Karina Bliss - What the Librarian Did

“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 off the tap and dried his hands. “We’re dairy farmers, so this time of the year’s a bit of a stretch for us, but the old sparrow wanted a fuss. Might as well have stayed home if we were going to eat in the bloody kitchen.” He grimaced. “Sorry, mate, not your problem. Have a good night, eh?”

Devin resisted until the old man reached the door. “Wait!” Damn Rachel. “Let’s swap tables. It’s not a big night for us.”

“No, couldn’t put you out.”

Devin said grimly, “Happy to do it.”

“Why should you have to put up with clanging pots and swinging doors?” The old man’s face brightened. “Tell you what, we’ll join you.”

“JUST CALLING TO SEE how the date’s going with the rock star?”

Shifting her cell phone to the other ear, Rachel glanced in the direction of the men’s room. “I told you, Trix, it’s not a date. It’s-” an interrogation that’s taken a disturbing turn “-just dinner.”

“Rach, the guy’s been in seclusion for months. It’s a real coup…ohmygod!” Rachel held the phone away as her assistant’s voice rose to a non-Goth squeal. “You should be selling your story to the tabloids! I’ll be your agent.”

Rachel speared a green bean. “Here’s your headline-I Had the Fish, He Had the Steak.”

“Obviously you’ll need to have sex with him to make any real money.” The bean went down the wrong way and Rachel burst into a fit of coughing. Trixie read that as encouragement. “You can’t deny there are plenty of women who’ve got famous through sleeping with a celebrity,” she argued. “You could even get a place on a reality TV show…you know, celebs surviving in the Outback.”

Rachel dabbed her streaming eyes with a napkin. “Tempting as the prospect is,” she croaked, “I think I’ll pass.”

“You’ll never get famous as a librarian,” Trixie warned her.

“Oh, I don’t know. Melvil Dewey invented the Dewey Decimal System over one hundred and thirty years ago and everybody knows his name.”

At least Trixie’s nonsense was steadying Rachel’s nerves. So she’d been momentarily sideswiped by the guy’s sex appeal. She was female and he was prime grade male.

“For God’s sake, don’t tell him one of your hobbies is finding wacky facts on Wiki.” Trixie sounded genuinely horrified. “You’ll lose whatever credibility we have.”

Rachel laughed. “Goodbye.”

“Who was that?” Devin asked from behind her, and she jumped, her nervousness returning. Not for a minute did she believe he was seriously attracted to her, but she had an uneasy feeling he’d try anything-or anyone-once.

“Trixie, my assistant. She-” told me to sleep with you “-had a work query.”

Devin took his seat and signaled for their waitress. “There’ll be another two people joining us.” He filled Rachel in. “And this is all your fault.”

But she was impressed by his gesture-finally, signs of a conscience. And secretly relieved they wouldn’t be alone.

She was starting to have doubts about her ability to manage him.

The Kincaids-Kev and Beryl-arrived. Only halfway through the introductions did Rachel realize the downside of Devin’s generosity. She’d lost her opportunity to grill him further about his ethics.

“So, Devin, you’re a Yank,” said Beryl as they’d settled at the table. Plump and pretty, she was like a late harvest apple, softly wrinkled and very sweet.

Rachel tried to remember if Yank was an acceptable term to Americans.

“Actually, Beryl,” Devin said politely, “I was born here, but moved to the States when I was two. My dad was an American, my mother’s a Kiwi.”

Beryl looked from Devin to Rachel. “And now you’re repeating history. How romantic.”

“We’re not-” Rachel began.

“She’s my little ray of Kiwi sunshine,” Devin interrupted.

Rachel said dryly, “And he’s the rain on my Fourth of July parade.”

Devin chuckled. Beryl murmured, “Lovely.”