Always On Her Mind: Playing for Keeps / To Tame a Cowboy / All He Ever Wanted

She willed herself to believe it.

“It won’t matter.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then whispered against her skin, “Your eyes are crystal clear. The camera will pick up the truth.”

She couldn’t catch her breath, and her skin flushed where he touched her. Kissed her.

“Do tell, Malcolm. What truth might that be?”

“Darlin’, you want me every bit as much as I want you.” He stretched an arm along the back of the seat, going silent as Troy and Hillary settled in across from them.

Hillary grinned from ear to ear. “Welcome to Paris, the city of love.”

Malcolm stood alone on the hotel balcony overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Celia and the Donavans had already settled into their rooms for the night, turning in now to combat jet lag.

He, however, was too restless to sleep, too caught up in the need to take Celia into his room, his bed. He used to fantasize about bringing Celia to France, taking her to concerts and proposing to her in a place with a view just like this one. Yet another dream that hadn’t panned out the way he’d planned.

The whole flight, he’d found his eyes drawn to her again and again. Taking in the waves of her hair draping along her shoulder, even how she chewed her thumbnail while poring over grades, trying to decide whether or not to give a student an extra point for a better letter grade.

Everything about Celia entranced him. It always had. Even when they were kids on a playground, he’d known she was special, a dynamo with an electric personality that people wanted to be around. Other kids gravitated to her open smile, melodic laugh and her willingness to try anything. Even come to stick up for the new kid in the middle of an embarrassing-as-hell asthma attack.

Yet even then, as she’d helped him fish his inhaler out of his backpack, he’d been aware of their differences. For class parties, her mom brought a clown to set up an ice-cream bar, and his mom made cupcakes in their tiny kitchen. Such a strange thing to remember now, especially when money was no longer an issue.

He felt the weight of eyes on him and turned sharply, then relaxed.

Colonel John Salvatore stood in the open doorway, wearing his standard gray suit and red tie. The colonel worked at Interpol headquarters in Lyon, France, so it shouldn’t be surprising he’d shown up here. Only surprising he’d arrived in the middle of the night.

“Good evening, sir.” Malcolm didn’t bother asking how Salvatore had gotten into his suite. “You could have called, you know. Anything new to report?”

“Nothing new.” The retired headmaster stepped up beside him at the rail. “Just in town for your concert. Thought I would say hello, Mozart.”

Mozart … Back in the day, his classmates had called him by the name of just about every composer out there since he spent so many hours playing classical music. Mostly, he played the classical stuff because it tended to chase off the other students, allowing him some peace in the crowded school.

“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 more flavor to the tone. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, dated in high school.”

Jayne tipped her head to the side. “You’re different from the other women he’s seen.”

She wondered if they referred to the women he’d really dated or the ladies he’d been photographed with for—as he insisted—strictly publicity purposes. Still, she couldn’t resist asking, “Different how?”

“You’re smart,” Jayne answered without hesitation.

Hillary chimed in, “Serious.”

“Not clingy,” Jayne continued.

Hillary added, “Literate.”

They made her sound utterly boring. “Thank you for The … uh …”

“Compliment,” Hillary said. “Totally. Malcolm’s a lot deeper than he likes to let on.”

He was. Or at least, he had been back then. And now? It was tough not to appear too hungry for these nuggets of information about Malcolm’s life since they’d been apart.

Jayne tapped her foot lightly to the music, one of Malcolm’s more upbeat songs. “I met Malcolm just over seven years ago. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never made friends beyond his school buddies. Even his manager went to the military academy with him.”

Hillary held up a finger. “And he’s close to his mother, of course.”

Yeah, she knew that and respected him for it even though Terri Lynn had disapproved of her. Okay, more than disapproved. His mother had hated her. Celia smiled tightly, staying quiet.

Jayne’s blue eyes slit with sympathy. “You must have been important to him.”

“We share a lot of history.” Understatement of the year.

“And we’re nosy. Just ignore us both, and let’s enjoy the concert.”

Grateful to have the spotlight off her for now at least, she turned her attention to the stage, where the focus narrowed to a true spotlight on a lone bar stool with a guitar propped against it.

Malcolm sat, his foot on the lowest rung, and settled the guitar on his knee. “I have a new song to share with you tonight, a simple song straight from the heart….”

The heart? She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she thought of how he’d vowed he didn’t believe the love songs he sang. She watched with a new, more jaded perspective.

With the first stroke of his fingers along the strings, Celia gasped. Her stomach knotted in recognition.

Each strum of the acoustic, unplugged moment confirmed her fears, touched her soul and rattled her to her core. A completely low blow, unfair—and designed to bring her to her knees. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream as he sang the first notes of the song he’d written for her years ago.

He sang “Playing for Keeps.”

Eight

The strains of “Playing for Keeps” echoed in his head even after he’d finished the last encore, reminding him of a time when he’d actually believed that idea. The audience ate up the simple melody and sappy premise.

Exiting stage right, he began to doubt the wisdom of rolling out that old tune to soften up Celia. He couldn’t read her face in the shadowy wings, but he damn well knew his insides were a raw mess. Thank God his Alpha Brotherhood buddies were backstage with her, a wall of protection behind her while a couple of the wives kept her company. So his pals had her back—and his—until he could get himself on level ground.

This whole trip down memory lane was a double-edged sword, but he wouldn’t lose sight of the goal. He and Celia needed to see this through. To settle the past before they could move forward with the future. The applause and cheers swelling behind him meant nothing if he couldn’t find some resolution with Celia.

God, she was gorgeous in a silky sapphire dress with a hint of ruffle teasing her knees. And the plunging neckline—he couldn’t look away, especially as throughout the concert she’d toyed with those tiny strands of pearls twisted together. Her feminine curves had always driven him to his knees and drained him of the ability to think. But holy hell, he could feel.

Turned on and turned inside out.

He wanted to have her naked in his arms again more than he wanted air. More than he wanted another concert or even another assignment. Getting into her bed again had become his mission of the moment. She was, and always had been, the woman he wanted more than any other.

As he drew closer to her, though, he realized he’d made a big, big mistake with the song. Her lips were tight, her eyes sparking with anger and something even worse.

Pain.

Crap. The sight of her distress sucker punched him. He’d meant to tap into her emotions, not hurt her.

Stepping into the backstage shadows, he reached out to her. “Celia—”

She held up both hands, keeping an arm’s distance between them. “Great concert. Fans adored that new love song of yours. Congratulations. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m ready to turn in for the night. Looks like I have plenty of guards, so you’re officially absolved of protective detail.”

With a brittle smile, she pivoted on her heel and walked away, pushing through the crowd double-time.

Hillary Donavan studied him with perceptive eyes before nudging Jayne to join her in racing to catch up with Celia. Bodyguards melted from the backstage melee, encircling the women in an almost-imperceptible bubble of protection.

Malcolm slumped against a pallet of backup amps. How could he win over stadiums full of people yet still be clueless when it came to this one woman?

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he damn near jumped out of his skin. Troy Donavan stood beside him to his left, Conrad Hughes to his right. The international casino magnate was a lot less brooding these days since he’d reconciled with his wife.

Troy thumped Malcolm between the shoulder blades again. “Woman troubles?”

“Always,” Malcolm said simply.

Troy charged alongside. “My advice? Give her space—”

Conrad interrupted, “But not so long that she thinks you’re avoiding her.”

Troy continued, “Enough time to cool down about whatever lame-ass thing you did.”

Fair enough and true enough, except, “I can’t afford to give her space, not with—”

“A stalker.” Troy finished his sentence. “Right. She has guards. We’ll be in the room next to hers playing cards. Meanwhile, smile your way through the reporters and let’s get back to the penthouse.”

An offer his stressed-out brain could not resist.

The limo ride through the night streets of Paris with the Arc de Triomphe glowing in the distance was as awkward as hell. With Celia looking anywhere but at him, the others in the vehicle made small talk to fill the empty air.

Finally—thank God, finally—they reached their historic hotel. The women smiled their way past reporters as they charged up the steps between stone lions. And before Malcolm could say “What the hell?” he found himself staring at Celia’s closed door in the penthouse suite.

He turned back to the spacious living room connecting all the bedrooms. While he tried not to take the wealth for granted, the carved antiques and gilded wood were wasted on him tonight. His longtime buddies were all doing a piss-poor job of covering their grins.

“Gentlemen.” Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his bristled jaw. “There’s no reason for the rest of you to hang out here in the doghouse with me. Granted, it’s a luxurious doghouse. So enjoy your cards and order up whatever you want on my tab. But I’m done for the night.”

Troy straddled a chair at the table in the suite’s dining area. “Like hell. We’re not letting you check out on us any more than you would let us leave. The rest of our party should be arriving right about—”

The private elevator to the penthouse dinged with the arrival of …

The rest of the party? Crap.

The brass doors slid open in the hall to reveal three men, each one an alumni of the North Carolina Prep School. Alpha Brotherhood comrades. And recruits of Salvatore for Interpol.

Malcolm’s concerts gave them the perfect excuse for reunions. First out of the elevator, Elliot Starc, a Formula One driver who’d just been dumped by his fiancée for playing as hard and fast as he drove. Behind him, Dr. Rowan Boothe, the golden-boy saint of the bunch who devoted his life to saving AIDS/HIV orphans in Africa. And lastly, Malcolm’s manager, Adam Logan, aka The Shark, who would do anything to keep his clients booked and in the news.

Shoving away from the window, Malcolm shrugged off his jacket, which still bore the hint of sweat from the concert. “We’re gonna need a bigger table.”

His manager grinned. “Food and drinks are on the way up.” He took his chair at the far side. “There are going to be a lot of brokenhearted fans out there once they realize this thing with Celia isn’t just a new fling.”

There was no escaping his pals, who knew him so well. Better to meet their questions head-on—and bluff. “Logan, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

Conrad shuffled the cards smoothly. “Seriously, brother, you’re going to play it that way?”

The saintly doctor dropped into a seat. “I thought you were over her.”

“Clearly, I’m not,” he said tightly and too damn truthfully. Everywhere he looked in the room, he already saw reminders of her—and it was just a hotel room, for God’s sake.

Elliot poured himself a drink at the fully stocked bar. “Then why the hell did you stay away for eighteen years? It’s all I can do to stay away from Gianna since she gave me my walking papers.”

When had his brothers started ganging up on him? “That’s the way Celia wanted things then. Now our lives are very different. We’ve moved on.”

His manager tapped his temple. “Two musicians who’re obviously attracted to each other. Hmm … still not tracking your logic on being wrong for each other.”

“Breaking up was best for her,” Malcolm answered, irritation chewing his already churning gut. “I wrecked her life once. I owe it to her not to do that again.”

Logan kept right on pressing. “So even though you let her go, you’ve been making billions to show up her old man.”

“Or maybe I enjoy nice toys.”

Troy tipped back in his chair, smoothing a hand down his designer tie. “You’re sure as hell not spending it on clothes.”

“Who appointed you the fashion police?” Malcolm unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. “Start dealing. I’ll be back.”

He strode over to the bulletproof window for a better signal and pulled out his phone to check for messages from Salvatore. He’d seen his old mentor in a private box at the performance, a glamorous woman at his side. But even when he socialized, the colonel was never off the clock. Malcolm’s email filled with data from Salvatore’s intelligence on the principal Celia had been “sort of seeing.” His references, his awards and a dozen other ways he was an all-around great guy.

So why didn’t he have even partial custody of his kids? Strange, especially for a principal. Malcolm typed an answer to Salvatore then shut down his phone.

He turned, finding the saintly doc lounging in the doorway.

“Damn, Rowan,” Malcolm barked, “you could have spoken or something to let me know you were there.”

“You sound a little hoarse there, buddy. Is the concert tour already wearing on your vocal cords? I can check you over if you’re having trouble.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” He clipped his phone to his belt, and still Elliot didn’t move. “Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, there is,” the golden boy pressed, but then he never gave up trying to fix the world. “Why are you tearing yourself up this way by being with her again?”

“You’re the good guy. I would think you’d understand. I let her down once.” Malcolm started toward his bedroom door to ditch his sweaty coat and give himself a chance to regain his footing. “I need to make up for that. I have to see this through.”

“And you’ll just walk away when you figure out who’s after her?” he asked, his sarcasm making it all too clear he didn’t believe it for a second.

“She doesn’t want the kind of life I lead, and no way do I fit into hers now.” The last thing he wanted was to go back to Azalea, Mississippi. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. What she and I had was just puppy love.”

“What happens if someone breaks into her house next month? Or a student lets the air out of her tires? Are you going to come running to her side?”

Rowan’s logic set Malcolm’s teeth on edge.

“Quit being an ass.” He charged past, back into the living room.

His manager leaned back in his chair and called over to him, “Quit being delusional. Either claim the woman or don’t. But time to commit to a course.”

“Damn it, Adam,” Malcolm growled, closing in on the round table. “Do you think you could speak a little softer? I don’t think they heard you over in Russia.”

He looked down the hallway toward Celia’s room. Once he was confident the door wouldn’t open with an angry Celia, he sat as Conrad dealt the cards.

“Claim her?” the casino magnate repeated. “I can almost hear my wife laughing at you if she heard that. Brother, they claim us. Body and soul.”

Elliot grimaced, “You’re sounding like one of those sappy songs of Malcolm’s … ‘Playing for Keeps’? Really, dude? Be straight with us. You wrote that one to get some action.”

Malcolm bit back the urge to haul him out of the chair and punch him the way he’d done when Elliot ran off at the mouth in school. Only the image of Celia’s pained face made him hold back, humbling him with how much he’d screwed up somehow. “Hope you’re going to be happy growing old alone with your race cars and a cat.” He gathered his cards. “Now, are we playing poker or what?”