Hotter Than Wildfire (29 page)

At the end of the song, in the darkness of the room, Ellen shifted a little, unerringly moving her head to where he was. She met his eyes. Somehow she always knew exactly where he was, no matter how dark the room, no matter how many people.

She held his eyes and sang directly to him, straight to his heart, because this was for him.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

I have already come;

’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

  The last notes fell away like a dream, shimmering in the darkness, and Ellen bowed her head.

The spotlight dimmed, went out, and the crowd rose to its feet with a roar, clapping and shouting and whistling.

But Eve was gone. She never came out for an encore, because the song moved her too much. It was why it was always the last song. She could sing nothing after it.

The lights came on in the house, showcasing an empty stage and the musicians standing for their bows.

“Wow.” Nicole wiped her eyes. “Seems hard to remember that that magical woman up there is our Ellen.” She laughed. “Our accountant! It’s like having Picasso mow your lawn.”

Mike and Sam weren’t listening. Mike was on his feet, two fingers in his mouth, whistling and stomping, and Sam was teaching the little girl on his lap to clap, laughing with her.

This part of his family was safe and happy. Harry slipped away to tend to the other part of his family.

She was backstage, her hair already down. Onstage, formal wear suited her. Her concert dresses were each one of a kind, created for her by an up-and-coming young designer who captured her innate elegance and class.

Eve loved the drama of the gowns, loved the shimmer of silk and satin, the flash of sequins, the glamorous makeup, the elegant upswept hair. But the instant Eve left the stage, Ellen wanted back into her casual clothes, her hair down, the makeup off.

The dressing room was so full of flowers you could hardly turn around, the scent going immediately to Harry’s head. His two dozen pink roses were set on the small counter in front of the mirror, where she could see them.

All the flowers went the next day to the children’s hospital, but Eve loved coming backstage and plunging into the riot of colors and scents.

She was standing, trying to reach behind for the zipper.

“Let me.” Harry moved behind her, bent to kiss her shoulder. “A husband’s privilege.” He met her eyes in the mirror. “You were magnificent tonight, my love. And the last song…God.”

“Amazing Grace.” Ellen smiled at him in the mirror. “It’s our song, isn’t it? And it always will be.” She turned and caught his hands in hers. Took a deep breath. “Okay. There will never be a better moment. Since ‘Amazing Grace’ is our song, I thought we’d call her Grace, because I just know it will be a girl. Grace Christine, for your sister.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “She’ll be born just in time for your birthday. So Merry Christmas and happy birthday, my love.”

And Harry’s heart simply exploded with joy.

A year later

  The woman who stopped in front of the Morrison Building was quietly beautiful, dressed with understated elegance and style. Light-blond hair moved in a shiny spill around her face. She had unusual light-brown, almost golden eyes and lovely, clear features.

There was nothing flashy about her, though, and it was a building made for flash. The men and women who worked in the building were busy conquering the world, making a lot of money at it, and it showed. Suits, haircuts, shoes, bags, briefcases—they were all the very latest, cutting-edge fashion. Some of them were in advertising and design and wore styles that would be popular in five years. They looked edgy and interesting, like time travelers from the future.

And busy—they were all busy, rushing in and out of the big steel and glass doors, marching with long strides and determination on their faces, because they were all going places.

Was she going places? She didn’t really know. Probably not. She had no compass, no direction, and a lot of her life had been empty, a yawning void she’d never been able to fill.

Everyone’s busyness scared her, just a little, though it must be said that a lot of things scared her.

She shook off the thought. She’d come a long way, in very real and painful terms, to be here today. She couldn’t be scared, wouldn’t allow herself to be.

If it was a mistake, if she was wrong, well, then she’d be left exactly as she was before—empty-handed.

She looked down at the sheet of paper in her hand, which she’d printed out from her computer research. Nice big letters, all caps, laser print. Times New Roman, fourteen-point font. Nice and clear.

The paper trembled in her hand.

HARRY BOLT
MORRISON BUILDING
1147 BIRCH STREET

 
So few words, yet so very important. Words that could change her life. Or not. Because maybe he wasn’t who she thought—hoped—he was. Or maybe, if he was, he wouldn’t care.

The trembling in her hands had passed into her arms, until she had to impatiently fold the paper and tuck it into her purse.

She knew the words by heart, anyway. She also knew the rudiments of his life.

Harry Bolt. Partner in RBK Security, a highly successful security business. Former soldier. Married to a famous singer.

And maybe—just maybe—her long-lost brother.

 
This book is fondly dedicated to May Chen, Amanda Bergeron, and Ethan Ellenberg—fabulous editors, fabulous agent.

 
LISA MARIE RICE
is tall and willowy and beautiful. She has won every major book prize in the world. She is a black belt with advanced degrees in archaeology, nuclear physics, and Tibetan literature. She is a concert pianist. In truth, she is a virtual woman who exists only at the keyboard when writing erotic romance. She disappears when the monitor winks off.

 
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