devin folded his arms, leaned on the counter and waited for the punch line. And waited.
“How does tonight sound?”
Good God, she was serious. He was so flummoxed he couldn’t think of an excuse. “Umm …”
“Seven o’clock suit you?” Without waiting for a response, she wrote it in her diary in neat script.
“Look, this really isn’t necessary. No hard feelings.”
“No, I insist. And my goodness, you need a reward for all that persistence. Which is sweet of you, incidentally.”
Devin winced. “The word sweet should only be applied to situations involving whipped cream and a supermodel,” he said, and sparked a frown from her. His confusion gave way to suspicion. Wait a minute. The librarian didn’t want to date him any more than he wanted to date her. This was counterterrorism. Intrigued, he decided to beat her at her own game.
“Give me your address,” he drawled. “I’ll pick you up.”
“Maybe it’s better if we meet at the restaurant.”
“Except I’m still deciding where to take you.”
Reluctantly, Rachel found a piece of paper and wrote down her address.
“You know, I’m kinda nervous about this,” he said as he accepted it. “Given your reputation as a heartbreaker and all.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I had decided not to date until I’d got that situation under control. Are you sure you want to take the risk?”
“Hmm, good point.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe I should reconsider….”
Something oddly like panic clouded her expression. It was as if she really cared about this. Then she leaned forward and said softly, “Chicken?”
Devin chuckled. There were so many lessons he could teach this woman. Specifically, never take on a hell-raiser. Even reformed ones were dangerous. “Go ahead,” he dared, “break my heart.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE LIBRARIAN’S neighborhood was made up of immaculately restored colonial cottages, each with pocket-handkerchief front yards full of lavender and standard roses. Figured, Devin thought.
Few had garages, so everyone parked on the street, which meant he had to leave his car a mile down the road and walk. Having been raised in L.A., he bitterly resented it.
He also seriously resented being nervous. It wasn’t that he was hot for the librarian, simply that this was his first date ever without the social lubricant of alcohol.
Devin found number eight. The house was the same as every other except instead of being painted cream or white like its neighbors, it was honeysuckle-yellow and the garden was a subtropical jungle of banana palms, black flaxes, and orange and red canna lilies. He was picking up way too much plant lore from his mother. A well-used mountain bike was chained to the old-fashioned porch railing.
Sucker. She gave you the wrong address. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? He was about to turn away when the door was flung open. “You’re forty minutes late,” said Rachel. “I’d just about given you up.”
Devin checked his Hauer. She was right. “Timekeeping’s never been my strong point.” He saw she expected an apology, and shrugged. “Sorry…. So your roommate owns this place?”
“I live alone. You know, I tried ringing the number you gave me—” her gaze traveled from his Black Sabbath T-shirt down to his slashed stone-washed jeans “—but there was no answer.”
“The number goes to a message service. Only close friends get my direct line.” She actually had to think about why. Hello, I’m famous. He caught himself. Channeling his egotistical brother. Ouch. “Ready to go?” he asked politely.
“I was beginning to think you’d stood me up,” Rachel confessed. “It felt like the high school ball all over again.”
So the librarian had insecurities. “Yeah? What happened?”
Her expression shut faster than a poked clam. “I’ll just get my cardigan.”
Cardigan? He might not be a hell-raiser anymore but Devin valued his reputation. “Haven’t you got anything sexy?”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “My mind.”
Fortunately, the cardigan was a clingy black number and it did have the advantage of covering another hideous buttony blouse. It was a shame Rachel didn’t do cleavage because she had great breasts. Turning from locking the front door, she caught the direction of his gaze and stiffened. Oh, great, now she probably thought he wanted her.
“Let’s take my car,” she said, pointing her remote.
Devin looked at the little silver hatchback emitting a high-pitched beep, and pulled out the keys of the Aston Martin he kept in town. “Let’s not.”
“So yours is parked close?” she inquired too damn innocently. For a moment they locked gazes.
“Fine,” he conceded. “But I’m driving.” He held his hand out for her keys, but her fingers tightened around them.
“I’ll drive…. I don’t drink.”
“Neither do I.” When she looked skeptical, he added, “Anymore.”
An indefinable tension went out of her. She gave him the keys. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.”
“It figures you’d be an advocate of prohibition,” he commented as he opened the passenger door.
“I’ve noticed before that you typecast librarians,” she said kindly. “But as your experience of learning institutions is obviously quite new I’ll make allowances.”
Devin started to enjoy himself. “Now who’s stereotyping? Besides, if you don’t want to be seen as old-fashioned, you shouldn’t dress like that.”
He shut the door on her protest and crossed to the driver’s side. “I’ll have you know this is vintage,” she said as soon as he opened his door.
Devin folded himself into the ridiculously small interior. “I know what it is, I just don’t like it.”
“Is this how you usually talk to your dates?” she demanded.
“Actually,” he said, deadpan, “we don’t usually talk.”
Her lips tightened; she reached for her seat belt and Devin gave up on any expectation of fun. He turned the ignition and the engine spluttered into life. It sounded like a lawnmower on steroids. “I thought we’d drive into the city,” he said, “and wander around the Viaduct until a menu grabs us.”
“It’s Thursday night. We won’t get a table unless you’ve made a reservation. And if you’ll excuse my saying so, you won’t get in wearing torn jeans.”
Expertly maneuvering the toy car out of its tight parking space, Devin snorted. “Watch me.”
“IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE famous, I suppose.”
Rachel’s luscious mouth was set in a disapproving line. “You make that sound like a bad thing,” he joked. Mentally, he confirmed his game plan. Dine and dump.
They sat in a private alcove in one of Auckland’s most exclusive restaurants. Through the open bifold windows, city lights reflected in the harbor and the incoming tide lapped gently against the moored yachts.
Rachel unfolded the starched napkin and laid it on her lap. “I wouldn’t like to think anyone else missed out on their booking because of us, that’s all.”
Loosen up, will you? “Bread?” He passed the basket over. She took a whole wheat roll and declined the butter. “Why are you really here, Rachel?” She obviously wasn’t enjoying this any more than he was.
She looked guilty and he was struck with a sudden suspicion. “Did the chancellor want you to hit me up for another donation?”
“Of course not.” Her shock appeared genuine and he envied it. It must be nice not to suspect people’s motives in being with you.
“So you’re just punishing me then … for giving you a hard time?”
Her lashes fell, screening her eyes. “Sure.”
Maybe he should have chosen his words better. “I didn’t mean to imply spending time with you was a punishment,” he clarified. “Just that you’re not my type.” Oh, yeah, that made it better. “I mean—”
“Devin.” She lifted her gaze. “I’m not offended. You’re not my type, either.”
Perversely, he was piqued. “Not a nerd, you mean?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not housebroken.”
He chuckled. “Okay, I deserved that. Let’s try and be nice to each other.”
There was an awkward silence, then Rachel cleared her throat. “I understand your band produced a fusion of post punk and metal—” she paused, obviously trying to remember research “—which evolved into the grunge and later indie genres.”
“And here I thought it was about playing guitar and scoring chicks.” Devin dipped sourdough into herb-flavored oil. “Rachel, how the hell did you miss out on rock music?”
“I had … ill health in my teens, which forced me to drop out of school.” With tapered fingers she pulled the roll into smaller and smaller pieces. “Then spent all my twenties working days and studying nights to get my library degree.”
Devin was attuned to picking up wrong notes; her story was full of them. He shrugged. “Don’t tell me then.”
She glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to lie, just tell me to mind my own damn business.”
“You know, Devin, civility has a social purpose. It stops people from killing each other.”
He grinned. “I like to live dangerously.”
“That’s fine,” she said seriously, “as long as you don’t hurt bystanders.”
All alcoholics left casualties in their wake. Devin had to work to keep his tone flippant as he replied, “You say don’t a lot, you know that? You’ll make a great mother.”
She said nothing. Glancing over, he saw a bleakness in her expression that shocked him. He knew that level of despair intimately. Instinctively, he laid a hand over hers. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” Sliding her hand free, Rachel gave him a small smile. “I’d have thought it would be easier studying business at an American university, considering most of your tax is paid there.”
He picked up his glass and took a sip of water before answering. “My royalties come in from a dozen countries and I’ve got more money in tax havens than I have in the States.”
“Don’t tell me then,” she said.
He laughed. “Touché. You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.”
When she dropped her guard—for about one millisecond—her smile was breathtaking. “Were you aware you have over four million Internet pages devoted to you?”
Devin leaned back in his chair. “If you’ve done your research there’s no point trying to impress you.”
“You could tell me your bio was grossly exaggerated,” she said lightly.
He could have played that card. It surprised him that momentarily he wanted to. “It’s not.”
If there were excuses, he wouldn’t make them. At sixteen he’d jumped on a roller coaster that had given him one hell of a ride for seventeen years. And if the gatekeeper had said, “Son, you’ll be famous, songs you help write will be an anthem for your generation, but it will cost you. You’ll all but destroy your body and soul, you’ll lose your identity, and when it’s over you’ll lie awake at night wondering if you’ll ever get it back,” Devin would still have bought a ticket.
They finished their bread in silence.
RACHEL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to think. The idea of Mark hanging around someone who could so coolly acknowledge such an appalling past made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
But she wanted to be impartial—or at least as impartial as she could be with her son’s welfare at stake. Heck, who was she kidding? She was a wreck over this. Fine, then. She’d factor in her emotional bias when weighing the evidence. Because it was important to her to be fair. God knows she’d had enough people judging her as a teenager not to jump to conclusions about someone else.
And while Devin was arrogant beyond belief, brutally honest to the point of rudeness and far too confident in his own sex appeal—flashing a charmer’s grin to the waitress delivering their meals—he also had an appealing self-awareness.
He took another sip from his water glass and Rachel wondered if she was being lenient simply because he’d given up alcohol. Having been raised by a drinker, she found it was a very, very big deal to her. Surely that meant some sort of rehabilitation had taken place?
But did it extend to drugs … groupies? She didn’t want Mark to be exposed to those, either, or any of the character traits she associated with rock stars—excess, selfishness, immaturity. She needed more information.
As she picked up her knife and fork, she asked casually, “Why study here … New Zealand, I mean?”
“When you’re running away, the end of the earth is a good place to go.” He glanced up from his steak. “I’m sure you read about my meltdown and the band’s collapse on the Internet.”
“Yes,” she admitted. But in his business, “taken to hospital suffering from extreme exhaustion” was all too often a euphemism for drug overdose or alcohol poisoning. As she ate her fish, her gaze dropped to his fingers, long, lean and powerful—musician’s hands. “Do you miss any of it?”
“I don’t need the temptations of the music industry right now.”
That sounded promising, but his clipped tone told her that she should change the subject. Reluctantly, Rachel backed off. “So, is your brother still in L.A.?”
“Yeah, Zander’s re-formed the band, with a new lineup.”
Devin’s curt tone hadn’t changed, but she was too surprised to notice. “Can he do that?”
He shrugged, putting down his fork. “He owns the name, and as the lead singer, he’s got the highest profile. For a lot of fans that will be enough.”
As Devin spoke he folded his arms so the dragon tattoo on his hand curved protectively over one muscled biceps. It struck her that he was suffering.
“But not all of them,” she said gently.
Devin looked at her sharply. “Did that sound maudlin? It wasn’t meant to. It was my fault as much as anyone’s that the band fell apart.” His mouth twisted. “Collapsing on stage disqualifies me from lectures on professional dignity. If Zander wants to try and wring a few more dollars out of the Rage brand, let him…. Shit, I am still bitter, aren’t I?”
There it was again, the self-awareness that made him likable.
“Speaking of bitter,” he added, “how’s Paulie?”
It was her turn to squirm. “Back in Germany.”
“You let him lay a guilt trip on you, didn’t you?” Devin picked up his fork again and stabbed a potato croquette. “I just bet he made the most of it.” His gaze trailed lazily over her face. “You’re too nice, Rachel. If you ever want tips on how to behave badly, come to the master.”
She frowned. “What exactly do you teach your disciples?”
His gaze settled on her mouth. “That depends,” he said, “on how bad they want to get.” Green eyes lifted to meet hers and a jolt of sexual awareness arced between them, catching Rachel completely by surprise.
WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ABOUT?