Wish For The Moon. Кэрол Мортимер

favourite places, somewhere where she could be alone to think. And for the last two nights she had sat up there playing all her Quinn Taylor records, hardly able to believe that today he would be coming to stay with them. And now he had requested more of her company. Maybe she had misunderstood his last question; he certainly couldn’t regard her as a child if he wanted to spend more time with her!

      ‘Go ahead, love,’ her uncle was the one to encourage. ‘Your aunt and I can clear away here.’

      ‘Oh, but—–’

      ‘Let the girl have some fun, Madge,’ her uncle cut in firmly. ‘It isn’t as if she has much around here to distract her normally,’ he added drily.

      The farm was part of the thousands of acres owned by the Farnham family, part of the Hampshire estate, and with no close neighbours Lise usually spent her evenings reading in her room or listening to records. Occasionally she would go into town and go out with a couple of her friends, but mainly she just stayed at home.

      ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving you to clear away,’ Quinn Taylor spoke smoothly. ‘Perhaps Lise and I can do the dishes for you?’

      She blushed as he smiled at her encouragingly, loving the way he said her name, almost making it a caress. She wouldn’t in the least mind doing the boring chore if she were going to be alone with Quinn Taylor in the kitchen!

      ‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ her aunt refused lightly. ‘You all go on, Hector and I can manage here.’

      Lise was well aware of the fact that it was only their guest’s presence that was excusing her from doing the work; her aunt was usually very strict about the chores she had to do during the day, and washing-up after the meals was the least of them.

      Given the unexpected freedom, Lise was the first one out of the house, all the time aware of the warm sensuality of the man who walked along behind her talking quietly to Fergus.

      ‘Only another hour until your bedtime, isn’t it?’

      Lise’s eyes flashed deeply green at the taunting voice of her cousin’s girlfriend, turning to glare at her. ‘The fact that I’m petite merely gives the illusion of my being young,’ she returned, looking pointedly at the other girl’s height, Terri being almost six feet tall.

      Terri’s mouth twisted. ‘Try not to drool all over the poor man,’ she mocked in a bored voice. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t want his shirt wet!’

      Lise’s cheeks were flushed at the barb, and she glanced uncomfortably behind them to see if the two men had heard their conversation; they were some way behind, still talking softly together.

      Was her fascination with Quinn Taylor that obvious, or was Terri just being her usual bitchy self? Maybe it was a little of both, she realised ruefully, but could she help it if the man made her feel weak at the knees?

      She had sat and gazed at one of his album covers last night, a close-up of his face as he smiled warmly into the camera. But the photograph hadn’t been able to do justice to the silky thickness of his hair, or the sensual slumbrousness of those deep-blue eyes. And without the make-up that had obviously needed to be worn beneath the hot lights of the camera his skin was more rugged, his jaw square and firm. In the photograph he had been wearing a thick jumper but tonight he wore a royal-blue shirt unbuttoned at the throat to reveal the start of the dark hair that no doubt covered most of his chest, his denims snug to his hips and thighs; Fergus had obviously warned him there would be no dressing up for dinner in the Morrison household, no matter who their guest was. He looked as if he were more comfortable in his casual clothes than he could ever have been in a formal suit, anyway.

      Could she help it if he was much more devastating in the flesh than he was on an album cover or on television? And couldn’t she be excused for staring at him a little? Damn Terri for making her so self-conscious that she was afraid even to glance at him now!

      The loft ran the whole length of the cow-barn, the roof reinforced to take the weight of the piano that stood near the floor-length window, the other end of the room converted to a lounge, with a stereo system wired up there.

      Quinn grinned at Fergus as he picked up the top three albums in the pile. ‘I can’t fault your taste in music,’ he drawled, all three albums his.

      Fergus grinned back, as sandy-haired as his father, although happily neither had the freckles that often went with that colouring. His laughing blue eyes were warm with laughter. ‘All the Quinn Taylor albums you’ll find there are Lise’s,’ he admitted softly. ‘I only became a fan because she played your music so much it was either that or go insane!’

      Lise blushed uncomfortably as Quinn turned to her questioningly. ‘Your songs are so—real,’ she said awkwardly. ‘They often make me cry.’

      His expression gentled. ‘I’m sorry. I never like to be responsible for making a lovely lady cry.’

      She shrugged. ‘I only cry because the songs are so beautiful.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he accepted huskily.

      Lise stared at him, mesmerised. And somehow she knew that not all of the lines beside his eyes had been caused by laughter, that he had known his share of sadness too.

      Of course he had known sadness, she mentally rebuked herself, hadn’t his wife often years left him last summer, taking their daughter with her? For a long time there had been rumours of a reconciliation, but now those rumours were suggesting there would in fact be a divorce instead. Considering some of Quinn’s best songs were about the happiness he had known with his family this had to be a deep blow to him.

      ‘How about we make our own music?’ Fergus lightly cut in on the awkward moment, acknowledging Lise’s grateful smile with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Quinn?’ he indicated the piano as he picked up his guitar for himself.

      ‘And what do we play?’ Terri drawled as she leant gracefully against the piano.

      ‘You can use Lise’s guitar.’ He handed it to her with a grin, patting the stool beside his. ‘And Lise can share the piano with Quinn.’

      She swallowed hard as Quinn moved accommodatingly along the bench stool, sitting gingerly beside him, her pulse racing at his proximity.

      But her awkwardness left her after several minutes, as she struggled to keep up with Fergus as he moved from one sing-along song to another, the sensuously slender hands that moved along the keys beside her own distracting her from paying full attention to what she was doing. Quinn had lovely hands, long and thin, with tiny dark hairs covering the backs of his fingers. He made her own tiny hands look childlike, making her fully aware of how forcefully muscular he was.

      And she was fascinated as he sang a rowdy song with Fergus, able to recognise that his voice was as true now as it was on his albums.

      Suddenly he turned and once again caught her staring at him, sharing a grin with her before turning back to her cousin. Lise felt as if someone had struck her in the chest.

      She was in love! Fully, completely, utterly, in love with Quinn Taylor. And now that he knew she wasn’t a child he seemed to like her too!

      She, Lise Morrison, who had never had a boyfriend in her life, was in love with Quinn Taylor, a man who was known worldwide for his wonderful singing talent, who grossed millions every year in revenue from his songs and albums. It was incredible. Wonderful. It was impossible!

      She was seventeen, he was thirty-two; he was still married, even if he was getting a divorce.

      She felt so deflated she could have cried. As it was she played all the completely wrong notes, breaking off apologetically as Quinn turned to her with gentle enquiry.

      Fergus broke off too as he sensed her distress. ‘Terri and I will go over to the house and get some beers,’ he suggested lightly. ‘We need it after all that singing.’ His arm was about Terri’s shoulders as they left to go over to the house.

      Lise knew she should move away from Quinn, that her emotions were too vulnerable sitting this