“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.”
“Damn it, Adam,” Malcolm growled, closing in on the round table. “Do you think you could speak a little softer? I don’t think they heard you over in Russia.”
He looked down the hallway toward Celia’s room. Once he was confident the door wouldn’t open with an angry Celia, he sat as Conrad dealt the cards.
“Claim her?” the casino magnate repeated. “I can almost hear my wife laughing at you if she heard that. Brother, they claim us. Body and soul.”
Elliot grimaced, “You’re sounding like one of those sappy songs of Malcolm’s … ‘Playing for Keeps’? Really, dude? Be straight with us. You wrote that one to get some action.”
Malcolm bit back the urge to haul him out of the chair and punch him the way he’d done when Elliot ran off at the mouth in school. Only the image of Celia’s pained face made him hold back, humbling him with how much he’d screwed up somehow. “Hope you’re going to be happy growing old alone with your race cars and a cat.” He gathered his cards. “Now, are we playing poker or what?”
Even as he pretended to shrug off what his friends had said, he couldn’t deny their words had taken root. For tonight, he would let her cool down. But come morning, he needed to quit thinking about seducing Celia and actually get down to the business of romancing his way back into her bed. Romancing her, seducing her, was not the same as falling for her. He could make the distinction and so could Celia.
And by learning that, they could both quit glorifying what they’d shared in the past and move on.
Celia tipped her face toward the morning sun, the boat rolling gently under her feet as it chugged along the Seine River. Hillary Donavan told her they’d set up a private ride for their group to see some of the city before they flew out for the next stop on the tour. Such a large group of friends and their wives. While she understood their school connection, she wondered why Malcom’s entourage included such luminaries. Usually artists traveled with lesser folk, always remaining the star of their circle. But Malcolm traveled with very high-placed friends from an array of backgrounds. His lack of ego was … appealing.
Gusts channeled down the canal, fluttering her gauzy blouse against her oversensitive skin. She needed this breather before she saw Malcolm again. He hadn’t been in the limo with them this morning, and she’d pushed down the kick of disappointment. No doubt he must be sleeping in, exhausted after the performance.
Taking in the image of the Eiffel Tower set against the backdrop of the historic city, she appreciated the thoughtfulness, as well as the chance to escape the hotel suite. She needed this opportunity to air out her mind before they climbed onto the claustrophobic luxury jet again.
The restless night’s sleep hadn’t done much to settle her tumultuous nerves over how Malcolm had used that piece of their history—onstage, no less—to play with her emotions. He’d always been driven, but she’d never expected him to be ruthless. Her hair lifting in the breeze, she gripped the brass railing of the boat powering along the canal.
“Why are you ignoring me?” a male voice rumbled behind her.
Malcolm’s voice.
Rich, intoxicating tones that sent a shiver down her spine.
Her toes curled in her sandals.
Celia turned on her heel to face him, leaning back against the rail. How much longer before his voice stopped making her knees go shaky? Plus the sight of him? Equally dreamy. The past and present blended in his look of faded jeans with designer loafers and a jacket. He wore a ball cap and sunglasses, likely to hide his identity, but she would have known him anywhere.
And just her luck, all of his buddies were making tracks to the other side of the boat, leaving her here. Alone. With Malcolm.
She blinked back the sparks of the morning sun behind his broad shoulders. “I thought you were still at the hotel asleep when I left.”
“I came to the boat ahead of the rest of you, slipped on board with the boat captain to reduce the chances of the press finding me.” He captured a lock of her hair trailing in the wind and tucked it behind her ear. “Back to my question. Why did you avoid me last night, after the concert?”
“Ignoring you?” She angled her head away from his stirring touch. “Why would I do that? We’re not in junior high school.”
“You haven’t spoken to me since those few brief—vague—words after the concert last night.” He frowned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Are you pissed because I kissed you on the plane?”
“Should I be upset that you kissed me without asking?” A kiss that still made the roots of her hair tingle. “Or should I be angry about the photos of us together plastered all over tabloids and magazines? Oh, and let’s not forget TV gossip shows. We’re—and I quote—‘The Toast of Paris.’”
“So that is why you’ve refused to talk to me.” He pressed a thumb against his temple, just below the ball cap.
“Actually, I got over that. But the way you mocked me by playing a song you wrote about us in high school—” her anger gained steam “—a song you recently called a puppy-love joke? Now, that made me mad.”
“Damn it, Celia.” He hooked a finger in a belt loop on her jeans and tugged her toward him. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“Then what did you intend?” she asked, unable to read his eyes behind those sunglasses. She flattened her palms on his chest to keep from landing flush against him, body to body. Still, with their faces a breath apart, her heart skipped a beat.
“Hell, I just wanted to pay tribute to what we shared as teenagers. Not to glorify it, but certainly not to mock it,” he said with unmistakable sincerity. “We did share something special back then. I think we can share that again.”
Air wooshed from her lungs, making
