him. He’d meant to tap into her emotions, not hurt her.
Stepping into the backstage shadows, he reached out to her. “Celia—”
She held up both hands, keeping an arm’s distance between them. “Great concert. Fans adored that new love song of yours. Congratulations. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m ready to turn in for the night. Looks like I have plenty of guards, so you’re officially absolved of protective detail.”
With a brittle smile, she pivoted on her heel and walked away, pushing through the crowd double-time.
Hillary Donavan studied him with perceptive eyes before nudging Jayne to join her in racing to catch up with Celia. Bodyguards melted from the backstage melee, encircling the women in an almost-imperceptible bubble of protection.
Malcolm slumped against a pallet of backup amps. How could he win over stadiums full of people yet still be clueless when it came to this one woman?
A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he damn near jumped out of his skin. Troy Donavan stood beside him to his left, Conrad Hughes to his right. The international casino magnate was a lot less brooding these days since he’d reconciled with his wife.
Troy thumped Malcolm between the shoulder blades again. “Woman troubles?”
“Always,” Malcolm said simply.
Troy charged alongside. “My advice? Give her space—”
Conrad interrupted, “But not so long that she thinks you’re avoiding her.”
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
