After The Music. Diana Palmer

the baby-blue and silver-satin shorts that displayed her long, tanned legs to advantage. She laughed at the stage leer, knowing it was only an old joke between them.

      “Well, aren’t you the picture, Satin Girl?” he said with a laugh. He had dark hair and was just her height.

      “I don’t know. Am I?” She struck a pose.

      “My kingdom for a camera.” He sighed. “Where do you get those sexy costumes, anyway?”

      “I make them,” she confided, and laughed at his astonished reassessment of her garments. “Well, I did take a sewing course, and it relaxes me when I’m not singing.”

      “Little Miss Domestic,” he teased.

      “Not me, mister,” she drawled. “I know all I care to about housework.”

      “In that tiny apartment.” He sighed. “Don’t make me laugh. You could mop the floor with a paper towel.”

      “It’s home,” she said defensively.

      “It would be better stocked if you wouldn’t give away everything you earn,” he said, glaring at her. “Secondhand furniture, secondhand TV, secondhand everything, just because you’re the softest touch going. No wonder you never have any money!”

      “A lot of my neighbors are worse off than I am,” she reminded him. “If you don’t believe in poverty, let me introduce you around my neighborhood. You’ll get an education in the desperation of inescapable struggle.”

      “I know, you don’t have to rub it in.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just wish you’d save a bit.”

      “I save some.” She shrugged.

      “End of conversation,” he murmured dryly. “I know when I’m beaten. Are you coming to my party tomorrow night?”

      “What party?”

      “The one I’m giving at my apartment.”

      She’d never known Al to give a party. She stared at him suspiciously. “Who’s going to be there?”

      “A lot of people you don’t know, including Thorn.”

      Just the sound of his nickname threw her. “Hamilton Regan Thorndon the Third in the flesh?” she taunted.

      “If you call him that, do it from the other side of a door, will you?” he cautioned, smiling. “He hates it. I’ve called him Thorn since we were kids.”

      “I suppose he’s a stuffy old businessman with a thick paunch and a bald head?”

      “He’s thirty-four,” he told her. His eyes were calculating. “Why do you react that way every time I mention him? You clam up.”

      She stared down at her black boots. “He uses women.”

      “Well, of course he does,” he burst out. “For God’s sake, they use him, too! He’s rich and he doesn’t mind spending money on them. He’s a bachelor.”

      Her mind drifted to the past. Rich men with money. Bait. Using it like bait. Catching desperate women. She winced at the memory. “Mama,” she whispered and tears welled up. She turned away, shaking with subdued rage.

      “Odd that he isn’t married.”

      Al was watching her with open curiosity. “My God, no one could live with Thorn.” He laughed bitterly. “Why do you think our mother stays in Europe, and I have an apartment in the city?”

      “You said he loves women,” she reminded him.

      “Nobody is allowed that close,” he said flatly. “Thorn was betrayed once, and he’s never cared about a woman since, except in the obvious ways. Thorn is like his nickname. He’s prickly and passionate and rock stubborn. His executives bring jugs of Maalox to board meetings.”

      “I’d bring a battle-ax,” she commented dryly. “Or maybe a bazooka. I don’t like arrogant ladies’ men.”

      “Yes, I know. You two would hit it off like thunder,” he returned, “because Thorn doesn’t like aggressive women. He prefers the curling kitten type.”

      She’d have bet he’d been hoping all his life for someone to match him. She was almost sorry because the pattern of her own life had made it impossible for her to be interested. It would have been fascinating to take him on. But she was as cold as the leather of the boots she wore onstage. Ironic. She was a rock star with a sensuous reputation, and her experience of men had been limited to a chaste kiss here and there. She found men unsatisfying and unreliable. Her heart was whole. She’d never given it. She never would.

      She got up from her perch and flexed her shoulders wearily. It had been a long night.

      “I could use a few hours’ sleep,” she said on a sigh. “Thanks for coming all this way to give us the news.”

      “My pleasure,” he said. “The vocalist who had been hired by the club manager was involved in a car crash. She’ll be okay, but she won’t perform for a while. They were relieved that you and the band didn’t mind rushing home to fill the spot.”

      Sabina smiled. “We’re always rushing somewhere. We’re grateful to get the work.”

      “About tomorrow night.” He seemed oddly hesitant.

      “The party?” She studied him and sensed something. “You’re up to something. What is it?”

      He shook his head ruefully. “You read me too well. There’s this benefit.”

      “Aha!”

      “I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow night when I pick you up. I need some help. It’s for underprivileged kids,” he added.

      “Then count me in, whatever it is.” She stifled a yawn. “Who’s the hostess for you?”

      “Jessica.” He looked sad and lost. His eyes met hers and fell. “I wish…nothing.”

      “You’ve never invited Jess to a party before,” she remarked gently.

      “Thorn would eat her alive if he thought I was interested in her,” he said, grinding his teeth. “I told him I couldn’t get anyone else to hostess…. Oh, hell, I’ve got to run. My pilot’s waiting at the airport. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I thought I’d catch your last performance and tell you about the club date. Pick you up tomorrow night at six, okay?”

      “Okay,” she said, reluctant to let the matter drop. What a horror his brother sounded! “See you. And thanks for the club date, pal.”

      “My pleasure. Night.” He turned and walked away, and her eyes followed him with open speculation. Could he be getting interested in Jessica? What a wonderful thing that would be. Her two best friends. She smiled to herself.

      * * *

      It was late afternoon when Sabina finally got to her own apartment. She walked up the steps, gazing fondly down at the block of row houses. She’d lived here all her adult life, ever since she’d left the orphanage at the age of eighteen. It wasn’t a socially acceptable neighborhood. It was a poor one. But she had good neighbors and good friends here, and she loved the children who played on the cracked sidewalk. It was close to the bay, so she could hear the ships as they came into port, and she could smell the sea breezes. From her room on the fourth floor, she sometimes watched them as they passed, the heaving old freighters moving with an odd grace. But the very best thing about her apartment was the rent. She could afford it.

      “Back home, I see, Miss Cane,” Mr. Rafferty said at the foot of the staircase. He was about seventy and bald and always wore an undershirt and trousers around the building. He lived on his Social Security checks and had no family—unless you counted the other tenants.

      “Yes, sir.” Sabina grinned. “Got something for you,” she murmured. She dug into her bag and produced a small sack of pralines