The Magic's in the Music (Magic Series Book 5) (17 page)

“Who’s next?” he asked. God, he hoped the next guy was buried closer than Ulaanbaatar.

“Hardwick and I have been evaluating his list. We agree he overlooked Napoleon.”

Oh, good. Paris. At least he’d get some good wine out of it.

“You, however, are going to stay home on this one. I feel we need to check back in on our wandering Tremaine.”

She just couldn’t quite let go of her preoccupation with the Tremaines. Preoccupation? Hatred was more like it. “Okay,” he sighed. No Paris.

“You never know if or when they’ll find the last Talisman,” he heard her mutter.

Maybe that was her real obsession. With the generals almost ready to be deployed into the world and three Talismans, they were getting close. The final Talisman, plus a ceremony of some kind, and she’d have what she wanted. Power. A lot of it. With her generals infiltrating the military world-wide and the Clan’s powers intensified maybe tenfold, she could do whatever she wanted. Rhiannon would control world weather. Hell, Duncan could rust battleships and planes if the generals needed it. Rick could levitate the Empire State Building. The world would cower at her feet. And he’d be on top of the heap along with Morgan.

He hoped his sacrifice of, oh,
everything
was worth it.

*

Greta just couldn’t
seem to settle down. She was out on the terrace at the Breakers. The sun shone with the autumn warmth characteristic of Southern California even at the beach. The hammock was comfortable, the iced tea Jane had provided cool and inviting. Ernie had brought over her things yesterday morning, even, in an impromptu decision on his part, her telescope. He was sweet. Maybe late-twenties, all rock-like muscle and shy smile. She’d called the doorman at her building to say they should let him into her apartment. The doorman, Mr. Goodly, was sympathetic to her plight. He’d had enough of the crowd outside the door harassing his tenants. He let Ernie in through the basement-access door.

But having her books and her own clothes didn’t seem to calm her down. She was fidgety and couldn’t seem to concentrate. The Tremaine family was more than kind. Dinner last night had been inspirational. To see a big family bickering and teasing and supporting each other was a revelation to someone with a background like Greta’s. The underlying feel of sadness, and maybe a little desperation, made their effort to hang together all the more poignant. Was it just Brian Tremaine’s accident and worry over Lanyon that had put them under so much stress?

Lanyon.
He might be the reason she couldn’t concentrate. She could not get him out of her mind. That was probably because she’d seen him naked in the moonlight. All that pale skin and hard muscle. It made her shiver even now. When had she ever reacted like that to a man, even a naked one? She’d had some boyfriends. She certainly wasn’t a virgin. And she’d done some theater. Backstage at a theater during costume changes was a prime venue for naked men. But nothing had prepared her for her reaction to this guy. She could almost forgive herself for taking matters into her own hands when she’d seen him stroking himself under the stars. That erotic image was permanently burned onto her brain. But even now, two days later, he seemed to be permanently located under her skin, like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

Impatient with herself, she got up and took her book and her iced tea with her. A change of scenery might redirect her thoughts. She headed upstairs to the guest room, hoping she wouldn’t meet any Tremaines on the way. They’d been taking an inordinate interest in her. Or maybe they were just trying to make her feel welcome.

On the way down the upstairs corridor, she spotted the library. What a beautiful room. She stuck her head in. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with one of those sliding ladders. Several shelves had glass doors to protect the contents. One wall was broken by a big fireplace with a carved, stone mantel, though no fire had been lit on this warm day. The rug was an Aubusson, she thought, in red and brown. Obviously antique, it had probably cost more than Bernie’s Mercedes. The furniture was heavy and comfortable looking. It seemed to be Mission style, most of it; heavy, dark oak with red-leather upholstery. A comfortable, oversized couch sat facing the floor-to-ceiling windows on the side of the house that overlooked the Pacific. Several of the lamps were real Tiffany by the looks of them, with brass bases and multi-colored, stained-glass shades. A big writing table sat off to one side.

Drew sat there, poring over a big, leather-bound book with parchment pages. When Greta realized the room was occupied, she quickly withdrew. She was not in the mood for Tremaine questions. She headed for her bedroom. But the room next door to hers also had its door ajar, and inside she glimpsed a harp.

She stopped in mid-stride. A music room? Which Tremaine might call this room his favorite? She poked her head in and this time looked around carefully for occupants before she pushed the door open. Empty. She slid in quietly. The room was furnished much like the library, except the rug was light blue and taupe with occasional small maroon flowers on swirling stems. Morning sun shone in through the paned windows, the squares of their wooden casements throwing plaid shadows across the room.

This place could be a music store. There was a piano, smaller than the grand piano downstairs. Flutes and saxophones and trumpets hung on walls paneled in wood, with carved, raised frames around them. Stringed instruments hung on the wall behind the harp—guitars with rich, caramel-colored wood, and violins, violas. A cello stood on a stand in the corner.

Did Lan play all these instruments? Sure he did. How could you doubt it once you’d heard him use random instruments to let his complex relationship with music fill the clubs?

“L-lanyon’sh.”

Greta jumped. She turned to see Mr. Tremaine leaning on his cane in the doorway. “Oh, you startled me,” she gasped.

“Shorry.” He took a couple of halting steps into the room, his cane thumping on the floor. “He doesh p-play all theshe.” His speech was halting and slurred, but she could understand him better than when she’d first arrived.

Greta looked around. “That’s kind of a miracle. Has he always been like that?”

“A p-prodigy?” Mr. Tremaine nodded.

Greta smiled at him. “You have a very talented brood, Mr. Tremaine.”

He nodded again. And he smiled. It was about the first smile she’d seen on him. He was a very handsome man, even though his hair was totally gray. “G-good kidsh.” He examined her. “Even L-Lanyon.”

Greta felt her blush and wished she knew some secret technique to push the blood out of her cheeks. She turned away and touched the strings of the harp, wondering what to say.

“He ushed to b-be the j-joker of the f-family,” Mr. Tremaine said, pain in his eyes.

That was the second family member who’d said that. She’d never even seen him smile.

“My f-fault he ch-changed.” Mr. Tremaine said behind her.

“Your fault?” Greta turned back, frowning. “I don’t believe all this rot about what kids do being the parents’ fault. If that were true, I’d be in prison somewhere right now. Or in an asylum. And I’m fine,” she said firmly. “We make our choices. You didn’t force Lanyon to drink too much, or…” What was Lanyon actually doing that was so bad? Well, he wasn’t living at the Breakers like the rest of his family. But was that kind of closeness really healthy? “I know you wanted him to live here. But sometimes we just need to get out on our own and make our own mistakes.”
Or sometimes we’re forced out by selfish mothers who don’t give a damn about us, just our earning power.
She took a breath. “Your family can’t all live here with you forever, can they?” Was that insensitive?

“Not m-my choish.”

Greta knew her doubts must show on her face. After all, what family would choose to live in a compound? She saw Mr. Tremaine sway on his feet. “Here, let me get you a seat.” She pulled up a cane chair sitting next to a guitar on a stand and set it next to the couch. Mr. Tremaine sank down gratefully.

“Wish they d-didn’t have to l-live here.” He looked profoundly tired.

Greta frowned. It wasn’t like this family had no money and his kids were living at home because they couldn’t find a job.

“T-told you thish,” here he put his right hand slowly up to a place behind his ear, “wash an accident.” He shook his head. “Shot.”

Greta’s eyes widened.

“W-we have enemiesh. You should k-know.”

“Is that why you have all this security and they all live here?”

He nodded.

“And Lanyon rebels against that restriction.” She sighed. “Figures.” But she didn’t think less of Lan for that. “Is he in danger?”

Again, Mr. Tremaine nodded.

“And you tried to talk some sense into him, and that caused a rift.”

“B-but that ishn’t the only th-thing.” He tried to gather himself together. She hadn’t realized how difficult speech was for him. “I-I’m not the m-man I wash. Supposhed to…p-pro…” Here he trailed off, looking frantically for the word he wanted, his agitation increasing visibly. He started shaking his head, his brow darkening.

Alarmed, Greta reached out and took his hand. “It’s okay,” she whispered, stroking it. He glanced up at her and she smiled. His brow relaxed. He gave a huge sigh.

As soon as he let go his agitation, he could continue. “P-protect them.”

“How about the authorities? Can’t they…?”

Brian shook his head.

“No. I suppose not. They never do anything until after a crime has been committed. Still, you were shot.” She frowned. She didn’t dare ask him why anyone would shoot him. That would be just rude. Greta sighed. “I guess there is no such thing as protection in this world. I just admire the fact that you want to protect them. More than my mother ever did.”

“Tell m-me.”

She’d never talked about this. To anyone. Not to Jax, not to Bernie. But Mr. Tremaine had been so…vulnerable…admitting that he thought he’d driven Lanyon out by not being the man he was before he’d been attacked. How could she be any less open? She sat on the couch and clasped her hands in her lap, tightly. She couldn’t look at him, so she looked at the cello in the corner. “I knew my mother had been using my bank account as her own for a while. It just seemed natural. I was the kid and she was the parent. She had to provide for me out of it. And it seemed okay that some of that was providing for herself.” She glanced over to him. He seemed to be paying very close attention. “She liked expensive things. Jewelry, cars, boyfriends. You know.” Greta took refuge in looking at the cello again. “But when I was fifteen, I think she realized that the
Minders
series was going to come to an end one day. She wanted me to start doing other films in between and she thought I’d gotten enough of a figure to do more adult roles. She, uh, took me for an interview with a French director.” This was the hard part. Greta bit her lip. “The guy wanted proof I could look adult. So my mother told me to strip.” She swallowed. “I did. I didn’t say ‘no’. I’m not sure I realized I could say no. Then he wanted to touch the merchandize. And I let him.”

Greta realized she was hugging her body as she rocked in the chair. Mr. Tremaine reached over and put his hand on her knee. “N-not you,” he said in a surprisingly firm voice. “She l-let him.”

His kindness opened the floodgates. “I felt so dirty. He said he’d give me the part, and I just knew he’d want more than a good acting job from me, and my mother didn’t even care because he was an ‘auteur director’ and working for him would advance my career. She’d been talking about becoming my manager after I got to be eighteen when she wasn’t my guardian anymore, and right then I knew I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t even wait three years to get out from under her influence. I grabbed my clothes, pulled them on any which way, and I ran down to our car. Before my mother could get there, I called the agency that handled my contracts. A lawyer there gave me the name of a friend of his who could help me get my independence. I was so scared. I had no idea whether I could make it on my own or not.”

Tears were tracking down her cheeks and into her mouth. She could taste the salt as he licked her lips. “So that’s how I sued my mother for emancipation when I was fifteen. It wasn’t my greed, like all her interviews in the tabloids said.”

“It wash shelf-defenshe.” His expression was so understanding it made her want to cry all over again.

“I guess so.” She straightened. “I know so. But…” She sniffed. “I still have nightmares about it. She told everybody I attacked her physically, that I cut her off without a cent. I didn’t. We drew up a contract for an allowance. Twenty thousand a month. My lawyer thought I was a fool, but I didn’t want to cut her off entirely, just…” She trailed off.

“N-not be a shlave.”

“So sorry to blather on about this. I never told anybody but the lawyer and the judge at the hearing. I have no idea why I told you.” She wiped the corner of her eyes with the sleeve of her striped, knit jersey. “Anyway, don’t think I meant to compare you wanting to keep Lan at the Breakers to protect him from your enemies to my Mom trying to keep me as her personal cash machine. Far from it. He’s making his own choices. They may not be good choices, but you can’t control what he does, even if you want it for all the right reasons.” She knew the truth wasn’t kind. She softened. “I know how much that hurts you. And you can’t think your injury is the reason he left. He’s got to work out his own response to how difficult life can be sometimes.” She softened her voice. “Just like you do.”