After Midnight (7 page)

“No, it isn’t.” She shifted her hold on the mug, welcomed the warmth slowly seeping into her hands. “Thomas is Tommy’s father. Thomas and his wife divorced when Tommy was a boy. Tommy’s mother raised him.”

“Let me guess, you were raised by his father?”

She nodded. “My mother and Thomas met when I was two. We moved in with him not long after. They were together until her death.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Nicole,” she supplied, smiling as the image of her mother flashed through her memory. “She was kind and beautiful, a cellist with the New York Philharmonic.”

“So you came by your talent naturally,” he said, his voice quiet, matter-of-fact.

“My gift, she would call it.” Only it had turned out to be her curse. Wrinkling her forehead, she set her mug aside and changed the subject. “Tell me about your niece.”

“I have a nephew as well. They’re my brother’s children.”

“What’s his name?”

“My brother? His name is Paul.”

She tilted her head. “Older or younger brother?”

“Older by two years.”

“Are you alike?”

“Total opposites,” he replied with a grin as he set his untouched coffee aside. “Paul is business suits and loafers; I’m worn-out Levi’s and boots. The only music he listens to is classical. Or yours—he’s a big fan of your music.”

“You don’t consider my music classical?”

“No. It’s...I don’t know what I’d call it, but not classical.”

She thought for a moment but couldn’t come up with an accurate description of her music either. “Is Paul married?”

Slowly, his grin became an all-out smile. “It’s one of the greatest mysteries in life, how Paul managed to woo Anne.” Despite his mocking words, his love for his brother was obvious. “The kids, they take after her. Good looking. Smart.”

Did he know how lucky he was? To have the love of a family whom he loved in return? She’d never had more than her mother and Thomas. Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself a moment to wonder what it would be like to have Noah talk about her the way he spoke of his family—with obvious love and connection. Her heart pounded. Or maybe that was her head. Was the stereo still playing?

Tucking her hand into her back pocket, she retrieved the remote she carried with her habitually, aimed it at the wall behind the bar and powered off, enveloping the room in silence.

“What are their names?”

“Megan and Robert. Megan’s the oldest at twelve, and Robert’s ten.”

Her eyebrow went up. “I’m impressed. There are a lot of fathers out there who can’t tell you the ages of their children. You’re an uncle.”

He shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. To her it was.

“Your father, could he tell me your age?”

“Depends on which one you asked. My biological father never bothered with such trivial details.”

“What would Thomas say if I asked?”

“He’d tell you I am twenty-five. He’d be right.”

Noah scrubbed a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

“What?”

He shook his head. His laugh was soft, and not necessarily amused.

“What is it?”

“It just occurred to me that…I’m old.”

He didn’t look old to her. He looked like the most beautiful man she had ever seen with his leanly muscled body and those gorgeous green eyes. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to know better.”

She gave him a look.

“Forty-one,” he supplied.

“You’re right, that’s old.”

“Thanks.”

She laughed aloud and it felt good. She was enjoying herself, his company and conversation. He had worn her down, come in night after night over the past few weeks. Never discouraged, no matter how little attention she gave him, or how rude she was. He always sat in the same booth, the one in the darkest corner, remaining long enough to order two beers before slipping away as quietly as he appeared.

She’d grown accustomed to him and to the effect he had on her system in that time. At least, to the music continually dancing through her head. She doubted she would ever get used to the way one look from him made her entire body tremble.

As it did now.

“You’re talking more than usual,” she observed, in a desperate attempt to distract herself from her body’s reaction to him.

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve watched you. Even with Dominic, you’re more of a quiet observer.”

“There’s only so much you can learn about someone watching them,” he said simply. “If you want to know someone, eventually you have to talk, ask questions, give of yourself.”

“And you want to know me?”

“I do.”

“Because I made music once.”

“Partly,” he admitted.

“Partly,” she repeated. She didn’t know how she felt about his admission. She feared he wanted something more from her than she could give him. “Why else?”

His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The move narrowed the distance between them considerably. “Does there have to be a secret agenda? Dom’s managed to befriend you. What’s the difference?”

Isabeau fought the urge to lean back. Her gaze moved from his eyes to his mouth and back to his eyes. “Dominic doesn’t...He doesn’t…”

“Dominic doesn’t what?”

Dominic didn’t melt her bones with a glance. He didn’t make her senses spin by stepping in the room. “Dom’s in love with Rebecca.”

His eyebrow shot up. “I’m impressed. He doesn’t normally talk much.”

“Dominic? He never stops.”

“He doesn’t say much of Becca,” he corrected.

Actually, Dominic had told her quite a lot. That Becca loved him once, until he got scared and hurt her. That he loved her still—missed her desperately. She considered that for a moment, how Dom would talk with her for hours about a subject he usually avoided. “Maybe he wanted a woman’s opinion.”

“Did you give him one?”

“I did. I told him not to give up so easily. That personally, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for love.”

“Good advice.” He gave her a long look. “So what you’re saying is you don’t find Dom threatening.”

“I don’t.”

“And me? Do you find me threatening?”

God, yes. She needed to be careful with him. “Very.”

Triumph surged in his eyes. A satisfied smile curved his lips. He reached for her hand. “Good.”

“Noah…” Her throat tightened. Her pulse skipped.

He turned her hand over, traced his thumb across her palm. “There’s something I want to ask—”

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t what? Touch you?”

Her gaze moved from his face to their hands. She withdrew her left hand from his, cupped it in her right. Her heart beat erratically. Her stomach trembled. “Don’t ask,” she whispered.

“And if it’s your favorite color I want to know?”

“That’s not what you want to ask me.”

“Are you sure?”

Slowly her eyes lifted.

The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “You do have a favorite color, don’t you?”

“Red,” she admitted. She knew what he was doing, and she let him do it. He was gentling her again, as he had done when she cried. Only this time, it was in pretending something as innocuous as her favorite color was what he’d wanted to know. “Not hearts and flowers and Valentine’s Day red, but deep, rich, brick red.”

“I’ve never seen you in red.”

“I don’t wear it, I decorate with it. I like rooms to have lots of color. I don’t know how you live out of a hotel—so drab and institutional. Don’t you find it depressing?”

“It’s not so bad. The bedcover is...colorful.”

“I bet,” she replied with a smile. “But the walls are white, aren’t they? And the bath—also white.” She cringed.

“You’d hate my house. Every room there is white.”

“On purpose?”

She seemed so genuinely horrified Noah couldn’t help but laugh. Truth be told, he never paid much attention to such things. It was only four walls and a roof, a place to sleep.

“A place to unwind,” she continued as if reading his thoughts. “To relax. To entertain. A home should be an expression of self. What does yours say?”

“That I only just bought it and haven’t gotten around to having it painted?”

“Will you get around to it?”

“Honestly? Probably not. Once the studio is complete, I’ll spend most of my time there.”

“Studio?”

“I’m having a recording studio put in the basement.”

She tilted her head. “When will this happen?”

“It’s happening right now. Construction started before we came here.”

“And when it’s done, you’ll leave here.”

Her words weren’t a question, but he answered her anyway. “Yes.”

“For where?”

“Auburn, California.”

She fell silent for several long moments. Her gaze swept around the room, looking everywhere but at him. Her hand rubbed absently at her upper arm, at the bruises forming beneath his shirt.

He was afraid to read too much into her quiet, afraid to hope that the thought of him leaving would disturb her. Finally her eyes returned to his, carefully neutral.

“How’s your arm?” he asked.

“It aches.” Her hand stilled, dropped to her lap. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Every night you come in you order a dark lager but never drink it—not more than a few swallows. Sometimes you order a second, and that one goes untouched as well. Why?”

Surprised, he straightened. Whatever he’d expected her to ask, this was not it. It was no simple question, with no simple answer. Of course, maybe she’d sensed that.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you, the whole ugly story, if you answer a question in return.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It is.”

“What’s your question?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not until after you agree.”

Her war of emotions played out in her eyes. Those pale, wide, expressive eyes of hers. They got to him. Nodding, she took a deep breath. “All right.”

“How come I order drinks I never consume, is that your question?”

“Yes.”

“Because at one time, I had a problem with alcohol,” he replied, oversimplifying.