in a parking lot, she reminded herself, broad daylight, traffic twenty feet away. How was it that she felt as if she’d just come back from somewhere dark and shadowed and intimate? And how was it she felt disappointed?
She swallowed and time began moving again. “It’s simple enough. My grandfather—and the whole neighborhood, I expect—want the museum somewhere else.”
“And my grandmother wants it here.” He smiled. “Looks like we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, wild thing.”
She jerked away from him. “I doubt it.” She picked up her bags and turned to open her car.
Zach just laughed. “See you later,” he called.
He planned to make sure of it.
3
T HE MAN WAS ABOUT AS irritating as they came, Paige thought as she drove south on Route 101 toward Los Angeles. Zach Reed was cocky, outrageous, egotistical, obstinate and patronizing. I think you’d like my edge, her foot. What she’d like would be to have him gone, him and his grandmother with her wacky ideas. She didn’t need Zach Reed in her life. That she’d woken up thinking about him didn’t put her in any better mood.
Here she was, driving down one of her favorite stretches of highway on a beautiful morning. She ought to be enjoying it, reveling in it. She certainly didn’t need to be getting an ulcer over the headache next door.
No matter how sexy he was.
The highway wound along right next to the water, with nothing between it and the waves but a riprap-covered slope. The narrow beach was deserted at this hour. The sun was only just beginning to peek over the inland coastal bluffs. Bereft of buildings, this stretch was the province only of the wet-suited surfers who bobbed out in the waves, their cars parked in a line on the shoulder. Between Santa Barbara and Ventura, Route 101 was as close as you could get to the edge of the continent without falling off.
And the thought had her snorting in irritation. Live life on the edge, indeed. Zach Reed was one of those guys who considered himself the answer to every woman’s prayer. Well, she didn’t have any prayers for him and she didn’t need any answers. She was perfectly happy with her life as it was—or would be if she could take care of Lyndon’s concerns about the museum.
And that meant dealing with Zach Reed, no matter how little she wanted to do it. She flashed briefly on that moment in the parking lot, that instant he’d been so close she could feel the heat from his body, when she’d seen in his eyes where he could take her.
Paige shivered. She liked nice men. She liked quiet, respectful relationships. Zach Reed wasn’t about any of those. An affair with him would be a wild roller coaster, a thrill ride that would take her breath, her will and very possibly her sanity.
Not that she was even remotely considering it. She ran the windows down and let the breeze come in. No more thinking about Zach Reed. He was already miles behind her. Getting out of town for the morning was the perfect antidote. She’d head home, pick up some clothes, her laptop, the files she needed for work.
If she’d timed it right, she’d hit L.A. just after rush hour and get straight through to her Hancock Park condo. Call it an hour and a half, maybe two. She’d be back in Santa Barbara by early afternoon.
Adjusting her sunglasses, she settled in more comfortably and headed down the highway.
Z ACH LEANED BACK ON the couch in Gloria’s guesthouse, looking up through the skylights to the overcast sky above. By noon, it would burn off to reveal a blue so pure it hurt the eyes. For now, it was gray and inscrutable. Idly he strummed the electric guitar he held and began to play a blues riff. A two-note riff in E, that classic staple of the blues, that low thud that was the rhythm of a heartbeat, the rhythm of footsteps.
The rhythm of sex.
Without conscious thought, he vaulted off into the high, wailing notes of a solo that he played against the basic rhythm in his head. He played on instinct, fingers stroking the fret board, working the strings, pulling out the keening cries of pain and ecstasy. It was what he’d always loved about the blues—being able to go with it and see where it took him. He was never happier than when he was playing lead over the rhythm laid down by his band.
His band.
What did you do when you’d had a job for over twenty years and you got laid off?
On impulse, he picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Creative Music Associates,” a woman’s voice said crisply.
“Is this Bonnie?” Zach asked.
“Yes, it is. Is this Zach?”
“Bingo. Still trying to reach Barry.” They’d become good friends over the past three weeks, his manager’s secretary and he.
“Just a minute, Zach, I’ll see if I can get him.”
He went on hold, listening to the latest White Stripes release.
The phone line clicked. “Jimmy, hey, good to hear your voice, man.” Barry Seaton, happy and hearty and slick as goose shit.
“It’s Zach, Barry, and it’s good to hear your voice, too.” Zach could take only sour satisfaction in the awkward silence, given the number of times his manager had ducked him of late.
Barry, to his credit, recovered quickly. “Oops, hit the wrong button. Hey, sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you on that Crossroads thing. That sucks that they dropped you, man, seriously.”
Crossroads Records, his erstwhile recording company, which after three well-received albums had elected not to renew his contract. “I’m not too worried about it, Barry, because you’re going to hook me up with another company, right? I’ve already got songs for the new album.”
“Oh, hey, yeah, I’m working on it. The blues is a harder sell than it was when Stevie Ray was making headlines.”
Zach drummed his fingers. “Nine albums over eighteen years, Barry—you ought to be able to do something with that.”
“Come on, Zach, you’ve been in this industry long enough to know how it works. It’s the numbers, man, pure and simple. I don’t give a damn how good the reviews are, you’ve got to move units.”
And Zach didn’t.
“Get your booking agent—Sarah is it?—have her set up some dates, put you on the road. Maybe I can shake something loose.”
“She says it’s hard to set up dates without the record company backing.”
“She might be right.”
“Oh, come on, Barry, I’ve been playing some of those clubs on the circuit for fifteen, eighteen years. And you ought to be able to find someone who’ll take me on for a new album. After all, I make money, we make money,” he said, playing the one card he knew would get Barry’s attention.
“Look, I’ll make some calls, get back to you.”
Zach almost growled in frustration as he disconnected. In Barryspeak, that meant never, and meanwhile his bank balance continued to drop.
