her book, either.
She bit her lip. Was this the moment to tell him about the book she was writing and her plans for the final chapter? But how could she write a convincing chapter about her marriage if he knew from the start? Also, he might refuse—as was his right—or throw her out. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. His privacy had become almost the stuff of legend … and she’d hate such exposure if their positions were reversed.
She knew that even if he agreed to this, and she wrote the chapter, she would have to run it by him before it was added to the book. It was only right.
But for now she couldn’t make herself say the words, so she decided to placate him. “If I offended you—”
He cut in. “You must have gone into psychosis when you found out I finished university by correspondence while I was in End Game and made medical school.”
She’d been shocked all right. She’d never even seen him studying—but she’d spent most of her time hiding out herself, studying or writing in her journal. Being a sixteen-year-old finding somewhere to belong in one ritzy hotel after the other hadn’t been easy; finding friends had been harder. They’d envied her too much to see the loneliness in her life. Not one young person she’d met had wanted to know her—they’d wanted to meet C.J. through her, which had made her despise him more.
She frowned, looking around the homey kitchen. She should have realized she’d need to change her plan the moment she saw this house. What had happened to the opulent apartment overlooking the harbor he’d lived in during his End Game days?
“I sold the apartment,” he said, with uncanny accuracy. “This is close to the university campus and the hospital. My neighbors are mostly elderly, and don’t know what End Game is.” He gave her that deep look again. And when she stared back her pulse pounded and she was all flushed and—and lost in those forest eyes … “I said when I left that I wasn’t looking back.”
And she hadn’t believed him for a moment. When he’d won the first Grammy she’d expected him to ditch university and take up a solo career or song writing, but he’d done neither. He’d penned two more songs—”Issues” and more recently “Defiance” the song that had won his second Grammy—but he hadn’t collected either of his Grammys personally, only sent a pre-recorded message.
Goaded as much by her self-admission as by his words, she snapped, “All right, I apologize again. I was wrong. I’m sorry. Now, can we get on with why I came?”
Instead of backing down, he grinned. “That was cute, Mia. I’ve never seen a woman give an apology with such disdain.” He mock-bowed, with the crooked smile she’d used to think was pretty sexy. “Good job.”
With that, she lost it. “Oh, shove it. Forget everything I said—especially about you being decent. You’re too busy punishing me for the past to take me seriously. I’m not a child anymore, in case you haven’t noticed. Thanks for your time. I’m sure Dad and Nicole will appreciate the cleverness of your sarcasm and your patronizing attitude in their time of need.”
She stalked out of the kitchen, heading for the front door.
As she fumbled to open the lock she felt a touch on her arm. “Mia.”
“What?” she yelled, biting back tears. “This is my father’s life, and all you want is to have fun at my expense.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s about Billy, not you and me. I’ll do it.”
She didn’t hear him. “I’ve barely seen you in years. I was a kid when you joined End Game and just out of my teens when you left. So if I offended you by the way I looked at you sometimes, get over it!”
The grip on her arm grew tighter, just enough to stop her jerking the door open. “Mia, I said I’ll do it.”
“I spent years dodging slimy passes from half the men in Dad’s world from the time I was fifteen, and you think a no-sex contract is an insult?” she panted, trying to get the door to work one-handed.
“What?” Suddenly she’d been swung around and was facing him. His eyes were blazing in front of her face. “What did you just say?”
CHAPTER THREE
C.J. SAW Mia’s hackles fall as fast as they’d risen. She shrugged one shoulder, her gaze on her thumbs, which were flicking in and out of half-curled fists. “You heard me.”
But her words didn’t have the tight edge that grated against his tired nerves—and suddenly she wasn’t a girl looking down at him from a lofty intellectual and emotional height, but small, vulnerable, defenseless … and he was the world’s biggest jerk.
“Not—not the guys in the band?” he demanded, with a protective fury roaring through him. If he’d seen it, just once—
She shrugged again. “Of course not them. They’re like my uncles. You know the ones I mean—the hangers-on.”
He wanted to punch something—preferably someone. How the hell could they? She’d been barely fifteen when Billy had swooped on her at her mother’s funeral! She’d been grieving, for God’s sake. And from that time she’d wandered the world with the band, learning by correspondence, watching Billy’s diet and stopping his drinking and drugs—
Looking back now, he could see how hard the life must have been for a teenager. She’d rarely met friends her own age, or had normal teenage fun. Always curled up in a strange room watching TV, reading, looking after everyone, or scribbling in those journals she loved.
Having joined End Game six months after she’d joined the entourage, C.J. had always taken care to act around her as if she was his sister, no matter that her bouts of teenage sarcasm, her superior taunts and occasional practise sessions of budding womanhood on him had driven him half-crazy at times. Poor kid had had to learn to grow up on someone, and she’d chosen him as either the safest bet or, at twenty, the closest in age.
It seemed other guys in the industry hadn’t shared his scruples. All they’d seen was another pretty girl hanging around. They’d probably treated her as fair game when Billy was off pleasure-seeking, or away the three times he went to rehab after she came to live with him.
It had to have been one hell of a childhood, between a bitter, abandoned mother and a loving but basically self-absorbed and addicted father, dragging her from one place to another, from one new “mother” to another.
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