my life, but it’s just not that easy.”
She grasped the glass in both hands and stared at the contents. It was better than looking at him.
“I faked a couple more attacks, just to get her off my back. But then one day an attack happened on its own and I couldn’t control it. I guess I’d gotten so good at faking them that they became real. They got worse and worse and now they control me. I barely got through the final week of my schedule and I collapsed at my last performance.”
She ducked her head as shame rushed through her. She felt the heat on her cheeks. As much as she tried to forget what had happened, she relived the experience over and over again.
“I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been to a therapist, who has tried to help. I know in my head that as long as I believe this is the only way I can get power, I can’t get better. But I don’t know how to change how I feel. And what if I can’t play again? This is all I know. It’s who I am. What will I be without that?”
Wyatt regretted bringing up the subject of her playing more than he could say. Now he was faced with an obviously upset Claire and he had no idea what to do or tell her. This was completely foreign to him—not just female and emotional, but nothing he’d ever experienced.
“Maybe, uh, if you saw, you know, someone else,” he mumbled. “Another therapist.”
“I guess I could try. I just don’t know.”
She looked small and broken, which made him feel like crap. In typical guy-speak, he wanted to tell her to ignore the problem and it would eventually go away. But he knew that wouldn’t help.
“I hate feeling helpless,” she said. “Weak.”
Weak he could handle, he thought with relief. He was strong and tough. He could protect her. He could offer to…
He put on the mental brakes and did a one-eighty. Protect her? Where had that come from? He didn’t want to protect any female, except for Amy. And maybe Nicole because she was his friend. But not romantically. He didn’t get involved—ever.
Sex was fine. He liked sex, looked forward to it. He understood it. But caring, feeling and anything else emotional? No way. He knew the disaster that could result. He came from a long line of men who totally screwed up when it came to women. Drew and his ex-wife were only the latest illustrations.
“To be honest,” Claire said, “Jesse’s call came at a perfect time. Not that I wouldn’t have come no matter what. I would have. But I’m kind of hiding out from my manager and Nicole’s surgery gave me the perfect reason to disappear. Is that terrible?”
He thought about how she’d totally accepted his daughter, learning sign language and listening patiently as Amy slowly worked to speak clearly. He thought about how she’d kept showing up with Nicole, despite her sister’s ill temper. He remembered her sitting at the piano, playing as if it was as important to her as breathing. How her gift and abilities had stunned him.
“It’s not terrible,” he said. “Everyone needs a place to go when things get hard.”
“According to Nicole, they’re not hard for me at all.”
“She doesn’t know everything.”
“She thinks she does.”
“She’s wrong,” he said, staring into her blue eyes. There was something there, a hint of sadness, but something else. Something he couldn’t place. Interest? Passion?
Talk about projecting what he wanted to see.
Still, he found himself wanting to hold her. To put his arms around her and be the rock she needed for a while. Of course there was also a part of him that wanted to drag her close and kiss her until they were both breathless.
Claire smiled. “Thanks for listening. It helped.”
“Good. Want to stay for dinner?”
The invitation had come from nowhere. He was rewarded by a slow smile that heated his blood.
“I’d love to.”
NICOLE TOLD HERSELF she wasn’t actually watching the clock. What did she care if Claire was taking a long time to return Amy. It wasn’t as if she was worried or even cared. Claire was nothing to her.
Still, as the clock in the great room ticked along, she found herself getting nervous and thinking about accidents and car jackings.
“You’re being stupid,” she muttered to herself. “If something bad had happened, you would have heard by now.”
Just then, someone knocked on the front door.
Nicole pushed herself into a standing position and started toward the door. She wasn’t moving very quickly and the person knocked again before she could get there.
“I’m coming,” she yelled, annoyance sliding over worry. “Hang on a sec.”
Expecting to see a uniformed police officer or sheriff, she could only stare at the well-dressed older woman standing in front of her.
“Who are you?” the other woman asked coldly.
“No one who is going to answer that question,” Nicole told her. “You must have the wrong house.”
“Is Claire Keyes here?”
Nicole hesitated a second before saying, “Not at the moment.”
“But this is where she disappeared to?” Her dark gaze moved over Nicole before dismissing her. Her red lips thinned. “You’re the sister, I presume.”
Nicole felt no need to confirm or deny. “Who are you?”
“Lisa Whitney. I’m Claire’s manager.”
With that, the other woman swept into the house. Nicole didn’t think she’d healed enough to physically throw the other woman out, so she closed the door and followed her into the great room.
Lisa shrugged out of her tailored coat, revealing a slim body, quality clothing in neutral colors and a handbag with a designer label. Nicole’s idea of high fashion was a cashmere blend twin set, so she didn’t recognize the shoes, but would guess they cost as much as a decent used car. Lisa’s short brown hair was expertly styled, her makeup suited her face and the gold earrings, watch and necklace were probably real and 18 karat. Nicole pretty much hated her on sight.
Lisa draped her coat over the back of a chair and looked around. “She’s really staying here?” The tone of the question implied this place wouldn’t be much better than sleeping in a car.
“In my house, you mean? Yes. She’s staying here.”
“I see. What about practice? I don’t see a piano. Is she taking classes?”
“Not that it’s your business, but there’s a piano downstairs.”
Lisa looked at her. “Everything about Claire is my business. How much is she practicing? Four hours a day works best. She can get by on three and much
