Page 93 of Hotter than Wildfire

She threw her arm around his neck, hugging him, and a small half laugh that sounded just a little hysterical came from deep in her throat. “Oh God, Harry, it’s over.” She pulled back to look him in the eyes again.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered.

“Oh yeah,” he grinned.

Christmas Eve

San Diego

It was a small jazz club, the kind Ellen—or Eve—preferred. She didn’t like stadiums or big concert halls, they weren’t right for her voice. It was a Christmas concert she’d been practising for since October. All Christmas carols, all in subtle jazz renderings that made them sound brand new.

Since the club was small, tickets were at a premium. Ellen made everyone pay through the nose and donated half the proceeds to a women’s shelter in San Diego, one few people knew about, one that worked.

Five minutes after tickets were available online, the club was sold out. There were fans hanging from the rafters.

Harry sat with Mike and Sam and Nicole and Meredith, who was on her best behaviour. They’d gotten filthy looks when they settled at a table with a baby. There were groans and comments from surrounding tables, that only died down a little when they saw how damned cute she was.

Merry was unfazed. She was a lady and a concert pro and better behaved than the drunk fat guy to Harry’s left. The instant she heard Aunt Ellen’s voice, she stilled and listened. It was amazing.

But then Ellen had sung lullabies to her since she was born.

Harry thought that was amazing—to grow up with Ellen’s voice in your head.

He still thought the whole thing was amazing—that this woman was his wife. That he got to live with her and listen to her sing any time he wanted. And Christ, she even kept his books! No one was as happy as he was. Well, except for Sam, who was loony over Nicole and even loonier over Merry.

Ellen finished a long, slow, heartbreaking rendering of Ave Maria and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. There was a little hush, even Merry, sitting on Daddy’s lap, huge blue eyes fixed on her aunt, was quiet.

Then the house exploded and Merry laughed.

Ellen was Eve tonight. It was incredible how she could be these two entirely different people. Ellen was his beautiful wife, with the shiny hair tumbling over her shoulders, dressed casually in a white shirt and jeans, no makeup, who most evenings greeted him when he came home with a smile and a kiss and a new burnt dish, making his heart leap and his stomach groan.

Out of pity, Manuela, Sam and Nicole’s housekeeper, sent down food a couple of times a week. Enough to feed an army of stevedores.

That Ellen was relaxed and happy and loving and man, he loved her back.

But Eve—oh God, Eve—she was this remote and mysterious beauty conjured up out of moonlight and stardust. As smooth as marble, elusive as a dream.

Just look at her, Harry thought She was slender, even small, but she dominated the stage. One spotlight, the musicians behind her in shadow, standing before a microphone, holding the public completely in the palm of her hand.

Her voice filled the room, filled every single empty space. It would be impossible to think of anything but her, have anything but her in your head.

Harry looked around, transfixed by the expressions on the faces of the people in the room. Upscale professionals, mostly, the tickets were expensive, after all. The men elegantly dressed, the women in evening gowns and bright shiny jewels.

An adult, sophisticated audience, and yet every face looked the same—transported to another place. A place of love and hope and loss and grief, where all those emotions were felt deeply, all at the same time. Unbearably moving, unspeakably beautiful, the carols everyone knew by heart, had heard in elevators and in malls and on TV and at drunken Christmas parties—each song took on a new meaning, as if being heard for the first time.

Christmas as joy and hope, a yearning for peace and goodwill. The old words took on a completely new and deeper meaning. Harry knew they’d never hear those songs again without thinking of tonight, a night where the most beautiful music in the world floated in the air.

And Eve herself—oh God, she just broke your heart up there. She looked like she’d been beamed down from another, better planet, in a shimmering green dress that matched her eyes, her auburn hair slicked back and swept up to showcase that long, pale neck and delicate jawline.

The makeup she never wore offstage painted her face with an old-fashioned glamour, mysteriously deep eyes, high cheekbones set off with the softest of blushes, that mouth…

Harry was sure there wasn’t a man here who wasn’t thinking about that mouth.

She was sex incarnate, but better sex than anyone had ever known, to a different beat. Her entire body was caught up in the jazzy rhythms, swaying gently, perfectly to the percussion. She carried every single nuance of every word, small gestures that somehow conveyed passion in peace, love in triumph.

The concert was coming to an end.

She finished O Holy Night and bowed her head at the applause, graceful as a Queen accepting the homage of her adoring subjects.