Troy continued, “Enough time to cool down about whatever lame-ass thing you did.”
Fair enough and true enough, except, “I can’t afford to give her space, not with—”
“A stalker.” Troy finished his sentence. “Right. She has guards. We’ll be in the room next to hers playing cards. Meanwhile, smile your way through the reporters and let’s get back to the penthouse.”
An offer his stressed-out brain could not resist.
The limo ride through the night streets of Paris with the Arc de Triomphe glowing in the distance was as awkward as hell. With Celia looking anywhere but at him, the others in the vehicle made small talk to fill the empty air.
Finally—thank God, finally—they reached their historic hotel. The women smiled their way past reporters as they charged up the steps between stone lions. And before Malcolm could say “What the hell?” he found himself staring at Celia’s closed door in the penthouse suite.
He turned back to the spacious living room connecting all the bedrooms. While he tried not to take the wealth for granted, the carved antiques and gilded wood were wasted on him tonight. His longtime buddies were all doing a piss-poor job of covering their grins.
“Gentlemen.” Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his bristled jaw. “There’s no reason for the rest of you to hang out here in the doghouse with me. Granted, it’s a luxurious doghouse. So enjoy your cards and order up whatever you want on my tab. But I’m done for the night.”
Troy straddled a chair at the table in the suite’s dining area. “Like hell. We’re not letting you check out on us any more than you would let us leave. The rest of our party should be arriving right about—”
The private elevator to the penthouse dinged with the arrival of …
The rest of the party? Crap.
The brass doors slid open in the hall to reveal three men, each one an alumni of the North Carolina Prep School. Alpha Brotherhood comrades. And recruits of Salvatore for Interpol.
Malcolm’s concerts gave them the perfect excuse for reunions. First out of the elevator, Elliot Starc, a Formula One driver who’d just been dumped by his fiancée for playing as hard and fast as he drove. Behind him, Dr. Rowan Boothe, the golden-boy saint of the bunch who devoted his life to saving AIDS/HIV orphans in Africa. And lastly, Malcolm’s manager, Adam Logan, aka The Shark, who would do anything to keep his clients booked and in the news.
Shoving away from the window, Malcolm shrugged off his jacket, which still bore the hint of sweat from the concert. “We’re gonna need a bigger table.”
His manager grinned. “Food and drinks are on the way up.” He took his chair at the far side. “There are going to be a lot of brokenhearted fans out there once they realize this thing with Celia isn’t just a new fling.”
There was no escaping his pals, who knew him so well. Better to meet their questions head-on—and bluff. “Logan, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
Conrad shuffled the cards smoothly. “Seriously, brother, you’re going to play it that way?”
The saintly doctor dropped into a seat. “I thought you were over her.”
“Clearly, I’m not,” he said tightly and too damn truthfully. Everywhere he looked in the room, he already saw reminders of her—and it was just a hotel room, for God’s sake.
Elliot poured himself a drink at the fully stocked bar. “Then why the hell did you stay away for eighteen years? It’s all I can do to stay away from Gianna since she gave me my walking papers.”
When had his brothers started ganging up on him? “That’s the way Celia wanted things then. Now our lives are very different. We’ve moved on.”
His manager tapped his temple. “Two musicians who’re obviously attracted to each other. Hmm … still not tracking your logic on being wrong for each other.”
“Breaking up was best for her,” Malcolm answered, irritation chewing his already churning gut. “I wrecked her life once. I owe it to her not to do that again.”
Logan kept right on pressing. “So even though you let her go, you’ve been making billions to show up her old man.”
“Or maybe I enjoy nice toys.”
Troy tipped back in his chair, smoothing a hand down his designer tie. “You’re sure as hell not spending it on clothes.”
“Who appointed you the fashion police?” Malcolm unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. “Start dealing. I’ll be back.”
He strode over to the bulletproof window for a better signal and pulled out his phone to check for messages from Salvatore. He’d seen his old mentor in a private box at the performance, a glamorous woman at his side. But even when he socialized, the colonel was never off the clock. Malcolm’s email filled with data from Salvatore’s intelligence on the principal Celia had been “sort of seeing.” His references, his awards and a dozen other ways he was an all-around great guy.
So why didn’t he have even partial custody of his kids? Strange, especially for a principal. Malcolm typed an answer to Salvatore then shut down his phone.
He turned, finding the saintly doc lounging in the doorway.
“Damn, Rowan,” Malcolm barked, “you could have spoken or something to let me know you were there.”
“You sound a little hoarse there, buddy. Is the concert tour already wearing on your vocal cords? I can check you over if you’re having trouble.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” He clipped his phone to his belt, and still Elliot didn’t move. “Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, there is,” the golden boy pressed, but then he never gave up trying to fix the world. “Why are you tearing yourself up this way by being with her again?”
“You’re the good guy. I would think you’d understand. I let her down once.” Malcolm started toward his bedroom door to ditch his sweaty coat and give himself a chance to regain his footing. “I need to make up for that. I have to see this through.”
“And you’ll just walk away when you figure out who’s after her?” he asked, his sarcasm making it all too clear he didn’t believe it for a second.
“She doesn’t want the kind of life I lead, and no way do I fit into hers now.” The last thing he wanted was to go back to Azalea, Mississippi. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. What she and I had was just puppy love.”
“What happens if someone breaks into her house next month? Or a student lets the air out of her tires? Are you going to come running to her side?”
Rowan’s logic set Malcolm’s teeth on edge.
“Quit being an ass.” He charged past, back into the living room.
His manager leaned back in his chair and called over to him, “Quit being delusional. Either claim the woman or don’t. But time to commit to a course.”
