Catherine Mann - Playing for Keeps

“Was it real, what we felt then?”

A long sigh shuddered through him before he spoke. “Real enough that we went through a lot of pain for each other. Real enough that sitting here together isn’t some easygoing reunion.”

Hearing that heavy sigh of his, she realized he’d suffered, too, more than she’d ever known. Somehow, that made her feel less alone. Yes, they’d hurt each other, but maybe they could help each other, too. Maybe the time had come for a coda of sorts, to bring their song to an end.

“Malcolm, what’s Europe going to be like if just sitting here together is this difficult?”

“So you’ve decided to come with me? No more maybes.”

She shoved to her feet and walked to him at the piano. “I think I have to.”

“Because of the stalker?”

She cupped his handsome, beard-stubbled face in her hands. “Because it’s time we put this to rest.”

Before she could talk herself out of something she wanted—needed—more than air, Celia pressed her lips to his.

USA TODAY bestselling author CATHERINE MANNlives on a sunny Florida beach with her flyboy husband and their four children. With more than forty books in print in over twenty countries, she has also celebrated wins for both a RITA ®Award and a Booksellers’ Best Award. Catherine enjoys chatting with readers online—thanks to the wonders of the internet, which allows her to network with her laptop by the water! Contact Catherine through her website, www.catherinemann.com, find her on Facebook and Twitter (@CatherineMann1) or reach her by snail mail at PO Box 6065, Navarre, FL 32566, USA.

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To the charter members of “The Tree House Club,” karaoke singers extraordinaire:

Johnny, Tom, Elena, Lori, Mike, Vicky, George, Jerry, Linda, Shawn, Chris, and Daphne.

Midway through the junior-high choir’s rehearsal of “It’s a Small World,” Celia Patel found out just how small the world could shrink.

She dodged left and right as half the singers—the female half—sprinted down the stands, squealing in fan-girl glee. Their footsteps rattled metal risers and squeaked on the gymnasium floor, the stampeding herd moving as one. All their energy focused on racing to the back of the gymnasium where he stood.

Malcolm Douglas.

Seven-time Grammy award winner.

Platinum-selling soft-rock star.

And the man who’d broken Celia’s heart when they were both sixteen years old.

Celia hefted aside her music stand before the last of the middle-school girls rushed by, oblivious to her attempts to stop them. Identical twins Valentina and Valeria nearly plowed her down in their dash to the back. Already, a couple dozen students circled him. Two bodyguards shuffled their feet uncertainly while more squeals and giggles ricocheted into the rafters.

Malcolm raised a stalling hand to the ominous bodyguards while keeping his eyes locked on Celia, smiling that million-watt grin that had graced CD covers and promo shots. Tall and honed, he still had a hometown-boy-handsome appeal that hadn’t dimmed. He’d merely matured—now polished with confidence and about twenty more pounds of whipcord muscle.

Success and chart-topping wealth probably didn’t hurt.

She wanted him gone. For her sanity’s sake, she needed him gone. But now that he was here, she couldn’t look away.

He wore his khakis and designer loafers—sockless—with the easy confidence of a man comfortable in his skin. Sleeves rolled up on his chambray shirt exposed strong, tanned forearms and musician’s hands.

Best not to think about his talented, nimble hands.

His sandy-brown hair was as thick as she remembered. It was still a little long, skimming over his forehead in a way that once called to her fingers to stroke it back. And those blue eyes—heaven help her—she recalled well how indigo-dark they went just before he kissed her with the enthusiasm and ardor of a hormone-pumped teenager.

There was no denying he was all man now.

What in the hell was he doing here? Malcolm hadn’t set foot in Azalea, Mississippi, since a judge crony of her father’s had offered Malcolm the choice of juvie or military reform school nearly eighteen years ago. Since he’d left her behind—scared, pregnant and determined to salvage her life.

Even though he showed up regularly in the tabloids, seeing him in person after all these years was different. Not that she’d gone searching for photos of him. But given his popularity, she couldn’t help but be periodically blindsided by glimpses of him. Worst of all, though, was hearing the sound of his voice crooning over the radio as she changed the station.

Now, across the room, he pressed a paper against his knee to sign an autograph for Valentina—or Valeria. No one could tell them apart, not even their mother sometimes. Totally beside the point, because watching Malcolm with the young girl twisted Celia’s heart with what could have been if somehow, against the odds and all better judgment, they’d been able to keep and raise their baby.

But they weren’t sixteen anymore, and she’d put aside reckless dreams the day she’d handed her newborn daughter over to a couple who could give the precious child everything Celia and Malcolm couldn’t.

She threw back her shoulders and started toward the cluster across the gym, determined to get through this surprise visit with her pride in place. At least the nine boys in the choir were sitting on the risers, making the most of the chance to play with video games banned during class. She let that slide for now and zeroed in on the mini-mob collected by a rolling cart full of basketballs just under a red exit sign.

“Class, we need to give Mr. Douglas some breathing room.” She closed in on the circle of girls, resisting the urge to smooth her hands down her sunshine-yellow sundress. She gently tapped Sarah Lynn Thompson’s wrist. “And no pulling hair to sell online, girls.”

Sarah Lynn dropped her hand to her side, a guilty flush spreading up her face.

Malcolm passed back the last of the autographs and tucked the pen in his shirt pocket. “I’m fine, Celia, but thanks for making sure I don’t go prematurely bald.”

“Celia? Celia? ” asked Valeria. Or was it Valentina? “Miss Patel, you know him? Oh, my God! How? Why didn’t you tell us?”

She didn’t intend to delve too deeply into those murky waters. “We went to high school together.” His name was etched on the sign that proclaimed “Welcome to Azalea, Home of Malcolm Douglas” as if the town hadn’t once tried to send him to jail because of her. “Now, let’s get back to the risers, and I’m sure Mr. Douglas will answer your questions in an orderly fashion since he disrupted our rehearsal.”