Hurts So Good (3 page)

"Any more questions?" He rolled the cigarette between well-manicured fingers.

"When do I start?"

"Be here tomorrow at five. Sharp. Even good sports get their lunch eaten by me when they're late. And I do prefer to dig in rather than mind my manners."

"Yes, Mr. Grey," she said, avoiding the use of his first name, "I can imagine that you do." She was rewarded with his perplexed frown, and then his equally perplexing bark of laughter.

"You're a tough little number, ain't you,
chere
? Guess I'd better nibble carefully on you. Be smart and skedaddle before I decide to take back the job and offer you the privilege of sleeping with a stranger who, ah"—he flicked his ashes onto the worn carpet and grinned wolfishly—"oh yes, has an ego to match his outrageous presumptions."

Andrea took the hint, as well as the job, and hurriedly left the office. As she rested her head against the door, she heard the distinct sound of a dart sinking into wood.

She left with more than a job and bright prospects ahead. She left with the knowledge that Neil Grey, despite his success and stranger than strange quirks, was not a happy man.

Chapter 2

By 3:00 a.m. the following morning, Andrea braced herself for the possibility that her employer was going to be not only unhappy, but furious. The bartender who was to train her had called in sick.

With the last chair turned up, the hardwood floor swept clean, and every waitress gone, Andrea surveyed the aftermath of a nightmare. Glasses were scattered from one end to the other of the long mahogany bar. Ashtrays brimmed with crushed-out butts. Behind her, bottles were in disarray: scotch, beer, wine, vodka, and liqueurs she'd never even heard of before they'd been ordered. On the floor lay puddles of spilled drinks.

"Buy you a drink?" asked Lou, the pianist and last musician to leave. "Looks like you could use one, chile."

"Thanks, Lou, but if I never see another highball again, it'll be too soon." She summoned a weary smile as he leaned against the bar. His chocolate eyes crinkling at the corners, he smiled with the innate kindness she'd sensed in him when he'd welcomed her aboard. She could use some kindness. Her back hurt. Her feet hurt. Even her skin hurt.

But what hurt most was feeling like a failure.

"Now, chile, don't you fret, 'cause Big Daddy's here to help. I'll get dis, you get dat, an' 'fore you know it, we'll have the place shinier than a new penny."

Andrea suppressed the urge to throw her arms around his neck in thanks. She'd never had a daddy, much less a Big Daddy who was as cuddly as her frayed teddy bear with the stuffings long hugged out of it.

"Lou, you're a sweetheart to offer, but I've got it under control."
Yeah, right, just like that time your Ivy League
scholarship got revoked. "I just hope Mr. Grey doesn't decide to fire me." She darted a furtive glance at the empty stage. "Is he gone?"

"Slick? Hell no, he ain't gone—this here's where he lives. And he ain't about to fire you, I guarantee it."

"You're sure?" she asked, taking hope.

"He ain't no Goody Two-shoes but—"

"Thought you'd flown the coup, Lou. You're not drinking up my profits are... you?"

Neil's eyes squinted as he took in the state of the bar. His surroundings had been no more than a blur while he'd been onstage. His energy had been concentrated on performing—and ignoring the redhead who he'd hoped would be gone by the time he left the office. Since the interview she'd been stuck on his brain like a needle grooved into a record.

He was beat and disgusted after tallying up the night's take and splitting the profits. Christine had another check on its way to L.A.

And a whole new set of dart holes right between the eyes.

"Must've been a real animal party I missed. Looks like a frat-house keg orgy minus the stripped-off togas."

"Mr. Grey, please, I can explain—"

"Aw, quit your stewin', Neil. Give the poor chile a break. Cain't you see—"

"What I see, Lou, is that it's time you headed home to Liza. Catch you on the flip side?"

As Neil closed the distance, he saw Lou pat Andrea's pale hands and whisper something before turning and sending him a distinct, silent message. Big Daddy was the best piano player around, and if the young upstart didn't give the little gal a break. Nimble Fingers was taking a powder.

As the two men slapped palms, Lou muttered, "Watch yo' mouth and mind yo' manners. Ain't all women bad. Cut her some slack, Slick."

"You giving me a choice?"

"Sho' I am. Be nice or be sorry. You got an ax to grind fo' sho', but it's wearin' thin on them who don't deserve it. Behave."

Neil grimaced as he locked up behind Big Daddy. The only real daddy he'd ever had, the man who took him off the streets. Mentor and friend, the old giant seldom made demands, but when he did, Neil always gave in.

"Rough night?" he asked as he strode behind the bar—and promptly stepped on a cherry. Looking down, he saw the spilled liquor and shuddered. What he was seeing was a waste of food and money, and that was a sin he couldn't abide.

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Grey." The wide eyes pleading for his understanding and the mussed hair that looked as though a thousand fingers had raked it overrode the memory of his childhood poverty. He put his anger on hold. "I know it's a mess, but I did my best. You can dock my salary for however much you lost tonight."

He couldn't help but respect the woman for making such an offer. Life had made him mean, but he prided himself on being fair.

"Don't sweat it. The fill-in I called didn't show?"

"Take a look and guess."

He did look. At her. Even frazzled, she had a certain spark he could have related to ten years and a lifetime ago.

"Give me my week, and I promise to make this up to you."

Neil studied her determined, fervent expression and saw himself begging for a gig. She reminded him of himself when he'd been a kid, with dreams and ambitions and enough stupidity to believe in great beginnings and happy endings. Just looking at her made him feel wasted and angry for it. And jealous for some of what she had that he'd lost along the way.

"I won't leave until it's clean," she rushed on in the taut silence. "The register's already been emptied, so there's no reason for you to stay. I'll lock up when I'm through."

She reached for an overfilled ashtray, and he knocked it away. Her breath audibly caught, and she took a step back. Her eyes—Lord were they gorgeous—darted uneasily to his. So, he made her nervous. Dandy. He supposed that made them somewhat even.

"Aw, no no,
chere
," he said, his voice as smooth as the worn leather flask he pulled from his back pocket. "What kind of man do you take me for? I wouldn't dream of leaving you all alone. Lots of dangerous sorts roaming around this time of night, and you such a sweet thing. I insist on offering my protective presence, seeing that I'm not only generous but a gentleman."

He saw her swallow, but when she spoke, her words were steady. "I can take care of myself, thank you, Mr. Grey. If you'll excuse me, I have enough work to last me until daybreak. No need to worry about the 'dangerous sorts' on my behalf. See you tomorrow at five? Sharp."

Seemed that she could take care of herself, he thought, admiring her nerve and wishing he didn't.

"Trying to get rid of me? I'm hurt." The small snort she made told him she doubted he was capable of that emotion under any circumstances. Strangely enough, he was a bit stung. First honest-to-God twinge of personal injury he'd felt in a long, long time. "You don't think I can hurt, do you?"

"Can you?"

Neil frowned and uncapped the flask. There had been a sudden eagerness in her question that smacked of a newshound sniffing his tracks. Those story-mongers couldn't get it through their shifty heads that Neil Grey was old news. Sure the new and diehard fans paid their respects, along with the big-draw hotshots who needed his compositions to stay that way. But his recording career was
dead.
A
fact that only seemed to fuel the public's fascination, as if he were an artist who'd died in his prime while his mystique lived on.

Tilting the flask to his lips, he paused. As many times as he'd been burned by the press, he wasn't taking chances. He'd make nice with Andrea, maybe tantalize her a tad, and find out in his own way whether she was up to no good.

"Make you a deal, I'll tell you. For a price."

She suspiciously eyed the flask that he'd extended.

"Name your price, and I'll decide if knowing's worth it."

"Best deal you ever cut,
chere.
I want four things from you. One: Join me for a drink. Two: Quit calling me Mr. Grey. Three: Tell me what brought you to the Big Easy when that accent of yours pegs you as a damn Yankee. And four: I could go for a good-morning kiss, and I'm willing to work hard to earn it. What do you say we pitch in together to clean up this hellacious mess, and then I'll see you home safe? Then, after that kiss, I'll answer your question. Deal?"

Andrea wondered if she'd actually heard right.

She'd braced herself for a request to join him for another dart game. Or a threesome—him, her, and his sax, since his ex-wife had told reporters she'd caught him sleeping with it once.

In fact, Andrea had anticipated anything but his offer of help, good-humored camaraderie, and concern for her safety. Those were rare commodities in her life that she'd long quit expecting to find. And she most certainly hadn't expected them from the man who'd been called schizophrenic by the tabloids.

Nostalgia stirred, and bad as it was for the super scoop she wanted, she hoped that she, and his many detractors, had misjudged him.

"The first three are fine... Neil. But that last one—"

"Aw, c'mon, Andrea. Be a good sport. Let me help clean up. And it would surely be my pleasure to walk you home."

"I'm talking about the kiss, and don't think for a minute I'm buying that innocent act of yours," she said sternly when he gasped dramatically.
"Just
a kiss? Uh-huh."

"Just
a kiss, nothing else. On my mother's grave"—he took a quick swig from the flask, wiped his mouth with his forearm, then held out the brandy—"I swear it."

"Why do you want to kiss me?" she pressed, still not believing him.

"Because I like to kiss, and I pride myself on being a connoisseur of mouths. They're all different, but yours is more different than most, and I'd really appreciate the chance to sample the contents. Nothing personal. I'm only looking to expand my resume. Surely,
you
can understand that."

Her lips twitched with amusement. And anticipation. A kiss from Neil Grey? Mr. Hot Lips himself, whose signed glossy she'd drooled over while the other kids at the orphanage had gone wild over rock-and-roll musicians, and for whom she'd dared to turn the radio dial from a Top 40 station to a jazz station?
He
wanted to kiss
her?

"How is my mouth different?" And whose mouth had she inherited? Her mother's, her father's? One answer she'd never get. "Is it a good different or a bad different?"

"Hmmm. Let's see. Open your lips a tad,
chere....
That's perfect, just enough so I can see your teeth. Great teeth, by the way."

"Great?" she repeated, trying not to move her lips while he studied them with what seemed to be detached interest. "But they're spaced a little in the front. I wish I'd had braces growing up. They're—"

"Sexy, that's what. Damn sexy. There's just enough room for the tip of a tongue."

Lord, she hoped he didn't ask for a peek at her tongue. What he might say about it—and its erotic possibilities—could have her begging for his kiss right there and then.

He didn't. Instead, he slid a finger over her lips, and she felt her soft flesh quiver. Despite her urgent message to her tongue not to touch, it did. He tasted of salt skin flavored with liquor and smoke. He tasted delicious.

"Curious tongue too," he said huskily. "Active little critter. Definitely an asset. Goes real nice with about the finest set of lips I ever checked out."