Playing For Keeps (The Alpha Brotherhood #3)(30)
Author: Catherine Mann

Celia hugged a throw pillow. “Why did Elliot end up at the school?” She glanced at Malcolm. “Is that okay to ask?”

“It’s in his public bio, so it’s no secret.” Malcolm sat in the wingback chair beside her—before Rowan could claim the seat—and continued to strum the guitar idly, playing improvised riffs and breathing in the praline-sweet scent of her. “His Wikipedia page states that Elliot was sent to the school for stealing cars. In reality, he took his stepfather’s caddy out for a spin and smashed it into a guardrail.”

The calm seeped from Celia’s face. “Seems like a rather extreme punishment for a joyride.”

Malcolm slowed his song, searching for a way to steer the conversation in another direction so she would smile again.

Troy answered, “Multiple joyrides. Multiple wrecks. His stepfather was beating the crap out of him. He wanted to get caught or die. Either way, he was out of his house.”

Celia leaned forward. “Why wasn’t his stepfather stopped and prosecuted?”

“Connections, a family member on the police force. Lots of warnings, but nothing happened.”

Her lips went tight, and she shook her head. “His mother should have protected him.”

“Damn straight,” Troy agreed. “But I’m sliding off my path here. Let’s get back to more entertaining brotherhood tales, like the time a few of us were stuck staying at school over Christmas break. So we broke into Salvatore’s office, spread dirt on the floor and tossed quick-grow grass seed. He had a lawn when he returned. He knew we did it, but the look on his face was priceless….”

Malcolm started strumming again, adding his own impromptu score to Troy’s tales, but his brain was still stuck on the moment Celia asked why Elliot’s mother hadn’t protected him. Her reaction was so swift, so instinctive he couldn’t avoid the image blaring in his brain. An image of Celia as the mother of his child, fiercely doing everything in her power to protect their baby. He’d been so frustrated—hell, angry—for so long over losing the chance to see his kid that he hadn’t fully appreciated how much she’d been hurt.

And damn it all, that touched him deep in his gut in a way that had nothing to do with sex. Right now, he had less of a clue about what to do with this woman than he had eighteen years ago.

* * *

The next night, after Malcolm’s concert in the Netherlands, Celia put together a late-night snack in their suite. Foraging through the mini-fridge, she found bottles of juice, water and soda, along with four kinds of cheese. She snagged the Gouda and Frisian clove to go with the crackers and grapes on the counter.

Yes, she was full of nervous energy since Malcolm’s friends had all gone home. Now she was finally alone with him. How strange that she’d resented their presence at first and now she felt antsy without the buffer they’d provided. Malcolm’s manager had stood backstage with her at the concert tonight in Amsterdam. But Logan had his own room here on another floor.

Not that Malcolm had pressured her since they’d checked into the posh hotel. In fact, since her panic attack during the Seine River tour, he’d backed off. On the one hand, she’d wanted him to quit tempting her, but on the other it hurt to think he was turned off by her anxiety.

They had a two-bedroom suite with a connecting sitting room. He was showering, the lights having been particularly powerful—and hot—tonight at yet another sold-out show.

As she heard the shower in the next room stop, she arranged the food on a glazed pottery tray to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied with something other than wondering how different the adult, naked Malcolm looked. And what he thought of the “adult” her. She smoothed her hands down her little black dress, lacy, with a scalloped hem that ended just above the knee. Should she rush and change?

She shook off vanity as quickly as she kicked off her heels and loosened her topknot. Lifting the tray with food and a pot of tea, she angled around the bar, past the baby grand piano and into the living area.

Overall the room was brighter, lighter than the other places they’d stayed, the Dutch decor closer to her personal style. On her way past, she dipped her head to sniff the blue floral pitcher full of tulips. She placed the tray on top of the coffee table and curled up on the sofa with her tea. She’d made a pot with lemon and honey to soothe Malcolm’s throat after three straight nights of concerts. He had to be feeling the effects.

The door to his bedroom opened, and her eyes were drawn directly to him. So drawn. Held. He stood barefoot, wearing a pair of jeans and T-shirt that clung to his damp skin. His hair was wet and slicked back. And God, did her hands ache to smooth over those damp strands.

What else did she want?

Silly question. She wanted to sleep with Malcolm again, to experience how it would feel to be with him as a woman. All the tantalizing snippets his friends had shared of his past and present drew her in, seducing her with both the Malcolm he’d been and the Malcolm he’d become. She burned to sleep with him, and she couldn’t come up with one good reason why she shouldn’t.

Would she have the courage to throw caution to the wind and act on what she wanted? “I made us something to eat—as well as tea with lemon and honey to soothe your throat.”

“Thanks, but you don’t have to wait on me,” he answered, his voice more gravelly than usual, punctuating her point about the need for tea. He walked deeper into the room, his hand grazing a miniature wooden windmill, tapping the blades until they spun in a lazy circle.

“Direct orders from your manager,” Celia said. “You’re to have something to eat and drink, protect your health for the tour.”

“What about you? Any more dizzy spells today?” He sliced off a sliver of Gouda. “Here…have some cheese.”

She rested her fingers on his wrist, a small move, just a test run to see how he would react. “I’m good. I promise. Your pal the doctor gave me two thumbs up.”

Malcolm eyes narrowed before he tossed the cheese into his mouth and paced restlessly around the room, past the baby grand piano, a guitar propped against the side. “You two seemed to hit it off.”

Wondering where he was going with the discussion of Rowan, she poured another cup of steaming-hot tea. “What exactly did he invent?”

Malcolm dropped onto the other end of the sofa and reluctantly took the tea. “He devised a new computerized diagnostic model with Troy. They patented it, and they both made a bundle. Essentially, Rowan can afford to retire if he wishes.”