What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella: What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella

CHAPTER EIGHT

“BECAUSEYOUACTED LIKE an asshole, Rachel’s really upset.”

Devin looked down at the baby Goth barring his way into the lecture hall. “You’re the text sender … Trixie, isn’t it? And this is another one of your oh-so-funny jokes. Because Heartbreaker doesn’t get upset, she gets mad.”

The young woman frowned. “No, this time I’m serious. I don’t know what went down, other than the fact that you kiss like a wet dog, but—”

Devin laughed. “You see? Mad.”

“You made her cry.”

“I doubt that.” He tried to step past her; she blocked him.

“I found her in tears this morning. She tried to make light of it, but Rachel never cries. I mean never. Even when her dad died a couple of years back.”

He didn’t need this. It had been enough placating Mark. Devin figured he wasn’t due to make another apology for at least a year. “You’re making too big a deal of this.”

“You mean it isn’t a big deal to you,” said Trixie. “But it must be a big deal to Rachel or she wouldn’t be so upset. She’s not like us. She’s led a sheltered life and hasn’t learned to protect herself.”

Devin recalled Rachel’s well-placed knee. “Trust me, she can take care of herself.”

“I mean emotionally,” Trixie said impatiently. “She doesn’t protect herself against being hurt.”

He wasn’t used to being taken to task over bad behavior. The band had been on the road so much it was easy to sidestep consequences, and if they hadn’t been touring … well, there was the house in Barbados to escape to if he needed to get out of L.A. for a while.

“I’ll think about apologizing.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” But it was a tactic to get rid of her. Devin didn’t “do” hurt feelings and he wasn’t about to start.

So he couldn’t explain how he ended up knocking on Rachel’s front door at 6:00 p.m. Friday evening.

When she was feisty he could ignore her, stay pissed. But Rachel hurt niggled at his peace of mind. And that peace was too hard won to surrender lightly.

Her shadow appeared through the stained glass door panel, hesitating as Rachel recognized him. Then she opened the door. They eyed each other warily.

Devin saw immediately that Trixie had been telling the truth. Rachel looked washed out. Suddenly an apology wasn’t hard. Whatever his faults, he wasn’t such an asshole that he couldn’t admit when he was wrong.

“I jumped to conclusions, last night.” When she didn’t say anything, he forced himself to give more. “I’m still learning to give people the benefit of the doubt instead of suspecting their motives in being with me.”

She glanced away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like we expected anything from the date.”

“No,” he admitted. “We had too many prejudices for that.”

“I was trying to keep an open mind.” Stepping back, she started to close the door.

And Devin realized his arrogance was about to lose him a friendship with the first woman to interest him in years.

“Before I go, let me give you a few more tips on bad behavior,” he said brusquely. “Develop an alcohol addiction and get married a couple of times—at least once in a ceremony you can’t remember because it was during one of your alcoholic blackouts.

“Try and keep the marriages short and make sure you write a song about eternal love to play at each wedding, which will have you cringing for the rest of your life. Become an arrogant, opinionated prick because no one ever said no to you.” Devin stopped, disorientated. Overhead, the sound of a distant rumble drew his gaze. A 747 glinted in the blue sky. Wishing to God he was on it, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I guess I’m still getting the hang of normal.” He started to leave.

“Normal’s overrated,” she said behind him, and he turned. She was staring after the jet’s vapor trail. “You know how certain songs take you back to key times in your life? Times when you were happy or sad, confused or needing courage?” She looked back at him. “Writing the soundtrack to people’s lives is no small thing,” she said softly.

Devin cleared his throat. “What was your special song?”

“ ‘Letting You Go.’ Sam … Samantha Henwood. I was sixteen.”

“I don’t know it.”

She started to hum, then to sing, and it was painful to hear because the librarian was tone deaf.

Devin put his hands over his ears. “You’re killing me.”

Rachel smiled and sang louder.

Stepping forward, he clapped a hand over her mouth. Above his fingers, her eyes were still smiling. Devin had never thought of gray as a warm color before, but now he dropped his hand before he got burned. “Will you accept my apology?”

“As long as you admit that the world doesn’t always revolve around you.”

“As long as you realize it has for the last decade.”

“And for the record,” she told him tartly, “I didn’t eat butter because before Beryl and Kev joined us I intended having dessert. I wear cardigans because I like vintage. Not sleeping with a guy on the first date doesn’t make me a prude, and if you ever call me a book nerd again I’ll ram my mountain bike down your throat.”

Damn, but he liked this woman. “I get it. Librarians are people, too.” And because he couldn’t resist teasing her he added, “Next you’ll be telling me you have a vice.”

“I do.” She hesitated, long enough for his imagination to jump to the bait. “I don’t make my bed.”

Devin laughed. “Let’s try another date.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“Admittedly, most of the time we engage in interplanetary warfare and yet …” Devin tucked a strand of loose hair behind her hair. “And yet, Heartbreaker …”

Rachel knew what he meant. There was something between them, an odd, unexpected connection. And that kiss … But it was wrong to use him as a means to Mark, and she couldn’t kid herself that that wasn’t the primary temptation. She shook her head. “I just broke up with someone I thought I’d marry. You’d only be a rebound.”

He grinned. “See, that’s what I like about you, you keep giving me firsts. I’ve never been the rebound guy before. What’s the drill?”

He was incorrigible … and far too appealing. Rachel wavered. He was also offering her another chance to find out more about him. Wasn’t that her goal? And a repentant Devin was more likely to reveal himself…. She was skirting dangerously close to her ethical boundaries. Was it fair to use him like this?

“Any sensible person would run a mile,” she hedged.

“I’ve had a million words written about me,” he said. “I don’t think sensible was ever one of them.”

Rachel remembered the other things written about him, things he hadn’t denied. This wasn’t about her. Or Devin. It was about protecting her son. “Maybe we could go out to formalize our peace treaty,” she suggested, “but no date. Strictly platonic.” Attraction only made things tougher. Her motives murkier. This way no one got hurt.

“Sure.” His lopsided, sexy-as-hell grin belied his easy acquiescence. “The Flying Dutchman opera is coming to town, isn’t it? I’ve been seeing billboards.”

“Next weekend, but the tickets are expensive.” Which was why she hadn’t booked. Most of her income went toward her mortgage. Rachel remembered who she was talking to when he laughed.

“Consider it part of the apology.”

She trusted his meekness even less than she trusted that sexy grin. “As long as we’re quite clear,” she stressed, “that I’m only using you to get to Wagner.”

“I think I can hold my own against a dead guy.” Devin’s expression grew serious. “So you’re not upset anymore?”

How did he know that she’d been … “Wait a minute! Did Trixie make you apologize?” I’ll kill her.

Devin frowned. “No one makes me do anything.”

But the apology hadn’t been his idea. Rachel stopped feeling guilty about her mixed motives.

“HI, MOM, it’s Rachel.”

“Rachel, are you in trouble again?”

Eighteen years later, it was still the first question her elderly mother asked.

“No, everything’s fine. I always call Sunday morning to see how you are.”

“Well, you know, bearing up.” Maureen sighed. “Still missing your father terribly, of course.”

“Did you get that book on heritage roses I sent you?” Rachel swapped the phone to her other hand and wiped her suddenly damp palm on her dress.

Maureen’s voice brightened. “Yes, it’s wonderful, particularly the section on English hybrids.” She rattled on about cuttings and placement, and Rachel stared out the window at her wild garden. “And Peggy and I are our club reps in the regional district’s floral arranging competition.”

“Sounds like you’ve got plenty going on.” Since her father’s death, her seventy-nine-year-old mother had taken up a multitude of new interests. Blossomed, in fact.

“Oh, and the most exciting thing? The council is recognizing your father’s years of service by naming one of the new benches in the park for him.”

Rachel caught her breath. “Well, it’s great to hear you’re doing so well.”

“Honey, did you hear what I said? Your father—”

“You know I don’t want to talk about him, Mom, and you know why.” She took a few deep breaths because otherwise she’d scream, He’s dead and you can stop pretending!

But it would do no good. “Please, let’s just concentrate on what you and I are doing, okay?”

Her mother sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry about your attitude, though.”

A familiar sense of betrayal tightened Rachel’s throat. “Listen, this has to be a short call today. I’ve got a roast in the oven that needs basting.” She always made sure she had a good reason for a short call. Because sometimes they were all she could cope with.

“Have you started your charity lunches again?”

“It’s not charity, Mom,” she reminded her patiently. “Just a handful of first year students desperate for a home-cooked meal.” She’d been inviting strays to her first semester Sunday lunches for five years. The event had become such a fixture around campus that staff and counselors would often send lonely scholars to see her in the library. Overseas students and out-of-towners for the most part.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’ve retained some of the values we taught you.”

“Take care, Mom.”

Hanging up, Rachel wiped her hands on her skirt again. Her jaw ached; she unclenched it. The weekly calls she’d initiated after her father’s death, following seventeen and a half years of estrangement, had been a mistake. Foolish to think that after an adult life spent in denial, her mother would break character and admit anything had ever been wrong—with anyone except Rachel, that is.

She gripped her apron in her fist and stared at it in confusion, then with an exclamation ran into the kitchen and opened the oven to a billow of smoke and heat.

Grabbing an oven mitt she hauled out the roasting pan and inspected the sizzling leg of lamb. There was a layer of scorched fat around the base, but nothing that couldn’t be saved. If only everything in life was so easily salvaged.

ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Mark stood outside classroom 121 of the human sciences block waiting for the tutorial to finish. A classmate had mentioned this sociology tutor had handed out cake to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday.

Through the door Mark could hear her voice … at least the tone of it, light yet authoritative. It gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. The talking stopped, and a shuffle of chairs signaled the end of the tutorial. He moistened his lips and straightened, trying to get some oxygen in his lungs.

The door opened and students streamed out, the industrious ones first, looking at watches and picking up their pace to get to their next class, then the easygoing chatterers.

Heart kicking against his ribs, he nervously looked over every woman coming through the doorway. Too young … too young … too old.

“Excuse me.” Mark forced himself to approach the most likely candidate. “Are you Rosemary Adams?”

The blonde shifted her heavy satchel to her hip. “No, the tutor’s still inside.”

“Thank you,” he said through bloodless lips. In the classroom, a dark-haired woman stood with her back to him, vigorously clearing the whiteboard of equations. Mark tried to remember what he’d been planning to say to her but his impassioned yet aloof denunciation had fragmented into a terrified jumble in his mind.

He cleared his throat and she turned around. “Did you forget something?”

She was Maori.

Unable to speak for the crushing disappointment, Mark shook his head and backed out of the room. In the corridor he picked up his pace until he was running, heedless, through clusters of students.

A car horn honked in warning as he jumped off the curb and ran along the gutter because people weren’t moving fast enough. Only when Mark reached the park did he stop, doubling over to catch his breath. His disappointment was matched by his enormous relief.

“HALLELUJAH, you’re finally going out.” Holding a bag of peaches, Katherine Freedman stood on Devin’s doorstep and sniffed him appreciatively. “Look hot and smell gorgeous … it must be a woman.”

Resigned, Devin opened the door wider and gestured her in, leading the way to the open-plan kitchen. “Okay, who told you?” Five-thirty on a Saturday evening was not the time to be delivering peaches.

“Bob Harvey at the ferry office happened to mention you’d booked in a 7:00 p.m. vehicle crossing. As luck would have it I’m also heading over, for dinner and a meeting with the Coronary Club. How about a lift from the ferry building into town?”

In the kitchen, Devin accepted the bag of peaches and tipped them into the fruit bowl with all the others, unsettling the fruit flies. “You’re not meeting her, Mom, and I’m taking the bike.”

“You think I can’t straddle a Harley?”

“You still look good in leather,” he conceded, “and I guess a helmet hides the wrinkles.”

She picked up a peach and threw it at him, but Devin was expecting it and made a neat catch.

“Fortunately for you,” she continued, “I’m going across with Susan, so you won’t have to think up an excuse not to take me.” She tut-tutted, eyeing the fruit bowl. “You should probably stew those.”

“Yeah, because I’m a ‘bottling preserves’ kind of guy.” Devin poured her a cold drink, then turned to find her rifling through the kitchen drawers. When she pulled out a chopping board and a paring knife, he took them away from her. “And I don’t need to think up excuses. I’m perfectly comfortable telling you to mind your own business. Shouldn’t you be going home to get ready?”

“Unlike you, I can be ready in five minutes.” Katherine took the utensils back. “Now find me a pot.” Perching on a bar stool at the marble-topped island, she started peeling and chopping peaches straight out of the fruit bowl. His mom never sprayed her trees and there were spots of brown rot on some. Devin shook his head as she carefully pared away the good flesh before discarding the rest.

Only a couple of months earlier he’d thought he would lose her. “You’ve got a big birthday coming up.” He found the pot she wanted and placed it at her elbow. “How would you like to celebrate?”

“Quietly.” Katherine tipped the peaches she’d already sliced into the pot. “I intend staying sixty-nine for at least another four years.”

Devin got the compost bucket she had insisted he buy, and cleared away the discarded peelings. “So dinner at the island’s best restaurant with your son sound okay?”

Katherine didn’t answer. Glancing over, he caught her pensive look. “No big deal if you’ve already made plans with girlfriends.”

“Let me get back to you on that. So tell me all about your date.” Katherine dropped the knife and gripped her thumb. Blood welled above her nail. “Bother!”

Grabbing a paper towel, Devin wrapped it around her thumb, then guided her to the sink, where he rinsed the cut and inspected it. “Nothing a bandage won’t fix.” He found the first aid kit, dug around for the right size and handed it to her.

“Your date?” she prompted.

“Technically it’s not a date.” No woman had ever insisted on platonic before.

“Really?” Katherine finished applying the bandage and looked up. “What is it then?”

Devin started to laugh. “Deluded.”

You’d have thought a smart woman like Rachel would know better. Nothing could have stoked his interest more than her No Trespass sign. If the librarian had been genuinely indifferent, Devin could have accepted it, but she wasn’t. The kiss had proved that. And the challenge inherent in her nonnegotiable decree … what kind of wuss would he be if he let the gauntlet lie?

Katherine rinsed her other hand, still sticky with peach juice. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally met a nice girl,” she said hopefully.

“I’m not telling you anything,” he reminded her.

“Spoilsport. In that case I might as well go.”

“What about the peaches?” he teased.

She poked her tongue out at him. “I know you’ll throw them out as soon as my back’s turned so give them to me. I’ll finish stewing them at home.” Drying her hands on a tea towel, she added, “Have you heard from Zander lately?”

Devin stopped smiling. “No.” When he’d raised the subject of financial anomalies, his big brother had cut the phone call short. Since then Zander hadn’t returned any messages.

“Careful with those peaches, Dev,” Katherine protested. “You’ll bruise them.”

He slowed the tumble of peaches from the fruit bowl into the bag, and glanced at her. “So, how is he?” While Zander rarely initiated contact, Katherine kept the relationship going by phone.

“I can’t seem to get hold of him lately.” She busied herself searching in her bag for her car keys, which Devin could plainly see near the top. “But he must be terribly busy arranging the new tour.”

Running scared more like, if he was avoiding even Katherine’s phone calls.

“I’m sure he’ll phone soon,” he told her.

“Oh, I’m not worried.”

Which meant she was. Unfortunately, the mounting evidence suggested his brother had been siphoning off more than his share of royalties on the early songs they’d cowritten. But surely Zander trusted Devin not to involve Katherine? Damn it, this situation was getting more and more complicated. On impulse Devin kissed his mother goodbye, something he rarely did. “Have a great night.”

For a moment Katherine looked startled, then she patted his cheek. “You, too … and I expect to hear all about it.” On those ominous words she left.

All going well, he reflected as he closed the front door behind her, the evening’s activities wouldn’t be fit for maternal ears. Checking his watch, Devin calculated time zones, then rang Zander’s cell and left another message: “Call your mother!”

Then he finished getting ready for his date, turning his mind to more pleasurable thoughts. Like teaching the librarian to forgo restraint, caution and common sense in favor of spontaneity, recklessness and instant gratification. And that was even before they reached her unmade bed. Her so-called vice perfectly complemented the only one he had left.

Sex.

CHAPTER NINE

RACHEL DIDN’T WANT to be nervous.

It made the evening ahead feel too much like a date.

Which it wasn’t.

Peering past the mottled green patches in the antique oval mirror on her dresser, she applied a shocking pink lipstick and decided she was satisfied with her appearance. She wore a tight-fitting fifties cocktail dress of pink crepe overlaid with black lace, which had a scalloped edge at the strapless bodice and a mermaid ruffle hem. After straightening the black velvet bow at the Empire waist, she hunted for the lacy tights that went with the outfit. Holding them up, she frowned. They had a run, and the ladder was long enough for a fire brigade.

Reluctantly, she settled for patterned knee-high stockings—figuring the three-quarter-length skirt would cover them. She finished the outfit with a pair of dainty black ankle boots with a high heel, and clipped on velvet bows to match the one at her waist.

Opera presented a rare chance to dress up, but she was also trying to prove a point. Of course vintage could be sexy—look at Dita Von Teese, the famous striptease artist once married to shock rocker Marilyn Manson. Rachel hesitated, then picked up a tissue and scrubbed off the slutty lipstick, replacing it with a less provocative nude shade.

She glanced at the diamanté watch strapped to her wrist. Her car was being serviced so they’d go in his. She hoped Devin was allowing enough time for them to walk to wherever he’d parked.

The full-throttle throb of a powerful engine brought her to the door. Nervously wrapping herself in her fringed silk shawl, she stared at the leather-clad figure on the Harley-Davidson.

Devin lifted the black visor on his helmet. “No pre-car street layout defeats a red-blooded American,” he said with satisfaction, then scanned her shawl-swathed figure. “I brought a jumpsuit in case you wore a dress.” Reaching into a side satchel, he pulled out what looked like a pair of orange mechanic’s overalls, then unclipped another helmet from the pillion.

Rachel finally found her voice. “I’m not going to the opera on a motorbike!”

“Why not? It’ll be fun.” His gaze dropped to her feet. “Those boots should be okay on the bike.”

She tugged the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “What about my hair?” It was piled on her head, with loose tendrils softening the diamanté sparkles at her earlobes and throat.

Devin looked at it critically. “Very pretty.”

She had a sudden feeling he was doing this on purpose. “We’re catching a taxi.”

“Okay.” To her surprise, he got off the motorcycle without a murmur. “How long do they take on a Saturday night? Not that I mind missing the first half …”

Rachel held out her hand for the jumpsuit and helmet. “Wait here.” Inside, she put on the offending items, knowing better than to check her appearance in the mirror.