Cross My Heart (12 page)

Jenna glanced at him. “I don’t think so,” she said cautiously. “Why don’t we look for a concert we can all see? I’m sure there’s—”

“No,” Claire said firmly. “Albert Cray is playing on Friday, and Dad has to see him. It’s perfect. I’ll stay the night at Mrs. Washington’s, with Ellie.” She jumped up. “I’ll go and ask her right now!”

Michael spoke up at that. “Claire, it’s almost nine-thirty. Don’t you think you should—”

“If their lights are off I won’t bug them, I promise. But I bet they’re still up.”

And before he could say anything else, she was out the front door.

Silence fell.

He imagined driving into the city with Jenna, just the two of them. Leaving the bar with her after the show, stepping out into the warm summer night, the stars shining above them. Walking with Jenna along the city streets, hearing her voice and her laughter, maybe brushing against her every so often.

Neither of them had said a word since Claire had charged out of the house. Jenna was frowning down at the floor, her lower lip caught in her teeth.

He forced himself to break the silence. “So, what do you think? Going to a concert would definitely further my musical education,” he added, wanting to put her at ease but also really hoping she’d say yes.

“It
would
be a great experience,” she said, looking up at him. “Albert Cray is an amazing musician.”

He felt a rush of satisfaction. “Then it’s settled.”

“I know it goes without saying, but...it wouldn’t be a date.”

“Understood.”

“Nothing even resembling a date.”

“Got it.”

“Just two friends going to a show.”

He leaned forward. “Jenna, you don’t have anything to worry about. Okay?”

She looked at him for a second and then smiled. “Okay.”

She picked up her guitar again and began to strum softly, the fingers of her left hand curving over the wood as she formed chords. “It really is a good idea. If Albert Cray doesn’t turn you into a blues fan, nothing will. Not that I’ll be upset if you don’t like him,” she added. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to like him. Claire and I have given it our best shot, but if you don’t like the blues, you don’t. I want to know your honest reaction, whatever it is. Promise you’ll tell the truth, whether you love it or hate it or something in the middle?”

If he was out with Jenna, there was a chance he might not even notice the music. “I promise.”

Claire came back at that moment, brimming with satisfaction. “It’s all set,” she informed them. “I’m sleeping over Friday night with the Washingtons, so you can stay out as late as you want.”

Michael glanced at Jenna. As soon as their eyes met she looked away.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. He’d just told her she had nothing to worry about, and looking at her now with that blush staining her cheeks, he wondered how the hell he was going to keep his hands off her Friday night.

With will power, damn it. Will power and self-control.

Two things that had never been in short supply before Jenna came into his life.

Chapter Seven

This isn’t a date,
Jenna reminded herself as she stood in her bedroom, her hair still damp from the shower. Her clothing choices seemed loaded with meaning. Did she go with new jeans, the denim still stiff? Or did she go with an old, faded pair, soft as a bird’s wing from years of use—the ones that hugged her hips and made her legs look a mile long?

She reached for the old pair, telling herself they were more comfortable.

But if comfort were really the deciding factor, she’d go with a tee shirt instead of the red silk camisole top she was considering, cropped short enough to show off her tattoo and her belly ring.

There was no innocent reason to put on that top. Either she admitted she wanted to see the flash of desire in Michael’s eyes again, or she went for a tee shirt.

She thought about the kiss and felt a thrum of heat low in her belly. Then she thought about the warmth she felt when she was with him—a warmth that came from liking as much as lust.

That was the killer. If all she felt for Michael were desire, it wouldn’t matter so much. But her feelings were complex, all tangled up with affection and respect and care and concern, the kind of feelings that could touch her heart as much as her body. And since she planned to leave Iowa with her heart intact, she’d better make sure her body didn’t get the best of her.

She hung the camisole top back in her closet and grabbed a plain blue tee shirt out of her drawer.

A little while later she answered her door to find Michael standing there in jeans and a tee shirt of his own.

He grinned at her. “I see I dressed appropriately for the occasion. Of course Claire insisted on picking out my clothes, so I guess I have her to thank.”

“You look great,” she said, hoping he didn’t realize just how much she meant those innocuous words. When a man had shoulders like that, he should always wear tee shirts—or no shirt at all.

Her mind was on his upper body and not where they were going, and they’d crossed the lawn to Michael’s driveway before she realized it. Now Michael was holding open the passenger door of his BMW.

Jenna hesitated. She’d been thinking they could take her car, since this event had been her and Claire’s idea—and because it seemed less date-like that way.

“Is it okay if I drive?” Michael asked after a moment passed.

“Of course it is,” she said quickly, sliding into the seat. The mere fact that the man was driving didn’t automatically make it a date.

Nor did the fact that he opened the club door for her, or asked her what she wanted to drink, and then went to the bar to order and pay for it. Michael was just old-school that way, like he was about walking her home.

They took a table near the stage, on the edge of the open space where people would stand throughout the show for an opportunity to be near the legendary Albert Cray, and dance if there was enough room.

But the show wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes, which meant she had plenty of time to notice how much like a date this felt.

It was the way her body reacted when she was with him. The way her gaze lingered on him in spite of herself, as he leaned over to slide a cardboard coaster under one of the table legs so it wouldn’t wobble, and then rested his strong forearms on the scarred wooden surface as the waitress set their drinks down.

Actually, she thought as she met his eyes, this was nothing like a date. Not like the dates she usually went on, anyway. Michael was thoughtful and attentive, and there was a quiet competence about him that made her feel relaxed even as his nearness raised her heart rate.

She’d asked for a tequila sunrise, and now she noticed that he’d ordered one, too.

“You don’t seem like the tequila type,” she said.

“I’m not. This is my first.”

“You can’t be serious. You’ve never tasted tequila before tonight?”

“Nope.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Tequila’s not an ordinary drink, my friend. Your first time is a big deal.”

He grinned at her. “It is, huh? What’s so special about it?”

She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Different drinks go with different experiences. Wine is for mellow conversation with your friends, or when you’re at a nice restaurant for dinner. Beer is for parties and barbecues and baseball games. Tequila, on the other hand, goes perfectly with the blues. It’s earthy and sensual and just a little bit evil.”

It’s not a date,
he reminded himself. But listening to Jenna talk about tequila made him wish like hell it was.

Not to mention the fact that driving her in his car for the first time had made him feel like a teenager going to the prom.

“Here’s to new experiences,” he said, and took a sip.

He set his glass down and met Jenna’s blue eyes again.

“Well?” she asked.

“I tasted orange juice and grenadine and alcohol, but I’m not sure I got the unique tequila flavor.”

“For that you should do a shot.”

He was tempted. “I’m driving, but if we have a few hours—”

“At least two.”

Since this was the only Jenna-related temptation he could safely give into, he gave into it. “You’ve convinced me.”

He ordered a shot for each of them, while Jenna explained the procedure—salt on the tongue, toss down the tequila, then suck on the lime wedge.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“All right, then. One, two, three.”

The sharp taste of salt, the oily bitterness of tequila, and then the tart zing of citrus on his tongue. A shudder went through him as he set the lime wedge down in his empty shot glass.

Jenna set her glass down beside his and grinned up at him, propping her chin on her hands.

The fiery combination of flavors was too much like her for comfort. “A unique experience,” he said.

“One you think you’ll repeat some day?”

“That’s hard to say. My lifestyle doesn’t exactly lend itself to tequila shots. But if I ever do repeat the experience, I’ll think of you.”

“Hmm. I wonder if that’s good or bad?”

Physiologically speaking, he knew the sensation he was feeling right now wasn’t caused by the alcohol. There hadn’t been enough time for that.

Which meant it was all Jenna.

“Good,” he said, looking into her eyes.

It’s not a date,
he told himself as he got lost in the sapphire depths.
It’s not a date,
he told himself again as his gaze went to her mouth, her lips soft and full and slightly parted. Then his gaze drifted lower still, to the perfect curve of her breasts rising and falling under her tee shirt. The regular movement stilled, and he looked up to meet her eyes again.

Damn, he thought belatedly, trying to think of something to say.

“Did your band ever play here?” he asked quickly.

She took a quick breath. “Years ago, when the Mollies were just starting out. We played here a few times.”

Her eyes looked a little wistful, which made him curious. “How long has it been since you performed?”

She thought about it. “More than two years,” she said after a moment. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s been that long. After the Mollies broke up I played solo once in a while, or did guest gigs for other bands, but then I got busy with school and studio musician work.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I haven’t been on a stage in two years.”

“You miss it, don’t you?” he asked, signaling the waitress for another shot.

“Yes. I used to live for the rush—the lights, the music, the connection with the audience. There’s nothing like it.” She hesitated. “Would you like to come see us? The Mollies, I mean. When we perform at the Odeon.”

“I’d love to.”

She looked pleased. “Great. I know you’re not a big music fan, but I’d love for you to be there.”

He was surprised at how happy that made him. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said as the waitress set a shot down on their table.

“You’re having another one?”

He shook his head. “This is for you.”

She grinned at him. “I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk, Dr. Stone. For one thing, that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of you. For another, I can hold my liquor really, really well. It would take at least five more of those before I do anything untoward.”

He tried not to think about untoward things.

“Just one more,” he said. “We did those other shots at the same time, and I didn’t get a chance to see you drink it. This is to further my tequila education—which, according to you, goes hand in hand with my blues education.”

“When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

She licked the inside of her wrist, her tongue as delicate as a cat’s. Then she sprinkled salt on her skin, licked it off, and tossed down the shot in one swift motion. He caught a glimpse of her slender throat, and the movement of her muscles as she swallowed. Then she slammed the shot glass down and bit into the lime slice she had ready.

“Brrr,” she said with a quick shudder, setting the lime wedge down carefully in her empty glass. “So what did you think?” she asked him, resting her chin in her hand as she looked up at him. “Did it meet your expectations?”

He stared at her. “I’m speechless,” he said after a moment. “I’m going to have to ask you not to do that again, because it might give me a heart attack.”

She laughed, and at that moment Albert Cray came out onto the stage and sat down on the stool that had been placed there, tuning his guitar and checking his microphone. As Michael looked toward the stage he saw that the floor in front of it had filled up in the last several minutes, and the people standing there had already started to clap and cheer.

He looked back at Jenna and saw that she, too, was cheering, her eyes on the old man bent over a beat up guitar, tuning it as if he had all the time in the world. Every minute or so he’d glance up and flash a grin at the crowd as the shouts and applause grew louder.

As Michael settled back in his chair, a feeling of well-being stole over him. It was a beautiful summer night and he was out with a beautiful woman, and the tequila he’d drunk was buzzing through his veins.

Then Albert Cray straightened up, set his hands to his guitar, and began to play.

From the very first note, Michael was caught. He found himself leaning forward, watching those old hands moving over the guitar strings, coaxing emotion from the wood with effortless mastery. He sang about love and loss and pain and joy, the urge to ramble and the longing to go home again, and the words echoed with the humor and wisdom of eighty years of life.

He looked at Jenna, and saw she was leaning forward like he was, her expression rapt. He looked at the crowd of people in front of the stage, some of them dancing, some simply watching and listening.

He was used to feeling a little separate from other people, a little apart, but he felt unexpectedly connected to everyone in the room right now, to all these strangers gathered together to hear this music.

People continued to crowd the floor, and after a few minutes their view of the stage was blocked. He rose to his feet and held out a hand to Jenna. Their table was near the stage and it wasn’t hard to edge their way up front. It was crowded, and even though the people all seemed friendly there was some jostling, and it seemed natural to put Jenna in front of him, nearest the stage, and to lay a protective hand on her shoulder.