Public Secrets

Gibson. The absolutely plain, working man’s guitar with its simple black strap. Not a frill, not a flash. But the wood gleamed, pale gold. And when the strings were plucked it had a tone that brought tears to your eyes.
Lowering her camera, Emma stroked a gentle hand down the neck. She snatched it back quickly when she heard the music. For an instant, she’d thought her touch had brought the guitar to life. Feeling foolish, she glanced stage left. There was music, and it did indeed sound like magic.
Quietly, she crossed the stage, and followed it.
She saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor outside a dressing room. The music echoed, haunted the hallway. His long elegant fingers caressed the strings, slid over them like a lover while he sang softly, for himself.
“While you slept I lay awake / Moonlight streamed across your face, played in your angel hair / While I watched you sighed my name and wishes did I make / That I could creep into your dreams, stay forever with you there.”
His voice was warm and soft. As he bent over his guitar, his dark blond hair dipped to hide most of his face. She didn’t speak, afraid to disturb him, but she crouched and lifted her camera. When he glanced up at the click of the shutter, she lowered it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
His eyes were gold, like his hair. They met hers, and held. His face suited his voice. It was poetically pale, smooth, the gold eyes longly lashed. His full, sculpted lips curved, shyly, she thought.
“No man’s going to think of you as an interruption.” He continued to strum the guitar as he studied her. An absent caress. He’d seen her before, of course, but this was the first chance he’d had for a good, close look. She’d pulled her hair back into a careless ponytail, leaving her face unframed so that the delicate features stood on their own. “Hi. I’m Drew Larimer.”
“Hello—oh, of course, I should have recognized you.” And would have, Emma realized, if she hadn’t been so dazed and breathless. She stood to move over and offer a hand. “Lead singer for Birdcage Walk. I like your music.”
“Thanks.” He took her hand, kept it until she knelt beside him. “Are pictures a hobby or a profession?”

“Both.” Her pulse began to scramble as he continued to stare at her. “I hope you don’t mind that I took yours. I heard you playing and wandered back.”
“I’m glad you did.” More than he wanted to say. “Why don’t you have dinner with me tonight and take a few hundred more?”
She laughed. “Even I don’t take that many while I’m eating.”
“Then leave the camera behind.”
She waited until she was sure she wouldn’t stutter. “I have work.”
“Breakfast then? Lunch? A candy bar.”
With a chuckle she rose. “I happen to know you’ve got time for little but a candy bar. You’re opening for Devastation tomorrow night.”
He didn’t release her hand, had no intention of allowing her to slip quietly away. “How about I get you into the show and you have a drink with me after?”
“I’m already coming to the show.”
“Okay, who do I have to kill?” He held the guitar in one hand, and her fingers in the other. His denim shirt was nearly unbuttoned and revealed pale, smooth skin one lithe move he was standing beside her. “You’re not going to walk away from me on the eve of my big break, are you? I need moral support.”
“You’ll do fine.”
He tightened his grip when she started to draw away. “My God, no matter how trite it sounds, it’s the truth. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Flattered and flustered, she tugged on her hand. “You need to get out more.”
His smile was slow, devastating. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”
She tugged again, torn between panic and laughter. She could hear voices and movement from the stage where the musicians were wandering back. “I really have to get back.”
“At least tell me your name.” He ran a thumb over her knuckles until her knees turned to water. “A man’s entitled to know who broke his heart.”
“I’m Emma. Emma McAvoy.”
“Oh Christ.” He winced as he dropped her hand. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. Jesus, I feel like a complete jerk.”

“Why?”
After dragging his fingers through his hair, he let them fall. “Brian McAvoy’s daughter, and here I am making a fumbling pass.”
“I didn’t think it was fumbling,” she murmured, then cleared her throat when his eyes met hers again. “I