Turbulent Sea (22 page)

In one stroke of her tongue, Joley had wiped out years of brutal training. He'd felt her lips suddenly close over him, her tongue stroke down the hard length of him, teeth just barely scraping, and he'd nearly burst out of his jeans. The woman learned fast, and she was just mean enough to use her knowledge. Keeping the upper hand with her wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought. He willed the blood in his veins to cool to a slow, simmering boil while he stood there watching with hawk eyes the crowd around her.

He could handle sex. Any kind of sex with any woman, and he would stay in complete control; his years of training had seen to that. But he was finding out—much to his horror—that emotion—real emotion—changed everything and made sex something far beyond what he'd ever been shown or taught. There was no controlling his desire or his body when his heart was involved. Damn her, she'd turned his life upside down, turned the very foundations of his life from hard rock to sand. His need for Joley had turned the pleasurable act of sex into something altogether different. Now he knew why people used the phrase "falling in love." The drop was long and scary.

Joley was all too aware of Ilya. He made every nerve ending in her body come alive. Her soul sang to his. It was corny, but true. And his answered. She didn't know what that meant exactly, only that she was hyperaware of him and the fact that his aura was drowning in lust—and
she'd
done that with one stroke of her tongue on the center of her palm. That palm that had plagued her for months. He had seemed stunned by her touch, even if it was through their weird connection. She turned that piece of information over in her mind, even as she addressed her crew. She wasn't exactly as powerless in her odd relationship with Ilya as she had always believed.

Everyone was subdued, some openly distraught and afraid. All had been questioned by the police, and a few were ambivalent about going on with the show. No one seemed terribly upset about Dean's death. He'd kept to himself for the most part, and the crew seemed to want to distance themselves from him. Maybe it was the nature of the murder—the suspicion that it had been a mob hit, and no one wanted any part of that.

She looked them over carefully, noting auras and melodies, unconsciously searching for the one that she'd glimpsed in New York with Dean. She spotted him toward the back of the pack, a swirling of brownish-green mud coated with speckles of dark gray and streaks of murky pink. The aura puzzled her, as every color was muddy and dirty. She glanced from him to Ilya, her unease difficult to hide.

"Let's give these people a concert. Whatever happened with Dean, the police will handle it. Thank you all for cooperating. The detective was able to clear us to perform, so let's get it done. I believe we have a sound check to conduct."

The crew broke out into assents, nodding heads and talking all at once. She pulled Brian aside and nodded toward the man who was hastily ducking behind heavier equipment, clearly staying out of her way.

"Who is that?"

Brian shrugged. "John or Jake or Joe, something with a 'J.' I don't know, why?"

She glanced around. Several of the crew, a few of the security people, as well as Nikitin's guards were still observing her. For all she knew, the long-range zoom lenses of the photographers were watching—and she could feel Ilya's gaze boring into her back.

"No reason. I just thought maybe I should get to know the people traveling with us a little bit. We used to know everyone, and I think some of our crew have the wrong idea about me." She pushed a hand through her hair, realized she was trembling, and put her fist behind her back. Ilya's warning had affected her more than she liked. She didn't want anyone thinking Brian knew anything he shouldn't. "Never mind. I just don't like people thinking I'm a diva."

Once more her gaze was pulled over toward the man with the muddy aura. She tried not to look, but she couldn't help it. And he was staring back at her with a mixture of fear and anger. He knew she recognized him. He straightened slowly, maintaining eye contact, obviously trying to intimidate her. Suddenly his gaze shifted from her to the three Russian security guards off to his left, and then to Ilya, who had come up behind her.

Ilya took her arm and pulled slightly away from Brian. "Explain all this to me. What are you doing?"
Keep looking at me
.

She wasn't cut out for intrigue. Her eyes kept shifting toward the crew member she knew had hung out with Dean. Everyone had professed to the detective that Dean was a loner and rarely talked to any of them. That had taken on a sinister aspect when she realized everyone was afraid to be associated with him. She kept her eyes locked with Ilya's. He was so good at it, looking as casual as a coiled rattler, which was the way he always looked.

"Well, each venue where we perform has different acoustics." She tried to keep her voice even, but it trembled.

She cleared her throat. Brian had walked off and was talking to the one of the sound crew, and the man with muddy aura walked over to him. Everything in her shifted. From scared she went into protective mode. She even took a step in their direction, but Ilya shackled her wrist, preventing her from moving.

"Keep talking. I'd like to understand."

He kept his smile easy, although it never reached his eyes. Joley knew he was buffering her. She took a deep breath and tried to play along, even as she kept an eye on Brian. "When I say different, I mean very different. You can hear a perfect pitch, so you're aware of sound quality. We have to make up for the differences at each venue. The PA is tuned before each concert to get the system ready for a performance. Our sound engineer is very particular about his equipment, and he makes certain everything checks out before the band goes up. He always checks each instrument alone and then blended together. That gives us a rough idea how it's all going to sound for the show."

Ilya watched out of the corner of his eye as the man who had been friends with Dean inched closer, all the while talking animatedly to Brian. Ilya had been investigating the band and crew for some time, and he knew the man's name was John Dylan. Dylan had been working on and off for the band for the last two years. He'd traveled to Europe twice with them and had a good reputation as a crew member. He showed up for work, worked hard and didn't party so hard he was hungover the next morning. Most of Ilya's inquiries had resulted in positive things. Dylan was somewhat of a loner, but well liked, hung out mainly with Dean and mostly smoked pot rather than did harder drugs.

Nothing about Dylan had singled him out as someone who would have a mob affiliation, but he was clearly trying to overhear what Joley was saying, and the look he'd shot her earlier had alarmed Ilya. Fear could make people do things they ordinarily wouldn't consider. And the Russian mob ruled with fear.

The sound engineer called out to the band. "Let's get the instruments. Yours, Brian. Let's hear sound."

The band was already loosely assembled. Joley started over to them. Ilya keeping close pace, his body between hers and Dylan's at all times. He glanced out over the amphitheater. "The audience would change everything," he observed. "Don't they absorb some frequencies, and the sound would echo on the walls and ceilings of most buildings. In this case, the rocks."

She nodded. "That's why I have a genius for a sound engineer. The first two songs during the actual performance generally give him an immediate idea of what's going to happen, and he compensates for it. Are you staying for the check? You might find it interesting. Sometimes we get a few people who sneak in to listen so they can get an idea of what we're doing in the show. When I want to introduce new material into the show, or Brian or Rick has something they've worked on, we rehearse it several times during sound check before adding it in."

She picked up the microphone and turned toward her sound engineer. He lifted a hand and Denny counted off with a drumbeat. The band instantly swung into a familiar song, one that had been a number one hit for weeks on end and was always in demand. Ilya listened, but his gaze was moving over the crew members, yet always keeping Nikitin's security guards in his vision as well. He wanted to know if they even went close to Dylan. The crew member appeared to be concentrating on his job, crouched down back behind the sound engineer. The last notes of the song died away.

"Everyone okay with levels? Okay with guitar, Brian?"

Brian nodded. "Good here. Joley, let's try the new number."

She lifted the microphone to her mouth and smiled at Ilya. His heart nearly stopped beating. She was hazardous to herself as well as to everyone around him. Any woman who could make him forget he was surrounded by danger, by cameras, by the damned Russian mob, was truly dangerous. "I hope you like this one. I wrote it."

She glanced at Denny, who immediately went into action, his drumsticks twirling and then pounding down in a dynamic burst of powerful rhythm. The guitar came in, the music aggressive, and then Joley's voice broke over them, passionate and intense and drowning in a sultry melody of notes. When she stopped, there was a small silence.

"Is everyone okay with everything? Are we good?" Joley turned to survey the band.

Ilya let out his breath. They were used to her, but her voice still got to all them—he could tell by the short pause.

"A little more bass," the sound engineer finally said. "Can you give me a little more, Rick?"

Denny picked up a glass and swallowed the contents. "I'm having a little trouble hearing."

Each instrument performed a long solo until it received a thumbs-up from the sound engineer. He then nodded to Joley. She swung into the next number, one, Ilya noted, that they sang often. They moved back and forth between the well-known numbers they were familiar with and the newer numbers, to ensure that everything was perfect for their audience.

The natural acoustics of the place were incredible. He watched Joley perform. Her love of music showed in the way she poured herself into every song. Joy was on her face, in her eyes, in the color of her aura. She had a loving relationship, more like siblings, with the band, and an easy, familiar relationship with her sound crew. The others she might not know so well, but those traveling with her obviously cared about her in the same way she cared for them.

"That's it," she said, coming up to him. "We run through our song list once and hopefully nothing goes wrong tonight. What did you think?"

He thought she was the most beautiful, vibrant woman alive, but he merely nodded his head and escorted her back to the bus.

Chapter 9

JOLEY glanced around the small all-night diner where the buses had stopped. Her band and the crew were traveling together to Dallas in a caravan, and they'd all been hungry. They'd broken down the stage in record time and gotten on the road, still anxious over Dean's death in spite of the fact that the show had been good—not great—but good. Joley hoped they performed better in Dallas.

She walked to the largest round booth, where Denny was sitting, and put a hand on his shoulder. "How'd it go with Lisa?" There was compassion in her voice.

The other band members went silent, waiting, willing things to have gone well for Denny. He had lines on his face that hadn't been there before.