Chapter 1
He stood out of view as he watched her. His first
thought was howlittle she had changed in five years.
Time, it seemed, hadn’t rushed or dragged but had
merely hung suspended.
Raven Williams was a small, slender woman who
moved quickly, with a thin, underlying nervousness that
was unaccountably appealing. She was tanned deep gold
from the California sun, but at twenty-five her skin was
as smooth and dewy soft as a child’s. She pampered it
when she remembered and ignored it when she forgot.
It never seemed to make any difference. Her long hair
was thick and straight and true black. She wore it sim-
ply, parted in the center. The ends brushed her hips and
it swirled and floated as she walked.
Her face was pixielike, with its cheekbones well-
defined and the chin slightly pointed. Her mouth smiled
easily, but her eyes reflected her emotions. They were
smoky gray and round. Whatever Raven felt would be
reflected there. She had an overwhelming need to love
and be loved. Her own need was one of the reasons for
her tremendous success. The other was her voice—the
rich, dark, velvet voice that had catapulted her to fame.
Raven always felt a little strange in a recording stu-
dio: insulated, sealed off from the rest of the world by
the glass and the soundproofing. It had been more than
six years since she had cut her first record, but she was
still never completely comfortable in a studio. Raven was
made for the stage, for the live audience that pumped
the blood and heat into the music. She considered the
studio too tame, too mechanical. When she worked in
the studio, as she did now, she thought of it exclusively
as a job. And she worked hard.
The recording session was going well. Raven listened
to a playback with a single-mindedness that blocked out
her surroundings. There was only the music. It was good,
she decided, but it could be better. She’d missed some-
thing in the last song, left something out. Without know-
ing precisely what it was, Raven was certain she could
find it. She signaled the engineers to stop the playback.
“Marc?”
A sandy-haired man with the solid frame of a light-
weight wrestler entered the booth. “Problem?” he said
simply, touching her shoulder.
“The last number, it’s a little...” Raven searched for
the word. “Empty,” she decided at length. “What do you
think?” She respected Marc Ridgely as a musician and
depended on him as a friend. He was a man of few words
who had a passion for old westerns and Jordan almonds.
He was also one of the finest guitarists in the country.
Marc reached up to stroke his beard, a gesture, Raven
had always thought, that took the place of several sen-
tences. “Do it again,” he advised. “The instrumental’s
fine.”
She laughed, producing a sound as warm and rich
as her singing voice. “Cruel but true,” she murmured,
slipping the headset back on. She went back to the mi-
crophone. “Another vocal on ‘Love and Lose,’ please,”
she instructed the engineers. “I have it on the best au-
thority that it’s the singer, not the musicians.” She saw
Marc grin before she turned to the mike. Then the music
washed over her.
Raven closed her eyes and poured herself into the
song. It was a slow, aching ballad suited to the smoky
depths of her voice. The lyrics were hers, ones she had
written long before. It had only been recently that she
had felt strong enough to sing them publicly. There was
only the music in her head now, an arrangement of notes
she herself had produced. And as she added her voice,
she knew that what had been missing before had been
her emotions. She had restricted them on the other re-
cordings, afraid to risk them. Now she let them out. Her
voice flowed with them.
An ache passed through her, a shadow of a pain bur-
ied for years. She sang as though the words would bring
her relief. The hurt was there, still with her when the
song was finished.
For a moment there was silence, but Raven was too
dazed to note the admiration of her colleagues. She
pulled off the headset, suddenly sharply conscious of
its weight.
“Okay?” Marc entered the booth and slipped his arm
around her. He felt her tremble lightly.
“Yes.” Raven pressed her fingers to her temple a mo-
ment and gave a surprised laugh. “Yes, of course. I got
a bit wrapped up in that one.”
He tilted her face to his, and in a rare show of public
affection for a shy man, kissed her. “You were fantastic.”
Her eyes warmed, and the tears that had threatened
were banished. “I needed that.”
“The kiss or the compliment?”
“Both.” She laughed and tossed her hair behind her
back. “Stars need constant admiration, you know.”
“Where’s the star?” a backup vocalist wanted to
know.
Raven tried for a haughty look as she glanced over.
“You,” she said ominously, “can be replaced.” The vo-
calist grinned in return, too used to Raven’s lack of pre-
tentions to be intimidated.
“Who’d carry you through the session?”
Raven turned to Marc. “Take that one out and shoot
him,” she requested mildly, then looked up at the booth.
“That’s a wrap,” she called out before her eyes locked
on the man now standing in full view behind the glass.
The blood drained from her face. The remnants of
emotion from the song surged back in full force. She
nearly swayed from the power of it. “Brandon.” It was
a thought to be spoken aloud but only in a whisper. It
was a dream she thought had finally run its course. Then
his eyes were on hers, and Raven knew it was real. He’d
come back.
Years of performing had taught her to act. It was al-
ways an effort for her to slip a mask into place, but by
the time Brand Carstairs had come down from the booth,
Raven wore a professionally untroubled face. She’d deal
with the storm inside later.
“Brandon, it’s wonderful to see you again.” She held
out both hands and tilted her face up to his for the ex-
pected, meaningless kiss of strangers who happen to be
in the same business.
Her composure startled him. He’d seen her pale, seen
the shock in her eyes. Now she wore a façade she’d never
had before. It was slick, bright and practiced. Brand re-
alized he’d been wrong; she had changed.
“Raven.” He kissed her lightly and took both her
hands. “You’re more beautiful than anyone has a right
to be.” There was the lightest touch of brogue in his
speech, a mist of Ireland over the more formal British.
Raven allowed herself a moment to look at him, really
look at him.
He was tall and now, as always, seemed a bit too
thin. His hair was as dark as her own but waved where
hers was needle straight. It was thick and full over his
ears and down to the collar of his shirt. His face hadn’t
changed; it was still the same face that drove girls and
women to scream and swoon at his concerts. It was raw-
boned and tanned, more intriguing than handsome, as
the features were not altogether even. There was some-
thing of the dreamer there, from his mother’s Irish half.
Perhaps that was what drew women to him, though they
were just as fascinated by the occasional British reserve.
And the eyes. Even now Raven felt the pull of his large,
heavy-lidded aquamarine eyes. They were unsettling
eyes for as easygoing a man as Brand Carstairs. The
blue and green seemed constantly at odds. But it was
the charm he wore so easily that tilted the scales, Raven
realized. Charm and blatant sex appeal were an irresist-
ible combination.
“You haven’t changed, have you, Brandon?” The
question was quiet, the first and only sign of Raven’s
distress.
“Funny.” He smiled, not the quick, flashing grin he
was capable of, but a slow, considering smile. “I thought
the same of you when I first saw you. I don’t suppose
it’s true of either of us.”
“No.” God, how she wished he would release her
hands. “What brings you to L.A., Brandon?”
“Business, love,” he answered carelessly, though his
eyes were taking in every inch of her face. “And, of
course, the chance to see you again.”
“Of course.” Her voice was coldly polite, and the
smile never reached her eyes.
The sarcasm surprised him. The Raven he remem-
bered hadn’t known the meaning of the word. She saw
his brow lift into consideration. “I do want to see you,
Raven,” Brand told her with his sudden, disarming sin-
cerity. “Very much. Can we have dinner?”
Her pulse had accelerated at his change of tone. Just
reflex, just an old habit, she told herself and struggled
to keep her hands passive in his. “I’m sorry, Brandon,”
she answered with perfect calm. “I’m booked.” Her eyes
slipped past him in search of Marc, whose head was
bent over his guitar as he jammed with another musi-
cian. Raven could have sworn with frustration. Brand
followed the direction of her gaze. Briefly his eyes nar-
rowed.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said. His tone was still light
and casual. “I want to talk to you.” He smiled as to an
old friend. “I’ll just drop by the house awhile.”
“Brandon,” Raven began and tugged on her hands.
“You still have Julie, don’t you?” Brand smiled and
held on to her hands, unaware of—or ignoring—her
resistance.
“Yes, I...”
“I’d like to see her again. I’ll come by around four.
I know the way.” He grinned, then kissed her again, a
quick, friendly brushing of lips before he released her
hands, turned and walked away.
“Yes,” she murmured to herself. “You know the way.”
An hour later Raven drove through the electric gates
that led to her house. The one thing she hadn’t allowed
Julie or her agent to thrust on her was a chauffeur. Raven
enjoyed driving, having control of the low, sleek for-
eign car and indulging from time to time in an excess
of speed. She claimed it cleared her head. It obviously
hadn’t done the job, she thought as she pulled up in front
of the house with a short, peevish squeal of the brakes.
Distracted, she left her purse sitting on the seat beside
her as she sprang from the car and jogged up the three
stone steps that led to the front door. It was locked. Her
frustration only mounted when she was forced to go
back and rip the keys from the ignition.
Slamming into the house, Raven went directly to the
music room. She flung herself down on the silk-covered
Victorian sofa and stared straight ahead without see-
ing anything. A gleaming mahogany grand piano dom-
inated the room. It was played often and at odd hours.
There were Tiffany lamps and Persian rugs and a dime-
store flowerpot with a struggling African violet. An old,
scarred music cabinet was filled to overflowing. Sheet
music spilled onto the floor. A priceless Fabergé box sat
next to the brass unicorn she had found in a thrift shop
and had fallen in love with. One wall was crowded with
awards: Grammys, gold and platinum records, plaques
and statues and the keys to a few cities. On another was
the framed sheet music from the first song she had writ-
ten and a breathtaking Picasso. The sofa on which she
sat had a bad spring.
It was a strange hodgepodge of cultures and tastes and
uniquely Raven’s own. She would have thought eclectic
a pretentious word. She had allowed Julie her exacting
taste everywhere else in the house, but here she had ex-
pressed herself. Raven needed the room the same way
she needed to drive her own car. It kept her sane and
helped her remember exactly who Raven Williams was.
But the room, like the drive, hadn’t calmed her nerves.
She walked to the piano.
She pounded out Mozart fiercely. Like her eyes, her
music reflected her moods. Now it was tormented, vol-
atile. Even when she’d finished, anger seemed to hover
in the air.
“Well, I see you’re home.” Julie’s voice, mild and un-
ruffled, came from the doorway. Julie walked into the
room as she had walked into Raven’s life: poised and
confident. When Raven had met her nearly six years
before, Julie had been rich and bored, a partygoer born
into old money. Their relationship had given them both
something of importance: friendship and a dual depen-
dence. Julie handled the myriad details attached to Ra-
ven’s career. Raven gave Julie a purpose that the glittery
world of wealth had lacked.
“Didn’t the recording go well?” Julie was tall and
blond, with an elegant body and that exquisitely casual
California chic.
Raven lifted her head, and the smile fled from Julie’s
face. It had been a long time since she’d seen that help-
less, ravaged look. “What happened?”
Raven let out a long breath. “He’s back.”
“Where did you see him?” There was no need for
Julie to ask for names. In all the years of their associa-
tion only two things had had the power to put that look
on Raven’s face. One of them was a man.
“At the studio.” Raven combed her fingers through
her hair. “He was up in the booth. I don’t know how long
he’d been there before I saw him.”
Julie pursed her lightly tinted lips. “I wonder what
Brand Carstairs is doing in California.”
“I don’t know.” Raven shook her head. “He said busi-
ness. Maybe he’s going to tour again.” In an effort to
release the tension, she rubbed her hand over the back
of her neck. “He’s coming here tomorrow.”
Julie’s brows rose. “I see.”
“Don’t turn secretary on me, Julie,” Raven pleaded.
She shut her eyes. “Help me.”
“Do you want to see him?” The question was prac-
tical. Julie, Raven knew, was practical. She was orga-
nized, logical and a stickler for details—all the things
Raven wasn’t. They needed each other.
“No,” Raven began almost fiercely. “Yes...” She
swore then and pressed both hands to her temples. “I
don’t know.” Now her tone was quiet and weary. “You
know what he’s like, Julie. Oh, God, I thought it was
over. I thought it was finished!”
With something like a moan, she jumped from the
stool to pace around the room. She didn’t look like a
star in jeans and a simple linen blouse. Her closet held
everything from bib overalls to sables. The sables were
for the performer; the overalls were for her.
“I’d buried all the hurts. I was so sure.” Her voice was
low and a little desperate. It was still impossible for her
to believe that she had remained this vulnerable after
five years. She had only to see him again, and she felt
it once more. “I knew sooner or later that I’d run into
him somewhere.” She ran her fingers through her hair
as she roamed the room. “I think I’d always pictured it
would be in Europe—London—probably at a party or a
benefit. I’d have expected him there; maybe that would
have been easier. But today I just looked up and there
he was. It all came back. I didn’t have any time to stop
it. I’d been singing that damn song that I’d written right
after he’d left.” Raven laughed and shook her head. “Isn’t
that wild?” She took a deep breath and repeated softly,
wonderingly, “Isn’t that wild?”
The room was silent for nearly a full minute before
Julie spoke. “What are you going to do?”
“Do?” Raven spun back to her. Her hair flew out
to follow the sudden movement. “I’m not going to do
anything. I’m not a child looking for happily-ever-after
anymore.” Her eyes were still dark with emotion, but
her voice had grown gradually steadier. “I was barely
twenty when I met Brandon, and I was blindly in love
with his talent. He was kind to me at a time when I badly
needed kindness. I was overwhelmed by him and with
my own success.”
She lifted a hand to her hair and carefully pushed
it behind her shoulders. “I couldn’t cope with what he
wanted from me. I wasn’t ready for a physical relation-
ship.” She walked to the brass unicorn and ran a finger-
tip down its withers. “So he left,” she said softly. “And I
was hurt. All I could see—maybe all I wanted to see—
was that he didn’t understand, didn’t care enough to
want to know why I said no. But that was unrealistic.”
She turned to Julie then with a frustrated sigh. “Why
don’t you say something?”
“You’re doing fine without me.”
“All right, then.” Raven thrust her hands in her pock-
ets and stalked to the window. “One of the things I’ve
learned is that if you don’t want to get hurt, you don’t
get too close. You’re the only person I’ve never applied
that rule to, and you’re the only one who hasn’t let me
down.” She took a deep breath.
“I was infatuated with Brandon years ago. Perhaps
it was a kind of love, but a girl’s love, easily brushed
aside. It was a shock seeing him today, especially right
after I finished that song. The coincidence was...” Raven
pushed the feelings away and turned back from the win-
dow. “Brandon will come over tomorrow, and he’ll say
whatever it is that he has to say, then he’ll go. That’ll
be the end of it.”
Julie studied Raven’s face. “Will it?”
“Oh, yes.” Raven smiled. She was a bit weary after
the emotional outburst but more confident. She had re-
gained her control. “I like my life just as it is, Julie. He’s
not going to change it. No one is, not this time.”
