Custo took a look around. Mismatched pieces of leather furniture were grouped in a small sitting area in front of an inset gas fireplace. The bedroom was visible through another door. Colorful art, mostly impressionistic renderings of jazz clubs and artists, brightened up the walls. The far side of the room had a brag wall, where Jack had hung black-and-white photographs of himself with music legends. None of the pieces really went together. No decorators. Stuff Jack saw, he bought. And his taste was usually expensive.
Custo threw his tux jacket over the back of the sofa and got rid of the damn cummerbund around his waist. “Club’s the same way it was when Jack bought it. He’s a little superstitious and doesn’t want to mess with his luck—which has been very good since he took over the place. Dive or not, he has no problem bringing people in to hear music.”
“He likes you,” she said, peering into one of the photographs. Her skin glowed against the deep dip of blue, her spine curving deliciously toward her ass as she leaned forward.
“What’s not to like?” Custo loosened his bow tie, and then left it hanging under his collar so it wouldn’t get lost.
Annabella laughed. Not twenty minutes ago she was all nerves, now she didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Custo didn’t understand. The wolf was still a problem. Could be here, in the apartment, right now. What was up with her?
The floor pulsed suddenly with the start of the next song, the rhythm driven by bass and drums.
She turned back around. The dress clung to the curves of her waist and hips before settling. “What were you playing?”
“Civil rights tune called ‘Alabama.’” The guitar felt so right, the song coming out exactly the same as he heard it in his head. He hated himself, but he had to ask, “Did you like it?”
Annabella’s eyes filled with feeling. “I loved it.”
The expression on her face made him take a step back, denying what he saw there, hating her choice of words.
A brow lifted. “Custo?”
He shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Her lips curved into a smile, so she had to know what he meant.
“Like that.” He undid the top button on his shirt so he could breathe better, but still couldn’t draw one good lungful of air.
“Whatever you want.” But the happiness didn’t fade. She brought her hands up to her coil of hair, and the mass tumbled down into curls on her shoulders. Again that smug satisfaction.
He wanted to kiss it off her face. Wipe away the knowledge in her smile.
She knew.
It had to have been the music that changed her. He’d gone too far, revealed too much. But that was the way with music; it demanded everything. No holding back. Denying what he’d played now was like trying to stop something that had already happened. Futile, wasted effort. And a lie.
He couldn’t lie to her again. Wouldn’t.
Fine, then. She knew. He loved her. He’d loved her since he first saw her dance in the Shadowlands.
It wasn’t as if pride had held him back from telling her, or the stupid macho shtick played up on TV and in the movies. He didn’t have the time or patience for any of that shit.
She had to understand.
He said, “I. Ruin. Everything.”
The smile faltered, a dark glimmer of sadness far away in her eyes.
So she did understand. No matter how he felt, he was no good for her. He could play well and fight better, but that was about it. He was a thieving, murderous opportunist. Not too long ago he’d taken all he could get from her, and he would again tonight.
He dropped his gaze to get rid of Adam’s cuff links. Everything borrowed, nothing his. Never his. He threw them on an end table, rolled his cuffs, and forced himself to look up again.
Her gaze was waiting.
“You’ll have to tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. She was smart; by now she had to have guessed that he’d quit trespassing in her head.
She pinned him with dangerous intent. “Fine then. You ruin everything? Ruin me.”
Heat and shock burned away his bitterness. If ever there were an invitation…
“You told me this evening, who knows what will happen tomorrow,” she said.
He hated when people quoted him.
“For some reason, the wolf has left us alone tonight. I don’t know why. Maybe you hurt him badly, or maybe he’s plotting something more horrible than we can imagine.”
Custo could guess where she was going with this. He should have kept his distance, kept his hands off her. There was no white picket fence in their future. Ever.
“I think we should dispense with any and all crap and tell the truth for once,” she continued. “That way, neither of us needs to read minds.”
No house in the burbs. No happily-ever-after. But some offers were just too good to turn down. He pulled his shirt-tails out of his pants and started removing the studs in his shirt.
“Now,” she said, her voice wavering after her speech. “I think you should start.”
Little coward. Custo caught himself from smiling. She wanted truth; she was going to get it.
“I hate your dress.” There.
Her faced flushed, hands going to her flat, little waist. “Well, I—”
Custo flicked the last stud away as he strode over to her. Her scent, sweet and subtly flowery, filled him. He circled to her back and stroked a knuckle down the exposed skin. “It’s been bothering me all night. It really should come off.”
He lifted his hands to her shoulders and brushed away the straps. The blue fabric slid down her body and puddled on the floor. “Much better.”
She turned her head to the side. “I saved for three months to buy that dress.”
“This is much better, trust me.” He skated over her waist to her flat belly to pull her back against his open shirt, skin to skin, then stopped at her breasts. He’d been certain a second ago that she was braless. He turned her to investigate.
Sure enough, a nude bra of sorts covered her breasts. Having no straps, the molded cups were held up by magic. He hated it, too.
“It’s a stick-on,” she explained, a shy version of her smile tugging at her mouth. She stepped out of her gown, stooped to pick it up, then laid it on a wing-back chair. He didn’t stop her so he could watch her move in her high heels with her endless legs in thigh-high stockings and her itty-bitty G-string.
But his attention came back to the bra. “You’re telling me that you have a sticker for a bra?”
Innovative. Brilliant. Somebody must be making millions.
Annabella laughed now. “A self-adhesive, yes. So my bra wouldn’t show with my dress. You can’t just yank it off either.”
She began to apply herself to the task of slowly peeling the silicone from her skin.
“No, no,” he said. “Let me. I thought I had mastered all women’s underwear, but I seem to have missed this one. As always, Bella, you challenge me.”
Her hands dropped to accommodate him, her weight shifting to sit in her delectable hip to let him know how exasperating he was being and how patient she was in return.
“Now let me know if this hurts, and I will kiss it all better.” He tugged a little at the cup, gently, and kissed the bare spot anyway. The skin beneath was warm, dewy, and pinked. Salty. Her fingers threaded into his hair to keep him close.
Her touch had electricity charging his blood, beating in time with the pulse of the music below. Heat pooled in his groin, pulsing and insistent. The task required a tenderness that he didn’t have. Never had. He wanted the thing off. He wanted her pinned beneath him. Pierced by him. So she would know, for certain, that no matter what happened tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, he was hers and she was his, and that’s the way it was going to be forever.