My Special Angel (18 page)

“You won’t lose the ranch, love.” He tilted up her chin and brushed her mouth with a soft kiss. “I won’t let you lose it.”

“I won’t accept your help, Owen.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “I’m fully capable of helping you out of this tight situation. You can repay me when your music returns and you can record the album.”

“Money! You’re offering me money?” She stepped out of his arms. In the space of a moment he had reduced everything they had to dollars and cents. She had sold herself once, and she wouldn’t do it again. She would rather see her family living out of the vardos and traveling the back roads of America before she would allow Owen to put a price on their love.

“I’m offering you a chance to save the dream, Nadia.”

“No, Owen. You’re offering to buy it.” She stepped away from him and headed for the coffeepot Owen had bought after their first week together. “Do you really want to do something for me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then help me find my music.”

“I might not be able to find your music, Nadia.” A playful smile teased the corner of his mouth. “But I can show you where to find other people’s music.”

* * *

Nadia glanced around the crowded store with utter delight. Records, tapes, and CDs were jammed into every available inch of space from floor to ceiling. An old Glenn Miller number was blaring out of a set of speakers on either side of the door. Crates of dusty record jackets were squeezed under overloaded tables that sagged from the weight of tapes and albums. Everywhere she looked, there was music. There were classical and opera, along with country and western, a touch of jazz, rhythm and blues, and rock. Everything was mixed helter-skelter. She had found heaven, and it was called Paul’s Music Emporium. “Owen, how on earth did you ever find this place?”

Owen started to lean against a table but thought better of it. The table didn’t look as if it could withstand the pile of records already heaped on it, never mind his added weight. “I stumbled onto it about five years ago.” He smiled as Nadia slowly spun in circles. She had no idea where to start. Paul’s had that effect on first-time customers. It had taken him three trips to realize he could never search through all the stacks, so every time he stopped, he started in on a different area of the store, unearthing ageless treasures. After five years over half his extensive music collection had come from Paul’s. “The secret to finding anything is to pick a spot and start going through it.”

“Isn’t there any kind of order?” Her fingers flipped through a stack of albums. Alice Cooper was mixed with Mozart and Willie Nelson.

“I think there was at one time,” chuckled Owen, “but that was long before I ever walked through the door.”

“Are you complaining again, rich boy?” snarled a big, burly man behind Owen.

Owen spun around and shook the man’s hand. “Paul, you old snake, I see you still like to go sneaking around.” Paul flashed a nearly toothless grin that spoke of too many fistfights, and shook his hand harder. “Paul, I would like you to meet a very special lady, Nadia Kandratavich.” He turned to her. “Nadia, this is the owner, Paul.”

Nadia glanced at the man and hid her surprise. She had expected someone a little different to be running the music store. Paul stood six foot four and had a build designed for Mack trucks. He wore torn jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt that was stretched to its limits. A thick chrome chain served as his belt, and black motorcycle boots boasted not only age but the evidence that they had kicked in a few doors in their youth. Paul’s nearly white hair hung halfway down his back in a ponytail, and his thick beard covered most of the golden eagle printed on his shirt. She held out her hand and grinned at the three golden hoops he wore in his right ear. “Hello, Paul, it is indeed my pleasure to meet the person responsible for all of this.” She waved her hand around the room.

Paul raised her hand and lightly pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers. “I now understand why Owen hasn’t dropped by in the past couple of months.”

Nadia glanced at Owen and willed the blush rising in her cheeks down. “I can assure you, sir, that had I known about this place sooner, we would have been here.” She moved to another stack of albums and started to dig through it.

Owen shook his head as Paul chuckled. “You might think it’s funny now, but in six hours when you close for the day and we still can’t get her out of here, then what will you do?” asked Owen.

Paul leaned against the counter and admired the view of Nadia bending over the table. “Stay open late, I guess.”

Owen moved closer to Nadia to see what album had caught her attention. “Then I suggest you go call your wife and five kids now and tell them you’ll be late for dinner.”

Two hours later Owen tapped Nadia on her shoulder. “Lunch is ready.”

“Lunch?” She brushed a hand across her eyes and blinked.

“It’s after one, love.” He waved his hand in the direction of the counter where Paul was in the process of moving off a stack of records and tapes to make room for their lunch. “I figured since it looked like I would have to drag you kicking and screaming from that stack of old records, I’d pick up something for us to eat.”

She glanced at the two paper bags sitting on the spot Paul had just cleared. “You went out?”

Owen groaned and clutched at his chest. “Why don’t you just cut out my heart with a knife—it would be less painful.”

Nadia flushed as Paul’s booming laughter filled the shop. She wiped her dirty hands on the side of her jeans. “Well, you could have at least told me.” She carefully picked up the couple of albums she had unearthed from the masses.

“I did, Nadia. I told you I was running next door to pick up some sandwiches and soda, and do you know what you told me?”

She lovingly dusted off each album with a rag

Paul had handed her. She really couldn’t afford to buy the albums, but she was willing to give up eating for the week to own them. Some things were just more important than food. She glanced at Owen. “If I don’t remember you leaving, how do you expect me to remember what I said?”

“You told me to drive carefully.” He pulled a pile of sandwiches and a large bag of chips from the paper sack.

“So?” She glanced at her hands and frowned. They were filthy from rummaging through dusty stacks of albums. “Paul, do you have a place where I can wash up?”

He jerked his thumb toward a beaded curtain. “In the back there’s a washroom. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” She gently set the albums aside. “Don’t let anyone touch these,” she said, and disappeared through the curtain.

Paul shook his head and grinned at his friend. “She has it bad, doesn’t she?”

He tossed Paul a soda. “When the music bug bit her, it didn’t let go.” Owen tore into the bag of chips and popped the top on his soda can. “She’s a singer, you know.”

“Really? Who’s she with?” Paul grabbed a handful of chips.

“No one, she’s solo. She’s recording a children’s album next month in six languages.”

Paul’s bushy white eyebrows met his hairline. “Impressive! What did she do before that?”

“She sang in some nightclub in New York Very high class with big bucks.”

Paul thoughtfully studied Nadia as she came through the beaded curtain and joined them. He pulled out a stool from behind the counter for her. “Owen tells me you sang up in New York. Which club did you sing at?”

Nadia concentrated on unwrapping her sandwich. “It was some local joint—you probably never heard of it.” She smiled at Owen as he handed her a soda. “You ever been to New York, Paul?”

“I get up there a couple times a year. My parents live up there, and they like to have the grandkids visit.” He took a bite out of his sandwich and frowned at Nadia as she nervously picked at her lunch. “You look awfully familiar. Have you ever performed on television?”

“No, I’ve never performed on television.” Having reporters jam cameras into her face and microphones under her nose just to boost the six-o’clock news ratings didn’t count as performing. She took a hasty bite out of her sandwich. It could have tasted like one of her father’s old work boots for all she cared. Paul had recognized her! Any minute now he was going to match her face with the front-page headlines that had tantalized the citizens of New York for months. It didn’t matter was that half of what had been printed was untrue and the other 50 percent pure speculation. What did matter was that some snot-nosed reporter had christened her the “Manhattan Mistress” and she had been cast as a leading player in a high-profile drama.

“I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere,” muttered Paul.

Owen studied the lack of color in Nadia’s cheeks. “They say every person has a double.”

“That must be it,” said Paul. He looked at Nadia and grinned. “Ever been to California?”

“The land of surfer dudes, Hollywood, and earthquakes?” Nadia shook her head and relaxed her shoulders. “Afraid not.” Hoping to keep Paul away from New York, she asked, “Ever been to Budapest?”

“Nope. I hoofed it through Albuquerque once when my hog died.”

Nadia glanced at Owen in confusion. Why was Paul talking about farm animals?

Owen laughed at the expression on Nadia’s face. “Paul said he had to walk through the city of Albuquerque, New Mexico, once when his motorcycle died.”

Nadia returned Paul’s grin. “I’ve never been to New Mexico, and I have never ridden a pig.”

Paul groaned and clutched his chest as Owen’s boisterous laughter filled the tiny shop. “Nadia, love,” said Owen choking, as he regained his breath. “If you plan on leaving here with those albums and your life, never refer to Paul’s one true love as a pig—it’s a hog, love, a hog.” He crumbled up the empty wrappings from their sandwiches and tossed them into the wastebasket under the counter.

Nadia pitched her empty soda can into the recycle basket and headed back to the corner of the shop where she had been shuffling through old albums. She purposely turned her back toward Paul and kept her head down. If she insisted on leaving now after being totally engrossed in the shop all morning, Owen would know something was wrong. It had been bad enough that he’d stared at her funny all during lunch; she didn’t need to add any more suspicion. With any luck Paul would forget all about where he had seen her before if she stayed out of his sight.

Paul sat on the stool thoughtfully staring at the back of Nadia’s head and pulling on his bead. Owen stood by a stack of records and glanced between Nadia and Paul. A deep frown pulled at his mouth.

Nadia squeezed in between two tables and reached for a stack of albums covered with dust. With a swipe of a rag she sent dust bunnies flying in every direction and uncovered a Pat Boone album. She tried to smile at the handsome young man gracing the cover of the album in her hand and failed. The magic of searching through this enchanted treasure trove had vanished. All she wanted to do was get away from Paul before he figured out where he had seen her.

* * *

“I don’t know, Owen, maybe we should just go to my place,” said Nadia. She glanced at Owen’s impressive home as they pulled into the driveway. She had never felt comfortable here and had made up countless excuses to avoid spending the night in Owen’s king-size bed with its designer sheets. He always slept in her crowded double bed with its old sheets.

“You’re the one who mentioned wanting to hear those records on my stereo system.”

“That’s because you didn’t buy your stereo during a blue-light special.” She reached for the bag containing the dozen albums she had purchased from Paul. The headache she had used as an excuse to leave the shop early had really developed during the fifty- minute ride home from Asheville. She opened the car door and frowned at the stately mansion. “Won’t we be disturbing your aunt?”

“Aunt Verna and a couple of her lady friends went to Cape Hatteras for a few days.” He came around to the front of the car and took her elbow. “So we have the entire house to ourselves.”

“What about Sebastian and Milly?” She glanced at the huge ceramic urns on either side of the front door. They were overflowing with a kaleidoscope of colorful blooms. Each perfect flower looked fresh and color- coordinated for that particular spot. Not one petal appeared wilted or blemished. They were picture-perfect, and they represented Owen’s life. He had a flawless home, a perfectly wonderful aunt, an ideal career, and an upstanding reputation in the community. Everything in his life was perfect—except her.

Owen chuckled at her fierce expression. “What did those flowers ever do to you?” He pulled her inside the cool foyer. “Is your headache that bad?”

He took the bag from her hands and placed it on the table beside the door.

Nadia rubbed her temples. “Do you have any aspirin?”

“I’ll get it, sir,” drawled Sebastian.

Nadia glanced at the butler, who had entered the hall without her knowledge. “I can get them, Sebastian, if you can tell me where they are.” She felt like a bigger phony having Sebastian wait on her.

Owen continued to look at Nadia for a moment. “There is a bottle of aspirin in the powder room off my office, Nadia.”

“Thanks.” She gave Sebastian a small smile before disappearing down the hall toward Owen’s office.

She returned a few minutes later and found Owen standing in front of his stereo placing one of her records on the turntable. A tray of cool drinks and delicate little cakes sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I see Sebastian’s been busy.”

“I got that for us.” He pushed a few buttons, and the first strains of a Mozart concerto filled the room. “I gave Sebastian and Milly the night off.”

“Why?”

“For some reason they seem to make you nervous.” He sat down on the couch and picked up his glass. “Want to tell me why?”

“They don’t make me nervous, really.” She toyed with one of the throw pillows. “It’s just that I’m not the type who likes to be waited on.”

“Getting you a couple of aspirin is hardly the same thing as having Sebastian at your beck and call.”

“I bet if I spill this drink, he’d be in here cleaning up before the ice cubes had a chance to melt into the carpet.”