She glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to lie, just tell me to mind my own damn business.”
“You know, Devin, civility has a social purpose. It stops people from killing each other.”
He grinned. “I like to live dangerously.”
“That’s fine,” she said seriously, “as long as you don’t hurt bystanders.”
All alcoholics left casualties in their wake. Devin had to work to keep his tone flippant as he replied, “You say don’t a lot, you know that? You’ll make a great mother.”
She said nothing. Glancing over, he saw a bleakness in her expression that shocked him. He knew that level of despair intimately. Instinctively, he laid a hand over hers. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” Sliding her hand free, Rachel gave him a small smile. “I’d have thought it would be easier studying business at an American university, considering most of your tax is paid there.”
He picked up his glass and took a sip of water before answering. “My royalties come in from a dozen countries and I’ve got more money in tax havens than I have in the States.”
“Don’t tell me then,” she said.
He laughed. “Touché. You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.”
When she dropped her guard—for about one millisecond—her smile was breathtaking. “Were you aware you have over four million Internet pages devoted to you?”
Devin leaned back in his chair. “If you’ve done your research there’s no point trying to impress you.”
“You could tell me your bio was grossly exaggerated,” she said lightly.
He could have played that card. It surprised him that momentarily he wanted to. “It’s not.”
If there were excuses, he wouldn’t make them. At sixteen he’d jumped on a roller coaster that had given him one hell of a ride for seventeen years. And if the gatekeeper had said, “Son, you’ll be famous, songs you help write will be an anthem for your generation, but it will cost you. You’ll all but destroy your body and soul, you’ll lose your identity, and when it’s over you’ll lie awake at night wondering if you’ll ever get it back,” Devin would still have bought a ticket.
They finished their bread in silence.
RACHEL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to think. The idea of Mark hanging around someone who could so coolly acknowledge such an appalling past made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
But she wanted to be impartial—or at least as impartial as she could be with her son’s welfare at stake. Heck, who was she kidding? She was a wreck over this. Fine, then. She’d factor in her emotional bias when weighing the evidence. Because it was important to her to be fair. God knows she’d had enough people judging her as a teenager not to jump to conclusions about someone else.
And while Devin was arrogant beyond belief, brutally honest to the point of rudeness and far too confident in his own sex appeal—flashing a charmer’s grin to the waitress delivering their meals—he also had an appealing self-awareness.
He took another sip from his water glass and Rachel wondered if she was being lenient simply because he’d given up alcohol. Having been raised by a drinker, she found it was a very, very big deal to her. Surely that meant some sort of rehabilitation had taken place?
But did it extend to drugs … groupies? She didn’t want Mark to be exposed to those, either, or any of the character traits she associated with rock stars—excess, selfishness, immaturity. She needed more information.
As she picked up her knife and fork, she asked casually, “Why study here … New Zealand, I mean?”
“When you’re running away, the end of the earth is a good place to go.” He glanced up from his steak. “I’m sure you read about my meltdown and the band’s collapse on the Internet.”
“Yes,” she admitted. But in his business, “taken to hospital suffering from extreme exhaustion” was all too often a euphemism for drug overdose or alcohol poisoning. As she ate her fish, her gaze dropped to his fingers, long, lean and powerful—musician’s hands. “Do you miss any of it?”
“I don’t need the temptations of the music industry right now.”
That sounded promising, but his clipped tone told her that she should change the subject. Reluctantly, Rachel backed off. “So, is your brother still in L.A.?”
“Yeah, Zander’s re-formed the band, with a new lineup.”
Devin’s curt tone hadn’t changed, but she was too surprised to notice. “Can he do that?”
He shrugged, putting down his fork. “He owns the name, and as the lead singer, he’s got the highest profile. For a lot of fans that will be enough.”
As Devin spoke he folded his arms so the dragon tattoo on his hand curved protectively over one muscled biceps. It struck her that he was suffering.
“But not all of them,” she said gently.
Devin looked at her sharply. “Did that sound maudlin? It wasn’t meant to. It was my fault as much as anyone’s that the band fell apart.” His mouth twisted. “Collapsing on stage disqualifies me from lectures on professional dignity. If Zander wants to try and wring a few more dollars out of the Rage brand, let him…. Shit, I am still bitter, aren’t I?”
There it was again, the self-awareness that made him likable.
“Speaking of bitter,” he added, “how’s Paulie?”
It was her turn to squirm. “Back in Germany.”
“You let him lay a guilt trip on you, didn’t you?” Devin picked up his fork again and stabbed a potato croquette. “I just bet he made the most of it.” His gaze trailed lazily over her face. “You’re too nice, Rachel. If you ever want tips on how to behave badly, come to the master.”
She frowned. “What exactly do you teach your disciples?”
His gaze settled on her mouth. “That depends,” he said, “on how bad they want to get.” Green eyes lifted to meet hers and a jolt of sexual awareness arced between them, catching Rachel completely by surprise.
WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ABOUT?
Devin washed his hands in the restaurant’s washroom, taking his time. He’d made the comment to wind her up, and yet when she’d looked at him he’d been tempted to lean forward to taste that kiss-me mouth. Yeah, and get lacerated by that sharp tongue of hers. And he couldn’t even attribute his crazy response to the demon drink. Devin smiled. Still, it had been mutual—the attraction and the immediate recoil.
“I’m glad someone is enjoying their evening,” said a weather-beaten old man at the next basin.
“It’s taken an interesting turn.” Reaching for a hand towel, he glanced at the old guy in the mirror. He looked like Santa Claus in a polyester suit—big-bellied, grizzled white eyebrows. Only the beard and smile were missing. “Your date not going well?”
Santa grunted. “I booked our dinner weeks ago and we’ve got a makeshift table by the bloody kitchen.” The old man lathered up his hands, big knuckled and speckled with age spots. “Figure they stuffed up the booking but the snooty-nosed beggars won’t admit it.”
Devin experienced a pang that could have been conscience; he hadn’t had one long enough to tell. Tossing the used hand towel into the hamper, he said casually, “Big occasion?”
“Fortieth wedding anniversary. Drove up from Matamata for the weekend.” With arthritic slowness, the old man finished rinsing, turned