Serena's Song (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 5

  "Almost fifteen." She felt a twinge of guilt as he stiffened, and clarified, "His birthday's in July. Katie's thirteen."

  It took long seconds for Riff to do the mental math. Unless Jack was an eleven-month baby, there was no way the boy could be his son. But he'd seen dark hair, his own naturally darker skin, maybe a similarity in the jaw, and assumed … He should be relieved, but he wasn't. He'd thought for all of sixty seconds he might be a father—and instead of being terrified or furious, he'd been thrilled.

  He looked at the photo of Serena's little girl. It was also a school picture, shot against one of those generic, swirling pastel backgrounds. Thirteen, and she could have passed for the same age as the boy. Her hair was dark, too, but her eyes were the warm brown of melted chocolate instead of the bright blue her brother had inherited from their mother. Delicate gold stars dangled from her earlobes, and the faint sheen of apricot gloss and shadow shimmered on her lips and eyelids.

  "They're beautiful kids, Serena."

  "Thank you." The words were stilted, coolly polite. A twinge of regret that he'd hurt her mixed with the more nebulous ache he felt at the very visible proof—her children—that she'd gone on with her life after their summer together. If the boy was almost fifteen, she hadn't waited very long to do it, either.

  "I just came back to ask how you took your coffee."

  "Black."

  She nodded. "Do you want something to eat? I'm going to make myself a sandwich."

  "I'm starving. A sandwich would be great." Such a mundane conversation, he thought, compared to the unspoken words that lay between them.

  As soon as she left the room, he turned back to examine the mini portrait gallery more closely, looking for one face in particular. He wondered if it was morbid to want to see what his dead rival looked like. His cell phone chirped. Riff's eyes settled on a picture of a man of about his own age with younger versions of Jack and Katie hugged to his sides. His hair was as dark as Riff's, though cut in a much more conservative style—very businesslike, Riff thought. He ignored the cell phone's second ring.

  Michael Jeffries' brown eyes also lacked the carefree laughter that sparkled in his daughter's, though he looked pleasant enough. Riff answered the cell's third ring with a curt, "Yeah."

  "Hey, Riff." The liquid sounds of water slapping wood and the sharp snap of wind-whipped fabric came over the line with the greeting. It was as if the salt-laden sea air drifted across the miles with Dan Smits' voice.

  Riff paced away from the wall of family photos. "Danny, what's up?"

  "You tell me." A snort. "Can't dodge the ladies for trying, can you, stud?"

  "I guess you heard about the story, huh?"

  "Heard it, saw it, read it." Riff could almost see his friend's grin fade as Dan asked, "You okay?"

  "Yeah. A bit whacked from jet-lag and driving, but okay." The sea sounds from Danny's yacht seemed loud in the small silence as he waited expectantly. Riff twitched his shoulders uncomfortably then gave in with a heavy sigh. "I'm at Serena's."

  Dan whistled. "So. How is she?"

  "Wicked right on her." He winced at his friend's bark of laughter.

  "She swung at you?" Dan sounded disbelieving and a bit impressed.

  "Just the door, when she slammed it in my face. I only got into the house when she started to worry about what the neighbors would think if they saw me standing outside."

  Danny hummed with mirth. "I guess a big, sloppy hello kiss would be asking too much, considering what the press is saying about her. She never struck me as the type to love the spotlight."

  "No kidding." If he only knew, Riff thought. As far as his band mates were concerned, at the end of that summer Riff had gone on the road, Serena had gone to college, end of story. He'd never let them think otherwise. "I think it's safe to say Serena's not planning on giving me a sloppy anything—kisses or otherwise."

  "What are you gonna do?"

  "I haven't really thought that far ahead."

  He saw Serena pause in the entrance as she noticed he was on the phone. He gestured her in and she set a tray with coffee and sandwiches on the edge of the coffee table and started to clear it off.

  "Look, I gotta go," Riff said. "Thanks for checking in."

  "Sure thing, Riff. You know where to get me."

  "Okay. Talk to you later," he signed off absently, already focusing more on the woman he was with than on what Danny was saying.

  "Danny Smits," he explained, though she didn't ask.

  "Oh? How's he doing?" Serena squared the magazines into a loose pile, dumping them into a decorative wicker basket beside the couch. The odds and ends—a GameBoy, game cartridges, a bottle of brilliant pink nail polish and some glittery earrings—went into a similar, smaller basket that she stowed neatly away on the shelf under the coffee table.

  "Good. He's kicking back on his boat for a few weeks with his wife. Here, let me help you."

  He unloaded the tray then, at a loss for what to do with it, leaned it against the coffee table to get it out of the way. Serena took one plate and curled up in the corner of the couch. Riff sat on the couch, too, but kept to the other end. In the rush of finding out where Serena was and racing to get to her side, he couldn't remember when he'd last had anything substantial to eat. He thought he might have had something on the plane, but he wasn't sure. Her brows lifted as he wolfed down his sandwich before she'd finished a quarter of hers.

  Without a word, Serena put the other half of her sandwich on Finn's plate. He started to refuse, then shrugged, gave her a sheepish thanks and made short work of that too. As she watched him eat, a part of her still found it hard to believe that he was actually here, sitting on her couch.

  The silver threaded through his dark hair was a surprise. Somehow, no matter how many video clips she'd seen on TV or paparazzi shots in the magazines—and, yes, she'd looked—in her mind's eye she saw him as the lean, sleekly muscled young man she'd known. There was little left of the youth he'd been. He was still lean, still muscled, just more … there.

  Gone, too, was the golden-brown tan that had gilded his skin. Too many nights in clubs and concert arenas, she decided, not enough days in the sun.

  His hands, though, were the same ones that cruised her body in memory. A musician's hands. The fingers were long and supple, the tendons tight and sharply defined. She'd always loved watching those hands play over the guitar strings, coaxing out everything from raucous rock to the softest ballads.

  Riff leaned forward to put his plate on the coffee table. Sitting back, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his simple white shirt and gave them a few spare turns. The urge to run her fingers over those strong forearms, lightly dusted with dark hair, was a familiar one. Serena squelched the impulse, busying herself with stacking their plates back on the tray, using her paper napkin to sweep the crumbs off the table into the palm of her hand.

  "I heard you were widowed," Riff said, his voice tentative. Serena had heard the same tone from others—wanting to know, unsure of how to ask except right out.

  Serena nodded. "Yes. Three years ago, now."

  "I'm sorry."

  Again she nodded. What else was there to say?

  "So, if your son—"

  "Jack."

  "If Jack's almost fifteen, does that mean you didn't go to college after all?"

  "Oh, I went. Just not all at once. When Michael and I got married, there was still time to finish out the first year. After that, it was mainly correspondence and night school. It took a while, but I did it."

  "That's great. Your husband must have been a big help, with the children and everything." Not that Riff knew anything about what having a young family entailed.

  Serena hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  "What did he do?"

  "He was a lawyer, with his father's law firm."

  A lawyer. He should have guessed from the controlled haircut and the button-down shirt and khakis Michael Jeffries wore in the picture. A lawyer was definitely a few rungs hig
her up the mental ladder than a guy who'd barely finished high school, and then only to please his grandparents. Granddad put big stock in academics. Not wanting to dwell on Michael Jeffries any longer than he had to, Riff changed the subject.

  "My manager said you have your own business."

  Serena's eyes lit up with an enthusiasm that hadn't been there when she'd spoken of her husband. A spark of hope flared in Riff's heart. Was it possible that Serena felt more passion for her business than she had for the man she'd married? If that was true, what would it mean for him? Inwardly, he frowned. What should it mean to him? He'd cut Serena out of his life quickly and coldly; he was a fool if he thought she'd forget that.

  "Simple Pleasures." The pride in those two words was plain. "It's a café slash bookshop. I also carry crafts from local artisans."

  "Sounds like a great place."

  She laughed a bit self-consciously. "I certainly like to think so."

  "What made you open the shop? You never mentioned wanting to … before," he finished lamely, hoping the word "before" in reference to themselves wouldn't bring the easy conversation to a quick end.

  Thankfully, Serena didn't seem to take offense. "It suits me, I guess. Business school made me realize I'd be more happy running my own business than sitting in an office somewhere running someone else's."

  "I can see that. You'd be really good at that. You always had fantastic ideas, lots of plans."

  Serena flushed, both embarrassed and pleased. In the more than two years since she'd opened the doors of Simple Pleasures, she'd poured everything she had into making it a success—money, time, heart and soul. She'd worked hard to make her dream a reality. There'd been a few speed bumps along the way, but nothing unexpected. No small business was trouble-free, especially just starting out.

  "It hasn't been easy, but I've never regretted opening Simple Pleasures."

  She was only too happy to keep talking about what was essentially her third child; Finn seemed happy to oblige by listening. Only the ringing of the phone stopped the mainly one-sided conversation. Forgetting about Maddie's caution when she'd fielded the call in Serena's office, Serena automatically picked up the cordless from its cradle on the end table without checking the caller ID.

  "Hello?"

  A woman's voice, brisk and bright, started speaking before Serena even finished. "Mrs. Jeffries, this is Gina Hayward, from Celebrity."

  The name was enough to chase the easy atmosphere from the room, at least for Serena. Earlier today, waiting for Maddie's sister to arrive at the shop with the disguise, she'd had time to read every word of what the reporter had written about her and Finn.

  Actually, there wasn't all that much about Serena in the ten-page "exclusive." An "unnamed source close to Serena Jeffries" was attributed as providing most of the information for the main feature. The rest of the package focused—likely for the benefit of those who'd been living in Antarctica for the past decade and a half—on Morven's rise to top-off-the-charts standing and, specifically, on its sexy frontman, Riff Logan. The magazine had even gone so far as to create an illustrated flowchart of all the women Finn had been linked with, including a brief bio of each woman and the "hot quotient" of their relationship. If there was an ugly duckling in Finn's very large dating pond, it was Serena. Not that she had a face that would drive young men to celibacy, but compared to supermodels and starlets? Woof, woof!

  "Yes, Ms. Hayward," Serena said.

  Finn's head shot up. He said he hadn't read any of the press yet, but he apparently recognized the name. Grey eyes glittering with anger, he looked ready to grab the phone from her. He slumped back on the couch, frustrated, when Serena shook her head and moved out of grabbing range. "I recognize your name," she said.

  "I was wondering if I could drop by with a photographer for a follow-up piece with you. It would have been great to have gotten your comments before the latest issue came out," when I called two weeks ago to ask if you had any comment about Riff Logan, Serena figured she meant, "But I'm hoping we can get your side of the story in the next issue."

  If only Serena had realized what would happen when she'd refused to talk to Gina Hayward when she'd first called. It was obvious she'd been naïve to think denying any connection with Finn would have ended it. The realization didn't improve her mood, and she snapped, "I have no comment."

  The reporter was still speaking when Serena disconnected. Placing the handset carefully on the table, she met Finn's eyes.

  "They're like sharks," he said. "Once one of them gets a whiff of blood, it won't be long before the rest of them start circling."

  Serena smiled wryly. "Dodging pushy reporters is not exactly my area of expertise, so I'll have to take your word for it."

  "What?" he said with mock surprise. "You mean you've never experienced the joys of flashbulb blindness? You don’t know what you're missing."

  But Hayward's call was an intrusion neither could ignore. As much as Riff would like to stay, he knew Serena wasn't ready for that. That was made obvious when she stood up, clearly expecting him to follow her lead. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet and trailed her to the front door.

  "I guess I'd better get the kids dropped off pronto, so they don't have to run the media gauntlet up the front walk." Serena unlocked the door and started to turn the knob. "Besides, we've still got a lot of packing to do."

  She looked up, surprised, when his palm thudded against the door near her head, stopping her from opening it. "You're going somewhere?"

  Serena frowned meaningfully at his hand before answering. "Not me. Just Jack and Katie. My in-laws are taking them to Disney World for spring break."

  "Sounds like a blast. I can't speak for Orlando, but you've gotta be part fish to breathe in the Sunshine State right now."

  "Hot?"

  "It's not the heat, it's the humidity." That earned him a laugh. He couldn't stop himself from drinking it in, drinking her in. God, he'd missed her. He didn't want this to end.

  Serena looked at the small clock on the curio table by the door. He could practically see the thought in her mind as she wondered how long she had before the hounds showed up baying at her door again, and how she had to get her chicks safely tucked away in the nest before that happened.

  Knowing he didn't have much time, he dug in his pockets until he came up with a piece of paper. The only thing he had was the crumpled rental agreement for the Crossfire. Better than nothing. "Do you have a pen?"

  "Sure." She rummaged in the drawer and pulled out a sparkly purple pen tipped with a breezy purple feather.

  He took it without comment, and scribbled his cell phone number down on the back of the agreement. He held it out to her until she took it.

  "Call me. I mean it. I've got a few things to do in the area"—like wait around for your call—"so I'll be reachable. If you start getting hassled I can try to pull some strings to get them to lay off. Or if you just want to talk, whatever …"

  "Okay."

  Her easy acceptance stalled him. He'd expected more of a fight. "Okay. Good. Well, I guess I'd better go before the gossip brigade gets here."

  Out of excuses to stay longer, he reached for the knob, turned it, pulled the door open a few inches. Then slammed it. Serena had time to do nothing more than gasp before he gently captured her face between those long-fingered musician's hands and pressed his lips to hers in a fierce kiss. He tugged on her lower lip, nibbling the soft flesh gently, and grazed the tip of his tongue along the sensitive inner edge. He opened his eyes and stared into her stunned blue gaze as he slowly lifted his head. Mesmerized, he ran the pad of his thumb over her damp lips. Then he forced himself to let her go and leave.

  Serena watched as Finn walked to his car without looking back, got in the sleek silver machine and started it up. With a roar of the engine, he backed into the quiet street and drove away. Then she realized she was still standing there, staring at her empty driveway. She closed her mouth with a snap of teeth that threatened her tongue, and slammed th
e door.

  Weakly, she leaned against it and lifted trembling fingers to her lips, tracing them as Finn had. Damn him. He was doing it to her again. Serena's lips firmed and she dropped her hand to clench it at her side. At least this time she could see the train coming down the tracks. All she had to do was get out of the way. And she would. She would.

  Chapter 5

  Riff's hands were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel his fingers ached. When he loosened them, his palms tingled. He'd have liked to blame it on the rush of blood back to the tensed muscles, rather than what it really was: Desire on a fraying leash. He wanted nothing more than to turn around, pound on Serena's door and pick right up where he'd left off. He could still feel the way the silky-soft tendrils of her short blond hair had curled around his fingertips as he'd held her still and devoured her mouth.

  Only his apprehension about what she'd do stopped him. Once, he would have known. Now, he couldn't take the chance she'd slam her door in his face. Again.

  The sound of a siren had him checking his rearview mirror, before cursing under his breath. He shot a look at the speedometer even as he downshifted and his hand tapped the turn signal. He tried to remember when he last saw a road sign. What was the speed limit here, anyway?

  Gravel crunched under the tires, sending up a small cloud of dust as the sleek sports car pulled to a stop on the shoulder. Riff cut the engine, turned the ignition to accessory and hit the button for the power window. Behind him, the siren cut mid-whoop, though the lights mounted on the cruiser's roof kept strobing. He could make out the figure of a uniformed man behind the wheel of the police car, but little else.

  Finally, the cop got out and closed his door with a controlled thunk. He paused at the Crossfire's trunk—obviously checking out the license plate, though he'd surely called it in or punched up the details on his cruiser's computer—before walking up to the driver's side door. Back ramrod straight, one hand rested casually on his gun belt. Hell, Riff thought, he'd make a Marine look like a slouch. Expression impersonally polite, the cop's eyes roved from Riff to the empty passenger seat and the darkened footwell beneath the dash.