After Midnight (9 page)

In the mirror’s reflection, their gazes locked. Even if his mind hadn’t already gone blank, it would have as he caught the look in Isabeau’s eyes.

Heat.

Desire.

She was not as immune to him as she pretended.

“I, um, hoped to camouflage the mark. I didn’t want Thomas to find out about last night.” She faced him, features carefully schooled, and pulled a throw off the back of the couch, securing it around her hips.

Her actions drew his gaze to her middle, and for a moment he stood mesmerized. He’d been wrong about her not wearing jewelry. She wore it all right, in a spot that usually remained hidden from view. Isabeau Montgomery had her navel pierced.

He broke into a sweat just looking at her.

His gaze veered to the scar that bisected her abdomen from just to the left of her navel to somewhere beneath the top of her bikini bottoms. It was old—barely noticeable—faded so that it appeared only slightly paler than the rest of her skin. The type of incision made quickly, in an effort to save someone’s life. The type she might receive after an automobile accident severe enough to have ended her mother’s life.

“He’s bound to find out, sooner or later,” he said, as he returned his gaze to her face.

“I’d prefer later, rather than sooner.” Her smile was apprehensive. The pulse at the base of her throat racing. “Are you thirsty? I can get you something to drink.”

Dry mouthed, he shook his head while the image of her sprawled across the top of that bed sprang to mind. Longing filled him, along with the need to fill his hands with her incredible ass while his tongue explored the bloodstone in her navel—right before following that scar to the groomed treasure hidden beneath those tiny bottoms.

“Hungry? I can…” She shook her head. “Actually, unless you went downstairs, I can’t offer you anything to eat.”

I wouldn’t say that.

He swore beneath his breath as the image already forming in his mind sharpened.

“I’m going into the city for lunch,” she explained, then tipped her head. “Is something wrong?”

Hell yes! He pushed his fingers through his hair and pulled in a breath. The scent of her tanning oil made his head spin. All that golden skin…Christ. She drove him crazy.

It was a damn good thing she didn’t know what was going through his mind. How easily he could have her naked. His hands on her. His mouth. If she knew, she would shove him out the door and down the flight of stairs.

Even that wouldn’t ease the throbbing in his groin.

“I’m fine, Isa. You’re off the clock. You don’t need to serve me.”

A frown line appeared between her pale eyes. “I do that,” she admitted candidly. “It’s not something I can turn on and off.”

Damn, he hadn’t meant to make her feel bad. Guilt filled him. “You never said what Clint needed.”

“He didn’t need anything. I went into the bar looking for you. He told me I’d find you up here.” He had. More of her than he’d been prepared for. Turning away before she noted his erection, he crossed to the far corner of the room, where the theater chairs sat.

There were three of them—wooden with burgundy velvet seats. The center seat had a sign draped across its back that read “reserved.” Black and white photographs in a variety of sizes covered the wall behind the seats. Some matted, some not. Some landscapes—a few places he recognized. Most of the same subject. A tiny, dark-haired girl with the face of an angel.

Isabeau.

Her age varied from picture to picture—from six months of age to ten years. In one, she was a baby, lying stomach down on a mirror, studying her own reflection. Another, barely past toddler years and sitting at a piano large enough to make her already petite form appear downright puny.

Cartwheels in a field of green grass at the age of five.

Standing center stage and looking out over an empty symphony hall.

He leaned closer. Instead of happy and smiling, she appeared strangely disheartened.

“My mother’s work,” she explained from just behind him.

“She was very good.”

“Yes, she was. Why were you looking for me, Noah?”

The largest photograph held him transfixed. Were he to hazard a guess, he would say she was about ten. She sat before a concrete bench, the type you’d see in a garden or park, her legs drawn up under her. Her white ruffled dress was arranged around her, her dark hair pulled back away from her face and secured at the base of her neck. Her steepled hands rested atop the bench, her cheek against her hands. Her eyes were closed, as if she were sleeping. The absence of color in the photo made it all the more dramatic. The white of her dress against her dark skin. The black of her hair against the pale bench.

It was pure, ethereal.

“I was wondering how you were doing today,” he replied, distracted.

“So you stopped in on your way to the studio?”

“I’m not going in today.”

“You came by to check on me?”

“Yes.” He faced her. “Who’s it reserved for?”

Her eyes moved from him to the middle chair and back again. “It’s silly.”

“Tell me anyway.”

She sighed, pitched her voice lower than normal. “My mother. It’s reserved for my mother.”

The mother she’d lost thirteen years ago. He couldn’t begin to understand what losing a mother at such a young age must have been like for her. He did understand the desire to keep a loved one alive in her heart. “Do you still have her camera?”

“Mom’s camera? Yes, I do.”

“You should place it in her seat. So it’s there for her when she visits.”

She stared in silence, surprise written all over her face. “I’m not sure she needs it any more.”

“That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment.”

She gifted him with a smile that could melt a glacier. Her eyes went soft and sweet. “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

He blinked. Had he heard her correctly? “You’re asking me out?”

She drew herself to her full height, which, without her heels, was barely to his shoulder. “Yes, I’m asking you out.”

“You and me? A meal you didn’t have to cook?”

“Not exactly.” She shifted, brushed a few wisps of dark hair off her cheek and tucked them behind her ear. “You, me, Thomas, and a meal I didn’t have to cook.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

She sent him another smile. “We have plans to meet for lunch before my shift at the bar begins. He wouldn’t mind if you joined us.”

He returned her smile as his pulse kicked into overdrive. No way was he passing up the chance to spend an afternoon with her.

“I don’t do this with everyone,” she explained unnecessarily. “I thought…”

“You’re sure he won’t mind?”

“Thomas? Of course not.”

“Then I’d love to.”

“Good.” She started across the room, walking backward. “Let me rinse off in the shower and throw something on, and I’ll be ready.”

Noah glanced at the dark bruise still visible on her upper arm. “Something with sleeves,” he suggested.

She scowled at the reminder, her fingers gently brushing across the mark. “That would only make him suspicious. I don’t wear long sleeves unless I’m cold and I’m not cold.”

Self-preservation had him biting his tongue. He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck and waited until the
click
of the bathroom door assured him she was out of earshot. “Trust me, I noticed.”

****

One hour later, Isabeau pushed through the door of her father’s shop with the jingle of bells, Noah a step behind her.

“Izzy, is that you?” a voice called out from somewhere out of sight.

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

“I’ll be out in a sec.”

“No problem.”

Noah shifted. His shoulder brushed hers as he leaned in. “So you know someone who can fix my tattoo, do you?”

His mouth was inches from her ear, his breath a cloud of warmth against her cheek. A burst of heat snapped along her nerves, tensed every muscle in her body.

She forced herself to breathe evenly. “I do.”

His eyes amused, he glanced around the shop, from the two private rooms where the body piercings and tattoos were done to the large wall of snapshots that showcased Thomas’s work. “Is he any good?”

“He’s exceptional.”

“Exceptional, that’s high praise.”

The warm masculine scent of him drifted into her lungs. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes and absorbed. Her heart pounded in her head, masking the sound of the music that looped through her with the annoying persistence of a commercial jingle. “It’s well earned.” She gestured across the room. “See for yourself.”

Hands in his pockets, Noah strolled around the room. Pausing in front of a glass display case, he turned Thomas’ open sketchbook and studied the drawing before him. Then he moved to the wall of snapshots.

“Tell me something.” He leaned in for a better look at one of the pictures. “Why am I here?”

His hair was wind tousled after their brief walk from the parking garage. He wore jeans that molded his butt and hips, his long legs, and a black T-shirt that stretched taut across his chest.

She would have replied, if there’d been any air left in her lungs. God, he was attractive. Strong. Male. Capable. And for a moment today, he’d wanted her. She’d seen the hunger in his intense green eyes while he’d studied her backside. Saw it, just didn’t understand it. Men didn’t look at her like that. Ever.

Her heart beat wildly against her ribs. Her throat went dry as dust. She felt the hot, reckless pull of need and pondered for a moment what it would be like to give in to it. Press her lips against his tempting mouth, and finally discover the taste of him. To feel the warmth of his flesh beneath her palms as her hands cruised over his mouth-watering body.

“Isabeau?”

She jolted. Her eyes remained on his as she pushed her fingers through her hair.

What was she thinking? A man like Noah Clark wouldn’t be interested in her, at least not for long. Anything he felt for her was about the music, his drive to get her to play again. His need to show her that she wasn’t complete without the piano.

That fact was blatantly apparent after the story he’d shared last night. How he’d given up his career only to learn, years later, that he couldn’t live without music. It was crazy to think anything else. She was neither blonde nor beautiful—two things she imagined he looked for in a woman. The desire she’d glimpsed in the mirror’s reflection this morning had been nothing more than a natural male reaction to her near naked state.

Her stomach tightened into a painful knot. She breathed a sigh of relief when her father chose that moment to join them.

“I had a visitor this morning,” Thomas said as he entered the room. “He asked how you were doing.” The pleasure so apparent in his eyes dimmed a notch as his gaze settled on Noah. “You should have told me I had a customer.”

Isabeau smiled broadly at the man she’d always called her father—welcomed the swift rush of love for him. “He’s not a customer, he’s with me. I invited him to lunch with us.”