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Ian’s shoulders hunched before he threw them back again. Interesting.
“How did I fake this face? This voice?” he demanded.
“What makes you think I’ve heard your voice? Oh, that’s right. You’re such an international star already that, of course, I must have.” Donovan smiled thinly. “I say again, don’t flatter yourself.”
Indignation and fury warred on Ian’s almost-too-pretty features. “You called me in without ever hearing me sing? Why do I doubt that?”
Ian was correct, but Donovan wasn’t about to tell him so. This one needed to be knocked back a few pegs. Reality offered a hard landing, and LA was nothing like London. Better Kagan learned now before he was chewed up and swallowed by the city outside the windows.
“You want to prove yourself,” Donovan said, picking up his gold pen and flicking it through his fingers. He’d been toying with the idea before Ian had appeared, and now he was even more certain it was a good course to take. “Want to show everyone what a huge talent you are, so much bigger than your so-called brother ever has been, though you had to use his name to get through the doors. Even if he would kick your ass if he knew you were here.”
“He might try. Didn’t manage it the first time.”
“Yet I still see his bruises on you. And that mark on your inner arm which isn’t a bruise. The one you keep touching. Fretting over like a worry stone.”
Ian paled and yanked down his sleeve as if he could erase the evidence. “Why don’t you call my brother in and have us sing together? See which one of us outshines who, once and for all.”
“I could do that. Except talent isn’t the whole story. Isn’t even the largest part.” Donovan leaned forward, still casually flipping the pen. “Right now, you’re a street punk who isn’t worth my time. It’d be as easy for me to tell you to hit the road with your last two pennies in your pocket as it is for me to sit here and watch you crow so no one knows you don’t have a place to sleep tonight.”
Ian held his gaze, his changeable eyes turning hard. With a shift of the light, they were blue, like marbles made of a dozen hues. “You don’t know shit, Lewis.”
“You’d be surprised what I know. What I can find out. The secrets a man tries to hide. Celeste Elizabeth Wallace Kagan was your mother,” Donovan said, again shifting gears. “That is your claim?” He pulled out papers, shuffled through them without seeing the words.
Didn’t need to. He’d reviewed the Kagan information this morning. He’d probably discovered more than Ian knew himself.
“My claim, yes. The claim I have papers to back up.” Ian reached for a battered knapsack, then hoisted it up and began to root through it.
“I don’t need your supposed paperwork. I have my own.” Donovan cocked his head as Ian dropped his knapsack. “What happened to your mother, Ian?”
Ian jerked a shoulder, but Donovan didn’t miss the brief flash of fear before it was ruthlessly banished. “How should I know? She took off. Probably found herself a sugar daddy.” His lips twisted. “Easier to do without your bratty son to slow you down.”
“You don’t know what happened to her then.” Donovan sat back and steepled his hands. “Absolutely no idea.”
“No.” Only the slightest quaver in Ian’s voice gave him away.
Most likely, no one else would’ve heard it. Unless they were looking.
Unless they knew exactly what it was to live by your wits and your hands.
Secrets could kill.
Donovan knew that all too well too.
“But you survived. You and Simon, the last two of your family. The only ones left.”
Ian didn’t back down. Didn’t look away. “Are you getting at something, Lewis? Spit it out if so.”
Donovan held his stare for a moment, then two. Stringing it out until Ian started to reach for that wound on his arm again before his hands fell still and his face became an emotionless mask. Only his burning eyes—now back to that sea-whipped greenish-gray—told the tale.
Secrets weren’t secrets forever.
Not everything—and everyone—who was buried stayed that way.
But that was for Ian to learn, as Donovan had.
As he was still.
“Are you available next Saturday night?” Donovan asked pleasantly, breaking the silence so abruptly that Ian physically jolted. “We’ve had an unexpected cancellation. Our opening act for the Zeps has fallen ill. Terrible flu. Will you still be in town?”
