After the Music (15 page)

"Maybe I understand better than you think," he said. "We talked occasionally. You might have told me. It would have saved a lot of grief."

"And give you the perfect weapon to use against me?" she burst out. "Wouldn't you have loved that! An illegitimate orphan with a tramp for a mother, from the back streets of New Orleans."

"Stop it," he said roughly. "I never would have hurt you-"

"What would you call stripping my soul naked in front of Beaumont's finest?"

He looked around the church uncomfortably. "I've apologized," he said tersely.

"Some apology," she returned. "I told Jessica that you'd find some way to put the onus on me. You don't make mistakes, do you, oil baron?"

His eyes darkened as they looked down into hers, and his jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell heavily with each breath. "You don't know me."

"Oh, yes, I do," she said fervently. "I know you inside out. You're so warm and safe in that shell you wear that you'll never let anyone else in it with you. You'll keep the whole world away, and tell yourself you're satisfied. You'll grow old, with no one to love or be loved by. You'll have that fortune you've made, and you'll have all the women you can buy. But you'll be alone until you die."

His breathing was audible now, his eyes cutting. "Are you through?" he asked.

"Almost." She searched his face, feeling her will cave in, her body tremble with remembered pleasure, with the bittersweet agony of loving him. "I came too close, didn't l?" she asked quietly. "You didn't just attack me to save Al. You hated me because I saw too much. I saw beneath that mask you wear."

His eyes flashed anger, his tall body tensed. "Get out of my life," he said in a harsh whisper.

"I thought I'd already done that," she said lifting her chin. "You win. You always win. You even told me so. I should have listened. Goodbye, Hamilton Regan Thorndon the Third," she said with a forced, broken laugh. "I hope you and your money will be very happy together."

"If you're going, go!" he said icily.

She knew she'd never forget that hard face, not as long as she lived. She turned away, turning her eyes down. Her steps quickened as she started back down the aisle.

"Al...Jessica...see you!" she called. And Thorn watched her every step as she ran blindly from the church.

The next few weeks seemed to pass like slow motion. Sabina wasn't even aware of being tired, of pushing herself as she and the band gave one performance after another. But she did, exhausting her body and soul, as if to purge herself of the painful memories.

They filmed the video their first week in New York. It was exciting, and Sabina's head reeled when she heard about the thousands of dollars it had cost. All Dennis told her was that they had a backer, but he kept changing the subject when she asked who. Not that it mattered, she supposed. It was the newest way to break into the recording field, anyway. One video on the music channel could make or break a new group, and she was almost sure that theirs was going to be a sensation,

The young production crew that filmed it for them was wildly supportive, impressed with the quality of Sabina's voice and the throbbing rhythm and harmony of the song Ricky had written. It was titled "Ashes and Wind," and they decided on a rooftop fantasy, with Sabina wearing black tattered chiffon and being chased across rooftops with smoking chimneys by a man in a top hat carrying a white cane. It was funky and wild, and a lot of fun.

Ricky Turner was overwhelmed with the finished product. It was in the can days later, and in a month it would be released on the cable music channel.

The group was getting advance publicity, too, with ads on television and radio and in the print media, and their opening at the New York club netted them some flattering reviews. The advertising would surely boost sales of "Ashes and Wind,"

Ricky told them smugly. And if Sabina hadn't been so involved in performing and trying to get over Thorn all at once, she might have wondered about the amount of money all this was costing. And where it was coming from.

"The advertising is drawing big crowds," Dennis mentioned one afternoon, excited about the fact that the club had already booked them for two additional weeks. "And next week, the video will be out. We're going great, people. Just great_"

"Yes, we sure are," Ricky murmured. "I just hope nothing goes wrong."

"Worrywart," Sabina said accusingly. "You just sit and brood on things to worry about, and nothing ever goes wrong."

"That's what worries me."

She threw up her hands and walked away.

The New York club was an exclusive one, over fifty floors up near Rockefeller Center, and the city spread out below in a jeweled fantasy at night. Couples held hands at their tables while the band performed the soft rock music it was growing famous for, and Sabina felt a twinge of envy. It had never bothered her before. But then, she'd never known what love was until Thorn walked into her life.

The memory of him made her sad, bruised her heart. It had been a tragic thing all the way around. If she'd had good sense, she'd never have agreed to run interference for Al. But then, he and Jessica wouldn't be married now and looking forward to any kind of life together.

Her eyes misted over as she thought what it might have been like if she and Hamilton Regan Thorndon the Third had met under normal circumstances. If, that first night at Al's party, they'd been strangers altogether and could have started from scratch.

But just as quickly, she remembered his harsh accusation that last night, about her illegitimacy, her mother, and she went hot all over with rage. She wasn't good enough for him. Eventually, he'd have found it out even if they'd started dating and Al hadn't been in the picture. He'd have found out about her past, and he'd have walked away. When Hamilton Thorndon married, it would be a society ingénue, a Houston oil heiress or a New Orleans society woman. It certainly wouldn't be an illegitimate child and orphan.

As long as she lived, she'd remember his face at the church. If only it had been something deeper than a guilty conscience, she might have been tempted to throw herself into his powerful arms and take up residence. But, of course, it hadn't been anything deeper. Because he wasn't capable of it. Especially with a woman like her.

Bitterness replaced her frustration and she pushed harder, rehearsed longer, put her whole heart into her performances. She'd show him. Her past wasn't going to hold her back. She'd make a name for herself, have the whole world at her feet. And then he'd see what he'd passed up; he'd be sorry.

She looked at herself in the mirror, sighing. Sure. Look what Thorn passed up, she thought miserably, seeing dark eyes dominating a white, drawn face. Even her hair was lackluster, and she was losing weight rapidly. She turned away from her reflection, demoralized.

When she got back to the club, Ricky was glaring as the technicians finished the set and adjusted the heavy lighting.

"I don't like the way that light's hanging," he muttered, pointing to one of the small, low-hanging spotlights.

"You're just overanxious, as usual," she said accusingly. "Come and have some coffee with me. I want to ask you about that new number we did in the video."

He shrugged philosophically as she dragged him away. "Okay," he said. "Maybe it won't come crashing down on your pretty head."

"If it does, I'll remember that I told you to leave it alone," she promised.

The words were prophetic. That night, as they started into their routine, the small spotlight swiveled and came loose. It crashed down onto the stage to the hysterical screams of the packed audience, hitting the side of Sabina's head.

She was knocked out as the hardware still attached to it cut into her shoulder. It wasn't a big light, fortunately, but it was heavy enough to do some damage.

Sabina regained consciousness in the hospital, her eyes unfocusing, her body hurting. The last thing she'd remembered was singing a song and hearing a yell from the door of the club, a tormented yell in a voice she'd thought she recognized. But then the spotlight made impact. She'd thrown up an arm and felt shattering pain in her head and shoulder. And then, darkness.

"Come on, come on," came a harsh, commanding voice. Her hand was being restrained, gripped in something rough and warm that wouldn't let go. "You're tough, tulip. You even beat me. Now come on and fight your way back. I'm not letting go until you do. Come on!"

Her eyes blinked. It had been warm and comfortable in her oblivion and now she was hurting like hell. She moaned,

"That's it," the voice continued, softer now, coaxing. "That's better. Open your eyes, honey, let me see your eyes."

Weren't they open already? How odd they felt. She struggled and her heavy eyelids slowly lifted. There was someone bending over her. She blinked and her eyes opened a little wider. A man. An older man, with a stethoscope. She glanced around numbly and saw the maze of machines connected to her body, in a tiny room whose window faced a nursing desk. She tried to move, but there were wires everywhere. She blinked again.

"Miss Cane, do you feel any discomfort?" the elderly man asked.

She had to lick her dry lips before she could answer. "Hurts," she managed. "Head. And...my...my shoulder." She tried to move, but the pain was too great. She was gently pressed back into the pillows.

"You've been in a coma, but you're going to be all right now. We're going to give you something for the pain," he said. "You'll be fine."

Her eyes closed again. It was too much of an effort to keep them open.

The next time she opened them, it was to find herself in a hospital room. Her mind still felt foggy, but the pain had lessened considerably. She glanced toward her right shoulder and found it bandaged. It felt odd when she moved, stiff and sore. There was something tugging uncomfortably at her temple, too.

She reached up slowly with her left hand and found something like thread there, and raw skin. Stitches!

"Hello."

That voice....She frowned drowsily, turning her head. Even half unconscious and full of painkillers, she reacted to the sight of him. She lay there helpless, looking, staring, loving.

"Thorn," she whispered.

He leaned over her, his face looking tired, his blue eyes soft. Sabina couldn't believe her eyes. She had to be dreaming.

He was wearing a dark suit and he looked rumpled. The white shirt had blood on it. She frowned. Blood? Where had he gotten that? And it was a dinner jacket, not a suit. Her eyes went back up to his.

"Are you in pain, darling?" he asked softly.

She was delirious. He wouldn't call her darling. Anyway, he wasn't there. She closed her eyes. "Sleepy," she mumbled, and it was the last thing she remembered.

Daylight streamed in through the blinds, disturbing her sleep. She brushed at it, as if it were a fly she could shoo away.

"No," she muttered. "Go away. Too bright...."

"I'll close the blinds."

Had somebody spoken? She heard a chair creak and hard, heavy footsteps. She turned her head on the cool pillow and saw him again. The pain had returned so this time she knew she wasn't dreaming. It really was Thorn.

Chapter Eight

Sabina stared at him with eyes that wouldn't quite focus. Painkillers and weariness had made them foggy.

"How do you feel?" he repeated, his voice deeply textured and slow..

Her eyes searched his face blankly as she tried to fit the pieces together. He hated her. He wanted her out of his life. He'd shamed her and humiliated her and told her to go. Why was he here?

"Terrible," she said, her voice thin and weak. Restlessly, she turned her disheveled head against the soft white pillowcase. She felt numb discomfort. "That light...." She tried to get up.

"Settle down. You'll tear something loose," he said curtly. Firm but gentle hands nestled her back down into the pillows.

"My shoulder...." She tried to move it, but there were bandages. And the other arm had a Styrofoam pad under the forearm and a tube leading to a needle in the wrist. "What-"

"An IV," Thorn said. He sat down in the chair beside the bed and leaned back. "You've got a nasty concussion," he said quietly. "And a bruised shoulder, and some cuts and bruises. But your doctor says that if you keep improving, you'll be out of here within five days, and back at work in about a month."

She blinked. None of this was making sense. And why was he here? Her eyes went to his stained shirt. He was still wearing the dinner jacket, and the same shirt.

"You've got blood on your shirt," she faltered.

"So what?" he asked. His eyes were anything but soothing.

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days," he said, and there was a world of meaning in his tone.

"Were you...at the club when it happened?" she persisted.

He sighed roughly, grabbed an ashtray already half full of stubs, and lit another cigarette. "No," he said a moment later. "I was at a dinner party in Manhattan. I'd planned to stop by later. Dennis phoned me as soon as he'd called for an ambulance." He laughed shortly. "The ambulance and I got there at the same time. I rode in with you."

She didn't understand any of it. "Why are you here?" she asked, confused. "You hate me."

His angry glare seemed to underline her statement. "Who else have you got?" he asked bluntly. "Al's in Saudi Arabia, with Jessica, on a business trip for me. Dennis and Ricky and the guys were willing to stay with you, of course, but they had to finish off the club engagement with another vocalist."

"Another singer? Who?" she asked, her ears perking up.

"Does it matter?"

She sighed, feeling uncomfortable and confused and thoroughly miserable. Her big chance and someone else was taking her place, while Thorn sat there glaring at her as if he despised her. Her eyes closed. Tears welled up and spilled out.

"Oh, for God's sake, not that!" Thorn growled.

Her lower lip trembled, too, and she bit it to keep it still. "I'm being taken care of, obviously," she said, forcing her eyes open. "Thank you for all your concern, but why don't you go home? I can take care of myself now. I'm good at it. I've had years of practice."