Serena's Song (Siren Publishing Classic) Read online

  Serena’s Song

  Finn "Riff" Logan's band blasted to the top of the rock charts fifteen years ago with the bittersweet single, Beautiful Girl, and has dominated the music scene ever since. Riff has it all-except the woman he left behind.

  Widow Serena Jeffries isn't the same sweet, young thing who lost her heart-and everything else-to the local bad boy. Her life is filled with family, friends and the satisfaction of knowing she's earned her success. And if her love life is less than sensational--well, something's gotta give.

  When Celebrity magazine splashes an old photo of the young lovers on newsstands across the nation, revealing that Serena is the inspiration behind Beautiful Girl, Riff seizes his chance to win her back.

  Can Serena get over the pain of the past to build a future with the man she never stopped loving?

  Sensuality Rating: SIZZLING

  Genre: Contemporary

  Length: 73,000 words

  Serena’s Song

  Raina James

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Erotic Romance

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK VERSION: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to one LEGAL copy for your own personal use. It is ILLEGAL to send your copy to someone who did not pay for it. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book.

  SERENA’S SONG

  Copyright © 2008 by Raina James

  E-book ISBN: 1-60601-016-6

  First E-book Publication: April 2008

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2008 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  DEDICATION

  This book would never have seen the light of day had it not been for the unswerving support of authors Kelley Armstrong and Susan Charman, and the members of the Otherworld Online Writers Group.

  My thanks, always.

  Raina James

  SERENA’S SONG

  Raina James

  Copyright © 2008

  Prologue

  "I found her!"

  The features editor of Celebrity magazine quickly blanked his monitor, hiding the more skin-than-fashion image from last week's shoot with the starlet of the month, and spun his chair to face the young woman who'd burst into his office. Her short, cotton candy-pink hair, already teased into points sharp enough to put out an eye, practically vibrated with energy. Kind of like a praying mantis' antennae when it spots a particularly juicy bug. He wondered what bug had caught her eye. "Found who?"

  Eyes sparkling with excitement, she purred, "Riff Logan's Beautiful Girl."

  The editor forgot all about the sleek, creamy skin he'd been enjoying the sight of just short seconds ago. He sat up straight, his chair wheels squealing in protest at the sudden movement. "You're kidding me!"

  "Nope." The writer sauntered the rest of the way into the office and plopped down with a jangle of bracelets and dangly earrings onto one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. "Just got a call."

  "Is anyone else on it yet?"

  "Nope." A smug smile spread her frosty pink-glossed lips wider, revealing the tips of slightly sharp white teeth; the feral grin reinforced his impression of her predatory tendencies. It was exactly what an editor—a successful one—wanted to see in his staff.

  His mind tripped off into HappyLand—photo spreads, exposes, follow-ups, sidebars, cover shoots and mega sales that would make the publisher get down on her knees and … He stopped that fantasy to pick up later and focused on the now. This tip couldn't have come at a better time. Morven was just wrapping their High Street tour. Riff and the rest of the band would be splitting up to do their own thing for a while, maybe work on solo projects or just kick back and relax. Why not send them out with a bang?

  "It gets better."

  The singsong tone made his eyes shoot up to meet hers. Finding the girl who'd inspired Riff Logan to write the song that launched Morven into the charts wasn't enough? It got better? Oh, man. He felt a little like vibrating himself now. "How?"

  "Pictures. Of them. Together."

  "You're shitting me."

  "No way, boss man. My source is sending them by courier as we speak."

  "Shit." The word was soft and reverent.

  "Exactly."

  A thought pierced his bubble of happiness, making the air whoosh out of his chest in a pained exhalation, anxiously anticipating the plunge of disappointment after the peak of triumph. "You're sure, right? This isn't some groupie looking to get her name in print by saying Riff wrote the song for her, is it?" He didn’t think the ambitious woman across the desk would fall for something like that. She would've checked it out before giving him a hard-on for the story, right? She couldn't still be pissed about Dublinsky and Moore getting the Cannes project, could she? She stared at him, not answering, and he felt beads of sweat sprinkle his forehead.

  Finally, she relented. "Come on, boss man. You know me better than that. My source is gold."

  He didn't like the mock concern he heard in her voice, as if she knew he'd wondered if she was jerking him around and was getting a kick out of it. Okay, she probably did know it, but still. Did she have to be so obvious about how much she enjoyed making him squirm?

  "Besides, it's not her," she said, a faint pout bowing her painted lips. "Beautiful Girl, I mean. She's not my source. It's someone who knows her. Better yet, it's someone who knows where she is now."

  The editor got another glimpse of HappyLand. The publisher would be pleased. He imagined those wide, plump, red-glossed lips pursing in that chilly way she had that made him think of an ice cap hiding a lava flow. He could almost feel the long, elegant fingers toying with his belt buckle, slipping the leather through the worked metal with a faint rasp, tugging on the hidden zipper with tantalizing slowness—Not now! But later … He shifted in his seat, wheels chirping another protest, and tried surreptitiously to ease the discomfort as his flesh strained against the fabric of his well-tailored pants. Thank God for the desk, otherwise the woman across from him might get the wrong idea. He remembered what the female praying mantis did to her mate once she was done with him.

  A glance showed him she wasn't trying to see what he was doing under the desk. Still, he brought his hands up into full view and clasped them on the desk blotter.

  The reporter impatiently ran her manicured nails up and down the nubby fabric covering the arms of her chair, as if she had to do something to let out a bit of the buzz making her twitch like a fashion junkie at a Betsey Johnson show. He was sure she hadn't spotted the strained status of his zipper, so why was she looking at him like that? Like she was waiting … Oh, right! Story, pictures, exclusive.

  He quickly cleared a space on his desk, dumping the previously vital, now so-much-less-interesting filler on a side table. Plenty of time—and privacy—to fantasize about his boss later. The editor whipped out a fresh pad of paper and a pen, and then drilled the woman with the eyes of a veteran media hound on the scent of fresh blood. "
Okay. Tell me everything."

  He was so intent on plotting out the project he didn't notice the sly, laughing glance she shot at the framed vanity photographs covering the wall beside his desk. Or the mirror-like way the glass in the frames reflected his side of the desk, and what had happened under it, in intimate detail.

  What an asshole, thought the pink-haired writer with ruthless instincts. Then she filled him in.

  Chapter 1

  "Good night!"

  Riff Logan threw a fist in the air, guitar pick held tightly in sweat-greased fingers, and saluted the sea of faces stretching from the edge of the stage into the darkness of the stands.

  The spotlights snapped off, plunging the stage and arena into a blackness like nothing else—alive and throbbing with power. The crowd's throaty rumble exploded into a roar that was surprising in its strength, considering the enthusiasm the fans had maintained throughout the concert and three encores. After all this time, he still felt the thrill of it. He knew the comparison was stupid—and he'd deny it to his last gasp if anyone ever found out—but it always made him think of a fresh-faced Sally Field standing in front of the podium clutching her little gold statuette, gushing, "You like me! You really like me!" Sad, but true.

  Riff grinned at the thought and, unplugging his instrument, used the cover of darkness to jog off-stage with the rest of the band. One long-fingered hand steadied the neck of his guitar against his side, stopping the instrument from banging into his ribs. He held it the way another man might have held the handle of a briefcase—close, comfortable and a part of him. For most of his life, it had been. It was his version of a businessman's portable office, with a lot less of the stress they usually lugged around in the elegant molded leather cases. At least he thought so on most days.

  That was why he was taking it with him rather than leaving it for the roadies to handle as usual. At the end of a tour, he liked the reminder, small though it was, of the days he handled his own equipment, lugging it to and from whatever gig they were playing.

  A heavy curtain swung into place behind him as the lights went up in the BankAtlantic Center in Sunrise, just north of Miami. Beyond the sound-dampening fabric, the steady rush of cheers and sound broke apart into the disjointed noise of thousands of fans leaving their seats to surge into the aisles. While they sounded energized, Riff just felt wrung out. Not surprising. It had been a long tour. And he wasn’t a twentysomething rocker with energy to burn anymore.

  He gratefully accepted the bottle of chilled water an assistant handed him. Twisting off the cap, he chugged it down. Man, you'd think the air conditioning would at least keep the humidity down. It didn't really matter though. Florida, Alaska—even, he thought wryly, the moon—put a few thousand screaming, dancing people in one room of any size and it was going to get hot and sticky.

  "Hey, buddy!"

  Riff choked as the hard slap on his shoulder made the water go down the wrong way. His drummer helpfully pounded him on the back. "Jesus, Danny," he said as soon as he as able to speak. "I swear, I'll tell you anything you want. Just don't hit me anymore!"

  Dan Smits laughed and slung an arm ropey with muscles over Riff's shoulders. Hooking Riff's neck, he pulled the taller man's head down until he could say without shouting, "Keep smiling, man. Just wanted to give you a heads-up that Lori brought Tamara with her."

  Riff didn't feel like laughing anymore. "Just what I don't need. Shoot me now."

  Dan let him go and idly twirled one drumstick through his fingers. "Relax, Riff. I told her to keep Tam in the green room until we get there. Thought you might want to make a break for it."

  "Thanks, Dan. Christ!" He ran his fingers agitatedly through his sweat-damp black hair. "That woman just doesn't get it. We only went out a few times. Why won't she just let it go?"

  "It's your own fault, Stud-Man."

  "You're a laugh riot, you know that? Seriously," Riff looked around to make sure no one else was standing close enough to hear him, "I did nothing to let her think we had something going on. I wouldn't shit you."

  Like he'd dick around with his best friend's sister-in-law. Sure, he knew a lot of people in their circles wouldn't let that stop them. Hell, figuring out who was sleeping with whom—and why and when and where—was practically a non-stop game of seven degrees of separation. Most times, the crowd they hung with by simple proximity was every bit as bad as the trash trades that flew off the racks with every steamy scandal and vicious break-up. They bitched about the gossip, but a lot of them thrived on it, too. He wasn't one of them.

  "Yeah, yeah." Dan punched him good-naturedly in the biceps. "I know how it is with you, Riff. Never love 'em and leave 'em."

  Riff winced as the barb, completely unintentional, drew blood. It was surprising how little it took to pick at that particular scab. Guilt was a bastard. He refused to think of the regret that formed an unhappy ball in his chest.

  You had to stay with a woman before you could leave her. And he didn't do that. Anymore.

  He loved women—the smell of them, the taste of them, the way they responded to him. They were like his guitar; stroke them just right, and they made the sweetest, wildest music. That was lust for you. Love was something else. In fifteen years, he'd only met one woman he'd change his lifestyle for. Not one since then had had the least lasting impact on him.

  So, no. He didn't love 'em and leave 'em. Never again. The first time nearly broke him.

  He swallowed down the reminder like a bitter draft, and appealed to his friend. "She's your sister-in-law. Can’t you talk to her? Or get Lori to?"

  "Hey, do I look stupid? Lori likes you, but she loves her sister. What Tam wants, Tam gets." Danny laughed. "Okay, okay, stop glaring at me. Look, why don't you cut early? I'll cover for you, make sure your gear gets back to the hotel. Then you take off in the morning as planned and you can buy me a beer or six when we meet up at the studio in five weeks."

  "Thanks, Dan." Riff caught the eye of one of the roadies and held up his guitar meaningfully. The man gave him a quick thumbs-up and trotted off to get Riff's guitar case. "I'll have my cell if you want to reach me, but other than that, there's no phone."

  "Roughing it, eh?"

  He shrugged. "Sorta. Going back to my grandparents' place. Anyway, tell Bruce and Chris I'll give them a call."

  "Will do. Have fun."

  Riff thought of the cabin he'd called home for so many years. He suddenly missed it more than he thought he ever would. When he'd lived there, all he'd wanted was to get out. It wasn’t that he didn't love his grandparents, but he had just wanted … more. More than small-town life had to offer, anyway. It was a far cry from what he'd become used to, but he couldn’t stop the small, nostalgic smile that quirked his lips. "Yeah. I think I will."

  Dan nodded his chin to a point beyond Riff's shoulder. "There's Philly with your case. I better get my ass back to the green room before Tam starts stalking you. See you in five weeks, Riff."

  They punched knuckles and, with a last salute, Dan headed for the green room to keep his wife and sister-in-law busy. Riff let Philly help him stow his guitar, then made his escape.

  A security guard leapt to open the steel door. A wave of cheers and feminine voices rolled in with the breaker of humidity. The air was so heavy with water it was almost hard to breathe. Had he really thought it was as bad inside the arena as out?

  On autopilot, Riff smiled and waved and dashed off a few autographs for the waiting fans as several guards tried to keep the jostling press of people back. It was a relief to slide into the back of the air-conditioned limo and let the driver close the door, shutting the noise out with the oppressive humidity. Settling the guitar case between his knees, he leaned back in the cushy leather seat with a sigh, grimacing as the damp linen of his shirt stuck to his back like wet paper towel.

  The limo's silence was briefly broken as the driver opened his own door then quickly restored as it thunked shut.

  "Where to, sir?"

  "Just back to the hotel w
ould be great. Thanks."

  "No problem, sir. It'll just be a few minutes."

  The engine barely made a sound as the long car smoothly pulled away from the curb. Riff closed his eyes and tried to relax. Couldn't. Danny's words circled in his mind like a lyric that just wouldn't go away.

  Love 'em and leave 'em. Yeah, that's me, all right. Stupid bastard.

  * * * *

  The subdued ring woke him. Barely. Riff groggily rolled towards the night table, then stopped as the sheet bunched near-painfully around his hips and groin. That woke him up. He snatched the phone out of the cradle and snarled, "What?!"

  Nothing but a dial tone—and something was still ringing. The fog cleared a bit more. His cell phone. Which was on the dresser across the room. Crap. You'd think Dan would realize he'd be reachable on the hotel phone until at least the ass-crack of frickin' dawn. Riff untangled himself from the sheet and stumbled naked to the dresser. He squinted at the illuminated keypad and display, which were obscenely bright in the otherwise pitch-black room. No number was listed in the tiny window. The electronic ring sounded again. Riff stabbed at the "talk" button with clumsy fingers.

  "What?!"

  "Riff, it's me."

  "Milo? Do you know what time it is?" He scanned the room but came up with zero in the clock hunt. "Fuck. Okay, I don’t know what time it is, but it's still dark." It didn't help that he'd gone to bed pissed about the Tam situation; a restless sleep hadn't improved his mood.

  His manager was unfazed by Riff's foul temper, though the cause wasn't what he thought. After all these years, he had a pretty good idea of his client's good points. Waking alert and cheerful generally wasn't one of them. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that. But I just found out something I think you'll want to know."