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What The

Librarian Did

Karina Bliss

And

LA Cinderella

Amanda Berry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

What The

Librarian Did

Karina Bliss

About the Author

New Zealander KARINA BLISS was the first Australasian to win one of the Romance Writers of America’s coveted Golden Heart Awards for unpublished writers. It took this former journalist five years to get her first book contract—a process, she says, that helped put childbirth into perspective. She lives with her husband and son north of Auckland. Visit her on the web at www.karinabliss.com.

Dear Reader,

My interest in writing an ex-rock-star hero came about through watching a couple of TV documentaries, including “Heavy—the History of Metal.” I expected grunts and expletives; what I heard were articulate, clever and often well-educated men looking back over extraordinary achievements in music.

Alice Cooper, Johnny Rotten … great guys.

A lot of them had been through the mill with drugs, alcohol and relationships, but those who’d come out the other side were bad boys made good. Still with that self-deprecating humour and world-weary twinkle that make rogues so irresistible to romance readers.

Another profession that often gets stereotyped is the librarian. What fun, I thought, to put these two together. Drop by my website, www.karinabliss.com, and tell me if you thought so, too.

Happy reading,

Karina Bliss

To my sisters—

Carolyn, Janine, Deryn and Natalie.

All women supremely capable of bringing a

strong man to his knees.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Cheryl Castings, who suggested the

name Matthew Bennett in a “Name a character”

contest I ran through my website.

PROLOGUE

Seventeen and a half years earlier Suburban New Zealand

EVERYONE SAID ONLY a weirdo would turn down a date with Mary O’Connell’s older brother, home from university for the holidays. And Rachel was sick of being a weirdo.

Tentatively, she followed Steve’s lead in the kiss and wiggled her tongue. He responded with a flattering groan. Sweet sixteen and finally been kissed. She shivered, more from the loveliness of the thought than his gentle stroking of her bare arm. Then he touched her breast and she shied away. “Don’t do that.”

“I can’t help it.” Breathing heavily, Steve stared into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Am I?” She stripped the wistful note out of her voice. “Don’t be crazy.” She was passable, that was all. When she wasn’t in her school uniform she wore clothes that were Mom’s idea of what a young lady should wear. Rachel pulled at the button-up collar of her pink blouse. She hated pink. And plaid skirts. When she left home she’d always wear bright colors.

“You are beautiful.” Steve’s voice vibrated with intensity. “And smart. And funny.” He loomed closer again and her nervousness must have showed because he stopped with such an understanding smile that Rachel felt like a silly little girl.

Sure, they were a bit isolated, sitting here in his Toyota Celica, but across Hamilton Lake, suburban lights twinkled like stars. And obviously they couldn’t have a conventional date in case someone reported back to her parents. She shivered again, knowing how her father would react if he found out. But some risks were worth taking and Rachel yearned to live.

They’d drunk beer, which she’d only pretended to sip, watching Steve anxiously. But he’d stopped after one can. And he’d asked her about all sorts of subjects and listened—really listened—to the answers. As if her opinions mattered. Not even Chloe, her best and only friend, did that. Normally it was Rachel’s job to listen.

His sincerity reminded her of Holden Caulfield, the hero in her favorite book, Catcher in the Rye, except that Steve was good-looking. Not that looks mattered; Rachel would hate to be shallow. And Steve said it was his favorite book, too. It must be a sign. Before she lost her courage, she leaned forward and initiated another kiss.

This time when he touched her breast Rachel let it linger a few seconds before she removed his hand. “I should really be getting back,” she said. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow.” She took her education very seriously. It was her way out.

Steve didn’t get annoyed; he simply nodded and started the engine, and Rachel’s last doubt dissipated. When he dropped her off at the end of the street he lifted her hand and kissed it, a French gesture that thrilled her all the way to the bone. “Say we can do this again,” he begged, and she nodded because her heart was too full to speak. I’m in love.

Same time Long Beach, Los Angeles, U.S.A.

“GOT YOUR FAKE ID?”

Devin shouldered his bass guitar, checked his jeans pocket and nodded, but his attention wasn’t really on Zander. With a sixteen-year-old’s fascination, he was watching a stripper across the bar.

His brother’s volatile temper had left him a bass player short an hour before a gig, and Devin was the last-minute replacement. Now he was discovering heaven had many layers. The stripper winked at him and he blushed and dropped his head.

Then caught Zander exchanging grins with the drummer, and scowled.

His brother nudged him. “And don’t tell Mom I brought you here.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Yeah.”

It was seedy, the kind of place where people carried knives. Dimly lit, pungent with marijuana and sticky underfoot. But Devin didn’t care. As they set up their secondhand equipment on the tiny platform that constituted the stage, his heart pounded harder and harder until he thought he’d pass out.

This was his chance to become a permanent member of Rage instead of the awestruck kid brother sitting in the corner of the garage. When the band let him. On the rare occasions, Devin would go up to his room afterward and create riffs on his bass or Zander’s discarded electric guitar, which Devin played upside down because he was left-handed.

Zander had heard one, liked it and used it in one of his songs. After that, Devin had got more garage time. He knew every chord by heart—which was why he was here. So they didn’t lose out on three hundred dollars. Devin wondered whether he could ask for a cut.

“Don’t screw this up,” muttered Zander as he made his way to the microphone. Devin decided not to push his luck.

Instead he wiped his damp palms on his Guns ‘N’ Roses T-shirt and waited for his brother’s hand signal, too scared to look around in case he caught someone’s eye and got knifed, or worse, kicked out for being a kid. He couldn’t lose this big chance.

Chris, the lead guitarist, gave his shoulder a friendly punch. “Breathe,” he encouraged. Devin gulped as Zander grabbed the microphone and faced the band. His eyes and grin were wild and a charge crackled through the air and surged through Devin. He grinned back.

His brother raised one arm, revealing a flash of white abdomen between T-shirt and low-slung jeans. He must be the only person in L.A. without a tan, Devin thought irrelevantly, then Zander mouthed the count—three, two, one—and swept his arm down.

With Chris, Devin struck the first note of “Satan’s Little Helper,” and forgot his nerves, his hopes, forgot everything except coaxing emotion from his guitar. Lost himself in the music.

Much later, drenched with sweat, dazed from adrenaline overload, he sat at one of the scratched wooden tables in the bar. In the round of drinks, he mistakenly got a beer and drank it because he was so thirsty.

Zander noticed his empty glass. “Only one,” he warned, but he was too busy lapping up female attention to stop Devin accepting another.

After two beers he sat with a silly grin on his face, not feeling shy, not feeling anxious, not feeling anything but cocky. “Am I in, bro?” he called. Zander shrugged.

“Until we find someone better.”

And Devin thought, No one will be better than me. I’ll make sure of it.

He sneaked a glance at the stripper again and she wasn’t looking at him as though he was a stupid kid anymore, because being in a band somehow changed that.

I’m in love.

CHAPTER ONE

“ISN’T THIS THE SECOND marriage proposal you’ve turned down?” asked Trixie. “Face it, Rach, you’re a heartbreaker.”

“With that imagination you should be writing fiction, not shelving academia.” Kneeling on the floor, Rachel Robinson snipped through the tape on the carton of books addressed to Auckland University library, then glanced at her assistant.

“I’m a thirty-four-year-old librarian, not Scarlett O’Hara, and Paul is probably breathing a sigh of relief right about now.” At least she hoped he was. He’d been upset last night—and she still was. Both of them had expected her to say yes.

“That’s another thing,” said Trixie with the bluntness of youth. “Rejecting proposals is poor policy for a woman who wants a family. You may look twenty-nine but your ovaries are knocking thirty-five.”

Normally her protégée’s homespun lectures were entertaining, coming as they did from a twenty-year-old Goth-wannabe with dyed black hair and a nose stud. Today they struck a nerve. “Maybe I’m meant to devote my life to my work.”

“Now that’s just crazy talk.”

At the other end of the counter, a student approached the help desk and pressed the buzzer. “Yours,” said Rachel thankfully. The first day of the university year didn’t start until tomorrow, but the smart ones were getting in early.

Trixie bent and gave Rachel a fierce, parting hug. “I hate it when you’re unhappy. Go tell Paul you’ve changed your mind.”

So much for putting on a brave face. Hauling the books out of the carton and stacking them under the counter, Rachel wished it was as simple as that. Lately her left brain didn’t know what her right brain was doing. Tentatively prodding her feelings, she found no regret or remorse, only a guilty seam of rock-solid relief.

Standing, she closed her eyes, breathing in the heady smell of institutional tranquility, and tried to internalize it. Help me, she prayed silently. Why do I run every time I’m close to marriage?

Someone cleared his throat and Rachel opened her eyes. A man waited, impatiently frowning at her.

He was dressed in faded jeans with slashed knees and a too-tight olive-green T-shirt stretched over muscled biceps. Ruggedly tanned, he had sun-streaked russet-brown hair curling past his collar.

It wasn’t that he had a five o’clock shadow at nine-thirty in the morning that screamed “bad boy.” To Rachel’s eyes, that simply made him scruffy. And most certainly his menace wasn’t in his boots, butter-soft leather and, good Lord, purple?

No, it was the arrogant way he stood—feet planted wide, arms folded across his impressive chest. It was the dragon tattoo curling the length of one muscled arm. But mostly it was the sleepy sensuality in the hooded hazel eyes casually scanning Rachel as if she were part of a female buffet. She got the impression he was already very full but might possibly squeeze in dessert—if it was handed to him on a plate.

The woman in her bristled, but the librarian mustered a professional smile. “Can I help you?”

The man didn’t smile back. “I heard there was a library tour for those new to the college.” His voice was deep, his accent American.

Rachel reached for her timetable. “You’re a day early, but if you give me your name I’ll book you in for tomorrow.”

There was a brief hesitation. “Devin Freedman.”

“Devin. Spelled o-n or i-n?”

His mouth relaxed its tight line. “I-n.”

“I can give you an informal look around now if you like.”

For some reason his guard went up again. “I don’t want any special treatment.”

“You must be a student,” she said drily. “If you were a lecturer you wouldn’t say that.”

Narrow-eyed, he assessed her, and Rachel nearly told him to lighten up. Then a thought struck her. “Oh, Lord, you are a new lecturer.”

A smile broke through the guy’s suspicion. It did strange things to Rachel’s stomach. Or it could be she’d been too upset about Paul to eat breakfast.

“No,” he said, “not a lecturer. And I would appreciate a tour. It’s going to be hard enough tomorrow being the oldest student here.”

“Don’t worry, we have quite a few adult students. I assume you’re part-time?”

“Full-time.”

Rachel hid her surprise. Except for the boots, he didn’t look as if he could afford to pay the fees without working.

On the other hand, with that body, he probably made good money working nights in a male revue. She said briskly, “What degree?”

“Bachelor of commerce.”

“Okay, Devin … my name’s Rachel Robinson and you’re in luck. I’m the subject librarian for business and finance. Follow me.” She spent the next fifteen minutes walking him through the library, while he listened intently, saying little. “You’re American,” she commented at one point.

“No.”

Okay, we don’t do small talk. “We have a few library tutorials of interest to you. Let me get you some brochures.” She led him back to the counter and started rummaging through a filing cabinet.

“I’m sure I saw him come in here.” The voice was female, very young and slightly breathless.

Another responded with a giggle, “Do you think he’d sign my bra?”

Startled, Rachel looked up. Devin had vanished and three teenagers milled around the entry, two girls and a boy.

“You promised you’d be cool about this if I brought you,” the youth complained. Then he caught Rachel’s eye and lowered his voice. “Shush, let’s just go in and look.”

“Can I help you?” Rachel asked in her best librarian’s voice.

The boy dropped his gaze. “Uh, no, we’re just looking for someone.”

“Famous,” added one of the girls, smoothing down her skirt and scanning the rows of books.

Rachel stepped into her line of sight. “So you’re not here to use the facilities of the library?”

“No,” the girl replied, “but—”

“Then it’s better if you wait outside for whoever—”

“Devin Freedman.” There was worship in the boy’s tone.

“—you’re waiting for,” Rachel continued. “If you’re sure he’s here?”

That sowed enough doubt for them to start arguing among themselves as they left.

When they’d gone, she looked for Devin and found him leaning against a bookshelf in aisle three. He straightened at her approach, his expression wary. “As I was saying,” she continued, “we have a few one-hour tutorials of interest to you. A library and resources overview, an introduction to our online library catalog …” She stopped because he wasn’t listening, then added softly, “And I can show you the staff exit when you’re ready to leave.”

His attention snapped back to her. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, I still have no idea who you are,” she admitted.

“That makes two of us.” He saw her bafflement and shrugged wide shoulders. “I was a guitarist in a band that did well.”

And now you’re going back to school? But he probably had enough of people prying into his private life. “That’s why I don’t know your name then. I don’t keep up with contemporary pop.”

He winced. “Rock.”

“Excuse me?”

“We were rock.”

Something in his pained tone made her smile. “Was that like comparing Gilbert and Sullivan to Puccini?”

An answering glint lit his eyes. “Sorry, I’m not an opera buff. It’s always struck me as a bunch of overemoting prima donnas going mad or dying.”

“Whereas rock and roll …?”

Devin laughed. “You’re right,” he conceded, “no difference.” He thrust out a hand. “Anyway, thanks for your help.” She took the warm tapered fingers, careful to avoid the dragon’s tongue flicking at the tip of one knuckle. “I’ll hang around a bit longer till the coast clears,” he added. “Read the brochures.”

“If it’s any consolation, they run a tight ship here,” she said. “I doubt you’ll get harassed past the first day.”

“That’s one of the reasons I chose this campus. I wanted fossilized conservatives dressed in …” His gaze slid over her gray pin-striped trousers and pale blue satin blouse with short puffed sleeves. “Thanks again.”

Rachel felt a spike of irritation before her sense of humor kicked in. What did she care what a guy wearing purple boots thought about her vintage fetish? Still, she gave the boots a pointed look before she said kindly, “You’re very welcome.”

The edges of his irises were bright green, with copper-brown starbursts around the pupils. When he smiled with his eyes the effect was unnerving. “Ma’am,” he drawled, flicked an imaginary hat brim, then strolled toward a reading nook.

Smart aleck. People rarely challenged Rachel and never teased her; the world of academia was a civilized one. She sighed.

“Hell bod,” said Trixie, coming up beside her. Then she started. “Hey, isn’t that—”

“Devin Freedman,” said Rachel knowledgeably, and went back to unpacking books and brooding on why someone who was desperate for kids couldn’t cross the first threshold.

As though she’d conjured him, Paul reeled through the library’s double doors. Rachel gasped. The side part that normally flipped his gray-streaked black hair rakishly over one eye zigzagged across his skull as crookedly as he now staggered across the navy carpet.

His corduroy jacket—the same soft brown as his eyes—had pizza stains on it and the blue chambray shirt that normally buttoned neatly under his chin flapped open halfway down a pale hairy chest. And the designer jeans …

Rachel rushed over and jerked up his fly. “You’re drunk!”

“Are you surprised?” His voice rang loudly.

“Shush….”

She tried to drag him into the staff office, but he clutched at the countertop, swaying slightly. “You led me on!”

Heads began poking out from the aisles of books as readers took an interest. “Paul, please,” she begged. Regardless of whether she deserved this humiliation, he was jeopardizing his job by showing up inebriated. She had to get him out of here. Rachel grabbed his arm again, called over her shoulder, “Trix, help me.”

He flung them both off with a dramatic gesture, ruined by a loud belch. “When I’ve had my say.”

Until last night she and Paul hadn’t seen each other in six months because he’d been on sabbatical, studying some obscure Germanic dialect in Munich. Their reunion had come to an abrupt end on the way back to his apartment from the airport, when he’d proposed to her.

And Rachel had said no.

Their eighteen-month relationship had come to an even more abrupt end on his front doorstep as she’d desperately tried to explain a decision she couldn’t justify except by describing her feelings. Unfortunately, terms like “panic” and “claustrophobia” didn’t help him take the news any better.

Paul swallowed. “You broke my heart.”

“It’s not like you were crazy in love with me,” she reminded him gently. In fact, they’d never been as fond of each other as when they’d been apart and their unremarkable sex life had been supplanted by romantic telephone calls and e-mails.

He refocused on her with bleary-eyed outrage. “I proposed to you, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Rachel admitted. “Kind of.”

“Guess we should think about getting married,” had been his exact words. But their relationship had always been fueled by pragmatism, not passion. Paul wanted an independent, low-maintenance wife to support his brilliant career. And she wanted to start a family with a nice guy. Because Trixie was right, Rachel was running out of time. And her dating pool had always been the size of a goldfish pond. She was too self-sufficient for most guys … and too smart to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.

Paul seemed to realize she wasn’t reacting as she should. His face crumpled and he started to sob with a drunk’s easy tears. “You really don’t care, do you?”

Rachel blanched. Had his affections run deeper than she’d thought? “Of course I care.” But much as she hated hurting him, she couldn’t marry him. Even if only her right brain knew why. Seeing their audience growing, she tugged desperately on his arm. “Please, Paul, let me take you into the office, make you some coffee. You’re doing yourself no good here.”

“No!” He wiped his face with his sleeve and nearly fell over. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Devin Freedman appeared from out of nowhere and tipped Paul over one of his shoulders. “Where do you want him?” he asked Rachel.

CHAPTER TWO

THE SMART-ASS LIBRARIAN looked at him with none of the self-possession she had earlier. In fact her big gray eyes were haunted. “In here,” she said, ushering Devin into the office. “Trixie, take over.” With trembling fingers, she pulled the venetian blinds closed, then shut the door and leaned against it.

Devin dumped the drunk on the couch and ran a professional eye over him. He’d quit bawling and was rolling his head from side to side and moaning faintly. “Some kind of container might be useful,” he suggested. “He’ll hurl at some point.” Rachel looked at him blankly and he tried again. “Barf.” Still nothing. Where was a translator when he needed one? “Throw up … vomit.”

“Oh … oh!” She scanned the room, then found an empty cardboard box and bent over to pick it up. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed she had a nice ass. Rachel placed the box by the couch and backed away, her expression guilt-stricken. He suspected he knew what was worrying her. “Alcohol makes some people maudlin,” he offered. Particularly those who took themselves way too seriously. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You don’t understand,” she murmured. “He proposed yesterday and I turned him down.”

“That’s no surprise. There must be a fifteen-year age difference.”

“Seven years. I’m thirty-four.” Devin’s age. She didn’t look it. The librarian shook her head. “Not that age matters. The important thing now is that—”

“He’s acting like a wimp?”

“No!” She took a protective step toward the drunk. Anyone could see she had a conscience. That must be painful for her. “Paul had every right to expect me to say yes. I meant to say yes, only …” Her voice trailed off.

Paul sat up and grabbed the box. Rachel retreated and they both turned their backs, but couldn’t escape the awful retching sounds. “Only you realized you’d be making a terrible mistake,” Devin finished. Maybe the vintage clothes were an attempt to look older?

“I drove him to this.” The librarian’s slender throat convulsed. “And he’s not the first man I’ve let down. I … I’m a heartbreaker.”

As one who’d been given the description by the world’s press, as one who’d dated and even married the female heartbreaker equivalent, Devin was hard put not to laugh. Only the sincerity in her pale face stopped him from so much as a grin. She really believed it, which was kind of cute—if a little sad. And he thought he was self-delusional at times.

Not that she wouldn’t be pretty with a hell of a lot more makeup and a hell of a lot less clothes. The fastidious restraint of all those satin-covered buttons and dainty pearl earrings made Devin itch to pull Rachel’s sleek dark hair out of its practical ponytail. Mess it up a little. Understated elegance was exceedingly bland to a man whose career had depended on showmanship.

He’d deliberately dressed down to fit in today, and thought he’d done a pretty good job until the librarian’s gaze had fallen on his boots. No jewelry except one signet ring and one modest earring … hell, he was practically invisible.

The sound of retching stopped and they turned around. The drunk—Paul—had pushed up to a sitting position and was wiping his mouth on some copier paper. White-faced and sweating, he glared at Devin. “Who do you think you are, manhandling me like that?”

Devin shrugged. “Someone had to stop you making an ass of yourself.”

But Paul had already turned on Rachel. “I hope you’re happy reducing me to this state.”

“She didn’t force alcohol down your throat,” Devin said quietly.

The librarian swallowed. “Paul, I’m sorry. I had no idea you cared about me this much.”

“You think everyone’s as lukewarm as you are?” Paul balled the paper. “I did all the caring in that relationship. All the work in bed. You—”

“Have really, really bad taste in men,” Devin said, because Rachel was hugging herself and obviously taking this Paul’s rant way too seriously.

The librarian seemed to remember he was there. She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, but I can handle it from here.”

“You sure?” She was obviously out of her depth. “He’s likely to get more abusive. I can toss him in a cab for you.”

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly, opening the door, “but I’ll be okay.” Devin got the impression she wasn’t used to accepting help. Any more than he was used to offering it. For a moment he had an odd sense of his world shifting. But it had shifted so often lately he ignored it.

Something incongruous about her appearance had been bothering him, and as she bit her lip Devin finally figured out what it was. Her mouth—lush and full—was more suited to the L.A. strippers he’d shared stages with in the band’s early performing days than a prim librarian. He grinned just as Romeo grabbed the box and started hurling again.

Rachel stiffened. “I’m glad one of us finds this funny.”

“Your mouth doesn’t fit your profession,” he explained. “It’s like seeing something X-rated on the cartoon network.”

He didn’t think to censor himself because he’d been a rock star for seventeen years and never had to. And got a sharp reminder he was no longer in that world when she shut the door in his face.

“Lucky the librarian fantasy never made my top ten,” he told the door.

DEVIN WANTED TO BE treated as normal, and yet once his amusement wore off, Rachel’s reaction gave him a profound sense of dislocation.

She’d looked at him without his fame in the way and hadn’t liked what she’d seen. It was a scary thought, because whoever she saw was someone he was going to have to live with for the next forty plus years.

He strode across the road from the library into Albert Park, then stopped in a stand of tall palms that reminded him of L.A.—his home before his life depended on leaving it. For a full five minutes he looked up through the fronds to the blue, blue sky, homesick. Then he started walking again, around the quaint Victorian fountain, past oaks and a lot of trees he didn’t recognize.

This must be how refugees felt in a new land … displaced, wary. And yet he’d been born here, was still a citizen, though he’d left for his father’s country when he was two. He breathed in the smell of fresh-mown grass, only to regret it wasn’t L.A.'s smog.

“Your pancreas is shot to hell. Any alcohol and you’re dead.” The doctor had been blunt, and left him sitting in a private hospital room full of flowers from fans. The band had imploded at the same time as his health…. What the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life?

His car keys fell out of his hand; someone bent to pick them up. Another teenager—shit, this place made him feel like a dinosaur.

“Are you okay?” Gray eyes, intense in a pale face. Lank blond hair.

“Of course I am.” The kid stepped back and Devin took a deep breath. “I’m fine … thanks.” He couldn’t rush the ascent, but had to stop and acclimatize, then kick up a bit more. He reminded himself that the surface was there—even when he couldn’t see it.

“You’re Devin Freedman, aren’t you?” Nervously, the kid hitched up his baggy jeans. “I heard you’d be studying here this year.”

Living on a remote part of Waiheke Island since his arrival in New Zealand two months earlier, Devin had got used to being left in peace. Something else to give up. “Yeah,” he said grudgingly, “I’m him.”

In his drive to take control of his life, Devin had started taking online accounting courses to decipher his financial statements. A tutor had suggested university. When Devin stopped laughing he’d thought, why not?

And already his growing fiscal knowledge had paid off. He’d appointed a new financial advisor who’d found disturbing anomalies in some of Devin’s statements. It looked like someone had been ripping him off; unfortunately Devin suspected his brother. But he needed to be very sure before he acted.

“I’m a huge fan. Darkness Fell was a work of genius.”

“Not The Fallen or Crack the Whip?” Rage’s final albums.

The kid looked at his feet and shuffled. “I really liked the early stuff. I know the others sold well … I mean, not that’s there’s anything wrong with commercial albums….”

Devin put him out of his misery. “You’re right, they were crap.” By that point the band had barely been speaking.

“But you still had some phenomenal guitar riffs and—”

“You play?” Devin asked, cutting short the hero-worship. He gestured to the expensive guitar case slung over the kid’s shoulder.

“Bass mainly, but also some electric and acoustic—like you.” The next words came in a rush. “Would you sign my guitar for me?” At Devin’s nod, he unpacked a Gibson and scrambled in his bag for a Sharpie.

“What’s your name?”

“Mark White.”

Devin hesitated with his pen over the guitar.

“Your autograph will be fine,” insisted Mark. “I hate phoniness, too.”

Grinning, Devin signed, then handed back the bass. “See you around.”

MARK MANAGED A CASUAL NOD but sank onto a bench as soon as Devin disappeared. Mark’s knees were shaking. He clutched the neck of his instrument, looked at the manicured gardens of Albert Park and thought, I imagined that. No one meets a legend, a god among bass players walking through freakin’ rose beds.

He glanced down at his guitar and for a moment panicked because sunlight was bouncing off the lacquer and he couldn’t see it. But then he adjusted the angle and there it was scrawled across the maple. “To Mark, stay honest. Devin Freedman.”

And Mark grinned because one part of him wanted to run back to his apartment, jump on his computer and flog it on eBay, and the other wanted to sleep with it under his pillow. You are one screwed-up dude, Mark.

So what was new?

Still, he let himself be happy, because it wasn’t every day a guy got to meet his all-time hero. Then he looked toward the campus and his smile faded under the familiar gut-wrenching nausea, anger and terror. She was here … somewhere.

Mark had seen the University of Auckland envelope at the adoption agency when he’d asked the woman to check his file, claiming he was in an open adoption. Funny how people didn’t care about hiding envelopes. The woman had been very kind, considering he’d been lying to her. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

He’d lied again. “Sure.”

Abruptly, Mark stood and began walking. Why had his birth mother started out wanting an open adoption, then changed her mind and severed contact? The question had been eating away at him every since he’d discovered he had a different blood type to both his parents.

He’d searched through his parents’ private papers and found correspondence from an adoption agency. Mom and Dad still didn’t know he knew … and Mark tried not to blame them because it was clear she’d made secrecy a condition of adoption.

But his anger … his alienation had spilled over into his misbehavior. It had been a tough twelve months on everybody. He’d only talked his parents into letting him enroll at a university four hundred kilometers away because “honest, Mom and Dad, I see my future now and it’s all about getting an education and being normal like you want me to be.”

Like I used to be. When I knew who I was. But Mark had another agenda. He would confront his birth mother. She would sob an apology and beg his forgiveness. He would say, “You had your chance,” and walk away. Just like she had.

He’d worked out that she’d been seventeen when she had him. That made her thirty-four now.

It shouldn’t be too hard to find her.

THE FADED BLUE SEASIDE cottage was one of Waiheke Island’s first vacation homes, and unlike its newer neighbors, it was tiny and unpretentious. Not for the first time, Devin thought how well it suited his mother. He jumped the seaman’s rope fence and strode down the white shell path, giving a cursory pat to the concrete seal balancing a birdbath on its nose. Then he caught sight of the front door and frowned.

It was wide open and a gardening trowel lay abandoned on the doorstep. His pulse quickened, and though he told himself not to panic, he shouted, “Mom!”

Three heart-stopping seconds of silence and then a faint reply. “I’m out back.”

Devin walked through the dim interior to the rear garden, a sprawl of crunchy grass, lichen-covered fruit trees and roaming nasturtium. “How many times do I have to tell you to shut your damn door? Anyone could walk in.”

Holding a red bucket, his diminutive mother looked down from the top of a stepladder leaning against the peach tree. “And how many times do I have to tell you this isn’t L.A.?” She dropped a handful of small white peaches into the half-full bucket, then ran a hand through her short gray bob. “Any leaves in my hair?”

Devin put his hands on his hips. “Should you be doing stuff like this?”

“I’m not going to have another heart attack, honey.” Katherine held out the bucket. When he took it, she climbed sedately down the ladder. “Not now they’ve replaced the faulty stent.”

He reached out and helped her down the last couple of steps, and her hand seemed so frail in his. Briefly, her grip tightened, reassuring him with its strength.

Still, Devin said gruffly, “Is it any wonder I’m paranoid after two emergency flights in two months? If you’d listened to my advice earlier and got a second opinion—”

“Yes, dear.”

Reluctantly, he laughed. “Stay with me another week.” He owned the adjacent headland, sixteen acres of protected native bush shielding a clifftop residence.

“I’ve only just moved home. Besides, you cramp my style.”

“Stop you doing what you’re not supposed to, you mean,” he retorted.

“Dev, you’re turning into the old woman I refuse to become. I’m sure I wasn’t as bossy as this when you were in recovery.”

“No,” he said drily, “you were worse.”

She ignored that, instructing him to pick some lemon balm for herbal tea on their meander back to the house. “How was your first day at school?”

“The other kids talk funny.” Ignoring the kettle, he turned on the espresso machine he’d installed.

“Make any friends?”

He gave her the Devin Freedman glower, the one that Holy Roller magazine had described as the definitive bad rocker look. Being his mother she simply waited. “No, but then I don’t expect to.”

“You know I’m on the mend now, darling, so if you want to go back to L.A.—”

“I don’t,” he lied. “Got anything to eat?”

“There’s a batch of scones cooling on the counter.”

He burned his fingers snatching a couple, but feeding him distracted his mother from the subject of his future.

Five years earlier, when he’d quit rehab for the second time, she had told him she wouldn’t spend her life watching him self-destruct, and had moved back to her native New Zealand. It had been a last-ditch effort to snap him into reality. Devin had felt nothing but relief, then added insult to injury by minimizing contact. It hadn’t stopped Katherine from being the first person at his hospital bed.

Now she needed him to take care of her. Whatever she said.

His older brother, still living stateside, couldn’t be relied on. A keen sense of the ridiculous had kept Devin’s ego in check over the last crazy seventeen years, but the planet wasn’t big enough for Zander’s, who still blamed Devin for the breakup of the band.

The truth was Devin had held Rage together for a lot more years than its flamboyant lead singer deserved.

So if it turned out Zander had been screwing him over … well, Devin didn’t think he could put even his mother’s peace of mind before his need for justice.

CHAPTER THREE

“HE LOOKS LIKE HE NEEDS a friend,” Rachel said to Trixie two days later. She’d noticed the teenager yesterday during library orientation. Now, as then, he walked around with his shoulders slightly hunched, blond fringe falling over his eyes and a scowl on his young face that did nothing to hide his apprehension. She remembered what it was to be young, alone and terrified. “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

“Oh, hell, you’re not starting a new collection of waifs and strays already, are you?” Trixie complained as she sorted a pile of books for reshelving. “We’re not even a week into the first term.”

Rachel stood up from her computer. “You were a waif and stray once, remember?” Trixie had been a scholarship kid who’d practically lived at the library in winter because she couldn’t afford to heat her flat. Rachel had given her a part-time job, which turned full-time when she’d graduated last year.

“Which is why I’m protecting you now,” Trixie reasoned. “You’re useless at setting boundaries.”

“Tell me about it. I keep getting bossed around by my junior.”

The boy reached for a book on one of the shelves and the backpack slipped off his scrawny shoulder, spilling books and pens. A red apple rolled across the carpet. Rachel started forward.

Trixie caught her by the arm. “Leave some time for yourself this year. Especially now that you’re single again.”

Rachel freed herself, but the teenager had already fastened his backpack and was slouching out the door. She turned to Trixie. “Don’t do that again,” she said quietly.

Under her pale makeup, Trixie reddened. “I was only trying to look out for you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a babysitter.” She needed that reminder occasionally.

Ducking her head, her assistant nodded. Was there anything more pathetic than a sheepish Goth?

“You’re a good friend,” she added, “but, kid, I’m bruised not broken.” Trixie had no idea what Rachel could survive. “Anyway, Paul rang and apologized this morning.”

Trixie’s head jerked up and her kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “I hope you told him where to stick it.”

“Mmm.” She’d been tempted, but being in the wrong was punishment enough for Paul. Rachel knew how that felt.

“And you reckon you don’t need looking after?” Disgusted, Trixie picked up a stack of books and headed for aisle three. “At least date guys who can handle their drink.” She pointed one black-painted nail. “Someone like him.”

Beyond Trixie’s finger, Rachel saw Devin Freedman scanning titles in the business section. Instinctively, she sucked in her lips to minimize their natural pout at the very moment he chose to glance over. Amusement warmed his eyes and she froze.

Instead of politely looking away, he folded his arms and grinned, waiting to see what she’d do. Mortified, she turned her back on him and blew out a puff of irritation. Dreadful man.

When she’d recovered her composure, she turned back to find him standing right in front of the counter. “Hi, Heartbreaker,” he said casually. “How’d it go with Romeo the other day?”

Rachel frowned. “It’s not a subject I want to discuss with you. And please don’t call me that.”

“You’re still pissed about the comment I made about your mouth,” he guessed. “I did mean it as a compliment.”

She snorted. “That I have a mouth like a hooker? Still, it’s better than a sewer, I suppose.”

“Actually, I was thinking stripper,” he replied lazily. “But I love the outraged dignity. Put me in my place again.”

“I’m a librarian, not a proctologist,” she said sweetly, and he chuckled.

This guy had a thicker hide than an armadillo, and momentarily, Rachel envied him. She might have accepted Paul’s apology, but it would take a long time to forget being called cold and unfeeling. She had too many feelings; that’s why she protected herself. Maybe she should be grateful for any compliment, however insulting. At least Devin meant no harm.

“Look.” She adopted a conciliatory tone because one of them had to be a grown-up. “I was annoyed the other day by your comment, but I shouldn’t have shut the door on you. That must have been hurtful and I’m sorry.”

“You think you hurt …” This time he laughed out loud. “You’re really quite sweet under that Miss Marple exterior, aren’t you?”

She realized he was referring to today’s vintage outfit—a high-waisted black skirt paired with a white ruffle-front blouse, herring net tights and pewter ribbon-tie patent shoes. The man had just delivered another backhanded compliment.

Almost, almost she was amused. But Rachel’s ego was still too battered. She eyed his designer stubble and rumpled roan hair. Today the boots were black and the faded jeans set off by a black leather belt, complete with a big, ornate silver buckle, that sat low on his narrow hips. “At least I don’t look like a cowboy after a week on the trail. Even Trigger made more effort.”

His eyes narrowed appreciatively. But before he could answer, a shocked male voice said, “Rachel!” Looking left, she saw several of the university’s top staff. The vice chancellor flanked by her two deputies … one of whom was Rachel’s boss. “Why are you insulting Mr. Freedman?”

In that split second she comprehended that if the vice chancellor was in attendance, Devin was donating money—lots of it. “He’s.” she began, then stopped. Arrogant and cheeky, that’s why, didn’t seem like a good enough reason.

Devin decided to help her out. “Oh, Rach and I are old friends.” He could read every emotion that crossed her expressive face. The smart retort she had to bite back, the irritation at being beholden to him, a begrudging gratitude. “That’s why I suggested meeting in the library.” He twinkled at her. “She creates such a congenial atmosphere.”

She twinkled back. “So exactly how much cash are you giving us, mate?” Oh, she was sharp, this one. Still, Devin’s appreciation was tinged with annoyance. He liked to keep his philanthropy private.

The vice chancellor looked surprised. “I thought we were all keeping this a dark secret?”

Devin’s gaze pinned Rachel. “We are.”

Her chin rose. “Now that’s not a tone to take with an old friend.”

He’d never been great with authority and it amused him that she wasn’t, either—unless it was hers. On an impulse Devin leaned over and planted a light kiss on her compressed lips. “Well, see you later … old friend.”

He could almost feel the daggers thudding into his back as he steered the vice chancellor and his deputies toward the cluster of red leather armchairs out of view.

He’d discovered this space two days ago before Paul had disturbed the peace. Each corner of the library was glassed-in with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, towering silver birches swayed in Auckland’s constant wind, their leaves dappling light and shade across the utilitarian carpet. Sparrows peppered the branches and their noisy chirruping gave Devin an illusion of companionship.

He wanted solitude, yet when he got it, his thoughts became bleak. Too often lately he’d found himself in his mother’s cottage, which only made her worry about him. And that was intolerable.

The vice chancellor introduced himself as Professor Joseph Stannaway. Like his companions, he wore a suit, his short gray hair neatly marshaled to one side, and his strong face unlined … probably because he wore an expression of permanent solemnity. “As I said to your representative,” he began as they took seats, “we wanted to thank you personally for your generous donation.”

“Really, there’s no need—”

“And to try again,” the chancellor interrupted with a smile, “to persuade you into an official ceremony. It would garner a lot of media attention, which could only be good for the university’s profile. Perhaps the bank could produce one of those large checks … what do you say?”

Playfulness didn’t sit well on the man—he seemed too educated for it. It must be hard, Devin thought dispassionately, to devote your career to higher learning and then have to be grateful to someone who’d made a fortune writing lyrics like “Take me, baby, before I scream, you’re the booty in my American dream.”

“I’m sorry.” Devin deliberately shunned all publicity. Sticking his head up over the trenches for the paparazzi to take another shot at? Never again.

The delegation spent the next twenty minutes trying to change Devin’s mind with flattery, which only irritated him, chiefly because in the past it might have worked. Maybe that’s why he got so much enjoyment from Rachel’s barbed observations—they were novel. Of course, the kiss would really stir her up; a sensible man would regret it.

He grinned as Stannaway droned on. Not, unfortunately, one of Devin’s attributes.

RACHEL WAS REHEARSING her rebuke to Devin the next day when the boy she’d noticed came up to her station.

“What can I do for you?” Her smile must have had an edge because he eyed her warily as he shoved back his hair.

“I was wondering if you had any lists of all the university staff … you know, like everybody, not just the lecturers. And their ages.”

“Not here. You might be able to access some information through the registrar, but there’s possibly some privacy issues around their release.”

His face fell. “Oh.”

“What’s the name? Maybe I know the person and can save you the trouble.”

“Um, she’s an old friend of my parents. I was just hoping I’d … recognize something when I saw the list.”

Poor kid, he really was desperate for a friend if he was hunting down such tenuous connections. “Where are you from?” Rachel asked kindly. She was supposed to be leaving on her morning break but this was more important.

“A farm outside Cambridge.”

“Really? I grew up in Hamilton.” They were only twenty minutes apart. “Small world. First time living away from home?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“It’s hard initially, but you’ll find your feet soon. A lot of the first years are in the same boat, all scared—”

The teen glowered. “I’m not scared.”

Damn, wrong word. If Devin hadn’t rattled her, she wouldn’t have chosen it.

“I see you’ve got a book there … would you like me to check it out for you? It will save you joining the queue at the front desk.”

It was a peace offering for hurting his pride, and he took it. “Yeah, thanks.” He handed over the book along with his library card.

Which didn’t work. “They do this sometimes at the beginning of term,” she said. “Let me just check that all your details are filled in….” The screen came up. “Mark … nice name. Okay, one of the library’s ID codes is missing.”

Glancing at his address, she noticed he wasn’t living in residence, which was a shame; he’d make more friends that way. She nodded at the guitar case by his feet. “You know, the university has a lot of music clubs you might be interested in.”

“I’m not really a club-joining kind of guy.”

About to reply, Rachel caught sight of his birth date and her breath hitched. June 29, 1992.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Her fingers were suddenly clumsy on the keyboard as she reminded herself of the facts. On average, there were sixty-four thousand births a year in New Zealand. Which meant around one hundred and seventy-seven people—eighty-eight boys—shared her son’s birthday. But she had to ask. “So what do your parents do?”

Mark frowned. “You need that for the form?”

“No, it’s processing.”

“Mom’s a teacher.” Rachel’s pulse kicked up a notch. “And Dad’s a farmer.”

Not a policeman. As always, the disappointment was crushing enough to make Rachel feel sick. Her fingers were damp on the keyboard; she wiped them on her skirt, chiding herself for an overactive imagination. She gave the teenager his card.

“Here you go. All sorted now.”

Mark shoved it back in his jeans. “He used to be a cop,” he added, and the smile froze on her face.

Someone who knew how to keep her baby safe, she’d thought when short-listing the applicants with her social worker.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked.

“Fine.” Her heart was beating so hard he must be able to hear it. Rachel loosened the top button of her shirt, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. There was only one way to know.

“You have something in your hair,” she said abruptly, reaching out a trembling hand.

“Yeah?” He started flicking his fingers through the blond strands, “What is it?”

“A … an insect … let me.”

Obediently, he leaned forward, and she brushed the hair away from his right ear. “Turn your head a little.”

Just at the hairline behind his ear, she saw it. A birthmark the size of her thumbnail. Rachel gasped and he broke away, raking both hands through his hair. “What! Did you get it?”

She stared at him, unable to speak. Tall like his father, with his fairer hair. His eyes—shock jolted through her—were the same color as hers, but the shape was Steve’s. “It’s okay,” she croaked, pretending to flick something away. “It was a moth.”

“A moth.” Shaking his head, Mark picked up his guitar case. “Jeez, the way you were going on I thought it had to be a paper wasp at least.”

No, don’t leave. “You’ve heard of bookworms, haven’t you? Lethal to libraries.” Rachel memorized his features. “The term also applies to certain moth larvae. From the family oecophoridae.” Outwardly she smiled and talked; inwardly she splintered into tiny little pieces. “Of the order … now what was it?” My son, my baby. You grew up. “Starts with L.”

Mark shifted from one foot to the other.

“Lepidoptera,” she said brightly. “Of the order Lepidoptera.” The tiny bundle treasured in her memory, gone forever. But her son—her grown son—was here, and the reality of him shredded her with love and pain and need.

“Wow,” he said politely, stepping back from the counter. “That’s really interesting.”

“Wait!”

“Yeah?” He was impatient to get away from the crazy woman, and how could she blame him? With all her heart she wanted to say, I’m your mother.

But she couldn’t.

Two years earlier, she’d written a letter to the adoptive parents through the agency. If he ever wants to meet his birth mother, please give him my details.

Their reply was devastating. In keeping with your wishes at the time, we’ve never told our son he was adopted. We ‘re very sorry at the pain this must cause you, but you must understand to do so now would be detrimental to our own relationship with him.