After Midnight (10 page)

“I see,” Thomas murmured. His gaze left her and locked back onto Noah.

“Thomas Cahill, this is Noah Clark.”

Noah offered his hand. “Mr. Cahill.”

“Thomas,” he corrected, not smiling.

Noah tipped his head. “You have a nice place here, Thomas.”

“It pays the bills.”

Isabeau laughed. She bumped her shoulder against Thomas’s side. ”Knock off the scare tactics, Dad.”

The beginnings of a smile tipped the corner of his mouth. Well, she knew it was a smile, to anyone else it looked more like a sneer. Thomas Cahill was tall and broad of shoulder, well muscled with a bald head he usually hid beneath a skull cap. He wore his pale blonde mustache a bit too long and preferred sleeveless tees and a black leather vest atop jeans and biker boots.

“Just doing my job.”

Her gaze followed his to Noah. “He’s got ink.”

“Does he?”

“It needs some work.”

“How much work?”

“Re-outlining, coloring.” She had to give Noah credit. He stood motionless, not backing down beneath Thomas’s stare or their talking about him as if he wasn’t in the room. “See for yourself. I need to visit the restroom.”

She turned away smiling. At the door leading to the back room, she stopped, sent one last warning to her father. “Be nice.”

Silence was his only reply.

With the silence, the siren song in her head played louder, calling to her. Unable to shake it, she checked over her shoulder. Assured they remained locked in some male stand-off, neither paying attention to her, she allowed herself to be drawn past the restroom she’d used to excuse her absence, and to the stairs leading up to her father’s apartment.

She paused before going up. Indecision swirled inside her, mixed with the pounding rhythm that grew stronger with each step closer to the staircase. Sweat slicked her palms. Her body began to tremble. She didn’t want to take that first step, knew once she did, there was no turning back.

Pressing her fingers against her eyes, she attempted to resist. She dragged in a deep breath, then another hoping the act would help to clear her mind. Only, without her other senses to distract her, the music strengthened its hold on her.

Releasing her breath on a sigh, she gave in and placed her foot on the stairs. In silence, she climbed. She found what she was looking for in the front room, set against the inside wall, away from damaging sunlight.

Her grand piano.

A gift—from mother to daughter.

Memories pushed in on her, images she didn’t want to see. A sudden, unexpected sense of loss filled her, then something deeper, stronger than she’d expected. Something she had no desire or intention of analyzing. Not today. Not anytime soon.

Isabeau took a careful breath to counteract the flipping of her stomach. She shoved her hand through her hair. Unable to ignore the irresistible pull any longer, she crossed the room to lay her hand atop the piano’s cabinet.

Her pulse skipped. Her throat knotted. Beneath her fingertips, she swore she could feel the instrument’s pulse, its very life. Her whole body trembled.

Don’t panic. Breathe
.

She was too late. Fear of the inevitable had taken hold. The day was coming when she would no longer be able to ignore the pull of the music.

It was coming. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

She hoped it wouldn’t be her undoing.

Chapter Six

Thomas Cahill’s smile faded the moment Isabeau stepped from the room. He pinned Noah with a look. “You like my daughter.”

Noah nodded and glanced toward the hallway Isabeau had disappeared down. “Very much.”

“You the one gave her that bruise?”

“Of course not.”

Noah’s denial did nothing to soften Thomas’s expression. Damn but the man was intimidating. Hard. Cold and furious. He had the build of a linebacker—wide, solidly muscled with a thick neck, his arms covered in tattoos. For a moment, Noah was reminded of the younger Cahill. The two men resembled each other in height and build, but that seemed to be where the similarities between them ended. When Junior looked at Isabeau, his gaze had been filled with resentment. Thomas looked at her with affection.

Thomas’s mouth tightened. His hands fisted at his sides. “Do you know who did put that bruise on her?

“Yes.”

“Who? Give me the bastard’s name.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Thomas’s jaw bunched.

“I think this is something you should hear from Isabeau.”

Thomas turned away—but not before Noah caught the flash of emotion in the man’s eyes. “Are there any more, or is that the only mark on her? You can tell me that much, can’t you?”

“That’s it, that’s the only one.”

“Good.” Expelling a slow breath, he turned back to Noah. The rush of angry emotion had disappeared from his face. In its place was quiet assessment. “So where’s this tattoo I’m to look at?”

Noah pushed his sleeve up to reveal his right upper arm. He waited as the man looked closely at the tattoo.

“How long ago did you get this?”

“A long time ago.” Noah’s thoughts drifted to the day he and Danny visited the shady little tattoo parlor. Two scrawny boys on the verge of becoming men—believing a tattoo would get them there quicker. “I was a teenager.”

He noted the clean, sterile conditions of this shop, and was grateful shoddy body art had been all he’d taken home with him that day.

Thomas considered him before asking, “This the only ink you have?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a bit crude, but not bad for its age.” He crossed to the glass display case and began to sketch. “My daughter, she can be a bit headstrong at times.”

Noah blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “So I’ve noticed.”

“More than once, she’s had me beating my head against the wall.”

“I know the feeling.”

A deep chuckle rumbled from Thomas. “So tell me, do you want something done with this, or are you humoring Izzy?”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” Noah replied. Curious, he walked to the counter to see what Thomas drew. “She didn’t tell me your profession, only that we would meet you for lunch.”

“She’s never brought anyone to lunch before,” Thomas said as Noah stepped to his side.

“No?”

“No. She’s never mentioned you, either.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“No?” Thomas gave him a hard, long stare. “But it bothers you.”

It did. More than he wanted to admit. Isabeau was a bit too unaffected by him, when he couldn’t seem to get through more than a few hours without thinking of her.

Never before had he been so aware of a woman from the moment he saw her—those incredible eyes, that compact body. After holding her in his arms last night—discovering her skin was warmer than he’d ever imagined, her hair softer—he knew it was going to be damn near impossible to keep thoughts of her at bay.

“You live around here?” Thomas asked absently.

“No. I’m here to record.”

“With Pete?”

“Yeah.”

“Pete’s a good guy.”

“He seems to be.”

Thomas made one last mark on the sketchbook, placed the pencil down and pushed the book in front of Noah. “You’re a musician then?”

“I’m a singer.” Noah studied the sketch before him and smiled. Thomas had started with the crude, rudimentary skull tattoo from Noah’s arm, then added and tweaked the design until it resembled something totally different. Something far more unique and artistic. If the man could do something like that in a matter of minutes, Isabeau’s praise had not been exaggerated.

“Where do you call home?”

“California,” Noah replied and Thomas’s brow knitted. “This is brilliant. You’re very talented.”

“Thank you. If you weren’t interested in any changes, you could have it re-worked, brought back to its original brilliance.”

Noah raised a shoulder. “I’ll let you know.”

He shifted his gaze as Isabeau stepped into the room, sending a flash fire through his bloodstream. His gut tightened as he studied the intriguing lines of her profile while she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. After a moment her eyes slid back open and she turned, locking her gaze with his.

Noah knitted his brow. She was pale. Her eyes full of something he couldn’t name. She pushed her hair away from her face, the impression of fragility fading as she continued to watch him, her mouth curving into a smile.

“Are you two ready?” she asked.

He let his gaze travel slowly over her, taking in her glossy ebony hair, the band insignia that decorated the front of her vintage tee, and the body-hugging jeans that rode so low on her hips that he was amazed they didn’t slide right off. He frowned as he zeroed in on her strappy, open-toed stilettos and for one blinding moment imagined her without the clothes—only smooth golden skin and those sexy damn shoes.

“You’ll have to go without me today,” Thomas stated, pushing away from the counter and crossing to Isabeau.

Noah blinked away the libidinous image.

“What? Why?” Her eyes took on a sudden awareness. “What are you up to?”

Noah wondered the same thing. Then he watched, intrigued as Thomas raised his hand to touch the bruise on Isabeau’s arm, only to lower it without making contact.

“Your friend assures me that this is not his handiwork.”

She straightened her shoulders and glanced in his direction. “Noah had nothing to do with it.”

“Who did this to you?”

Isabeau paused, letting the question hang in the air.

“Tell me who did this to you,” Thomas persisted.

She gazed up at her father, her concern evident. Her hand settled on his arm, where his muscles tightened and flexed. “He didn’t mean…” Taking a deep breath, she continued. “He was drunk.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Thomas rasped, anger seething in his voice. His hands curled against his sides. “Tell me the bastard’s name.”

Her eyes slid closed. A tightness settled in Noah’s chest as, even from his distance, he noticed the fine tremor that wracked her body. Because he wanted to go to her, to touch her, soothe her, he pushed his hands into his pockets.

“Tommy,” she said quietly. “Tommy did this to me.”

One by one, Thomas’s muscles tensed. Pain flashed in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Isabeau whispered.

“You’re sorry? What do you have to be sorry about?” A look of confusion crossed Thomas’s face before his expression tightened. “What did you do, refuse him a drink?”