Public Secrets (19 page)

A teenager. Sweet Jesus, how had she come to be a teenager? And how had he come to be a thirty-three-year-old icon?

At thirteen it had all seemed very simple to him. His goals had been perfectly defined. To get out of the slums, to play his music, to be someone. He’d accomplished all of that. So where was the thrill? He picked up his glass and drank deeply. Where the hell was the thrill?

He watched Emma dive under a wave, then come up, sleek as an otter, on the other side. He wished she wouldn’t swim out so far. It was so much easier to worry when he could see her. The months when she was tucked away in school, he never worried. She was a good student, well mannered, quietly obedient. Then the holidays would come, and she would pop back into his life. That much more grown-up, that much more beautiful. He would see that look in her eyes, that dark, determined look he recognized as his own. It frightened him.

“God, what energy.” Johnno dropped down beside him. “She doesn’t slow down much, does she?”

“No. We getting old, Johnno?”

“Shit.” Johnno adjusted his panama and tried a sip of Brian’s rum. “Rock stars don’t get old, son. They play Vegas.” Grimacing, he screwed the glass back into the sand. “We ain’t there yet.” He settled back on his elbows. “Of course, we ain’t Shaun Cassidy, either.”

“Thank Christ.”

“Keep that up and you’ll never get your picture in
Tiger Beat
.” They sat in silence a moment, listening to the whoosh of the waves. Johnno was glad he’d come. The quiet of the private villa and beach was the perfect contrast to the crowded rush of New York, or the rainy spring in London. The villa behind them was three stories, with terraces jutting out over the sea—high walls and hedges on three sides and the white curve of beach on the fourth. The pretty pastel stones glinted in the sunlight, and there was the scent of water and hot flowers everywhere.

Yes, he was glad he’d come, not just because of the sunshine, but because of the time it had given him, the quiet time, with Brian and with Emma. The time he knew would come all too quickly to an end.

“Pete rang up a little while ago.”

Brian watched Emma stand in thigh-high water, lift her face to the sun. Her skin had warmed—not tanned, he thought, not browned, but warmed. The color of apricots. He worried about how soon some hungry young boy would want a taste. “And?”

“Things are set for next month. We can start recording.”

“And Stevie?”

“They’re going to put him on some kind of outpatient program. He’s a registered junkie now.” Johnno shrugged. “Methadone program. If you can’t get drugs from the street, you get them from the government. Anyhow, he’ll be ready. Will you?”

Brian picked up his glass, drained it. The rum had been heated by the sun and ran mellow down his throat. “I’ve been ready.”

“Glad to hear it. You don’t intend to take a punch at P.M., do you?”

“Give me a break, Johnno.”

“I’d rather see you smash his nose than spend the next months freezing him out, or working up to killing him in his sleep.”

“I’ve got no problem with P.M.,” Brian said carefully. “It’s his life.”

“And your wife.”

Brian shot Johnno a vicious look, but he managed, barely, to control the ugly words that sprang to mind. “Bev hasn’t been my wife for a long time.”

Johnno glanced over to be certain Emma was still out of earshot. “That line’s all right for anyone else. Not for me, Bri.” He put a hand on Brian’s wrist, squeezed, then released. “I know it’s going to be hard for you. I just want to make sure you’re ready.”

He lifted his glass, remembered it was empty, and set it down again. Despite the breeze off the water, he was finding the heat oppressive. “You can’t go back, Johnno. And you can’t stand still. So you keep going forward whether you’re ready or not.”

“Oh, that was great!” Emma dropped to her knees between her father and Johnno, her hair streaming. “You should come out.”

“In the water?” Johnno said, tilting down his blue-lensed sunglasses. “Emma, luv, there are
things
in the water. Slimy things.”

Laughing, she leaned over to kiss his cheek, then her father’s. She caught the sharp scent of rum and fought to keep her smile in place. “Old people sit on the beach,” she said lightly. “Middle-aged people sit on the beach.”

“Middle-aged?” Brian caught a hank of her hair and tugged. “Just who’re you calling middle-aged?”

“Oh, just people who sit on the beach all morning with umbrellas at their backs.” She grinned. “Why don’t you two sit right here, rest yourselves. I’ll fetch you a cold drink. And I’ll get my camera. I can take pictures so you can look back and remember your nice, restful vacation.”

“She’s got a mouth on her, Bri.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Shall we let her get by with it?”

He glanced at his friend. “Not a chance.”

She squealed when they lunged. She could have been quicker, if she’d wanted to, but put up a good wriggling fight as her father grabbed her legs and Johnno hooked his hands under her arms.

“Into the brink, I’d say.” Johnno tossed back his head so that
his hat landed in the sand. Then keeping pace with Brian raced to the water. Emma held her breath, and took them under with her.

S
HE’D NEVER BEEN
happier in her life. It had all been perfect, completely, wonderfully perfect. Days in the sun, nights listening to Johnno and her father play. Cheating with Johnno at cards. Walks along the beach with her father. She had rolls of film to develop, pockets of memory to store.

So how could she sleep? Emma wondered. It was her last night on Martinique, her last night with her father. Her last night of freedom. Tomorrow she would be on a plane, headed back to school, where there were rules for everything. What time to get up, what time to sleep, what to wear, what to think.

With a sigh, she shook her head. It would be summer soon, she reminded herself. And she would go to London. She would see Stevie and P.M. then as well. She could watch while they recorded.

She’d get through the next few weeks somehow. She had to. It was so important to Da, she thought, that she get her education, that she be safe and well looked after. Well, the nuns did that, she decided. There was hardly a moment in the day when you weren’t looked after.

She could hear the water. Smell it. Going with instinct, she dragged on a pair of shorts. It was late. Even the guards would be asleep. She would go to the beach alone for her last night. Alone. She could sit and watch the water, and no one would watch her.

She hurried out, down the hall of the rented villa, down the stairs. Holding her breath, she slipped out of the tall glass doors and ran.

She gave herself only an hour. When she tiptoed back to the villa, she was soaking wet. It hadn’t been enough to watch the water after all. She came in quietly, with the idea to make a dash to her room. When she heard her father’s voice, she sunk into the shadows.

“Just keep it down, luv. Everyone’s asleep.”

There was a feminine giggle, then a whisper, thickly French. “I’m quiet as a mouse.”

Brian came into the room with a curvy little brunette wrapped around him. She was wearing a hot-pink sarong and
carrying gold high heels. “I’m so glad you came in tonight,
chéri
.” She ran her hands up his sides, then hooking them tightly around his neck, brought his mouth to hers.

Embarrassed and confused, Emma shut her eyes. But she could hear the quick, wet moans.

“Mmm. You’re in a hurry.” The French woman laughed, working her way under Brian’s shirt. “I’ll give you your money’s worth,
chéri
, don’t you worry. But you promised me a party first.”

“Right.” And that would help, he thought. Her hair was dark and sleek, but her eyes were brown instead of green. After a couple of lines it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would. He went to a table and, unlocking a drawer, took out a small white vial. “Party time.”

The brunette clapped her hands. Hips swinging, she walked to the glass coffee table and knelt.

Appalled, Emma watched her father set up the cocaine. Straws, mirrors, the razor blade. His movements were competent, practiced. His head bent close to the brunette’s.

“Ah.” The French woman leaned back, eyes brilliant. She dipped a fingertip into the dust on the mirror then rubbed it over her gums. “Delicious.”

Brian hooked a finger in her sarong, drew her to him. He felt incredible. Young, powerful, invincible. He was hard and ready and full of needs. He bent her back, intending to take her quickly the first time. After all, he’d paid for all night.

“Da.”

His head whipped up. He focused, but it seemed like a dream. His daughter, with shadows at her back, her face pale, her eyes dark and wet, her hair streaming over her shoulders. “Emma?”

“Emma?” The French woman purred the name. “Who is this Emma?” Annoyed that Brian’s attention had shifted, she twisted around. There was speculation, then interest. “So, you like children, too.
ça va
. Come then, pretty one. Join the party.”

“Shut up, goddamn you. She’s my daughter.” He struggled up. “Emma … I thought you were in bed.”

“Yes.” Her voice was flat. “I know.”

“You shouldn’t be down here.” He stepped forward to take her arm. “You’re cold. And wet,” he said, fighting the sharp-edged buzz of the coke. “Where have you been?”

“I went down to the beach.” Avoiding his eyes she tried to turn toward the stairs.

“Alone? You went down to the beach alone? At night?”

“Yes.” She whirled back to him, gritting her teeth at the scent of the French woman’s perfume. “I went down to the beach alone. Now I’m going to bed.”

“You know better.” He took both her arms now, shaking her. “You know you’re not to go anywhere without the guards. For Christ’s sake you’ve been swimming. What if you’d had a cramp?”

“Then I’d have drowned.”

“Come,
chéri
, let the child go to bed.” The brunette prepared another line. “This is a party.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he shouted at her. She only shrugged and snorted. “Don’t you ever do this again,” he demanded, turning back to Emma. “Do you understand?”

“Oh yes. I understand.” She jerked away from him, eyes dark and dry. “I wish to God I didn’t, but I understand.”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

“About my walk on the beach, or about this?” She gestured toward the woman still kneeling at the table.

“This is none of your business.”

“No.” Her lips curved, but her voice was flat and dull. “No, you’re quite right about that. I’ll just go to bed then and leave you with your whore and your drugs.”

He slapped her. His arm swung up before he knew it would. His hand whipped across her face before he could stop it. He saw the mark of it on her cheek, the red flag of violence he so detested. Stunned, he looked down at his own hand … and saw his father’s.

“Emma—”

She stepped back in a quick, jerky motion, shaking her head. Rarely had he ever raised his voice to her, and now, the first time she questioned him, the first time she criticized, he struck her. Turning, she bolted up the stairs.

Johnno let her pass. He stood, halfway down, shirtless, cotton sweatpants low on his hips. His hair was disheveled, his eyes tired. “Let me talk to her,” he said before Brian could rush by. He took a strong grip on his friend’s arm. “She won’t hear you now, Bri. Let me hold her hand for a while.”

He nodded. His palm stung where it had connected with her face. His baby’s face. “Johnno—I’ll make it up to her.”

“Sure.” Johnno squeezed his shoulder, then gestured. “You’d best tidy up your mess down here.”

Her eyes were dry. Emma sat, heedless of her wet clothes, on the edge of her bed. But she didn’t cry. The world, the beautiful world she had built around her father had crumbled. She was lost again.

She bolted up when the door opened, then sank back to the bed when she saw Johnno. “I’m all right,” she told him. “I don’t need anyone to kiss it and make it better.”

“Okay.” He came in nonetheless, and sat beside her. “Want to yell at me awhile?”

“No.”

“That’s a relief. Why don’t you get out of those wet things?” He put his hands over his eyes, then spread his fingers and grinned. “No peeking.”

Because it was something to do, she rose and went to her closet for a robe. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“That your father liked women? Yes. I guess I first suspected it when we were twelve.”

“I’m not joking, Johnno.”

So, she wouldn’t give him an easy way out. “Okay. Listen, Emmy luv, a man’s entitled to sex. It just isn’t something he likes to flaunt in front of his daughter.”

“He paid her. She was a whore.”

“What do you want me to say?” When she stopped in front of him, wearing a white terry-cloth robe, he took her hands. She looked pitifully young now, her hair wet and sleek around her head and shoulders, her eyes dark and disillusioned. “Should I tell you the nuns are right, and it’s a sin? They probably are. But this is real life, Emma, and people sin in real life. Brian was lonely.”

“Then it’s all right to have sex with a stranger if you’re lonely.”