Serena's Song (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 4

  Serena used the door from the garage to access the kitchen. The soles of her flats clicked against the ceramic tiles, echoing dully in the homey room. Aside from that, the house had that quiet, waiting feeling it always did when the kids weren't home.

  On the counter, the red light on her answering machine flickered spastically. Serena blinked at the number on the display; she hadn't realized its memory could actually store that many messages. She hurried down the hall to her room. Throwing her purse on the bed, she flung open the double doors of her closet and scanned the top shelf for the small black accounting box.

  There it was, exactly where she'd known it would be. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually opened it, but she was always aware of its exact position. It was hard to ignore—like a buzzing fly, and just as annoying, she told herself. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach it. A pile of sweaters fell off the shelf when she pulled the box out. She ignored the mess. Turning to the bed, Serena placed the box on the simple blue spread and stared at it. Go on. Open it.

  Steeling herself, she flipped the shiny silver latch, surprised at how steady her hand was. The hinges creaked slightly as the lid lifted. For a long moment, she just looked at the tiny hoard of treasures, each with its own ghost of memory: The smooth, egg-shaped stone; a ticket stub from a production at the outdoor theatre; a napkin with a few hasty lyrics scribbled on it in pencil. The phantom scent of cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes teased her.

  Shaking off the memories, she pulled out the stack of photos and tugged off the ribbon binding them together. The print she was looking for was the tenth one down. She placed it on the bed, then took out the envelope of negatives. Fanning them out, she quickly concluded they were all there. And why wouldn't they be? Aside from her sister, who was in Europe on a job, who else even knew they were here? And for all Grace knew, Serena had gotten rid of them long ago.

  That still didn't tell her what she needed to know. She had the photo, she had the negative; so where had the picture on the cover of Celebrity magazine come from?

  Serena flopped back on the bed and draped an arm over her eyes. Tiredly, she toed off her shoes, hearing them thunk to the carpet one by one. She felt as drained as if she'd put in a full day at Simple Pleasures, then spent the evening running the kids around here, there and everywhere, followed up by a night's worth of laundry, folding and ironing. And it wasn't even noon yet.

  Why was she letting herself get worked up about this? Elizabeth was right. If she just ignored it, refused to comment, and maintained a polite face, it would all go away in a few days. She had to admit, though, the very fact the media was camped on her lawn like a scene from a bad TV movie-of-the-week was daunting. Maybe the better way to go would be to talk to them all at once, just tell the reporters that the picture was from a long time ago, when she was little more than a kid and Finn was just a guy who played guitar in bars on the weekend. Nothing exciting there, folks. Nope.

  Somehow, as attractive as both options sounded, she feared it wouldn't be that easy.

  Oh, brother, she really didn't need this. Things were going great with her business. She was moving on from Michael's death. She'd even been, gasp, dating. Okay, so it wasn't some kind of hot affair to write home about. Or whatever you did with a hot romance. God, she barely remembered what a hot romance was. Now, what she'd had with Finn—since that day he'd saved her from a flat tire, he'd always been Finn to her, no matter what everyone else called him—that had been hot. She felt her face and other places heat as several explicit images jumped to mind. No. Don't go there!

  Besides, what did she really know about hot sex? She'd loved Finn. Of course she thought he hung the moon with his dick. It wasn't like she'd had a great many lovers since then to judge him by. There was her husband and, after she'd started dating, a few times with Robert Zeiburn, who owned the pharmacy. Robert was a perfectly nice man. Intelligent, educated, gentlemanly and more than interested in Serena. So he was in his forties and had never been married. It wasn't like he lived in his mother's basement and collected action figures or anything.

  True, she'd been quite happy to let that relationship starve for lack of attention. There always seemed to be something more important going on—with the kids, work, any of the projects she worked on for the school or the club—than maintaining a social life with Robert. Or any other man, for that matter.

  Maybe she should give dating another chance. And sex. Definitely sex. Then maybe she wouldn't be so flustered by just the memory of what it had been like with Finn all those years ago. Besides, she'd probably built it up in her mind how good it had been with him, remembered it as better than it actually had been.

  Serena sighed. For some reason, she had a hard time convincing herself of that.

  * * * *

  Riff turned onto the tree-lined street and cruised into the residential neighborhood. The rented Crossfire's throaty engine rumbled in protest at the slow pace, like a stallion eager to run and fighting the reins. Riff's eyes flicked to the faxed directions he held at the top of the steering wheel, then back to the street numbers posted on the houses. Some were on brilliant display in shiny brass numerals mounted over the garage, while others were more understated in black wrought iron. Then there were the painted signs: 77, The Woods Family; 85, Tom and Gina and Children; 101, Papa and Nana's Place. The individual designs were a far cry from the cookie-cutter houses of newer developments, and certainly nothing like the condos and mansions the people he knew lived in. From what he could see, most of the lawns were carefully clipped, the flowerbeds blooming with the brilliant colors of April.

  Riff slowed as he came to Number 97. The house looked empty. He double-checked the address on his fax. Pulling into the driveway, he cut the engine and leaned over the steering wheel to look out the windshield.

  The bungalow had white siding with decorative blue shutters framing the windows and a matching blue-painted front door. An opaque window inlaid with a bright brass pattern filled the top half, and was matched by a slender sidelight. It was the kind of home that conjured images of a big floppy dog and Sunday brunches and Friday night Monopoly showdowns over a coffee table in front of the fireplace.

  It suited the Serena he'd known.

  Riff rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, inwardly acknowledging it as a stalling tactic despite his very real fatigue. He'd hoped to be here before the story broke, but it had taken Milo a while to wheedle the address out of his source. He'd been too wired to sleep on the plane, even when a storm had grounded his charter. At least the car was waiting when he'd landed. Despite the delays, from the looks of it the reporters hadn't tracked her down yet. That should make things easier for him.

  He got out and stuffed the Crossfire's keys into the pocket of his well-worn jeans. A movement drew his eyes to a window in the house next door. A woman had parted the curtains and was watching him suspiciously. Her expression changed to one of surprise, then excitement. Automatically, he responded to her quick wave. The curtains swished back into place and she ducked out of sight. Shaking his head, he started up the walkway. On the porch, he tried to peer through the window to see if anyone was home, but was stymied by the rippled glass. He pressed the doorbell once, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He felt jumpy with nerves. This should be interesting. If she was even home.

  * * * *

  Serena startled as the doorbell's chime jerked her out of her musings. She considered ignoring the summons, then reconsidered. Better to face the questions now, while the kids were safely away from home, than later when they might be upset by a confrontation. Maybe the reporters would leave her alone if she said "no comment" enough times. She smiled to herself at that. Who said you couldn't learn anything from primetime TV?

  The faint smile was still on her face as she approached the front door. Remembering the big TV cameras, Serena ran a smoothing hand over her hair and did a quick inspection in the hall mirror to make sure she was presentable. Good enough. She could see the silhouette
of just one person—a man, she thought—standing on the other side of the glass. Maybe she'd get off easy and not have to face the whole pack of them.

  Bracing herself, she pulled open the door. The faint, cool smile fell off her face. All she could do was stare. Finn seemed just as stunned.

  "Serena—"

  The sound of his voice galvanized her. Without thought, she slammed the door, cutting him off before he could say more than her name. She was surprised to notice her hands were trembling.

  After a moment, the bell sounded again. Serena glared at the door and, through it, the man standing on her porch. A man she hadn't seen in over fifteen years. His choice. Not hers. At first. How dare he?

  She slumped against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest, thinking furiously. Now what?

  * * * *

  Riff stared at the door Serena had just slammed in his face. That went well. What the hell am I doing here? I don't need this!

  He turned to storm off the porch. Muttering a succinct curse, he spun back before he'd taken more than a step. He growled in exasperation, tipping his head back as if searching the cloudless blue sky for answers. He hadn't flown across the country to give up and go home after two seconds. Damn!

  He pressed the doorbell button, held it down longer than necessary. The sound of the cheery ring made him grit his teeth. He glanced around to see if there were any witnesses to the sight of Riff Logan cooling his heels on Serena Jeffries' front steps—after she'd slammed the door in his face. He peered in the hazy window. If she was there, he couldn't see her, only a blur of indefinable shapes.

  He was just reaching to punch the button a third time, determined to hold it down until either she answered or it blew a fuse, when the door was yanked open. She looked both ways down the street, which was devoid of both traffic and gawkers, then grabbed his arm.

  "You'd better come in before someone sees you."

  He let her pull him into the foyer and flick the deadbolt behind him.

  "Too late," he said, not bothering to hide the perverse satisfaction in his voice. At the questioning lift of her eyebrows, he clarified, "Your neighbor. She waved at me as I was coming up the walk."

  "Oh, Sheighlah. That's okay, then. She won't say anything."

  Serena looked away and his eyes fastened on her teeth, which were busy worrying her bottom lip in that way he remembered so well. It was surprising how much he wanted to taste that lip himself.

  "What are you doing here, Finn?"

  For a moment, the name gave him pause. It had been a long, long time since anyone had called him anything but Riff. He'd chosen the name himself when he was twelve and guitar crazy. He'd refused to answer to anything else until everyone gave in and started calling him Riff. But not Serena. As soon as they'd gotten together, she'd insisted on using his "real" name. From her, he hadn't minded it.

  The sound of his name coming from those worry-reddened lips drove his gaze up to meet hers. It was just another blow in a barrage of many to realize the deep, dark blue eyes had the same mesmerizing effect on him. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to snatch her up, press her close, chest to breast, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

  "Finn?"

  He jammed his hands back in the front pockets of his jeans, both to deny the impulse and give his constricted flesh a bit more room to move without being obvious about it. He hoped.

  "I heard about the article. I wanted to make sure you could handle the reporters. I know it can be a bit of a feeding frenzy when they sink their teeth into something."

  "Yeah, thanks so much for that, by the way. It's always nice to be the talk of the town and finding a bunch of strangers camped out on your lawn. I'm sure the neighbors are thrilled."

  He frowned. "Camped out?"

  "Yes. My assistant lured them off a little while ago so I could get into the house without talking to anyone."

  "Look, I'm sorry about that. I got here as quick as I could. By the time I found out about the story, it was too late for damage control from my end. This was the best I could come up with." Not exactly true. There were a lot of other things he could've done, options he hadn't bothered to consider.

  Serena felt a renewed burst of irritation. That’s what this was? Damage control? Condescending jerk!

  "Don't put yourself out on my account, Finn. I can handle it."

  He felt his own flash of temper. He'd been awake for—God! What time was it, anyway? —too damn long, racing across the country like some shit-for-brains knight in shining armor. What the hell had he been thinking?

  He was on the verge of heading for the door when a soft touch on his forearm stayed him.

  "Wait. I'm sorry." Serena huffed out a frustrated breath then tucked her hair behind her ears in a familiar nervous gesture. "This is all a bit overwhelming. A lot overwhelming. God! Maddie had to put on a wig to draw off the mob before I could even sneak back into my home!"

  Her laugh sounded a bit hysterical. Slowly, he reached for her hand, half expecting her to jerk away. When she didn't, he clasped it and rubbed his thumb soothingly over her knuckles. "I know," he murmured. "I know."

  Riff found himself leaning closer, breathing in her special scent. She smelled like baby powder and peaches. Faintly, tantalizingly, he caught a hint of that delicate musk that was hers alone.

  Her lips parted as she stared into his eyes.

  His fingers feathered along her temple, following the path her own fingers had taken when she'd tucked her hair back

  "Serena—"

  The harsh jangle of a phone ringing broke them apart. Her eyes dropped as a flush rose in her cheeks.

  "I'd better get that." She was already turning away. "Why don't you go sit down in the living room and I'll get some coffee." Anything to give me some space, she thought. Get with it, Serena!

  He watched her hurry down the hall and step through an arch into what he assumed was the kitchen. The phone stopped mid-ring and he heard her voice query the caller. From her tone, it was apparent it was someone she knew.

  Riff blew out a rough breath and told himself to cool it. Like Serena would want anything to do with him now after what had happened between them that summer. What he'd done. The guilt of it weighed on him.

  He had no illusions about his appeal to women. Sure, they were drawn to his looks. His hair was thick and black, his features sharp in a way that seemed to draw comments. He could have a different woman every night if he wanted. Hell, there'd been a time when he had. But he'd outgrown that at about the same time he realized living the life of a rock star meant living his own life, not some hard-drinking, hard-fucking stereotype.

  Serena being Serena, she was different from anyone he'd ever known. She'd never been one of the groupies who'd followed the band from club to club, bar to bar when they'd just been lucky to get enough from a gig to pay for gas and a few beers. Serena wasn't part of that scene at all. Which was one of the reasons he'd done what he had. He clung to the excuse with the tenacity of habit, if not conviction.

  Shaking his head, he started towards the room she'd gestured at with a vague nod over her shoulder. He paused in the arch between the hall and a comfortable, lived-in living room complete with magazines scattered on the table. A respectably sized TV took up most of a wall unit, the shelves filled with stereo components and a jumble of console, handsets, video games and DVDs. But what finally drew him into the room was the wall covered with photos.

  As he neared, he could see that no two frames were alike. They held both candid and posed shots ranging in size from small wallet ones to school portraits. Some of the people in them he recognized, like Serena's parents and sister. There were shots of other people he assumed were relatives of Serena's he hadn't met or members of her husband's family. But the majority of the photos were of two children, progressing in age from crinkle-faced newborns to gap-toothed grade-schoolers and gangly adolescents.

  Barely aware of what he was doing, Riff watched his hand lift to one photo in particular. The boy looked
like he was in his mid-teens. Riff carefully took the frame off the wall and examined the features behind the glass. The dark hair, as dark as Riff's, was stiffened into spiky points on top, cut close above the boy's ears in a near shave. A single gold circle glinted from the lobe of one ear. The boy's bright blue eyes—Serena's eyes—seemed to glow, framed as they were by thick black lashes and a tanned face.

  A small sound made him turn. Serena stood in the archway, a strange expression on her face.

  His voice sounded like a stranger's when, lifting the frame to show her the photo, he said, "Did you think I didn't deserve to know, Serena?"

  Chapter 4

  Serena stared at Finn for a moment in pure confusion. She looked from his tight, accusing—hurt—expression to the picture frame he held with white-knuckled fingers. It was Jack's school picture. Then she realized what he was implying. Stalking forward, she plucked it out of his hand. He held on stubbornly for a moment, then abruptly let go as if the cool metal and glass burned him.

  Pinning him with a hot glare, she carefully settled the frame back in its place on the wall.

  "Jack is Michael's son." Her words sounded as clenched as her teeth.

  "How old is he?" Finn's question was a belligerent demand.