After the Music (2 page)

Sabina knew that kind of hopelessness firsthand. Until her mother died and she was put in the orphanage, she'd often gone hungry and cold herself. Losing her mother in the brutal way she did hadn't helped. But the struggle had given her a fixation about rich men and hard living. She hated both. With the voice that God had given her, she was determined to claw her way out of poverty and make something of her life. She was doing it, too. If only it had been in time to save her mother...

She lay down on the bed with a sigh and closed her eyes. She was so tired. She put everything she had, everything she was, into her performances. When they were over, she collapsed.

Dead tired. Sometimes she felt alive only in front of an audience, feeding on their adrenaline, the loud clapping and the cheers as she belted out the songs in her clear, haunting voice. Her own feet would echo the rhythms, and her body would sway. Her long, dark hair would fly and her silver-blue eyes would snap and sparkle with the electricity of her performances. She withheld nothing, but it was telling on her. All the long nights were wearing her down, and she was losing weight. But she had to keep going. She couldn't afford to slow down now, when she and the band were so close to the golden ring. They were drawing bigger crowds all the time wherever they appeared, and getting great coverage in the local press. Someday they'd get a recording contract, and then, look out!

Smiling as she daydreamed about that, she closed her eyes and felt the lumpy mattress under her with a wistful sigh. Just a few minutes rest would do it. Just a few minutes...

The loud pounding on the door woke her up. Drowsily, she got to her feet and opened it, to find Al on the other side.

"I fell asleep," Sabina explained. "What time is it?"

"Six o'clock. Hurry and throw something on. You'll feel better when you've eaten.

"What are you feeding me?" she asked on a yawn, preceding him into the apartment.

"Chicken Kiev," he told her. "Pommes de terre, and broccoli in hollandaise sauce-with cherries jubilee for dessert.

"You must have kept Susi in the kitchen all day!" she exclaimed with a laugh, picturing Al's cook, a stooped little Cajun woman cursing a blue streak as she prepared that luscious repast.

"I did," he said, green eyes gleaming. "I had to promise her a bonus, too."

"Well, she certainly deserves it. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be out in a jiffy." She took a quick shower and pulled on an elegant electric-blue satin dress with spaghetti straps, a square neckline, and a drop waist with a semi-full skirt. It suited her slenderness and gave her gray eyes a blue look. Normally she'd never have been able to afford it on her budget, but she'd found it at an elegant used dress shop and paid only a fraction of its original price. Bargain hunting was one of her specialties. It had to be, on her erratic salary. She wore black sling pumps with it, and carried a dainty little black evening bag, and put on the long cashmere coat, because nights were getting cold in late autumn. She left her hair long instead of putting it into a high French twist, as she usually did in the evening. When she went back out into the living room, Al got to his feet and sighed.

"You dish," he murmured. "What an eye-catcher!"

"Why does that make you look so smug?" she asked suspiciously.

"I told you I had a project in mind," he said after a minute. "You remember hearing me talk about the children's hospital I'm trying to get funds to build?"

"Yes," she said, waiting.

"I'm trying to put together a benefit for it. On local television. If I had a couple of sponsors, and you for a drawing card, I could get some local talent and present it to the local stations." He grinned. "I guarantee we'd raise more than enough."

"You know I'd do it for you, without pay," she said. "But we're not big enough..."

"Yes, you are," he said stubbornly. "A television appearance here would give you some great publicity. Look, I'm not asking you to do it for that reason and you know it, so don't ruffle up at me. The kids will benefit most, and I've got some other talent lined up as well," he told her. "But I can't sell the idea to the television stations until I've got the sponsors. I want to wheedle Thorn into being one of them." R. "Will he?"

"If he's persuaded," he said, with a sly glance at her.

"Now, wait a minute," she said curtly. "I am not playing up to your poisonous brother, for any reason."

"You don't have to play up to him. Just be friendly. Be yourself."

She frowned. "You aren't going to paint me into a corner, are you?"

"Scout's honor," he promised with a flash of white teeth. "Trust me."

"I don't trust anybody, even you," she said with a smile.

"I'm working on that. Let's go."

He led her down the long flight of stairs.

"Couldn't you ask him yourself?" she murmured. "After all, blood is thicker..."

"Thorn's kind of miffed with me."

"Why?"

Al stuck his hands in his pockets with a sigh and glanced at her ruefully. "He brought a girl home for me last night." Her eyes widened. "He what?"

"Brought a girl home for me. A very nice girl, with excellent connections, whose father owns an oil refinery. He was giving a dinner party, you see:'

"My God!" she burst out.

"I called my mother after it was over, and she called up and chewed on his ear for a while. That made him mad. He doesn't like her very much most of the time, and he needs that refinery damned bad." He shrugged. "If I could get him a refinery, he'd sure rush over to sponsor my benefit."

"You could buy him one," she suggested.

"With what? I'm broke. Not totally, but I don't have the kind of capital I'd need for business on that scale. I'm a partner on paper only, until I come into my share of Dad's estate next year."

"I'm beginning to get a very interesting picture of Hamilton Regan Thorndon the Third," she said stiffly. "A matchmaker, is he?"

"That's about the size of it," At confessed. He gestured toward his car when they reached the street. "I'm parked over there."

She followed him, scowling. "Does he do this to you often?"

"Only when he needs something he can't buy." He sighed. "You'd never guess how many businessmen have eligible daughters they want to marry off. Especially businessmen with refineries and blocks of oil stock and..."

"But that's inhuman!"

"So is Thorn, from time to time." He unlocked the car and helped her inside. "Haven't you wondered why I usually keep you and Jessica away from company parties?"

"I'm beginning to realize," she said to herself. She waited until he got inside the green Mercedes-Benz and started the engine before she added, "He doesn't want you associating with the peons, I gather?"

He stiffened, started to deny it, and then huffed miserably. "He's not marriage-minded himself. Thorn Oil is worth millions, with all its subsidiaries. He wants an heir for it. But with just the right girl, you see. Jessica has been married before, and her family isn't socially prominent," he said, biting it out. "Thorn would savage her."

It all became crystal clear. Everything...how he felt about Jessica, why he'd been so secretive. "Oh, Al," she breathed piteously. "Oh, Al, how horrible for you!"

"Next year I can fight him," he said. "When I've got money of my own. But for now I have to lie low and bide my time."

"I'd punch him out," she growled softly, gray eyes throwing off silver sparks, her long hair swirling like silk as her head jerked.

He glanced at her as he drove toward his apartment down the brightly lit streets. "Yes, I believe you would. You're like him. Fire and high temper and impulsive actions." He smiled. "You'd be a match, even for my brother."

"With all due respect, I don't want your brother."

"Yes, I know. But please don't take a swing at him tonight. I need you."

"Now, wait a minute..."

"Just to help present my case, nothing else," he promised. His smile faded as he studied her. "I wouldn't strand you with him. Thorn isn't much good with innocents. You'll know what I mean when you see the woman he's got with him tonight. She's as much a barracuda as he is. I only want you to help me convince him to sponsor the benefit. I'll get an accompanist and you can do the aria from Madama Butterfly for him."

"He likes opera?" she asked.

"He loves it."

She eyed him closely. "How does he feel about rock singers?"

He shifted restlessly, and looked worried. "Well..."

"How?"

His jaw clenched. "Actually, he's never said. Don't worry, we'll find out together."

She had grave misgivings, but she didn't say anything. After all, his older brother would probably be nothing like she imagined. He might like women, but she pictured him as a retiring sort of man like the pictures of businessmen she'd seen in magazines. She knew all too well that a rich man didn't have to be good-looking to get women.

Al's house overlooked the bay, and Sabina dearly loved it. It was white and stately, and had once belonged to his grandmother. She could picture the huge living room being the scene of elegant balls in the early days of New Orleans. There were shrubs all around it, assorted camellias and gardenia and jasmine. Now, of course, everything was dormant, but Sabina could imagine the grounds bursting with color, as they would in the spring.

Jessica came darting out of the big living room, where several people were socializing over drinks, and her face was as red as her hair. She was small and sweet, and Sabina loved her. She and Jess went back a long way. They'd shared some good times when Sabina was at the orphanage just around the corner from where Jessica lived. They'd met by accident, but a firm friendship had developed, and lasted all these years.

"Hi, Sabina!" Jessica said quickly, then turned immediately to Al. "We're in trouble. You invited Beck Henton."

"Yes. So?" Al asked blankly.

"Well, he and Thorn are competing for that oil refinery in Houston. Had you forgotten?"

Al slapped his forehead. "Damn!"

"Anyway, they just went out the back door together, and Thorn was squinting one eye. You know what that means."

"Damn!" Al repeated. "I was going to ask Beck to help sponsor my benefit," he growled. "Well, that's blown it. I'd better go and try to save him."

Sabina stared after him with wide, curious eyes. She was getting a strange picture of the sedate older brother.

"I'd better get Beck's chauffeur," Jessica said miserably. "He'll be needed."

"Before you go, is there any ginger ale in there?" she asked, nodding toward the bar in the living room.

"Not a drop. But I left you a bottle in the kitchen. I'll see you in a minute."

"Thanks!" Sabina darted quickly into the kitchen and filled a glass with ice. She was just reaching for the bottle of ginger ale when the back door suddenly flung open and, just as quickly, slammed again.

She turned, and froze in place when she saw him. He was tall and slender, with the kind of body that reminded Sabina of the men who appear in television commercials. He was powerful for all that slenderness, and the darkness of his tuxedo emphasized his jet black hair and the deep tan of his face and hands. His eyes were surrounded by thick, black lashes, and they glittered at her.

"Hand me a cup of that," he said in a crisp voice, holding out a lean, long-fingered hand. There was no jewelry on it, but she got a glimpse of crisp black hair on his wrist surrounding a Rolex watch.

She handed him the ice automatically, noting a faint scar on his cheek, near his eye. His nose was arrow-straight and gave him a look of arrogance. He had a jutting jaw that hinted of stubbornness, and his mouth was perfect, the most masculine mouth she'd ever seen. He was fascinating, and she couldn't take her eyes off him.

"What's so fascinating, honey?" he drawled. "Haven't you ever seen a man with a black eye before?"

This, she thought, must be the Beck Henton they'd discussed, because he certainly didn't fit the long, pretentious name Al's brother had.

"Not many walking around in tuxedos." She grinned. He did fascinate her, not only with the way he looked, but with that air of authority that embodied him.

She seemed to fascinate him, too, because a smile played at the corners of his mouth as he wrapped the ice in a tea towel and held it just under his bruised eye. He moved closer, and she saw that the glittering eyes under the jutting brow were a pale, icy-blue. The color was shocking in so dark a face..

He let his gaze fall to her smooth, faintly tanned shoulders and down the bodice of the trendy dress to her long, slender legs encased in blue-patterned stockings. They moved back up slowly, past her long neck and over the delicate planes of her face to her soft mouth, her high cheekbones, her dark, wavy hair and to the incredibly long lashes over her silver eyes.

"Why are you hiding in here?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"I came for some ginger ale," she confessed, showing the bottle. "I don't drink, you see. Jessica hides some soft drinks for me, so I don't have to look repressed in front of Al's guests."

He cocked his head. "You don't look repressed." That faint smile was still playing on his firm mouth. "Al's secretary must be a friend of yours?"

"A very good one."

"Jessica's all right. Al said he couldn't get anyone else to hostess for him, and she's doing a pretty good job."

Faint praise, she thought, and a bit condescending, but he had a right to his opinion. "You're going to have a gorgeous shiner, there," she remarked.

"You ought to see the other guy," he mused.

She sighed. "Poor Hamilton Regan Thorndon the Third. I hope you didn't hit him too hard."

His dark eyebrows arched, and his eyes widened. "Poor Hamilton...?"

"Al said the two of you were competing for an oil refinery," she volunteered, grinning impishly. "Why don't you just leave the oil in the ground and pump out what you need a little at a time?"

He chuckled softly. "You're impertinent, miss."

"Why thank you, Mr. Henton. You are Beck Henton, aren't you?" she persisted. "You certainly couldn't be Al's brother. You don't look like a man with a mile long name."