Startled by his sudden absence, she blinked away her confusion. Then followed his gaze to where it rested on a giant close-up of his face. Her own face instantly flashed hot. Ah, crap.
“That’s, um…”
He pulled back and studied her face. “That’s me.”
Eight
Ward’s tone sounded more amused than anything else.
Walking closer to the TV until the remote was within range and she could turn it off and bleep away the giant image of his face, she nodded with mock seriousness. “Yes. That’s you.” To cover her embarrassment, she added, “Come on in. I might as well offer you something to drink.”
He pretended not to notice her reluctance, but crossed to her sofa, lowered himself to the seat, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He crossed his legs at the ankles and said, “Whatever you’re having would be perfect.”
“It’s not fancy,” she blurted. And then immediately regretted it, because she didn’t know if she was talking about the ten-dollar wine or her used sofa. Or the fact that between the move and getting things set up at Hannah’s Hope, her future dining room was full of unpacked boxes and her bookshelves were still empty.
“Not fancy sounds just about perfect.”
By the time she returned with another glass of wine, she’d sufficiently pep-talked herself into believing that she did not care what he thought of her house. And she did not care if her living room was smaller (and more cheaply furnished) than the powder room in his mansion. After all, a man who lived in a garage apartment hardly had room to complain. And she did not care that she’d changed out of the professional jacket she’d worn earlier and now wore a workout tank and ten-dollar, wide-legged yoga pants that made her Latin h*ps look big.
She wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by his star status. The simple truth was, far more stood between them than her pedestrian taste in wine. She wasn’t and would never be Cara Miller. In the end, that was what would drive them apart. Not her curvy hips.
But she couldn’t help wishing that her heart hadn’t started thundering at the sight of him sprawled out on her sofa when she stepped back through the doorway.
He’d rested his head against the back of the sofa. His eyes were closed, his hands resting on his perfectly flat abs. Her gaze took in his appearance again, since he wasn’t looking. It was a good disguise, even if she didn’t appreciate his efforts. Even the hair hanging down from under his cowboy hat looked darker.
Then he spoke without so much as cracking an eye. “It’s flawless, isn’t it?” His eyes opened and she saw humor in his gaze. “It’s true what they say, the clothes make the man.”
Embarrassment washed over her. Why had she just stood there staring at him like an idiot? Or, rather, like a giggly fan. But before she could think of something to say to hide her embarrassment, her phone rang.
“Please tell me you’re not being held prisoner,” Marla demanded the second Ana answered.
Ana laughed. “Hi, Marla. No, I’m not being held hostage.” Ward quirked an eyebrow and she mouthed the words my neighbor to him.
“Are you sure?” Marla’s voice sounded high-pitched and edgy.
Ana set her wine down on the coffee table. When she glanced up, it was to find Ward watching her carefully.
Quickly, she turned away and crossed to the window facing Marla’s house. She pulled back the gauzy curtain. Across the gap between their houses, which was a mere fifteen feet, she could see Marla standing at her own window, framed by the light of her own lamp. She stood there, cell phone pressed to her ear with one hand. Home phone handset in the other. She jiggled it like she was tempting a cat with a toy.
“I can call the cops on the landline if you need me to. We need a safe word! If he’s there in the room with you and you can’t talk, say watermelon. No, wait! That’s too obvious. Say…‘I’ll see you in Sunday school.’”
“Marla, you’re a kook. But a very good friend. And you read too many mystery novels. I’m not being held hostage.”
“Are you sure? That guy looked a little dodgy.”
“He’s just a client,” Ana said in her most reassuring voice.
“But you never see clients at the house,” Marla protested.
“True. I haven’t seen clients here. But…”
Just as she was fumbling for a reason, Ward leaned forward and waved to get her attention.
“My son is the hospital,” he whispered.
“But his son is in the hospital,” she repeated. Then she added, “He doesn’t speak much English. The staff has him scared, even though he has nothing to be afraid of. It’s complicated.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She glanced in Ward’s direction only to once again find him watching her. To hide her discomfort, she rolled her eyes. “Thank you for checking up on me. And I’ll even call you tomorrow if it’ll make you feel better.”
“First thing in the morning. Promise?”
“I’ll call you at seven.”
“Hmm,” Marla paused. “Nine would be better. I mean unless you need something. No, seven’s fine. I mean, whenever.”
“Thank you, Marla,” Ana said before disconnecting.
“Your friend seems very…safety conscious.” Ward chuckled.
“She’s a good neighbor.” She propped her hands on her hips, feeling suddenly protective of Marla, who, despite being a kook, was the best kind of neighbor and the first new friend she’d made since moving back to Vista Del Mar. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Ward held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t say there was. It’s nice. Refreshing, actually, to know there are still places where people watch out for each other.”
Which was exactly how she felt about Vista del Mar. But even as she was considering launching into yet another lecture about the importance of Hannah’s Hope, he nodded toward the TV. “So, you learn anything new?”
“Not much. They weren’t very thorough. They didn’t even mention Orange Kitty.”
His eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know about Orange Kitty?”
“I lived in New York during college. I made it to a few Orange Kitty shows.”
That had been the height of his career. Before Cara got sick. He’d toured most of the year, and split the rest of the time between their home in Charleston and their apartment in Manhattan. Whenever all the band members were in New York at the same time, they’d play in local venues, to small audiences under the name Orange Kitty.
He shook his head ruefully, a surprised smile on his face. “You must have been a hard-core fan to actually get out to an Orange Kitty show.”
The Orange Kitty shows had never been publicized, being spur of the moment. And that wasn’t the point, anyway. People either showed up by accident or heard about them by word of mouth.
“I once spent an entire night hitting bars all over Lower Manhattan because my friend had heard Orange Kitty was playing.”
There was a hint of nostalgia in his smile. “And were we?”
“Not that time.” Suddenly, her embarrassment spread and she felt as though she’d revealed far more than she’d meant to. She busied herself putting her remote away and fluffing a pillow. “I bet half the people in New York have stories like that.”
He grabbed her hand and tugged her closer. She found herself looking at the topmost button of his ragged shirt, with far more intensity than such a bland pearlescent button deserved.
Slowly he tipped her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Until now, you’ve acted like you weren’t a fan at all. Why?”
She wanted to pull herself out of his arms, but instead forced herself to look him fully in the eyes. “That’s obvious, right?”
“Not to me.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think I was just some desperate fan-girl. That’s…” she searched for the right word “…creepy.”
“It’s never creepy knowing someone has enjoyed my music.”
There was a quiet sincerity to his voice. And she found herself pouring out the question she’d been holding back since Charleston. “So why don’t you write music anymore? Why don’t you play?”
He dropped his hand and leaned back, his expression suddenly distant.
“How do you know I don’t?”
His tone was as cold as his gaze, but she pressed on. She was too far past the line for it to matter now. “I saw the Alvarez. At CMF. It’s the only guitar you ever composed on. You may have been carrying around your friend Dave’s guitar, but I can’t imagine you composing on it.”
He turned away from her and scrubbed a hand through his hair. For a moment, she was certain that he was either going to lie outright or tell her to mind her own damn business.
Instead, he leveled an assessing gaze at her and said, “Why don’t you tell me your theory.”
She considered for a moment, gazing at the blank TV screen where his face had been just moments ago. What was it he wanted from her? She’d thought their relationship to be pure sex. She hadn’t expected him to show up on her doorstep in the evenings. She hadn’t expected romantic dates. She hadn’t expected to be telling him her theories about anything.
But since he’d asked for it, she found herself musing aloud. The idea had come to her as she watched the show. And now she couldn’t bring herself to swallow her words, even though she knew it would be easier to keep her opinions to herself.
“Well, I think that’s obvious. You don’t play anymore for the same reason you don’t live in the house in Harleston Village. You feel like your talent betrayed you. From the time you were a teenager, your talent got you everything you ever wanted. Fame, fortune, success. It was your path out of poverty. Not just for you, but for your mother, too.” She nodded toward the screen. “It even helped win you Cara’s love. But then, when you needed it most, it abandoned you. All the talent in the world couldn’t save her life. Your wealth didn’t matter. No amount of money could buy her a treatment, because nothing could cure her. Your gift betrayed you when you needed it most.”