Joy Ride (21 page)

She could hardly believe when the set was over. Marc leaped over the edge of the stage but before he could reach her, he was stopped by a couple who obviously knew him. Then it was a group of guys. Then the same stupid redhead—what was her name? Oh, yeah. Lacey. Queen of the groupies—who acted as if she wanted to drag
her
Guitar Man off to a corner. This time Marc’s anger with her was obvious. Emma was seized by an insane desire to grab the woman and yank her away by her hair.

Ohmigod. Is that me?

She swallowed a giggle.

She watched Marc edge tactfully but steadily away from the two females until he was beside her, touching her arm.

“Let’s go outside or we won’t have a minute to ourselves.”

Emma was aware that the redhead gave them the death stare of hate as they moved toward the door.

“You have a lot of fans,” she commented when they were out in the parking lot. “They seem very enthusiastic.”

“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth turned up into a lopsided grin. “Sometimes too enthusiastic.”

“Especially one of them.”
Great, Emma. Sound like a jealous bitch much?

Marc twisted his lips in a grimace. “That’s Lacey. Nobody I’m at all interested in. Or ever have been,” he added quickly.

“I’ve seen her the last few times trying to corral you.”

Marc cupped her cheeks with his warm palms. “Forget Lacey. She’s nothing to me. And never has been. You’re who I want to be with. Believe me.”

As if to prove his point, he pulled her into his arms, his eyes searching every inch of her face before his mouth brushed against hers. The light contact ignited sparks in her bloodstream and sent her pulse points throbbing. He ran his tongue gently over the closed seam of her mouth, sending shivers skating along her spine. His warm hands slid up the length of her arms to her shoulder, then along the column of her throat until he at last cradled her head between his palms.

“I’ll never get enough of your taste,” he murmured just before licking every inch of the surface of her lips and plunging his tongue inside her mouth.

Emma clung to him as everything faded away—the jammed parking lot, the people standing outside smoking, other couples doing their own thing—until she and Marc were just an island in the sea of darkness. The kiss was endless. He turned her head this way and that seeking a better angle, all the while his tongue stroked hers and tasted every inner surface.

Her nipples hardened painfully, and the pulse beating at her core echoed throughout her body until she was sure he could sense it. Feel it. She pressed him, rubbing herself against the obvious bulge of his erection and moaning softly.

“Jesus, ML,” he gasped when he broke the kiss. “I hope we don’t go up in flames just standing here.”

She gave an unsteady laugh. “Me, too. Although I was afraid we might.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “I missed you, Music Lady. Wondered what you’d been up to. I think about you a lot, you know.”

“I-I think about you, too.”

Was this the moment to ask him, why her? Why not any of the other women throwing themselves at him? But she wasn’t sure she’d like the answer so she just nodded.

He took a step back, and his gaze traveled the length of her body and up again. “You look damn fine tonight, Music Lady. Sharp outfit. I hope you picked it out just for me.”

She knew she was blushing. She’d have to remember to thank Annie for another great shopping trip. “Thank you. I-I did.”

“Listen. I’ve got a lot of stuff to tell you but you know we have one last set to do. Will you stay?”

She gently bit her bottom lip before answering him. “Okay.”

“Will you come home with me again tonight? Please?”

Another hesitation on her part. She was glad he didn’t take it as a given. That the choice was always hers.

“Yes. I will.”

“Good.” He kissed her again, brief but not less incendiary, and took her hand. “Let’s go back inside, and I’ll get you another beer. The band has a tab. You shouldn’t have to pay.”

“But—”

“No buts. Come on.”

She wanted to ask him how many other women he bought drinks for, but squelched the nasty worm of jealousy trying to burrow its way into her system.

Enjoy it. Just enjoy it
.

Again, as they worked their way to the bar, people stopped Marc. Talked to him. Joked with him. All the while he held tightly to her hand. They glanced at her questioningly, but she stayed quiet. Marc was warm and friendly to everyone, taking care of the people who paid to see him perform. It was obvious he was sending two signals to her at once—
I respect your anonymity so I won’t introduce you or put you in a position where you’d have to give your name, but I’m going to keep you close and let everyone know you’re mine. Yes, mine
.

The idea was at once both thrilling and frightening to Emma. Another step forward into this new world. But Marc’s touch was reassuring.

It seemed to take forever until he managed to get the beer for her and lead her back to her usual spot.

“I’ll be playing just for you,” he whispered in her ear before leaping back onto the stage.

A voice rose just enough to be heard over the crowd. “He’ll get tired of you soon, you know.”

Emma turned and found the redhead’s face inches from hers. She blinked. “What?”

“You’re not his style. I am. So why don’t you just take your little self out of here and leave the big boys to us.”

She looked away, doing her best to ignore the woman. Not to get riled.

Lacey poked her arm with a sharp-nailed finger. “Did you hear me? You’re out of your league here.”

Her words were so close to what Emma had been thinking. She didn’t need someone like this redheaded bitch reinforcing it. She breathed a sigh of relief when the first notes of a song split the air and the sound filled the room, killing any further ability for Lacey to be heard.

Emma made herself focus on the music, on Marc, shutting everything else out of her mind.

The final set was electrifying, jam-packed with an energy that pulsed through the club and wrapped itself around the people there. By the last song, the crowd bumped, swayed, and gyrated as one person, as if an extension of the music poured over them. Emma was almost regretful when the band said goodnight.

Almost.

People crowded the stage clamoring for Marc’s attention, along with the other band members, while they packed away their instruments. Emma tried to make herself invisible, leaning against the wall by the back door. She breathed a little easier when he was able to break free. With his guitar case in one hand and the other firmly clamped around her arm, he hustled her out the door.

“Before someone else wants to hang out with me,” he muttered. “Where’s your car?”

She pointed to the spot she’d managed to squeeze into.

“Okay. I’ll come around from where I am on the other side. You can follow me like always. Okay?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s do it.”

Emma was a bundle of nerves as she followed him to his house, and she couldn’t have said which of the many things caused it. Maybe it was taking a stand with her folks after all this time, something she was many years past due for. Or venting her anger at Andrew. Or dumping her uncertainty on Annie and hearing her friend tell her life was for taking chances. She smiled in the darkness of the car. Maybe it was even the purple streak in her hair or the slightly sexy new clothes. And the confrontation with that bitch, Lacey, certainly hadn’t helped. She definitely wasn’t used to women like her—hard, edgy, balls-to-the-wall. Could you say that about a woman? Whatever it was, she had the feeling she was about to cross some line tonight, and she wasn’t quite sure she was ready for it.

But I’m going to do it because my heart—yes, my heart—tells me I should. And whatever happens, happens.

When Marc unlocked his front door, she was prepared for him to grab her and kiss her senseless the way he usually did. But instead as he walked in, he flipped a switch to light a small table lamp and placed his guitar next to an armchair. He then turned to her with that crooked grin in place.

“I thought maybe tonight you might actually want to see what my place looks like.” He winked. “I mean, before I hustle you into the bedroom and rip off your clothes.”

She giggled. “That might be nice.” And yes, she really wanted to see all of where he lived. See another side of the man who made hot music and even hotter love.

When she’d placed her purse on the lamp table, he took her hand and pulled her into the middle of the room. “I even cleaned up for you just in case. Although, I had to kind of rush through it.”

“Oh? How come?”

“I’ll tell you later. Well, what do you think?”

She moved in a slow circle, taking everything in. The floor was a polished hardwood with a colorful rug in the conversation area. Part of the room was filled with comfortable, overstuffed furniture; most of it arranged to face a big flat screen television mounted on one wall. On another wall was a framed modern painting in vivid colors.

“You like modern art?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I like this one. My cousin painted it. She gave it to me for a housewarming gift.”

Hmmm
. So he had a family and they did things like people she was used to. The more he revealed of himself, the more she came to believe him when he gave her bits and pieces of his so-called normal background—more normal than she thought in the beginning, for sure. It widened her comfort zone, helped her feel a little less insecure about this whole thing with her Guitar Man. Was it really possible that their background weren’t as different as she imagined? Could they find more and more common ground, something beyond the hot and sweaty sex? Did his background mean that she could really believe the things he said to her in the heat of passion?

Geez, overthink much?

Emma circled the room, once more. Next to a big armchair was a stack of magazines, the top one with a guitar player on the cover. On the coffee table in front of the sofa, a pile of notebooks had been neatly stacked, precisely aligned. Oh yes, he’d gone to some trouble here no matter what he said.

“Did you do all this yourself?” she asked, knowing what a humungous job it must have been, especially the floor.

“A lot of it. My dad and my brothers helped.”

More normal stuff. First about his dad. Now the family picture was fleshing out more, changing more her perspective of him. She wondered what his mother was like. Controlling, like hers? Or supportive of her children? Warm and friendly or cool and distant? Was there a preconceived image he had to live up to or was he lucky enough to have a family that encouraged him to be himself?
Unlike my own.

Enough! Turn off the brain
.

“Don’t sound so startled. Did you think rock musicians were hatched like chickens?” He laughed.

She lowered her gaze, embarrassed. “No, I…I mean…I didn’t think at all, I guess.”

“Well, now you know.”

In front of a wide window, she saw a dining table and chairs and in the middle of the table, a piece of statuary representing a band.

She grinned. “Is that supposed to be Lightnin’?”

“Yeah. I have a friend who does this kind of work.”

Emma didn’t want to ask if the friend was male or female. She didn’t want to know. So she just smiled and said, “It’s a beautiful piece.”

He dragged her into the kitchen, cleaner than anyone’s she’d ever been in, including obsessive/compulsive Andrew. The countertops were gleaming granite, the stove and refrigerator brushed aluminum, and an array of appliances stood precisely on one counter.

“Wow! This is beautiful. Do you actually use it?”

He nodded. “My family’s big on cooking. Everyone one of us gets into it.” One corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile. “Except my mother. I think she’s missing the cooking gene. But she makes killer casseroles.”

“This isn’t some kind of a joke?” She could hardly believe what she was hearing. But then she remembered running into him at the grocery store. If she’d thought about it at all, she figured he was there to buy a week’s supply of frozen dinners. But he
cooked
?

He shrugged. “What, you don’t think rock musicians can prepare food from scratch?” He touched the tip of a finger to her lips. “Shh. It’s a big secret. Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my image.”

“Too late,” she said, only half joking. “Your image is already changing.”

And it was. Family, a cousin who painted, and now cooking? What else didn’t she know about him? What else had she deliberately chosen not to find out because it was the safest way?

His face became dead serious. “Good. That’s what I want.” He took one of her hands and rubbed his thumb over her knuckle. “I’m not just the guy you see on stage, ML. That’s who I am in public, but in private I’m a lot more.”

Was he really? She wanted to desperately to believe it. A kaleidoscope of images collided in her mind—her cooking in his magnificent kitchen, curled up on the couch with Marc watching television (anything but war movies), rocking a baby…A baby?
Reel it in, Emma. Don’t get ahead of yourself here
.

She sucked in a deep breath to steady herself and let it out slowly. “Okay.”

He cocked his head. “Does that damage my sex appeal?”

“No. Not at all.” It actually made him seem more real to her. And somehow even more dangerous. Because she couldn’t pigeonhole him, couldn’t keep him in a little slot marked “not real”. It was easier to let herself go with a living figment of her imagination. Seeing him as a real person whipped up the emotional whirlpool to a dangerous level. Especially when his thumb was caressing her with a slow sensual movement.

She eased her hand out of his and glanced around again, trying to distract herself.

“I can’t believe how neat this kitchen is,” she commented.

“My mom taught me always to clean as you go,” he explained. “That way you never have a mess when you’re done. Meanwhile, we haven’t finished the tour. Come on.”

He took her hand again and led her down the hallway toward his bedroom. Opening a door opposite his, he turned on a light. “Guest room.” He waved his hand at the space. “But as you can see, I haven’t exactly been planning for any guests.”