Page 4 of Uncharted Desires

“You know, all these years, playing such loud music has made me a little hard of hearing.” He leaned over, putting his face directly in front of hers. Her breath hitched, and he enjoyed making her nervous. He quirked up an eyebrow in question.

He could feel the magnetic pull of her presence as he reached out to touch her. But as his fingers brushed her arm, her demeanor changed suddenly, and she pushed hard on his chest with both hands. He felt a spark of electricity between them as her fingers swept across his chest, and he stumbled backward, almost losing his balance.

“Do you want to know why I’m throwing knives, you absolute blowhard?” She shifted her stance. “I was practicing for you.”

She continued in an exaggerated masculine voice, mocking him. “Mister ‘I’m gonna quit singing with no warning, or even telling the people who have been with me for ten whole years because I’m utterly devoid of any kind of fucking loyalty.’ But since you’ve ruined my plan, I will have to generate a new one.”

She was breathing heavily, and it surprised West to see his ice queen so affected. Maybe he was wrong not to have given his singers a warning about his decision ahead of time, but ever since the incident, as he called it, he’d learned to keep his relationships with his singers platonic or it would hinder their work. His music was important to him, and the whole band knew that, including the girls. He was friendly with Lydia and Cher; it was just Kat who’d always had a layer of ice around her, and West hadn’t bothered to chip into it.

His plan had been to tell them with the rest of the band this morning—or so he’d told himself—but they hadn’t been there, and time got away from him to find them.

He examined her flushed face, slightly red from the sun, and her beautiful, amber-colored eyes. He saw genuine hurt in them, and he felt bad for being the one who’d put it there.

“The record label said they would take care of you,” he said to relieve his guilt.

Her eyes burned with rage and her mouth quivered as she opened and shut it, trying to form the right words. She spun around.

Is she leaving?

To West’s surprise, she marched to the dining room bar and poured two glasses of wine, strolling back to him, her gaze never leaving his.

Silently, she offered him a glass, and he reached out with hesitation. She paused for a moment and did something unexpected—she smiled. A beautiful, dazzling smile that took him aback. It was like being struck by lightning, the way it overtook all his senses.

“Well, I guess I should be thanking you,” she said, her eyes shining brightly. “Cheers to the mighty Weston Monroe for giving me such a prominent music career, and for all that shall come.” Her voice was an octave too high as she lifted her glass as if to toast him and took a drink.

Shifting under her scrutiny, he furrowed his brow. “Er . . . you’re welcome.”

She lowered the glass from her mouth, her tongue darting out to lick the wine from her lips, and West’s eyes tracked the trail it made.

“Dear god, Weston, you have done jack shit for my career. Can you really be that clueless?”

West took a step back; he had severely miscalculated her motives.

Had she just poisoned his drink?

“You never let us work on any of the music with you,” she continued, her frustration palpable. “Every time we tried to move on to new projects, you’d have a new album or a new tour. Why? Do you not know what a break is? We have no real music credits, we have no writing credits, we have no actual careers, we have no families, we have no lives, we have nothing, and it’s all thanks to you, so yes . . .” She paused, taking a breath. “Thank you very much for my illustrious music career, and especially the heads-up that you were done with us.”

With a swift fling of her arm, she threw the remaining contents of her wineglass into his face. The table shook as she slammed it down, then she leaned forward, grabbed the glass he was holding, turned and walked away.

“You don’t deserve this,” she shot over her shoulder as she disappeared up the stairs, not waiting for his response.

West gaped at her disappearing figure.

What was that?

Dripping with red wine, he made his way to the bar. Other than Gia, who would frequently throw fits, women rarely spoke to him like that. Kat’s unexpected fiery attitude was a pleasant surprise. It reminded him of how she used to be before their relationship was shattered by the incident.

He could have done without the red wine to the face, though.

Maybe he’d been a little heavy-handed in his approach to making his music, but it was his music, not hers. He had written an overly ambitious album years ago, and when he had gone searching for touring musicians, the label had suggested Kat, Lydia, and Cher. Women hadn’t been his first choice, but he hadn’t hated it. Kat playing piano had been a two-for-one, saving them a tour instrumentalist.

Over the years, they’d worked so well together that he figured why break up the band? They never mentioned being unhappy or unfulfilled with him. He had never thought they might have their own projects or careers they would want to pursue. West was starting to wonder if his name belonged next to “asshole” in the dictionary, but that was another thought for another day.

Wiping off more of the wine, he went to his quarters to shower.

Twenty minutes later, he still smelled of booze, but that was probably because of the copious amounts he had been drinking since boarding the vessel.

The hardest part of his journey was over. His retirement was public, and the entire world knew it. Relief should have come. Except he felt only numbness. Sinking onto the bed, he put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, preparing himself to go back out into the fray of his boisterous friends and the party Unwilling to admit his exhaustion, he steeled himself for another night of forced smiles and hollow laughter.

---