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Even cooler than Tommy’s dad, who was a sports broadcaster in Detroit.
Her smile faded as she crept down the stairs that led to the basement. It was damp, as basements are, and she rubbed her arms rapidly, trying to spark a bit of warmth in her blood.
Lauren had left a note indicating she didn’t need to clean downstairs, but she had towels to put away.
Maggie crossed to the small office, the scene of the crime, so to speak, and knocked rapidly—just in case. There was no answer.
She opened the door and was hit by the scent of pine cleaner, an intense odor that tingled her nose sharply. She flipped on the light, and her eyes swept over the newly cleaned carpets. They looked brand new. There was no blood, no evidence of her unfortunate header into the corner of the desk.
The room was tidy, nothing out of place. There was no luggage, no clothes or personal items that spoke of a guest. There was…nothing.
She’d already been upstairs and knew the guest rooms hadn’t been used. Cain must have left for LA after all without so much as a good-bye. Michael would be disappointed, but he would get over it and as far as she was concerned, it was probably for the best.
Maggie crossed to the bathroom and stowed the towels on the shelves and paused, her fingers trailing along the soft blue material as she glanced around. She caught a whiff of him—a subtle caress of his scent that lingered in the air.
She whirled around, but there was no one there. Maggie swore under her breath and turned out the light. Get your head out of the clouds. She still had the kitchen to deal with, and if she didn’t get a move on, Michael would get home before she did. His friend Tommy was back from sleepover camp, and Michael had been invited to Tommy’s house for the afternoon.
The computer monitor on the desk flickered, and she glanced at it as she walked past. Her hand reached for the door, but then a thought popped into her head, one that had her turning back toward the desk.
No, you don’t need to torture yourself.
But what was the point of common sense if you couldn’t ignore it?
Before Maggie could stop herself, she’d crossed the room and stared down at the computer screen. She didn’t have one at home—she just couldn’t afford the extra cost of Internet and all that went with a computer. Michael hadn’t complained, and quite frankly, if he needed to work on one they went to the library.
She tapped the mouse, and the screen flickered once more before the Google home page appeared. Maggie bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder like a four-year-old about to put her hand in the cookie jar—for the tenth time. What the hell was she doing? She exhaled and before she could change her mind clicked on Images and typed “Cain Black BlackRock.”
The monitor flooded with pictures of the band—studio shots and live ones as well. One stood out. An image of Cain. He was shirtless—skin glistening and sweat soaked—a guitar in his hands and jeans impossibly low. Maggie clicked, and the photo filled the screen.
Her cheeks flushed fast and hard as if a shot of fire had erupted across them. Her heart leaped in her chest, beating against her rib cage in quick, heavy falls. That a picture could get such a reaction from her was startling, but nevertheless it had.
The shot was incredible. Cain’s eyes were closed, his fingers spread out along the fret board. The tattoo on his forearm was sexy. It lent an allusion to danger, and for some reason she liked that. Behind him, blues and purples lit his body in an eerie glow as mist curled around his legs. It was beautiful, fantastical, and yet it was his face that riveted her attention.
He looked like he was in ecstasy. As if everything he’d ever wanted was in the gold-top instrument that he was making love to.
She studied the angles of his face, the strong jaw and incredible lips. His hair was wet, curled across his brow, and hung in wild waves around his face. It wasn’t fair. That so much masculine beauty was packaged into one man.
Maggie’s palms were damp, and she swept them across the front of her T-shirt before clicking on more photos. A thought struck. She refreshed Google Images and typed “Cain Black Natasha Simmons.”
There were a ton of Cain and his wife, or rather ex-wife, Natasha, intimate moments stolen from public events and even more from his everyday life. At the grocery store, Starbucks, walking along the sidewalk, and kissing her neck as they ate dinner at a café.
They made her uncomfortable, and she closed the image window, heart in her mouth as she searched articles.
Page after page loaded of items related to Cain Black, his music, his women, and his purported wild sex life. Something about Barcelona popped up, but Maggie had no desire to read about his sexcapades with some beautiful Spanish model or socialite. One article claimed he’d been engaged to a relative of the queen. Maggie clicked on it and several pop-ups filled the screen, all of them images of Cain shirtless, sweaty—sexy as all hell. Every time she tried to close one, another would appear.
“Shit.” She bent over, and panic hit her in the chest as she clicked in rapid succession, but nothing happened. At this point there were at least seven windows open.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” The screen was frozen. “Dammit!”
“Anything I can help with?”
Maggie swallowed and closed her eyes.
This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.
“No, I’m good.” If only she could click her heels together and disappear. “Don’t come close…I’m, ah.” She sounded like an idiot.
What the hell was he doing here?
