“I appreciate the extra security, Salvatore. I mean that. I’ll rest a lot easier knowing Celia’s safe until the authorities can sort out the mess back home.”
The colonel loosened his tie and tucked it into his pocket. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
With the simple discarding of his tie, Salvatore went from distant boss to caring mentor.
Malcolm shook his head, his eyes locked on the Eiffel Tower glowing in the night. “Hell, no, but I can’t back away.”
“Do you have some kind of vendetta against her?”
“What?” Malcolm looked back sharply, surprised the man even had to ask. “I would hope you know me better than that.”
“I know how troubled you were when you showed up at the school.”
“We all were.” Angry. Defiant. Wanting to have a normal high-school experience but knowing damn well it was too late to go back.
“You tried to run away three times.”
“I didn’t want to be locked up,” he said, dodging the real reason for why he’d risked everything, even jeopardizing the peace he’d brought his mother.
“You risked jail time leaving.” Salvatore leaned his elbows on the railing, the ground seven floors below. Sparse traffic drove by, late-night partiers stepping into the hotel next door.
“But you never reported me.” Malcolm still didn’t know why, any more than he could figure out why they were discussing this now.
“Because I knew you were one of the few kids sent to that school who were actually innocent.”
Malcolm straightened in surprise. He’d never once proclaimed his innocence, and everyone had assumed he was guilty. Everyone except Celia, but even she had pulled away from him in the end. Not that he could blame her. Still, hearing the colonel’s unconditional confidence … It meant a lot, then and now. “How can you be so sure?”
“I’d seen enough users and dealers come through that school to recognize one when he crossed my path. You weren’t involved in drugs in any way, shape or form,” he said with unmistakable certainty in his voice. “Besides, if you had a drug problem, this lifestyle would have wrecked you long ago.” As if to lend weight to his words, drunken laughter drifted up from the street.
“So you believe in me because of your proof.”
“The facts merely reinforced my gut. I also know that a man will do anything for his child. I understand. I would die for my kid,” he said, offering a rare glimpse into himself. “I figured you took that job at the bar hoping to make enough money to support Celia and your child. You didn’t want her to give up the baby, and I’m guessing you wanted to keep the child because your father abandoned you.”
“Damn, Colonel.” Malcolm stepped back, looking for an escape from the truth. “I thought your doctorate was in history, not psychology.”
He’d relived enough of the past since seeing Celia again. He wasn’t prepared for this kind of walk down memory lane, especially when the trip was a rough ride that always left him raw.
“Doesn’t take a shrink to know you’re protective of your mother, and you have reason to resent your biological father. So? Do you have a vendetta to fulfill? Some revenge plan in having Celia close to you?”
“No—hell, no.” Malcolm denied it and meant it. The last thing he wanted was to see Celia hurt. “Celia and I are both adults now. And as for our kid, she’s almost an adult, as well. So there’s no going back. The notion of a redo or revenge is moot.”
“Nothing’s ever moot. Remember that.”
He’d had enough of these pointless jabs at old wounds. “Why don’t we talk about your kid, then? Don’t you have a ball game to go to or something?”
“Fine.” Salvatore held up his hands. “I’ll just spell it out for you. It’s all well and good that you want to protect Celia. But you need to accept your feelings for that woman aren’t moot if you’re ever going to move forward with your life.”
And with that parting shot, Salvatore disappeared as silently as he’d appeared, leaving Malcolm alone on the balcony. God, he needed to go inside and sleep, charge up for the performance, protect his voice from the night air.
Instead, he kept right on staring at the Eiffel Tower, battling a bellyful of regrets. Given what Salvatore had said, it didn’t sound as if he had much chance of ever putting the past to rest. Try as he might to move on, he still carried a whole lot of guilt about what had happened. More than that, he still had feelings for Celia. Feelings that weren’t going to go away just because he tried to ignore them.
In which case, maybe ignoring them was a piss-poor idea. He wasn’t getting anywhere like this. So why the hell was he denying himself what he wanted most right now? There was nothing stopping him from persuading Celia to let him back into her bed.
And the concert tomorrow would be the perfect place to begin.
Toying with the twisted seed-pearl necklace, Celia stood backstage at the concert with Hillary as Malcolm gripped the mic, walking along the edge of the stage and serenading the swarms of females reaching up. Their screams combatted with the sound system pumping out his voice and the band. She’d spent a large portion of her life performing, so the lights, the parade of backup instruments and techies didn’t faze her. Still, she couldn’t help but be awed by the intensity of it all, the energy radiating off the thousands of people who’d come to hear Malcolm Douglas.
He’d been emphatic about her staying backstage. He didn’t trust her safety out in the audience, even sitting in one of the exclusive boxes. So she watched from the sidelines, enjoying the sight of him in profile. He wore a black suit and shirt without a tie, his songs a mix of current soft-rock tunes and retro remixes of old classics.
And oh, God, his voice was stirring her every bit as much as his kiss at the airport.
At least she had Hillary to keep her company, along with another friend of theirs, Jayne Hughes. Jayne was apparently married to another reform-school buddy of Malcolm’s. They’d all come out in force with their husbands to see him perform—and keep watch over her. Malcolm’s friends and their wives were rock-solid loyal, no question.
While Hillary was fresh-faced, freckled and approachable in her jeans and sequined tank top, Jayne was so darn elegant and poised in her simple sheath dress that Celia resisted the urge to check her makeup. She smoothed her damp hands down the loose, silky dress she’d chosen from the racks of clothes Malcolm had ordered sent to her room. He’d been gone all day for sound checks.
The chic, blonde Jayne leaned toward her. “It’s a little overwhelming.”
Hillary arched up onto her toes for a better view. “And incredible.”
Jayne continued, “And overwhelming.”
Celia reevaluated her image of Jayne Hughes as a cool socialite as she realized the woman genuinely was worried for her. “You can go ahead and ask.”
“Ask what?” Jayne answered.
“Why I’m here. Why I’m with Malcolm.” She glanced at him onstage as he took his place behind a grand piano. So many times she’d sat beside him to play in tandem, or accompanied him on the guitar. Their shared appreciation of music had added layers to their relationship back then. “Or maybe you already know the story.”
“Only that you and Malcolm grew up in the same town, and you’ve come here to get away from a stalker at home.” Jayne smoothed her already perfectly immaculate hair, shoulder-length and bluntly cut. She looked every bit the casino magnate’s wife, adored and pampered. Loved.
Celia shifted her attention back to the stage. Malcolm’s smooth baritone washed over her, so familiar even with the richness of maturity adding