Night Music. Bj James

never heal, and the pain and guilt never eased. Perhaps for some, as for him, it shouldn’t.

      If, as the cliché promised, the blind couldn’t lead the halt, who was he to play Galahad?

      And if the question had an answer, it wasn’t one he wanted to face. Not now. Not yet. So it was that when she approached his loitering space, he turned away, determinedly immersing himself in deciding which brand of coffee he needn’t buy.

      He sensed her faltering step rather than heard it. Something more than the rustle of her clothing, or the scent of sunlight and flowers, warned of her nearness. An inexplicable awareness sent an uncommon disquiet racing through him.

      More to counter any feelings regarding Valentina’s latest lost lamb than an interest in the coffee he wouldn’t be drinking on a Belle Terre morning, he reached for a brightly labeled packet. Unexpectedly, their hands collided, but his a fraction behind. With a pilot’s instincts and reflexes, his fingers closed over hers, keeping the package from tumbling out of her grasp.

      For a moment neither moved nor spoke. Devlin stared down at a mass of hair ranging from dark gold to the palest silver, and falling from a center part. Barely realizing he was holding his breath, he waited for her head to lift.

      When she stirred, her unshielded gaze rising to his, her eyes were golden brown and fringed by dark lashes. Her look was remote, without emotion.

      “Pardon me.” Her voice was low and restrained, as remote, as emotionless, as her gaze. Each spare word was without accent, and perfectly enunciated in the quiet tone of a woman apart. A woman going through the motions of her life, taking each moment as it came. Coping…only coping.

      Devlin was struck by the conviction that there should be fire in those eyes. The light of the pleasure of life, the need of an accomplished woman to be all she had worked to be. Above all, there should be passion, desire, love, and contentment.

      Wondering how glorious that gaze would be alight with love, he responded belatedly, “What is there to pardon?”

      Turning from his study of her face to the packet they held jointly, Devlin’s lips moved in a rare smile. “Unless preferring the same brand of coffee is a problem for you, Mrs….?”

      The implied question seemed to fill the little space separating them. A simple question, but a look of haunting sadness altered the line of her lips. “It’s Miss. I’m not married. As I suspect you’ve observed.” Her voice was steady, hardly more than a breath. “And my name isn’t important.”

      Devlin’s smile, not the smile of old but one that would have set Valentina cheering, was undaunted. “Suppose I go first?”

      “No.” Her hair brushed over her shoulders with the slight shake of her head. “I don’t mean to insult you, but who you are doesn’t matter since it isn’t likely we’ll ever reach for the same package again. So, if you would give me back my hand, I’ll take my bit of coffee and leave you to the rest of your shopping.”

      “I’m called Devlin.”

      “My hand, please.” There was no anger in the reminder, no struggle to pull from his grasp.

      “You’re in a hurry?” His clasp didn’t ease.

      “My hand, please, Mr. Devlin.”

      “O’Hara.” Devlin wasn’t certain why he persisted, except that even anger would be an improvement over the lost, sad look.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      A spark of interest? Recognition of the name? Indignation? Or irritation, pure and simple? Whatever the reason, however coolly couched, he viewed a response of any sort as encouraging. “Devlin is my given name. O’Hara, my surname.”

      “Congratulations, Mr. O’Hara. I’m sure being a Devlin and an O’Hara is a marvelous experience.” A bit of life, albeit small, flashed in her gaze. “Now, if you’re through making a spectacle of both of us, I’d like to be on my way.”

      “Of course you would.” Releasing her, with a small bow, he stepped back. “Have a good day, Lady Golden Eyes.”

      Making no acknowledgment of the name he’d bestowed in lieu of the name she’d refused him, she dropped the disputed package in a basket looped over her wrist. Without a hint of anger, she turned and walked away. He’d been dismissed, as if he’d never existed.

      “Golden Eyes.” He called softly, but not so softly she didn’t hear. At her hesitant step, he said, “You forgot something.”

      Facing him, the frown line deepening between her brows, she let her gaze sweep over him, seeing more than a face and a hand for the first time. “I beg your pardon, Mr. O’Hara?”

      The apology again. “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

      Her head tilted, her questioning look met his.

      “Never mind.” The grin that had been buried in grief for months warmed his face again. “It isn’t important.”

      “In that case, I’ll leave you to your shopping once more.”

      “The coffee.” Devlin indicated the silver foil package in her basket. “I was here first, that package is mine.”

      “Yours…?” With a start, she looked down at her basket then back again at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, there are others.”

      Devlin nodded. In recent neglect, his black hair had grown quite long—a lock fell over his forehead. Raking it back, he grinned again. “That’s the one I picked, and that’s the one I want.”

      This time no flicker of emotion showed in her face. “In that case.” Taking the coffee from her basket, she returned to him. Taking his hand in hers, offering no comment on the scars marring his palm, she placed the packet in his grasp. “Be my guest, Mr. I’m-called-Devlin O’Hara.”

      Spinning about, she walked away, dismissing him again. He started to call out, to apologize, but he’d disturbed her enough for one day. Or any day, for he wouldn’t be around for more.

      He would keep to the letter of the half day he’d promised Valentina. Then he would turn his back on Belle Terre and the woman his sister thought could be saved.

      “Perhaps she can.” His lips barely moved, his words only a breath more than a thought. As he watched her move down the aisle, he remembered details he’d missed from afar—the frown line etched between her tawny brows, shadows lying like bruises beneath lightless eyes. The bittersweet tilt of a beautiful mouth.

      A mouth meant for kisses, not sorrow.

      While he struggled to put the errant thought aside, Devlin O’Hara felt a twinge of regret that he couldn’t erase the frown, or put a sparkle back in her eyes. On impulse he’d called her Lady Golden Eyes, but he suspected that in moments of unbridled anger or love those eyes would be as bfiercely golden brown as a tigress’s.

      Against his will, his thoughts turned again to her lips. The gentle bow, the full under lip, as tawny pink as a rose petal moist with dew. How would her mouth look in a smile meant only for him? How would it feel beneath his? How sweet would she taste?

      With more force than he intended, he dropped the coffee in his basket. Even in his mind he wouldn’t be lover or savior.

      If she could be led back to the living, it wouldn’t be by his hand. There was still fire banked there beneath the ice of grief and guilt. Hopefully someday she would be warmed enough by it to reach out and find her own way to resolution.

      There was strength beneath the aloof veneer. Strength that allowed her to cut herself off from pain that might destroy her. So now she lived in limbo. For some, in the long run, it could be destructive…for others only a period of quiet healing.

      Was that the key? Was Kate Gallagher a woman who sought a quiet life denied her? Perhaps that explained why her voice remained quiet and calm, whether she was or not. The outward control was a gift as well as