Picture This (31 page)

Niall narrowed his eyes at father and daughter. “What?”

“Nothing!” they replied at the same time.

“Best if you don't know,” Alan added, turning back to the sound board.

Brianna and Darryl's earnest rendition of “No Air” was so well done they even managed to distract the audience from calling for Ray's head on a platter, and by the time they finished, there was nothing but love in the arts center.

Niall breathed a sigh of relief that their duet went off without a hitch, but then he tensed up, wondering what Ray had in mind for their surprise song. Bracing himself for another round of near violence he might have to help defuse, no matter that he told Ray he wasn't going to participate any longer, he kept a close eye on Darryl and Brianna. They looked at one another excitedly, and Brianna bounced on the balls of her feet a little. Something was definitely up. He glanced over his shoulder at Celia, who was still near her father. She smiled conspiratorially and put a finger to her lips.

When the applause died down, Ray moved toward the stage to announce their next song, but before he could step out from the wings, a song cued up. Darryl dug deep for some resonant base notes. “Rollin' . . . rollin' . . .”

They were doing “Proud Mary.” Ike and Tina Turner's version. A classic. Niall grinned broadly.

“That's not what they're supposed to be singing!” Ray pointed accusingly at Alan. “Fix it!”

Alan shrugged. “I can't seem to get it to stop, Ray. Sorry.”

“Liar!”

“It seems to be going over really well,” Celia chimed in. “Maybe you should just let them run with it.”

“Run with it? This is . . . a travesty! I had a cute little Taylor Swift song picked out, but this . . .”

Sure enough, Darryl and Brianna had gotten through the slow, lazy intro, and the horns kicked in. Brianna marched to center stage and, doing her best Tina Turner with legs as wide as her minidress would allow, belted out the song. Darryl, absolutely gleeful, was content to dance around merrily in the background, belly fat jiggling, underscoring the girl's singing with his deep backing vocals, until the audience was on its feet, cheering.

Ray started to charge onto the stage but was stopped by a large hand on his shoulder. “Dubois! What have you done to my little girl?”

The tall, sandy-haired man spun Ray around. Nate had at least six inches and fifty pounds on Ray, and he looked prepared to use them to his advantage.

“Calm down, Carroll—”

“Calm down?
Calm down?
Look at her out there! No, don't!” he amended, as Ray's head started to turn. Nate freshened his grip on Ray's lapel. “This is all
your
fault!”

Nate gave Ray a shove, and the smaller man stumbled back a step. Ray recovered and shoved back, but Nate was immovable. Suddenly they were grappling with one another, gripping each other's suit jackets and basically going nowhere, although occasionally Nate gained some ground and inched Ray backward, toward the stage. Ray dropped the microphone, and it hit the wooden floor with a huge, amplified thump and whine. Niall watched this for a few moments, highly amused and completely disinclined to break it up. When he figured the deadlock had gone on long enough, he ambled over and hip-checked Nate, hard. The two older men lurched into the spotlight just as Brianna and Darryl were taking their bows.

The enthusiastic applause died quickly as everyone gaped at the disheveled men. Nate's comb-over was sticking straight up, looking like a halo in the brilliant stage lights. Ray's face was an incredible shade of vermilion from the exertion. Both men straightened up, shifted their twisted suit jackets, and started to retreat, when some wag in the crowd whistled loudly. That was echoed by another whistle, and another. A few people shouted their approval. A couple of teenagers attempted to start a chant of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” but it died out faster than it would have in the high school cafeteria.

Niall sighed and picked up the microphone. Smirking at Celia and Alan, he prepared to go out onstage to salvage the situation. Before he could, Celia gently pushed his hand holding the microphone down to waist level and whispered in his ear. He smiled and nodded, then joined the feuding men onstage.

“And that concludes the WWE portion of the evening,” he announced, drawing a fair amount of laughter. That was a good sign. “First of all, let's hear it for Brianna Carroll and Darryl Sykes. Great performance, right?” He paused as everyone cheered. When it grew quieter, he said, “They were our last competitors, but we have a special surprise for you before we announce the winners of the contest. Now, I know you all know there's been no love lost between Ray and Nate over the years.” Both men opened their mouths to protest, but he cut them off. “No denying it, fellas. Yours is hardly the town's best bromance.”

“Own it, boys!” came a shout from the house.

“But I think I speak for everyone in Marsden when I say it's time to let bygones be bygones. Yes?”

Judging by the looks on their faces, neither man was about to agree to that. Ray pushed his way over to Niall and hissed, “Crenshaw, I don't know what you think you're up to, but—”

“Okay!” Niall enthused, stepping away before the mic could pick up Ray's heated words. “So here's the thing. There's nothing like the healing power of music. So it's time Nate and Ray buried the hatchet with a duet of their own. Whaddya say?”

The audience wholeheartedly approved, although Nate and Ray most certainly did not. To keep them onstage, Niall stepped between them and put one arm around each of their shoulders. It looked like a friendly embrace, but he made sure he had them both in an iron grip while Brianna and Darryl relinquished their microphones to the men, who accepted them numbly.

Once the music started drifting out of the sound system and the first lyrics scrolled up onto the monitor, Niall gave Nate's and Ray's shoulders a vicious squeeze, and he backed away to let them get on with it.

“Brilliant,” he said to Celia, who in turn patted her father's shoulder.

“It was all Dad.”

As usual, Alan just grunted, but the corners of his usually grim mouth were curled up slightly with satisfaction. “I thought it applied.”

Together they watched the men glare at each other as the karaoke machine tweedled the tune “The Girl Is Mine.” Not a word out of either of them.

The music had barely gotten to the chorus before they were pushing and shoving one another again.

“I
think that went pretty well, all things considered.”

Celia burst out laughing and swung her hand in Niall's as they walked down the hallway toward the back door. The arts center was finally quiet, everyone having decamped to Beers for an after-party. “How in the world do you figure that?”

“Nobody died. No bloodshed, even. Although I think Ray might have torn his cummerbund in the altercation.”

“Small price to pay. He could have ended up swinging from the Marsden River Bridge if the audience had had its way.”

“Did he really believe all that stuff was going to be funny?”

“I don't know. He does have a . . . strange sense of humor.”

“Is that what you call it? I'd say it verges on sadistic.”

“I think he's learned his lesson. He'll probably leave the humor to you from now on. Are you happy with the contest results?”

“Oh, hey, it's got nothing to do with me.”

“It's got everything to do with you. I don't think anybody would have thought, when Ray first came up with the idea for the contest—”

“You mean when Ray first
stole
the idea from Darryl?”

“Right, right. Anyway, nobody would have thought that Nora and Laurie would be a team—and would
win.
You brought Nora in, and everybody knows she won the contest for Laurie.”

“And you were the one who convinced Ray to let Laurie participate in the first place.”

“Gosh, we're good.”

“I've been telling you that for weeks now.” Niall pushed open the door and held it so Celia could step out first.

“It was sweet that Nora gave Laurie her half of the prize money. Maybe that'll help everybody realize they should be nicer to Laurie from now on too.”

“Well, you led the applause for her. You are a very nice person, Celia Marshall.”

She turned to him in the welcome silence of the night. “As are you, Niall Crenshaw.” She looked around. “We're outside.”

“Yep.”

“What about the photographers?”

“They're gone. I sent them on a treasure hunt.”

“What did you—?”

“Uh-uh. I'll explain later. All you need to know is they aren't around to bother us.” The silence, and the solitude, as well as the cool night breeze, all lifted the blanket of weariness from Niall's shoulders. He especially came alive again when Celia slipped her arms around his waist, underneath his tux jacket, and rested her cheek on his chest. “Oh, that's nice.”

“It is.”

They stood there at the edge of the hilltop, near his car, looking out over the valley for a few moments, watching the taillights of the last stragglers making their way back to town.

Celia said, “I loved it when Brianna and Darryl gave their second-place trophies to Nate and Ray. Too bad they didn't actually sing, though—that would have made the night perfect.”

“Oh, I don't know—the two of them going at one another in round two was pretty entertaining.”

“I don't think they're going to be best buddies from now on, but maybe they'll think twice before they decide to keep up their feud in public.”

“Are you going to deconstruct this contest all night?”

“I might.” She tipped her head back to smile up at him. “Unless you stop me.”

“Oh, I can do that.”

He covered her smiling lips with his, enveloping her in a tight embrace and a kiss so deep Celia's knees buckled. He laughed against her mouth and held her up. Her arms moved up his torso, her hands splaying across his back under his jacket.

“So . . .” she began, breathlessly, when he broke their kiss to touch his lips and the very tip of his tongue to the hollow under her earlobe. “Now that you're done with Night of the Shooting Stars . . .”

“Stop talking.”

“Make me.”

“Again?”

Niall complied, and his kiss became hungrier and hungrier until he pulled back, touching his forehead to hers, forcing himself to slow things down. His hands continued their explorations, running over her bare shoulders and down her back, then back up and tracing the top edge of her dress where the soft skin of her breasts swelled.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathed. He couldn't seem to stop touching her, looking at her, kissing her.

Celia kissed his jaw and throat, until he lifted her chin with one finger and directed her lips back to his once more. His tongue twined around hers, and she made a noise—a small one, but filled with such pure longing, it was nearly his undoing. He nudged her backward until he could ease her down onto the hood of his car.

“We're going to dent your precious Stingray,” she whispered.

“Don't care.” Of course he didn't care—not when his lips were on her skin, his body pressing down on hers. The rest of the world went away when he kissed Celia Marshall, a blessed blackout—

“What just happened?” He raised his head; something was different.

Celia laughed softly, her body vibrating against his. “The parking lot lights went out. It's midnight.”

“Things turn into pumpkins around here too?” She laughed again as Niall looked around, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. “I have never been in a place this black before. I think it's lighter behind my closed eyelids.” He tried it. “Yup.”

“It's not dark.”

“It is to me.”

“Look up then.”

He rolled to one side of her and tipped his head back. “Wow.” There were stars. Lots of them. Not just the occasional pinprick of light he could make out over the tops of the buildings and the glow of the streetlamps in the cities he'd lived in all his life; instead, the entire sky was full of them—large and small, clusters and single lights, even a swirl of the Milky Way. And . . . something else. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? But no—there it went again. “What the hell was that?”

“Flatlander. It was a meteor.”

“I've never seen one before.”

“Never?” She was shocked.

“Not once. Ever. In my life.”

“Well, settle in, boy. You're about to get caught up.”

“Why?”

“It's the Perseids meteor shower. Happens every August.”

“It does?”

“Why do you think Ray called his singing contest Night of the Shooting Stars?” Niall was dumbfounded, and it must have shown on his face, because she laughed yet again. He knew he'd never get tired of that sound. “Here—lie down next to me.”

“I will never say no to that.”

They lay side by side in silence, hands behind their heads, watching the show—streaks of light, large and small, brief and prolonged, sometimes coming in rapid succession, sometimes leaving large gaps of nothing but blackness in between.

“This is freaky.”

“An interesting term for it. Most people would call it breathtaking and magical.”

Niall turned to her, propping his head on one hand. “Now, see, I reserve those words to describe you.”

“Oh, you sweet talker, you.”

“I mean it.”

“Do you really?”

“I do.” He put as much sincerity as he could into his words, because he desperately needed her to believe him. “You are an incredible woman, Celia Marshall, and I'm lucky to know you. In fact, I can't remember what my life was like without you in it.”

“Let's see . . . glamor, celebrity, parties, models, movies, money, yachts, private jets . . .”

“All worthless. And I'll have you know I have never traveled on a private jet. Although it's not for lack of trying to buddy up to the dudes who have them.”

“Now that you're done here, you must be ready to go back to all of it.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe I'm not going back.”

“Yes, you are.” She said this as a statement of pure fact, with no tinge of sadness coloring her words. That bothered him. He wanted her to want him to stay, wished she needed him as much as he needed her.

“Not right away. And not . . .” He swallowed. “Not without you.”

She was silent, staring at him with wide eyes that he could now see in the starlight. On the horizon, over the valley, a bright meteor streaked across the sky.

“Say you'll be with me when we get back to New York.” Nothing.

“Celia? Say yes. Please. I love you.”

She smiled shyly, and her hand reached up to caress his cheek. “I love you too.”

“OhthankGod,” he breathed, his heart lifting. “Can I kiss you now?”

“You'll miss the meteors.”

“Eh. You've seen one shooting star, you've seen 'em all.”

“You are so jaded.”

“No. They're beautiful. But you're more beautiful.”

“Well, when you talk like that . . .”

Niall kissed her again, and again, and again—or perhaps it was one long kiss broken only by his need to pause, pull back, cool down. But when he did, Celia's hands were at the back of his neck, or on his shoulders, pulling him back down to her for another kiss. Which he couldn't say no to. Until . . .

“You know, this is massively uncomfortable,” she whispered.

“I know, right? All those fantasies about getting it on on top of a car, especially a hot car like this one . . .”

“Oh, please.”

“What?”

“You sound like you're trapped in the seventies.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing. Anyway, on top of a car like this one, with a hot babe like you—that's the fantasy. But you're right. It's just uncomfortable. I mean, there's a curious mix of pain and pleasure, but not in a kinky way . . .” Celia pulled him down again. After a moment or two, in between running his hand up the outside of her thigh under her tight dress and kissing the swell of her breasts, he groaned. “Let's go back to the inn.”

“Oh God.” She sighed, eyes closed, tipping her hips up to him and driving him completely mad.

“Please.”

“So many issues with that . . .”

“We'll sneak in. George and Casey will never know. They've got to be asleep by now.”

“Not just them.”

“What, then?” He lifted his head to look at her, startled by the uncertainty in her voice.

“You're . . .” She laughed a little. “Um, intimidating.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

Even though it was dark, he could have sworn he could see her blush. “All your . . . you know. All the women.”

He had to work hard to keep a straight face. “What, all nine of them?”

“Nine
hundred
?”

“No, not nine hundred! What the—”

“Wait. Not . . . not nine
thou—
” she whispered, before Niall cut her off.

“Nine! Nine! Just nine! Now stop making me sound like a contrary German!”

“Wh–what?”

“Wow, I've truly shocked you, haven't I? In our little game of secrets, I think I win. Game over.”

“But . . . but . . . you're
Niall Crenshaw.
Catnip to women. You have zillions of fans!”

“I don't sleep with fans.”

“Costars, then. Supermodels.”

“I didn't say I don't have opportunities. I just partake far less than people assume.”

“All those stories . . .”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to believe everything you've read about me? Or, like, don't believe
anything
you've read about me?” Now grinning from ear to ear, he cleared his throat and purred, “So. How about it?”

“I don't know . . .”

He nibbled her earlobe. “Big, soft bed.”

“Mm.”

He ran his hand down her leg, lifting it up until he could reach the ticklish spot behind her knee. “Really big, really soft bed.”

She squirmed and laughed. “Mmm . . .”

“Private bath. Huge tub.”

“Mm ?”

“I'll let you wear my boxers. In fact, I insist.”