Bad Influence
Kristin Hardy

To Teresa, for the Les Paul

And to Stephen—the fundamental things apply.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Cast of Characters for Sex & the Supper Club

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Coming Next Month

Acknowledgments

To Beatriz Ramirez of the Planning Division, City of Santa Barbara, for answering my bazillion questions, and to Lieutenant Paul McCaffrey of the Santa Barbara Police Department for helping with the details.

CAST OF CHARACTERS FOR
SEX & THE SUPPER CLUB

Book 1—TURN ME ON

Sabrina Pantolini m. Stef Costas

Book 2—CUTTING LOOSE

Trish Dawson and Ty Ramsay

Book 3—NOTHING BUT THE BEST

Cilla Danforth m. Rand Mitchell

Book 4—BAD INFLUENCE

Paige Favreau and Zach Reed

Book 5—HOT MOVES

Thea Masterson and Brady McMillan

Book 6—BAD BEHAVIOR

Delaney Phillips and ?

Coming April 2007

1

“W HAT ’ S SO WRONG WITH missionary?” Paige Favreau looked around the restaurant table and shook her head, the smooth strands of her blond bob settling perfectly. “If you’ve got to spend ten minutes staring at a book and half an hour getting into position, it’s too complicated. The Kama Sutra ’s for people who like gimmicks.”

Sabrina Costas’s dark eyes glimmered with fun. “Yeah, but there’s something to be said for variety with the simple stuff. Like doggy-style, say.”

“Arf,” put in Delaney Phillips, putting up her hands like paws and panting happily.

“No way.” Trish Dawson tucked a strand of red-brown hair behind her ear. “You do it doggy-style and you’ve got your butt sticking up in the air right in front of the guy. Not flattering.”

“Are you kidding? It’s all just cushion for pushin’,” disagreed Cilla Danforth, resplendent in the latest Prada. “Besides, Ty worships your butt every bit as much as the rest of you, at least judging by the way he was staring at it at Sabrina’s party last week.”

Thea Masterson glanced at her watch and grinned. “All right, I proclaim this meeting of Sex & the Supper Club officially in session.”

“How long’d we take?” asked Trish.

“Five minutes. Slow for us, don’t you think?”

“That’s only because we spent the first four minutes ordering drinks,” Trish said.

There were some conversations, Paige thought, that you could only have with girlfriends you’d known forever. The group of them had met in college while working behind the scenes on a play. Days spent slaving over sets and costumes and scripts turned into late-night pizza sessions and bonds that had survived the years.

Paige laughed. “You know, it’s been—what?—eight years since we graduated? One of these days we could start talking about other things besides sex.”

“Name one that’s even remotely as interesting.” Delaney looked up as the waiter appeared with a tray of drinks.

“Oh, the state of the world? Religion? The economy? The environment?” Paige picked up her pinot grigio. “Some people would say sex should take a back seat to them, at least occasionally.”

“Sounds like you’ve been talking with Jim the Diplomat again,” Delaney said.

Paige looked at her as if she had a screw loose. “Trust me, I don’t chitchat about sex with my father.”

“He probably disapproves of all of us anyway,” Sabrina said.

“Pretty much since the sophomore-year play that had the lead actor standing buck naked in front of God and everyone, yeah,” Paige agreed cheerfully. “He wasn’t hot on the full-frontal-nudity thing.”

“It wasn’t full-frontal nudity,” Cilla protested. “I designed those costumes out of flesh-colored mesh.”

“I’m not sure a flesh-colored athletic sock counts as a costume,” Paige said. “Especially when it slips off during the first act.”

“That part specifically was not in the script, I’ll just point out.” Trish took a drink of her Cosmopolitan. “I had no part in that.”

“Was it my fault that Perry refused to even consider using double-sided sticky tape?” Cilla’s voice was aggrieved.

Sabrina hooted. “You’re surprised about that? You know how guys are. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to have a special costume for the understudy if you find out he’s a different size than the lead?”

Cilla glowered at her. “That was a conversation I had no interest in having, thank you very much. Perry should have warned me that we might have a problem.”

“When you’re an understudy trying to, er, measure up to the leading man, it’s sometimes hard to admit.” Paige stuck her tongue in her cheek.

“So it caused a little bit of a stir,” Delaney said. “The first rule of marketing—there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“There is when your father’s the United States Ambassador to Romania,” Paige reminded her. “Of course, I told him that you guys were the perverts. All I did was dress the set.”

“You still almost had to quit the play over it,” Thea said.

“Things were sensitive then,” Paige defended. “The Iron Curtain was coming down, I was his kid. It could have reflected badly on everyone.”

Delaney tipped her head consideringly. “What about now?”

“What do you mean?”

“When do you get to stop living to ensure Jim the Diplomat’s job security and start enjoying life?”

Paige frowned. “I enjoy life.”

Delaney snorted. “You just told us you preferred missionary. Look at all of the two-month wonders you date. What about the Ken doll you brought to Cilla’s wedding?”

“His name is Ross and he’s a very bright man.”

“He’s a wonk,” Delaney snorted. “Talking with him was as exciting as watching paint dry.

“Maybe he’s got other qualities,” Trish offered.

“You’re exactly right, Trish.” Paige raised her chin. “Ross is doing some pretty important work in the mayor’s office, even if he is kind of a dud as a date. Was,” she corrected herself.

“Was?”

“I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“And he was a carbon copy of—who’s it?—Marty?”

“Mitch,” Thea contributed.

“Mark,” Paige corrected drily. “No, Marcus,” she amended.

“See, you can’t even remember their names,” Delaney said.

“So what if I can’t? Mark—”

“Marcus—”

“Marcus was six months ago.”

“And let me guess—he was the U.S. delegate to Free-donia.”

“I don’t think dating intelligent men is a crime,” Paige defended. “You have to sleep with the guy’s head as well as his body.”

“And you have to sleep with the guy’s personality and body as well as his brains,” Delaney countered. “Come on, Paige. You deserve to get out and have some fun. Your guys may be bright boys in training, but they usually have about as much character as tapioca pudding.”

“There’s nothing wrong with tapioca pudding,” Trish objected. “I like tapioca pudding.”

Delaney gave her an alarmed look. “Trish, sweetie, don’t ever say that at one of those Hollywood power dinners you go to or they’ll kick you out of the club.”

“Comfort food is all the rage in Hollywood these days, haven’t you heard?” observed Sabrina, who had reason to know, as one half of the hottest couples—and teams—in documentary circles. “Meat loaf, tapioca pudding, mac and cheese. Besides, they’d never dream of kicking Trish out of the club, not with the film of her first screenplay hitting the box office top ten.”

Paige remembered the premiere and the party afterward. It had started off merely celebratory but rapidly degenerated into raucous singing and dancing. Not that Marty—Marcus, she amended—had wanted to stick around.

Just then Kelly Vandervere, the missing member of their group, showed up bright-eyed and out of breath. “Cranberry juice,” she told the waiter as she took off her jacket and sat.

“About time you got here,” Sabrina said.

“Sorry I’m late. I was at the allergist and then I had to go home first.”

“The allergist?”

“Yeah. Kev and I want to get a dog, but they make me sneeze and puff up, so we wanted to see if we could do anything about it.”

“First living together, now a pet? Our little baby’s getting so grown-up,” Cilla choked, dabbing at her eyes.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Kelly replied. “So has anyone here ever gotten allergy shots? They do a bunch of tests on you beforehand—pregnancy, infections, everything. Then they draw this grid on you and poke you with little bits of all kinds of stuff to see which square gets red.”

“And you found out you’re allergic to housecleaning,” Sabrina guessed.

“I don’t know. We never got that far. I was sitting there in the examining room in my little paper prom dress, waiting for them to do the grid thing, and the doctor comes in and says they can’t do it.”

The waiter stopped by. “Your cranberry juice.”

“Thanks.” Kelly picked it up and took a drink. “Says the tests showed up some unexpected results and they’re going to have to reschedule on the allergy stuff because I’m—”

“Pregnant!” Delaney squealed.

“You’re pregnant?” Paige demanded just as her cell phone shrilled. Impatiently she pulled it out to turn it off. Then she recognized the area code on the display and frowned. “Hello?”

“Paige, honey?” She heard her grandfather’s voice. “I need your help.”

T HE EMERGENCY ROOM smelled like antiseptic and floor polish from the big industrial-size buffer a cleaning staffer was running in the hall. Paige ignored the machine and hurried up to the counter and the admitting clerk. “Hi, I’m Paige Favreau. My grandfather is in here. Lyndon Favreau?” she supplied. “He’s been in a car accident.”

The clerk nodded and clicked some keys on her computer. “You’ll have to wait just a minute.”

“Can I just go back? He knows I’m coming,” said Paige in a rush. “He called me on his cell phone.” He’d said he was fine, but that didn’t explain why he’d been taken to the emergency room.

And why he wasn’t waiting out front to be driven home, as she’d expected.

At the clerk’s glance, Paige smoothed her hair self-consciously. The frantic hour-and-a-half drive from L.A. had to have taken its toll. The more sober and sedate she looked, the more likely she was to get cooperation.

“You’ll have to wait,” the clerk repeated. “Please sit down and we’ll call you.”

It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Granted, her grandfather had sounded in pretty good shape when he’d called her from the scene of the accident, but he was eighty, after all.

“I’m a family member. Can’t I just go in to him?”

“Not until we get his approval.”

Paige battled frustration and lost. “That’s ridiculous. He called me. All I want to do is see him.”

The clerk looked at her. “Legally we can’t notify anyone of anything without his consent and we’ve got our hands full with other cases right now. We’ll get to you when we can.”

Glowering, Paige stalked back into the waiting area. Ridiculous, she lectured herself. He was probably fine. To hear him tell it, it had only been a fender bender. Still, until he was completely checked out and had a doctor’s release, she wasn’t going to be able to completely relax.

It happened that way when your only other living relative was a father who lived permanently overseas.

“Makes you want to strangle someone, doesn’t it?” a voice said cheerfully, and Paige turned to see a rough-looking guy sprawled in a chair against the wall, lanky legs stretched out ahead of him on the carpet.

Perfect. Just who she’d expect to run into in an emergency room, she thought, looking at his stubbled jaw. A gleam of white teeth glinted below his black Pancho Villa mustache. It made him look like one of those bandits who’d ridden along the border back in the Wild West days.

Probably waiting for a buddy who’d gotten knifed in a bar fight, before they hopped on their Harleys and headed off to the next biker rally.

“I’m sure they’re doing the best they can,” she said to herself as much as to him.

He winked. “You could just break the rules and walk in,” he suggested sotto voce.

Paige gave him a meaningless smile and chose a chair on the other side of the room. She had more things to worry about than shady-looking men with lawbreaking friends. She picked up a women’s magazine from the table next to her and leafed restlessly through Christmas cookie recipes and instructions on making appliquéd throw pillows for every holiday of the year. Even at the best of times it wouldn’t have grabbed her attention. Now, concentrating on anything was impossible.

To one side, a group of people who were obviously related sat around a tense couple. She wasn’t the only one who was worried about her loved one, Paige realized. From the white knuckles on the woman’s hands, there were far worse things going on that night.

“Paige Favreau?” A nurse stood at the door to the E.R.

Paige rose.

Behind the door, the emergency room was a scene of controlled confusion. Nurses and orderlies bustled to and fro, carrying basins, pushing gurneys or patients in wheelchairs. Her stomach tightened.

And then she saw her grandfather.

Lyndon Favreau lay in the bed with his eyes closed, looking subdued and uncomfortably frail. His thick, wavy gray hair was disheveled. He’d hate it if anyone saw him looking like that, she knew, and crossed to him to straighten it.

His eyes opened. “What? Oh, Paige. How are you, sweetie?”

“I’m fine. What I want to know is how are you?” No IV, she saw in relief. No obvious bandages. Only his eyes looked funny, a little glassy and unfocused. “The doctor won’t tell me anything until they get the go-ahead from you.”

“Tight-lipped bunch here.” Lyndon nodded wisely, but his head bobbled a little. “I’m fine. You know me, raring to go.”

He giggled and Paige blinked. In the thirty years she’d been alive, she couldn’t ever remember hearing her grandfather giggle. Laugh often. Giggle? Never. What the hell was going on?

“Are you the granddaughter?” She turned to see a tall white-coated man with tired eyes and a kind smile. He put out a hand. “I’m Rich Patterson, the staff doctor.”

“Paige Favreau,” she responded, studying him. He was younger than she’d have expected, though judging by the lines around his eyes, he’d seen plenty.

“Don’t mind him,” he said with a nod at Lyndon. “He’s a little out of it because we gave him some painkillers.”

“Painkillers? What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing serious, we don’t think.” He had a nice voice, soothing. His eyes were hazel, she noticed. “He’s a little banged up. He’s complaining of chest pain. It’s okay,” Patterson assured her immediately. “I really don’t think it’s serious. Probably rib or cartilage damage from the accident, but we have to check it out. We’ll keep him overnight for observation.”

Head spinning, she listened to the litany. Broken wrist, sprained ankle, CT scan to rule out head injury. “He called me from here over an hour and a half ago and he seemed fine,” she protested. And she couldn’t understand why so far nothing had been done.

“He is fine, but we just need to be a little bit careful. He’s had to wait because we had a car flip on the highway with four kids,” he added as though he’d read her thoughts.

The families in the waiting room, she thought immediately.

“We’ve been busy trying to get them put back together. Now it’s Lyndon’s turn. This could take a while,” Patterson warned. “You might as well go out into the waiting room. It’s more comfortable.”

“I’ll stay here, thanks,” Paige said, taking her grandfather’s hand. He made a sleepy murmur, but his eyes stayed closed. You did for family, especially when you didn’t have much.

Abruptly she missed her mother as deeply as though she’d lost her the previous week instead of twenty-five years before. Pretty and light and full of fun, Caroline Favreau had been a woman who knew how to tease joy and excitement from life despite the constraints of her husband’s profession. A walk to the park turned into an adventure; Paige remembered sitting with her shoes off in a fountain while her mother charmed the Prague police officer out of disciplining them. With her natural exuberance, Caroline could always manage to get people to laugh and relax, even James.

Then had come the aneurysm and suddenly she’d been gone. Paige’s memories had largely blended into the images she’d seen again and again in photographs. An unexpected whiff of Shalimar, though, could still take her back to walking hand in hand with her mother through the museum in Vienna.

James loved her, Paige knew. And maybe life wasn’t as fun and full of the unexpected as when Caroline had been alive, but he’d kept Paige with him throughout the years—she had to give him credit for that. “We’re a family, you and me,” he always said to her. “We stick together.” And maybe that had meant nannies to help shoulder the load, maybe it had meant being lectured to behave, behave, behave during seemingly every minute of every day, but it had still mattered. They had stuck together, except when he’d gone on long trips or been posted to an unstable country. Her haven then had been Santa Barbara and the staunch, equally quiet affection of her grandparents.

It wasn’t true what Delaney said about her being afraid to live. She lived. She’d just been raised in a more measured life. The habits of thirty years didn’t get thrown off overnight—particularly when there was nothing wrong with them. Perhaps she’d never chased the wild bolt from the blue, but that was because she’d seen firsthand the kind of peace and happiness that came from mutual respect, shared goals, trust. So what if it didn’t work for Delaney? It had been something solid and wonderful for Paige’s grandparents and even her parents. And Paige believed it was out there for her.

She liked order, predictability. If she preferred guys like Rich Patterson to the Frito Bandito out in the lobby, it was because they were doing something with their lives. They were attempting to make a difference in the world. If she’d yet to find true love among the dry discussions, someone who made her pulse beat faster, that was her business, right?

And if somewhere deep down she wondered if she was going to be sorry at the end of her life that she’d lived so quietly, that was her business, too.

The time dragged by, with the orderlies bustling in to take her grandfather off for tests and then return, and the doctor coming back to put on the cast. When she saw the hot-pink roll of fiberglass in his hand, she stopped him. “Not that. He’d much rather have the clear kind, trust me.”

“Sorry. We’ve kind of had a run on casting material. Central Services hasn’t had a chance to restock.”

“Not even blue or green?” Though those would scarcely be the choice of her understated grandfather.

“How about pink or pink? I wish we had something else to offer, but we don’t right now. He picked a bad day to break something. He can put a sock over it, though.”

“Oh, trust me, he will,” she said.

Lyndon’s eyes fluttered but didn’t open, so Paige gave in.

And the doctor left and the waiting went on. Paige looked at her watch and yawned.

A nurse appeared. “We’ve got the results of the CT scan,” she said briskly.

“What are they?” Paige asked.

“Good news, just like we expected. The doc says he’s healthy as a horse, outside of being banged up. Everything came out negative.”

Relief had her feeling weak. For all that she’d been sure he hadn’t been seriously hurt, there had been that tiny bit of doubt nibbling at her. Now finally she could relax. “That’s great. So what happens now? Can I get him home?”

“We’re going to keep him overnight to monitor the chest pain. You can come get him in the morning.”

Lyndon opened his eyes and blinked sleepily at Paige. “I’m sorry about all the trouble,” he mumbled.

“Hush, Granddad.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s no trouble. I’m just sorry you’re hurt.”

“We’ll get him all fixed up,” the nurse soothed. “A nice snooze tonight and he’ll be raring to go tomorrow.” She turned to Paige. “We’ll need you to go out in the lobby and do the admitting paperwork. We’ve got his wallet and clothing set aside. You can come pick him up tomorrow morning about eleven.”

Paige leaned over to press a kiss on her grandfather’s forehead. “Take care,” she said softly. “I’ll be back for you tomorrow.”

“’Bye, sweetie,” he mumbled. “You have the key to the house, right?”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Sleep well.”

His eyes drifted closed and she walked away.

Pushing open the door to the lobby, she gave a jaw-creaking yawn. Her grandfather wasn’t the only one who was nodding off. Maybe it was the worrying or the drive, but despite the fact that it wasn’t even ten yet, she was exhausted. All she wanted to do was get to her grandfather’s house and tumble into bed.

It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, though, she saw with a sinking heart. There was a line of people waiting for processing. A long line. Clearly getting through the emergency room required a Zenlike sense of calm and more endurance than she was entirely sure she possessed. She gave her name and went out to the seating area.

The families of the kids were gone, probably upstairs in the surgery unit, waiting for word. The Frito Bandito was there, though, in practically the same position as when she’d left, an open magazine in his hands. He glanced up, dark-eyed, as Paige walked toward the chairs. One black brow rose. “Still here?”

“Still here.” She sat with a sigh, wondering if the chairs were really as uncomfortable as they seemed or whether all chairs just felt that way after so many hours.

“I figure it’s medical research,” he said. “They’re trying to see how long they can keep us waiting around before we go nuts.” He grinned and she felt the flip in her stomach. She blinked. Dangerous, this one. When she’d first seen him, he’d merely looked disreputable. Now she saw the hollow cheeks, the dark eyes, the careless confidence that set something in her blood to simmering.

The bandito set his magazine aside with a thump of finality and rose to walk to the rack on the wall. He flipped through the various issues for a while, and she indulged herself by studying him. Just because she didn’t want to touch didn’t mean she couldn’t look. And he was something to look at, in a rough-edged kind of way. Long and lanky, stripped down to nothing but muscle. Lean, not brawny, a man who looked as though he could handle himself in a street fight. Not the kind of guy you’d take home to the parents, maybe, but something about the way he looked standing there was enough to make her consider revising her policies on one-night stands and unstable men.

He turned from the magazine rack before she realized his intent. Caught looking, she realized with a flush. His teeth gleamed and she felt the flutter again in her stomach. Definitely dangerous. No romance, no sweetness, just pure, hot sex. He wasn’t a guy who’d bring you flowers or hot soup in bed when you were sick, but he looked like the kind who could make you come so hard you forgot your own name. He was the sort Delaney would go for in a heartbeat.

He wasn’t Paige’s type at all.

He hadn’t grabbed a magazine from the rack—maybe because the content ran more to Women’s Day than Chopper Monthly. That didn’t discourage him from checking out the glossies stacked on the tables. He prowled the room like a big cat, restless, powerful and just a bit threatening. Finally he grabbed a magazine and dropped down into a chair.

Two seats away from her.

Paige swallowed and glanced over at the registration desk, but the clerk was still busy. Then she glanced over at what he held. “Highlights?” she asked before she could prevent herself.

That killer smile flickered again, easy, assured. “Hey, after four hours, things are getting desperate.”

“If you’re looking to ‘Hidden Pictures’ to keep you from going over the edge, you might be expecting a little too much.”

“Looks like I need something else, then, doesn’t it?”

Unaccountably she found herself sucking in a deep breath as though she’d been suddenly deprived of oxygen. “So what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Waiting, mostly,” he said. “How about you?”

“The same. Exit paperwork.”

“Trust me, you could grow old and die first. You can read my Highlights if you want.”

Without thinking, she glanced at the magazine he held and then found herself staring instead at his hands. Like the rest of him, they looked long and strong, as though they knew how to touch a woman.

And she could imagine how they’d feel. Hot and a little rough on her skin. He wouldn’t ask, he’d take—and he’d bring a woman to the point she didn’t care.

Paige felt an involuntary shiver run through her and glanced up to see him studying her. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing the puzzle?” she asked.

“Maybe I already am.” Again the smile. “So who are you here for?”

“My grandfather. He got into a car accident.”

“No kidding. My grandmother just got knocked around in a fender bender herself.”

Another surprise. No biker buddy, no bar fight. “Is she all right?”

“Nothing she won’t survive. She’s a tough one. How about yours?”

“A little dinged up. They’re keeping him overnight for observation.”

The clerk called out a name.

“How about that?” The bandito rose. “And just when things were getting interesting.”

“That you?”

“Looks like I’m getting out of purgatory.”

“I guess I’ve got a few more sins to work off.”

He stopped and looked at her. “Now there’s a thought that’ll keep me up tonight.” He started to walk away and turned back. “Hey, listen, I play Thursday nights at Eddie’s on the waterfront. Maybe you could come by.”

Paige blinked. Not a biker, not a bandit. A musician. She looked again at those hands and, despite herself, she was intrigued. Too bad it wasn’t possible. “I’ll try to do that if I’m still in town,” she said.

“Here’s hoping you wind up with a reason to stick around, then.” And he grinned, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away.

2

M ORNING GENERALLY had a way of making things feel better, even if they didn’t look it. Paige studied her grandfather from a chair in his room. A purplish-red bruise blossomed on his left temple, but the blurry, unfocused look was gone from his eyes. Under protest, he’d stayed in his hospital gown and in bed, tapping his fingers impatiently as they waited for the doctor, the hot-pink cast gaily incongruous against the white coverlet.

“Your idea?” He nodded at his arm.

Paige’s lips twitched. “I thought you could grow to love it.”

“I’m never taking pain medication again. God only knows how I’ll wake up next time.”

“Look at it this way—it could have been argyle.” She grinned, relieved to have him back to his old self.

“I spoke with your father this morning,” he said.

“I called him last night before I went to bed. I thought he ought to know.”

“I suppose you’re right,” her grandfather said grudgingly. “But it’s not like I’m really hurt. Now he’s making plans to come over in a month or two.”

“Is he?” she asked, pleased. “It’ll be good to see him.”

“No sense in him leaving his work. I’m fine—or I would be if they’d let me out of here.”

Paige grinned. “I don’t think U.S.-Czech relations are going to be destroyed if Dad leaves for a week, Granddad. He cares about you. Besides, if the positions were reversed, you’d be the one dragging me to get on a flight to Prague.”

“I suppose. We’ll have to see if we can all manage to get together while he’s here.”

“Definitely. I’ll give him a call next week to see if he knows anything about when he’ll—”

“Good morning.” The hazel-eyed doctor walked in, clipboard in hand. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” her grandfather said. “A little sore but ready to leave.”

“I’m not surprised,” the doctor said and ran Lyndon through a brisk exam, like a mechanic running an engine through its paces. “Sit up a little.”

Lyndon winced.

“Chest hurt? That’s the torn cartilage. It’s going to take time.” He handed Lyndon a prescription. “This is for the pain. They should take the edge off for the first couple of weeks. They’ll help with the ankle, too. You’re going to want to keep off that as much as possible. Rent a wheelchair and use it.” He turned to Paige. “Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes settled again on her grandfather. “Other than that, you’re cleared to go. Just be sure to come back here Friday for a follow up. I assume you’re going to take care of that?” He looked at Paige inquiringly.

Lyndon cleared his throat. “Paige lives in Los Angeles. I’ll get a driver to take me around.”

“You’re going to need more than a driver,” the doctor told them. “For a couple of weeks, you’re going to need help with everything—getting in and out of bed, standing up, sitting down, all of it. You need someone full-time.”

“He’ll have someone,” Paige said assuringly and looked at her grandfather. “I’ll stay until you’re up and around.”

“But you have a business to run,” Lyndon protested.

She smiled. “I think my boss will understand.” Whether her clients would be prepared to brook a month or more delay on their projects was another question, but she didn’t consider staying a matter of choice. For her grandfather, she’d do just about anything.

“I’ve got Maria,” Lyndon said.

“Maria’s a housekeeper and a cook, not a nurse. And, anyway, you know it would drive you crazy to have her underfoot all the time.”

“It’ll drive me crazy to have you underfoot,” Lyndon grumbled, but beneath the bluster he looked grateful and more than a little relieved.

Paige just laughed and pressed a smacking kiss on him. “You don’t have a choice, Grandpappy. You’re at my mercy. Come on, let’s get you dressed and out of here. It’s time to go home.”

T HE BIG TOWN CAR purred along the curving road that headed up the bluffs toward Lyndon’s home. There hadn’t been a chance in hell that he would have fit into Paige’s sporty little BMW, and his Cadillac was currently the worse for wear. Hiring a car and driver had merely been pragmatic, and if she enjoyed the luxury of being able to admire the city instead of watching where she was going, that didn’t make her a bad person, did it?

Santa Barbara perched between the steep backdrop of the Santa Ynez Mountains and the blue of the Pacific. In the sun that burned through the coastal morning overcast, the ubiquitous terra-cotta roofs gleamed.

One of the comforting things about Santa Barbara was that little changed. Forget about Spanish Revival, the city was original Spanish, right down to the two-hundred-year-old Franciscan mission tucked away in the heart of town. In most places, a major tourist attraction would be surrounded by shops and restaurants. In Santa Barbara, the mission and its accompanying greensward sat in the midst of homes and quiet streets, even as it had been surrounded by adobes in the eighteenth century.

The mission was one of her earliest memories, walking down the stairs from the Favreau estate, holding hands with her father and mother. The original mansion had been built on the bluffs overlooking the mission perhaps a hundred years before by Lyndon’s oil-magnate grandfather. Then the stock market crash of ’29 and the thirties had hit, decimating the Favreau family fortunes. Lyndon’s father had sold off the main house and most of the land, retaining only the mother-in-law’s cottage that he’d built in the twenties—if any ten-thousand-square-foot home could properly be called a cottage.

Only one reminder of the long-ago glory days remained—the gate in the wall between the two properties. Once, it had been open so relatives could come and go. Now it was just a locked door between Lyndon’s house and his neighbor’s.

He stirred as they drove up to his estate. “That’s what caused it all.”

“What?”

“The sign.” He pointed.

“You got into a car accident because of a sign?” Paige stared at her grandfather.

“I was distracted,” he muttered, turning to look out the window. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

And there it was, a white placard on the verge before the neighboring estate that said simply: Coming Soon, The Burlesque Museum.

“The next gate,” Paige told the driver and stared at the sign as they passed. No date, no specifics, just the words guaranteed to give her conservative grandfather fits.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said dismissively. “They can’t do it around here. It’s zoned residential. I mean, there’s the mission and the Museum of Natural History, but—”

“But those don’t involve strippers,” her grandfather ground out. “I grew up in that house. My grandfather is spinning in his grave right now. Traffic, cars parked on the street, hoodlums. I won’t stand for it. The neighborhood won’t stand for it,” he insisted, his mouth firming. “That woman is not going to get away with this.”

“What woman?” Paige punched the security code into the keypad and the big gates rolled back.

“Gloria Reed, that’s who.”

“Gloria Reed?” She frowned. “Your next-door neighbor?”

“Her and her fool museum idea. This accident was all her fault. She pulled out right in front of me.”

“Wait a minute—you ran into your neighbor? ”

“I wouldn’t have run into her if I hadn’t been surprised by that blasted sign,” he defended. “She just put it up without warning. And she always comes out of her gate too fast. That woman is a menace. Shameless,” he added as they pulled into his estate and drove up to the house. “Why, here she is in her seventies and she’s taken up with some long-haired kid who looks like a criminal.”

My grandmother just got knocked around in a fender bender.

Paige closed her eyes. “Long-haired kid?”

“Appalling for a woman her age. He looks young enough to be her son. Her grandson, even.”

“I think he is,” she said faintly. The car pulled to a stop before the front door.

“How would you know?”

“I think I met him last night in the emergency room.”

“She was hurt?” Sunlight slanted across his face to show a flash of mingled surprise and guilt as the driver opened the door.

“They kept her overnight, like you.”

Lyndon opened his mouth, then closed it. “Her grandson.”

Paige nodded and got out of the car.

“Well,” he said as she helped him get into the wheelchair the driver brought around for him. “Well,” he said again, then was silent until they got inside.

“Do you want to lie down?” Paige asked after the driver left.

Lyndon rose from the wheelchair with a wince. “No bed for me yet. I think I’ll just sit down in my easy chair for a while.”

“Chest hurting?” Paige asked.

His answer was a shrug; she knew he’d rather grin and bear it than complain.

“How about if I go get your medication?”

“I’ll be all right. Just get me an aspirin.”

“Granddad, I think there was a reason the doctor gave you something stronger. He said you’d be hurting. Don’t you think you should at least take the meds today? Your last dose from the hospital must be wearing off by now.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I think I’ll go get the prescription filled anyway,” she said, ignoring him. “Let me get you settled and then I’ll just nip out for a minute. I need some things for the next couple of days anyway.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble to you, sweetheart.”

“Granddad, you and Nana practically raised me. The least I can do is help out a little when you’re down.” Paige tucked a pillow behind his head. “I’ve been meaning to take a break. It’ll give us a chance to have a nice, long visit.”

He smiled at her. “You’re a good girl.”

“I had good examples.” She patted his cheek. “Do you want me to have Maria make you some lunch?”

“Not just yet. We still need to do something about the museum, you know,” he said as Paige laid a coverlet over him.

“We who?” she asked.

“We the neighborhood. And you, now that you’re here. This estate will be yours one day. Do you really want a parade of thrill seekers coming up here, littering and parking on the verges and looking over the wall from the main house? It’s barely four feet high. Anyone could jump over.”

“Why don’t you make it higher?”

“Because it belongs to that woman,” he said. “She refuses to raise it because of the bougainvillea.”

The bougainvillea. The bane of Lyndon’s existence. Some relation or other had planted it decades before on the far side of the wall. It spilled over the white stucco in a tangle of leaves and blossoms, looking perfectly charming from Paige’s point of view.

Lyndon swore at the litter of fallen leaves and blossoms and had his gardener kneecap the blooming vine on a regular basis.

“The contractor told her the bougainvillea roots had undermined the foundation and raising the height would mean tearing out the plants and putting in a whole new wall. She refuses. Completely unreasonable. But she won’t get her way with the museum,” he said with relish. “I’m going to organize a neighborhood meeting to talk about this.”

“Right now you need to forget about the museum,” Paige told him. “The only thing you should be worrying about is healing.”

“We’ve got to stay on top of her. There’s no telling what that woman will do.”

“Later,” she said.

“We don’t have time for later.”

“I’ll take care of it,” she soothed.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said drowsily.

Paige sighed. “We’ll see.”

“I’ M TELLING YOU , I DON ’ T need to be in bed. I’m not made of glass, you know.”

Zach Reed looked at the flustered woman on the bed in all of her platinum-blond, buxom splendor and resisted the urge to grin. Gloria Reed was no one’s idea of how a seventy-eight-year-old grandmother should look and act. Fresh back from the hospital, she had still found time to put on fresh lipstick—fire-engine-red, to match her acrylic nails. Maybe her days as a pinup and burlesque superstar were over, but she still kept up her image. And she might roll on satin sheets, but that didn’t mean she took to being coddled.

“The doctor said you had to take it easy.”

“Easy means having a houseboy feed me peeled grapes while he fans me, not having my grandson put me to bed. I can still paddle you, you know.”

Zach did smile then. “I bet you can, but let’s not put it to the test.”

“All I did was get shaken up a little bit.”

“Is that why you’ve got your knee wrapped up?”

She scowled at him. “This time tomorrow I’ll be fine.”

“Then tomorrow you’ll be up. But not today. You don’t just walk away from a car getting smacked around like yours did.”

“My poor Bentley,” she mourned. “Was it bad?”

“Not if you look at it from the passenger side.”

“Cute.”

“So people tell me. Let’s see…he basically T-boned you as you pulled out of the gate, so the front driver’s-side quarter panel is pretty much toast. You’re lucky you weren’t really hurt.”

“Good engineering. Those air bags do their job.”

“The problem is that he went right into the wheel, wrecked the bearings, bent the axle and did a number on your engine.”

“Can I get it fixed?”

He shrugged. “You probably could, and for less than the car costs, but it’s not ever going to be the same.”

“Sounds like it’s time to go shopping, then,” she said, rallying. “Do we need to get a new van for you while we’re at it?”

It was his turn to scowl. “You’re not going to buy me a van.”

“Yours is falling apart.”

“I’ll get one when I’m ready.”

“You’re stubborn, you know that? Right down to your core.”

Zach leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “Can’t imagine where I got that from.”

She looked at him in reproof. “Disrespectful, too.”

“Can’t imagine where I got that from either.”

Gloria threw her head back and laughed. “It’s good to have you here, kiddo. And it was worth a few bruises and losing my Bentley to see the expression on the face of that old geezer next door.” A smile of satisfaction spread over her face. “You should have seen him, staring at the sign all pop-eyed, even when the paramedics were trying to get him out of his car. He was having fits over the museum, and they thought he was spluttering because he was hurt.” She gave a contented giggle.

“You’re a bad girl, Gloria Reed.”

“Kiddo, that’s been the source of my fortune. Now are you going to let me up from here or not?”

Zach considered. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you up if you can get out of bed on your own and walk over here.”

“Fine.” She flipped back the covers. Underneath, she wore cream silk lounging pajamas, to go with her silvery blond hair. “Okay, up and across the room.” She swung her legs around with a grimace to dangle off the edge of the bed. “Okay?”

Zach merely watched her.

She put her feet down, her toenails a vivid red against the white of the carpet. Her mouth tightened, then she pressed her hands on the mattress and made as if to rise.

“Okay. Done.” Zach moved forward quickly.

“You didn’t even let me try.”

“I saw enough. You’re hurting.”

She glowered. “What of it? It’s just bruising. You heard the doctor—it’s nothing serious.”

“It will be if you don’t leave it alone.”

“Yes, Mother,” she muttered.

“The mind boggles,” Zach said.

“Mouthy,” she shot back but lay down with a sigh.

Zach flipped the covers over her. “Okay, you’ve got your Pepsi and your magazines, and the remote’s right here. Is there anything else you need?”

She pouted. “A grandson who isn’t a tyrant?”

“Out of luck there. I’m going to go get your prescription filled. I don’t want you out of this bed, understand? Now are you set?”

She relented and pulled him down so she could kiss his cheek. “Kiddo, I am as set as I can be. Thank you.”

She was no one’s idea of a grandmother, Zach thought, squeezing her hand—except maybe his.

T HE PHARMACY WAS close and amazingly well stocked. Paige had never really thought before about what you could pick up in a drugstore. So it wasn’t exactly Estée Lauder, but she had the basics to tide her over, including a Santa Barbara T-shirt to swap for the camisole and silk shirt she’d worn to the restaurant the night before. It seemed aeons ago now, with all that had gone on. The fact that she’d washed her things out the night before and ironed them that morning didn’t help. Maybe in the afternoon she’d take a quick run to the mall and get a few things to wear.

In the meantime, she’d deal.

She rounded the corner of the building carrying her bags, heading absently toward her car.

And saw him.

The impression punched into her before she could take a breath—hot, sexy and just a little bit dangerous. Knowing he wasn’t an outlaw biker made him no less disconcerting. If anything, it made him more so, because now she couldn’t dismiss those careless dark looks. This time he simply wore Levi’s and a white T-shirt, looking lean and stripped down and purposeful as he headed across the parking lot. He’d shaved, she saw, and combed his hair back. When their eyes locked, she felt it as an almost physical sensation. Breathe, she reminded herself.

He stopped before her. “Looks like you survived the E.R.,” he said.

“Just barely. I think they should give out merit badges for it.”

His lips twitched as he looked her up and down. “Yeah, you probably were a Girl Scout. I bet you had a million merit badges. You look like you’d be good at collecting them.”

She didn’t bother asking him about merit badges. He didn’t look like the type who’d ever been a Boy Scout. “So you’re Gloria Reed’s grandson?” she asked instead.

“And you’re Lyndon Favreau’s granddaughter.”

“Ten points for you,” she said.

“Do you have a name or should I just call you the granddaughter?”

“Paige,” she said. “Paige Favreau.”

“Zach Reed.” He offered his hand.

Not taking it would have been silly, so she shifted her bags and reached out.

And heat flushed through her. The contact felt startlingly intimate, the skin of her palm more sensitive than she’d had any idea it was.

She’d been right about the strength, the hardness, the purpose in his hand. His fingers slid against hers, curved around. Somehow, he felt more immediate than just about anyone she could think of. There was a vitality about him, an energy that hummed through him and into her. Something like butterflies skittered through her stomach.

She let go as quickly as possible.

“Nice to meet you, Zach.”

“My pleasure entirely,” he said. “So I hear the deal is your grandfather ran into my grandmother.”

“We keep it all in the neighborhood, apparently.” She swallowed, consciously trying to settle her pulse.

“Convenient. I guess that means you’re going to be hanging around town after all.”

“I guess so. You?” she asked.

“I was already here for a couple days anyway.”

She’d never liked men with mustaches. What was it about his that it only made her focus on the mouth it framed? A mouth that looked more tempting than a man’s should, ruddy and sardonic and entirely too intriguing. His brows formed dark, straight lines above those black eyes.

When one of those brows rose in question, she brought herself back to the conversation with a jolt. The last thing she needed to be doing was wondering what it would feel like to kiss him.

“So, um, how is your grandmother?” she asked.

“Oh, sore, feisty. I’m having to sit on her to keep her in bed. How’s your grandfather?”

“Bouncing back. I hope I do as well at his age.”

His gaze rested on her, warm and lazy. “I think you do pretty well already.”

Her cheeks heated. “I thought I was a Girl Scout.”

“I always did like those cookies. Melt in your mouth.”

And if he kept talking to her in that warm, husky voice, she’d be the one melting. She needed to concentrate on the matter at hand. Paige cleared her throat. “I was hoping to talk with your grandmother in a couple of days about the museum thing. My grandfather is in kind of a stir about it.”

“Not right now. She needs to focus on getting up and around. Talk to me instead,” he suggested.

“Are you a part of it?”

“While I’m here. Try me.”

Paige hesitated, eyeing him. “Okay, how set on this museum is she?”

“What does it matter? It’s her house, it’s her property. What business is it of anyone else’s?”

“A lot. It’s got the potential to really change the neighborhood. She lives in a community and what she does affects them.”

Zach laughed. “With all the walls and gates that they have? I think the neighborhood will survive.”

“How do you know? You’re not from this area.”

“And you are?”

He was baiting her, Paige realized, biting back the little twinge of annoyance. “I grew up here. People like things to stay the same. They don’t like change, especially changes like this.”

“Changes like what?”

“Changes like your grandmother’s museum.”

Zach shrugged. “The neighborhood already has a slew of museums. The mission’s at our doorstep. You think one more is going to change things?”

“Given the kind of crowd this museum is likely to attract, yes,” she retorted.

Amused, he stuck his hands in his back pockets and rocked back on his heels. “The kind of crowd? Just what kind of crowd is that?”

“People looking for something outrageous, something a little scandalous.”

“Seems to me like you could do with a little something outrageous yourself,” he said.

A car drove by, startling a flock of sparrows, which flew up out of one tree and dived into the branches of another, disappearing instantly from view.

A faint color stained the edges of Paige’s cheekbones. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zach looked her up and down, studying the tidy outfit she wore. It was the same as the night before, but somehow it looked crisp and smooth again, like she was set for lunch at the country club. Classy, subtle, almost certainly expensive. There was sexuality there, but so carefully packaged you’d almost never see it. Paige Favreau, he sensed, kept everything under control.

He smiled. “Loosen the leash. Have a little fun. That’s all Gloria’s trying to do.”

“It’s fun at everyone else’s expense.”

“Doesn’t have to be. She’s doing it to benefit a charity, but it could be to everybody’s benefit. It could just be that y’all will have a good time with it if you just give it a chance. Come on, don’t you think it would be fun to shake these people up a little?”

Like it would be fun to shake her up a little.

“One of those people happens to be my grandfather.”

“It’d be good for him,” Zach said easily. “It’d be good for you. Live life on the edge.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for your edge, thanks.”

Without thinking about it, he moved closer to her, leaned in close enough to smell the light fragrance of her hair. “Oh, yeah? I think you might like my edge,” he murmured into her ear.

Her breath caught. He heard it. She didn’t move, just stood absolutely still, not making a sound. He heard a thud as her bags hit the ground. Then she began to tremble, so lightly that he’d never have noticed if he hadn’t been practically pressed against her.

And that quickly it stopped being a game for him. The silky spill of her hair brushed against his cheek. Her scent wound round his senses. He could take it further, he could feel it. He could taste her, touch her, take her to a place she’d never been before, and plunge them both into heat and need and madness. But not here.

For a suspended second, all Paige could do was stare at him wordlessly, trying to get her brain working again. They were in a parking lot, she reminded herself, broad daylight, traffic twenty feet away. How was it that she felt as if she’d just come back from somewhere dark and shadowed and intimate? And how was it she felt disappointed?

She swallowed and time began moving again. “It’s simple enough. My grandfather—and the whole neighborhood, I expect—want the museum somewhere else.”

“And my grandmother wants it here.” He smiled. “Looks like we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, wild thing.”

She jerked away from him. “I doubt it.” She picked up her bags and turned to open her car.

Zach just laughed. “See you later,” he called.

He planned to make sure of it.

3

T HE MAN WAS ABOUT AS irritating as they came, Paige thought as she drove south on Route 101 toward Los Angeles. Zach Reed was cocky, outrageous, egotistical, obstinate and patronizing. I think you’d like my edge, her foot. What she’d like would be to have him gone, him and his grandmother with her wacky ideas. She didn’t need Zach Reed in her life. That she’d woken up thinking about him didn’t put her in any better mood.

Here she was, driving down one of her favorite stretches of highway on a beautiful morning. She ought to be enjoying it, reveling in it. She certainly didn’t need to be getting an ulcer over the headache next door.

No matter how sexy he was.

The highway wound along right next to the water, with nothing between it and the waves but a riprap-covered slope. The narrow beach was deserted at this hour. The sun was only just beginning to peek over the inland coastal bluffs. Bereft of buildings, this stretch was the province only of the wet-suited surfers who bobbed out in the waves, their cars parked in a line on the shoulder. Between Santa Barbara and Ventura, Route 101 was as close as you could get to the edge of the continent without falling off.

And the thought had her snorting in irritation. Live life on the edge, indeed. Zach Reed was one of those guys who considered himself the answer to every woman’s prayer. Well, she didn’t have any prayers for him and she didn’t need any answers. She was perfectly happy with her life as it was—or would be if she could take care of Lyndon’s concerns about the museum.

And that meant dealing with Zach Reed, no matter how little she wanted to do it. She flashed briefly on that moment in the parking lot, that instant he’d been so close she could feel the heat from his body, when she’d seen in his eyes where he could take her.

Paige shivered. She liked nice men. She liked quiet, respectful relationships. Zach Reed wasn’t about any of those. An affair with him would be a wild roller coaster, a thrill ride that would take her breath, her will and very possibly her sanity.

Not that she was even remotely considering it. She ran the windows down and let the breeze come in. No more thinking about Zach Reed. He was already miles behind her. Getting out of town for the morning was the perfect antidote. She’d head home, pick up some clothes, her laptop, the files she needed for work.

If she’d timed it right, she’d hit L.A. just after rush hour and get straight through to her Hancock Park condo. Call it an hour and a half, maybe two. She’d be back in Santa Barbara by early afternoon.

Adjusting her sunglasses, she settled in more comfortably and headed down the highway.

Z ACH LEANED BACK ON the couch in Gloria’s guesthouse, looking up through the skylights to the overcast sky above. By noon, it would burn off to reveal a blue so pure it hurt the eyes. For now, it was gray and inscrutable. Idly he strummed the electric guitar he held and began to play a blues riff. A two-note riff in E, that classic staple of the blues, that low thud that was the rhythm of a heartbeat, the rhythm of footsteps.

The rhythm of sex.

Without conscious thought, he vaulted off into the high, wailing notes of a solo that he played against the basic rhythm in his head. He played on instinct, fingers stroking the fret board, working the strings, pulling out the keening cries of pain and ecstasy. It was what he’d always loved about the blues—being able to go with it and see where it took him. He was never happier than when he was playing lead over the rhythm laid down by his band.

His band.

What did you do when you’d had a job for over twenty years and you got laid off?

On impulse, he picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Creative Music Associates,” a woman’s voice said crisply.

“Is this Bonnie?” Zach asked.

“Yes, it is. Is this Zach?”

“Bingo. Still trying to reach Barry.” They’d become good friends over the past three weeks, his manager’s secretary and he.

“Just a minute, Zach, I’ll see if I can get him.”

He went on hold, listening to the latest White Stripes release.

The phone line clicked. “Jimmy, hey, good to hear your voice, man.” Barry Seaton, happy and hearty and slick as goose shit.

“It’s Zach, Barry, and it’s good to hear your voice, too.” Zach could take only sour satisfaction in the awkward silence, given the number of times his manager had ducked him of late.

Barry, to his credit, recovered quickly. “Oops, hit the wrong button. Hey, sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you on that Crossroads thing. That sucks that they dropped you, man, seriously.”

Crossroads Records, his erstwhile recording company, which after three well-received albums had elected not to renew his contract. “I’m not too worried about it, Barry, because you’re going to hook me up with another company, right? I’ve already got songs for the new album.”

“Oh, hey, yeah, I’m working on it. The blues is a harder sell than it was when Stevie Ray was making headlines.”

Zach drummed his fingers. “Nine albums over eighteen years, Barry—you ought to be able to do something with that.”

“Come on, Zach, you’ve been in this industry long enough to know how it works. It’s the numbers, man, pure and simple. I don’t give a damn how good the reviews are, you’ve got to move units.”

And Zach didn’t.

“Get your booking agent—Sarah is it?—have her set up some dates, put you on the road. Maybe I can shake something loose.”

“She says it’s hard to set up dates without the record company backing.”

“She might be right.”

“Oh, come on, Barry, I’ve been playing some of those clubs on the circuit for fifteen, eighteen years. And you ought to be able to find someone who’ll take me on for a new album. After all, I make money, we make money,” he said, playing the one card he knew would get Barry’s attention.

“Look, I’ll make some calls, get back to you.”

Zach almost growled in frustration as he disconnected. In Barryspeak, that meant never, and meanwhile his bank balance continued to drop.

He’d gotten a guitar for his tenth birthday. By eleven he’d blasted through every songbook he could lay his hands on, learned all that his teachers could pass on to him and found his home in the blues.

By thirteen he’d joined his first band. He still remembered how it had felt walking into the audition held by a group of guys in their twenties. “What the hell is a kid doing here?” one of them had demanded. “Great, a refugee from Musical Youth,” another had muttered.

Zach had just ignored them and plugged in his guitar. Let them talk, he’d figured—all he’d wanted to do was play. And when he’d begun to solo to the backing riff in his head, they’d first quieted, then stared, then one by one picked up their instruments and begun to play with him.

Five years later he’d released his first album. It had been put out by a small indie label, one without wide distribution. It hadn’t done much to make him money, but with the pittance of an advance, he’d bought his first beat-up van and gone on the road. When that label had gone under, he’d switched to another. By then, he was touring as the Zach Reed Band. By the time he’d switched labels yet again he’d amassed a critical success and a small, rabid fan base.

Unfortunately small, rabid fan bases didn’t pay the bills. He didn’t care, for years he hadn’t cared, content as long as he was playing. So what if he was in a different city every night? So what if he was piling into his van with the guys to go from club to club on the giant Pacific Northwest blues circuit that ran from Chicago to San Francisco to Portland and Seattle? So what if they ate in diners and slept in fleabag hotels or the back room of a club if they were lucky and in the van if they weren’t?

He hadn’t cared. But this time his label hadn’t gone under—it had dumped him. This time Rory, his bass player, and Angel, his guitarist, had begged off for local gigs. Good reviews weren’t enough. They wanted—needed—successful albums to keep their heads above water. And it wasn’t happening.

Zach was damned if he knew why. He’d always figured that talent would prove out. He’d always assumed all he had to do was play and make the best albums possible and sooner or later it would come together. Only it hadn’t. It hadn’t at twenty, twenty-five, thirty or thirty-five. He had a treasure trove of amazing memories, but he’d never quite broken through, no matter how well respected he was. He was thirty-six going on thirty-seven and he didn’t have a clue what came next.

Sure, some of the legendary bluesmen had stayed on the road until they’d wound up being broken-down old guys with nowhere to go. He’d played more than one fund-raiser for their cause.

He didn’t want to become a beneficiary.

Part of him said to keep pushing until he made it, but in some small, disillusioned corner of his brain he was starting to wonder if maybe that would never happen.

So he’d come to visit Gloria. Here, he could suck up a shot of her feisty energy and have a home base for a couple of weeks while he figured out what to do.

But then she’d gotten into the accident with the tight-assed antique next door. The antique with the entirely too tasty morsel of a granddaughter.

Thoughtfully Zach set his guitar aside. Paige Favreau, so neat and proper, so calm and controlled. She might tell him that she didn’t want any part of him; he knew better.

He saw it in her eyes.

It was enough to make him think.

He didn’t know what to do about his career, but he did know one thing. Gloria wanted the museum, and that was enough for him. On his twelfth birthday she’d given him a vintage Les Paul. His parents had objected on the grounds that no kid needed a guitar worth a few thousand dollars. What was money for, Gloria had countered, if not to enjoy? She’d believed he was going to go somewhere with his music, and with the Les Paul in hand, he had.

So if Gloria wanted a burlesque museum, a burlesque museum she would get, and Paige Favreau could just be the way to make that happen. She had Lyndon’s ear and she looked like the type who could change his mind. And if, in the process of getting her to loosen up and get behind the museum, Zach could get her to loosen up and spend some time with him, well, so much the better.

Yeah, he could do worse than stick around to look after things for a few weeks. And he could put off figuring out what the hell he was going to do with his life.

After all, figuring out how to convince Paige Favreau she wanted him in her bed was bound to be a lot more fun.

Shaking his head, he rose to go to the main house to check on Gloria. They’d always been a likely pair, with the same irreverent sense of the world and exasperation with the rules.

He walked in to find her at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and doing the crossword puzzle.

“You’re up and around bright and early,” he observed.

“I figured I had to make my move while you weren’t here giving me the hairy eyeball.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” she allowed. “I think I’ll live.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He walked past her, squeezing her shoulder before going after coffee.

“Nona can get that for you,” Gloria said.

“I can get it myself.” Zach got out a mug and filled it.

“How about a little car shopping today?” Gloria suggested. “I feel like doing a few test-drives.”

“Don’t see why we couldn’t. I like the idea of you in one of those Mini Coopers.”

She snorted.

“A pink Ferrari?” he suggested.

“Better, but I’m still going to pass.”

“Just a Bentley gal at heart, eh?”

“You know me well.”

“That I do.” He took a drink of coffee and came back over to sit down. “You know, I’m the last person to tell you to blend in, but have you really thought through this museum thing?”

“What do you mean? You know I’m committed to pulling this off. It’s not just for jollies. There are people out there from the business, old people who don’t have a pot to piss in. This museum can help.”

“Not if you keep going out of your way to rile people up. Right now you’ve got a whole lot of really excited folks on your hands, and I don’t mean in a good way. Maybe it’s time to rethink things.”

She eyed him. “You’ve been talking to that stiff-necked old coot next door, haven’t you.”

“His granddaughter, actually, but I was thinking about this anyway. If you want this thing to come off, you’ll be better off playing nice. Why set it up in a way that’s calculated to piss people off? Do it somewhere else.”

“I locate it somewhere else and I have to pay rent, which cuts into profit. I’ve got so much room here I’d never even notice.”

“You’re going to have a fight on your hands to get that variance.”

“I don’t mind a fight.”

The corners of his mouth tugged into a grin. “I know you don’t.”

“And I like twisting their tails.”

“I know that about you, too.”

She laughed. “You know it because that’s how you are.”

One thing he’d come to grudgingly accept over the years, though, was that sometimes you had to give a little to get a little. “Come on, you’re smart enough to know that you’ll probably have an easier time getting it through if you play it soft.”

“I know, but I can’t stand that superior look Favreau next door gets on his face. He turned me in for not having my trees trimmed to the exact right height under the power lines on the property frontage. The city came in and practically shaved my jacarandas. And his fool gardener is always chopping on my bougainvillea.” She glared out the window at the long, low wall between the two properties, covered on her side with a profusion of greenery and blooms that ended abruptly at the top of the fence as though shaved off with a chain saw.

“Maybe he needs a hobby.”

“The man’s already got one—being a pain in the neck.”

“Is that a hobby?”

Gloria snorted. “For him, it’s a career.”

P AIGE SAT AT HER desk in her home office, talking into her headset while she simultaneously packed files into her laptop case.

“Yes, I know it’s going to be a big delay, Alma. I know you were planning to have everything redone by June in time for Peter’s graduation. But it’s a family emergency and I don’t have a choice.”

“I hope you realize what an imposition this is to me,” a tart voice said into her ear.

Next time I’ll have my grandfather plan his accidents better, Alma. “Yes, of course. If you’d prefer to take the project to another designer, I’ll understand,” Paige said and crossed her fingers. A few seconds ticked by.

“I don’t think I’d feel right doing that,” Alma said grudgingly, as though granting a favor. “After all, he is your grandfather.”

Toothaches were nothing compared to this, Paige thought. “Great. Okay, I’ll keep you posted, but we should be able to get rolling again in about six weeks. In the meantime, we can stay in touch by phone and e-mail and I can have some samples sent to your house.”

“Don’t forget to give me your cell phone number,” Alma said.

Not a chance. “Don’t worry, Alma. We’ll still be working together, it’ll just move a little more slowly. Thanks for your understanding.” With a few more pleasantries, Paige disconnected.

And cursed like a sailor until the air in the room turned blue.

“Wow, I didn’t know you knew how to talk like that.”

Paige glanced up to see Delaney in the door, looking at her inquiringly. “Clients,” she said dismissively, pulling off her headset. “The ones I wanted to keep asked to change to avoid the delay. The one I really wanted to get rid of has decided she’ll do me a favor and wait.”

“Dontcha just hate it?” Delaney asked cheerfully, crossing the room to give her a quick hug. “How’s your granddad?”

“Better. Still hurting, and he can’t do much for himself, but I think he’s past the scary stage. Thanks for asking. And for keeping an eye on my place while I’m gone. You’re the best.”

Delaney waved a hand at the sleekly opulent room. “It’s no hardship to hang out here, trust me. So you didn’t hear the rest of Kelly’s announcement the other night.”

“Oh, God, right, Kelly. So what’s the deal?”

“She and Kev talked it over and they’ve decided to go ahead and have it. They’re getting married.”

Paige’s eyes widened. “Little Miss Footloose and Fancy-Free?”

“They have been living together for a couple of years now. That’s kind of serious.”

“Yeah, but there’s serious and there’s serious. ” Paige thought for a moment and a slow smile spread over her face. “Kelly with a baby. That means we get to be aunties.” Her eyes widened. “Baby shoes,” she shrieked.

“Definitely.” Delaney grinned. “The wedding’s in two months.”

“Kelly and Kev—who would have guessed?”

“Maybe Kev.”

“They’re going to make great parents,” Paige said dreamily.

“You know it. Anyway, we’re cooking up a party for them, so I’ll let you know. Assuming you’ll be here.”

“I’ll have to play it by ear right now.”

“Where’s your grandpa today? Did you just leave him on his own with a few crackers and a bottle of Coke within reach?”

“Oh, he’s got a housekeeper to keep an eye on him. Anyway, I’m just down here for the morning so I can get some stuff together. After that, I head out.” And, galvanized by the thought, she began moving around her office in hyperdrive, gathering things together.

With a sigh of pleasure, Delaney sank down into her favorite seat—a deeply overstuffed chair in a bronze damask. “So what’s it like there? Are you going stir-crazy?”

“Not really. It’s kind of nice. I’m getting a chance to spend time with my granddad, which I haven’t in a while, and it feels good to be helping. It’s actually more like being on vacation than anything. Sleeping in, no meetings, just like a little getaway.”

“You need that. You’ve been running like a mad dog since you went out on your own. You need a chance to catch your breath. How long are you going to be gone?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Paige slid her laptop into its carrier and added the power cord. “A few weeks, anyway. Maybe more. I want to stick around until I’m sure he’s all set.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t hurt bad.”

“Nothing lasting, but he’s not going to be up and driving anytime soon. I want to stay and finish the job. Besides, there’s this whole other thing going on.” She set the laptop case next to a tote bag on the floor.

“Define whole other thing. ”

“A zoning issue. My grandfather’s all up in arms about his next-door neighbor wanting to turn her home into a burlesque museum.”

Kelly gave a startled laugh. “A burlesque museum? Like strippers?”

“Tamer, I think. More like vaudeville. My granddad’s neighbor was a big star back in the day.”

“Who?”

“Gloria Reed.”

Delaney tapped her feet lightly on the carpet. “The name’s vaguely familiar. I think I might have read an article on her somewhere, maybe.”

“Under whore of Babylon, if you listen to my grandfather.” Paige unplugged her BlackBerry from its wall charger and headed toward her desk. “Anyway, she wants to start this museum to commemorate burlesque.”

“Hey, why not? There’s a banjo-picking hall of fame.”

Paige stopped. “A banjo-picking hall of fame?”

“Yup.”

“The world is a stranger place than we know.” She tossed the electronics into her purse.

“You said it. A burlesque museum, huh? I’m guessing your grandfather is unthrilled.”

“Try ballistic. He’s dead set on blocking it. If I’m not around to work on it, he will, and that’s the last thing he needs to focus on right now.”

“Can’t you just go to the city and complain?”

“I guess. They need a zoning variance to do it at her estate. If they don’t get it, no museum. I don’t know if they’ve applied or not. The grandson says it’s going to happen.”

“The whore of Babylon’s grandson?” Delaney perked up. “How old?”

“I don’t know. Midthirties maybe,” Paige guessed.

“Is he cute?”

Cute was the last word Paige would ever apply to Zach Reed. Ballsy, arrogant and, probably to some people, liquid-metal-hot, yes. Cute? “He’s annoying.”

Delaney studied her. “You know, a bunch of really interesting expressions just went over your face,” she observed. “Spill it, Favreau.”

“There’s nothing to spill.” Paige moved to her bookshelf and started culling catalogs for lighting and furnishings.

“I don’t buy it. Come on, what’s going on?”

“Simple—they want the museum, we don’t. But if Zach Reed thinks he can just push it through, he’s got another think coming.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Paige thumped the stack of catalogs on the desk and slapped some files on top. “He thinks he’s God’s gift to women and I’ll just roll over for him. Trust me, I’ve got better things to do than to stand around in parking lots while he acts as if he can just play me like putty.” She shoved the stack into the tote.

“Whoa. Okay, wait a minute. Start the story from the beginning,” Delaney ordered. “This I’ve gotta hear.”

Telling the tale made her angry afresh. And it made her remember just how hot it had been. She dug in her desk for her memory stick.

Delaney watched her speculatively. “So when did this happen?”

“Yesterday.” Paige slammed the drawer shut.

“Have you kissed him yet?”

“Delaney, please.” Exasperation sparked in her voice. “I want nothing to do with the man.”

Delaney began to laugh. “I’m not sure that’s going to matter, sweet pea.”

Paige scowled. “This is me, remember? I don’t go looking for bad boys to rock my world.”

“Talk to me after you’ve been sleeping fifty feet away from him for three weeks. Better yet, call me after you’ve slept two inches away from him.”

“Never going to happen,” Paige said.

“Twenty bucks says it will. In fact, I’ll pay you twenty bucks to have sex with him. It’s just what you need. He can be your vacation fling.”

Paige rose and picked up her laptop and tote bag. “Just what I don’t need. Quite aside from the fact that it would send my grandfather around the bend, I don’t have any desire to sleep with a grown-up juvenile delinquent. I like men with brains, remember?”

“So date them when you get back home. Come on,” Delaney begged. “This is perfect.”

“I am so not listening to you,” Paige said, walking to the door.

“Okay, don’t blame me. I tried.” Delaney rose and followed her. “Where’s your luggage?”

“Already in the car.” Paige handed her a set of keys. “That’s the spare set. I’ve already cancelled the mail and newspapers and put timers on the lights. You know which plants to water when.”

“Got it,” Delaney said and looked back at the room with a broad smile. “Okeydoke. Par-tay.”

“No red wine on the white sofa,” Paige ordered. “And if I find one potato chip crumb between the cushions, you’re toast.”

“Toast?”

“Toast, melba.”

I T WAS EARLY AFTERNOON by the time Paige walked through the door of Lyndon’s house. “Granddad? Where are you?”

“In here,” he called from the living room.

“The mailman was out front.” She handed him the stack and set down her laptop. “Do you need anything? How about if I make us some lunch?”

“I won’t say no to a little feed, but why don’t you sit down and relax first? I’ll keep.”

“I might not, though.” She put a hand to her stomach. “I’m fading away even as we speak,” she said with a grin and headed toward the kitchen. As she got out the bread and cold cuts, she heard the sound of envelopes ripping open. And then a noise of explosive frustration.

“I’ll be damned.”

“What?” Paige stepped swiftly out to the living room to find Lyndon staring at a sheet of paper, his face red.

“I can’t believe they did this.”

“What?”

He stared at the sheet. “It’s from the planning commission. They’re having a meeting on a variance for that damned museum.”

4

“S HE ’ S GOT NO RIGHT ,” her grandfather railed. “My grandfather built that house. I was baptized there.” And he’d never gotten over the fact that it had been sold off after the last great crash of the thirties. Maybe if they’d moved somewhere else entirely it would have been easier. Instead, he’d spent nearly seventy years staring across the wall at the mansion he’d once known as home.

“She’s turning it into a joke, having any old Tom, Dick and Harry tramping through it staring at strippers.” If he’d been healthy, he’d have been up and pacing. Instead he thumped his fist on the arm of his chair.

“It’s not going to have strippers, I don’t think, Granddad. Just costumes and things,” Paige said. And it showed all the signs of really happening.

“Strippers, strippers’ clothing—same difference. She won’t do it, she just damned well won’t do it.” He moved to rise, wincing.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Paige ordered. “Sit back down.”

“We’ve got to do something and do it quick.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

She paused. “I don’t know. First, we need to find out from the planning office how all this works. Once we know that, we’ll know how to fight it.”

“Fine. You do that and I’ll make some phone calls.”

“You’re not going to do anything but relax.”

He frowned. “Do you really think I can just sit around and do nothing?”

Unlikely, she acknowledged. As a compromise, she brought him the cordless phone. “Do you have a neighborhood roster?” she asked.

“Just bring me the address book in the drawer of the phone desk. It’s all in there.”

He was amazing, Paige thought as she retrieved the book. He had everyone listed. In L.A. she used the same elevator as her condo neighbors, walked in and out of the same front door on a daily basis. She couldn’t say she knew the numbers or even the names of more than two of them offhand. Her grandfather, living even behind walls, had somehow managed to get a list of everyone on the street. He’d fought in World War II briefly as a scared eighteen-year-old, but when he’d volunteered for a tour in Korea, he’d been an officer. She didn’t envy the enemy then and she didn’t envy Gloria Reed now. When Lyndon Favreau set his sights on something, it usually got done.

And if she didn’t step in, things were going to get ugly.

S O IT WAS LATER THAT same afternoon when she stood at the gate to Gloria’s estate and pressed the call button. The waning afternoon sun made her squint. Between her trip to L.A. and the time she’d spent in the planning office, the day was pretty well shot. But she knew now how it worked: first, the application for a zoning variance, then the notification letter, then a site visit by the planning commission and the neighbors. After, the planning commission would hold a public meeting to discuss the matter and hand down their decision. Less than three weeks for the whole thing, which meant she needed to jump on things pronto.

The pronto part didn’t seem to be happening, though. She stood in silence, waiting for a response that didn’t come. The seconds ticked by. She peered through the iron bars of the gate, trying to detect signs of life deeper in the estate, but the road curved abruptly away and she couldn’t see a thing. Anyway, the cars were probably in a garage, not sitting out on the drive.

Hesitantly Paige rang the bell again.

She didn’t really want to disturb Gloria. After all, barely three days had passed since the accident. The woman was probably still sore and fatigued. Better to track down Zach and see if the two of them could somehow talk this through and work out a compromise. The emergency neighborhood meeting her grandfather had called for the weekend only upped the stakes.

Paige pressed the bell one last time before finally turning away. So maybe they’d gone out. Maybe Gloria was napping. Maybe she was meditating and Zach was inventing the cure for the common cold. No matter what the cause, it looked pretty obvious they were not around.

As she turned to go back to Lyndon’s, she heard a snatch of rock music drift out of the windows of a passing car. She stopped, considering. Thursday night. Hadn’t he said he played Thursday nights somewhere down by the pier? If she couldn’t catch Zach at home, maybe she could catch him there. It wouldn’t take long. A quick conversation between sets, a plan to meet later and sort things out and they were done. All she had to do was find him.

And if a part of her felt a little tingle at the idea, it certainly had nothing to do with anticipation, right?

S OME IDEAS WERE better in theory than in practice, Paige thought later as she watched the dozenth bartender shake his head at her. The whole thing would have been easier if she’d remembered the name of the bar. Of course, when Zach had thrown out the invitation, she’d never in a million years have thought she’d want to go see him play. Further proof that the world was a surprising place. The downside was that now it left her walking the waterfront, going from place to place.

She’d already made her way down Stearns Wharf. No sign of him there, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. He didn’t seem the type to play some glossy restaurant or squeaky-clean club. She saw him more at a tavern, the kind with sawdust on the floor and pool tables in the back. Of course, the Santa Barbara waterfront rents didn’t lend themselves to those kinds of establishments, which left her scratching her head.

Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been such a brilliant idea after all. But after spending days in the comparative isolation of her grandfather’s house, the idea of getting out for a few hours had been irresistible. It had been a nice change of pace to throw on a skirt and some heels and lipstick.

And getting a look or two from the guys she passed was nice, too.

The problem was, she was running out of places to try. Paige walked back out into the warm evening and took stock. She was at the end of the waterfront. There was one more place, probably a long shot, but she really ought to check it out.

Maybe she’d even have herself a drink while she was at it.

The closer she got, the less likely the drink part seemed. But she had a sudden feeling she was going to find Zach.

A flickering neon sign read Eddie’s. The window held a lighted sign advertising genuine draft beer. She knew it was the place before she ever got near the door, and when she did, she could hear it: the soft, silky blues with its cadence of sex.

The bouncer sported tattoos that looked as if they’d been done in a jailhouse with ballpoint-pen ink. What the X’s tattooed on his beefy bicep stood for, she didn’t want to know. Instead she shoved her five at him, ignoring his look, and stepped hastily through the door.

Eddie’s was no more prepossessing inside than out. It was cramped and dim, hot with the warmth of too many bodies. Smoke drifted near the ceiling in blithe violation of antismoking ordinances. A trio of pool tables lined the side wall. The band stood at the back. A few people danced—mostly women, Paige noticed. She walked forward, glancing at the stage.

And stopped in her tracks.

She’d always been a little amused at her friends who fell head over heels for man after man. Not the ones like Sabrina or Kelly, who’d found relationships that were real and lasting, but the ones who bounced from one infatuation to the next, the ones who got breathless and starry-eyed talking about their latest “pash,” at least until the magic wore off.

It had never hit her like that. Mild interest, yes. Attraction, sure. But nothing overwhelming. Nothing that she couldn’t manage. In Zach Reed’s case, it wasn’t even mild interest, just annoyance.

At least not until that moment when she stood in the dark bar staring at him up onstage.

Then it just morphed instantly into pure lust.

He wore his usual T-shirt and jeans, but under the lights, drawing hot and nasty blues from a beat-up electric, he was riveting. He wasn’t a showman. He didn’t strut or flail or talk to the crowd. He just stood and played as though he were the only one in the room, his eyes half-closed, his hands sliding up and down the fret board with the same absent grace she imagined he might use caressing a woman.

Agile and strong. She couldn’t help imagining those fingers against her skin. How would they feel on her body? How would he feel on her body? She swallowed and glanced up.

Only to see him staring at her with eyes so hot and dark they seemed to burn right through her, binding them together with an arc of energy. Her knees turned to water as he hit a hard chord once, twice, three times to end the song.

The room erupted in applause and ear-piercing whistles. She glanced around. A chair, a stool…she had to find somewhere to sit and soon. When she saw an open bar stool, she slid onto it thankfully, mostly because her legs wouldn’t hold her anymore.

Zach’s mouth curved, giving her the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly the effect he had on her. With a nod to the backing band, he launched into a new number, and pulled her under his spell.

She felt it, she knew it as it was happening. It was, purely and simply, the aural equivalent of sex. Before, the beat had been faster, the solos more aggressive. Now, the pace was slower, a rhythmic pulse that thudded into her system and had her moving to it without volition in the same way a woman’s hips moved helplessly to the touch of a man.

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