Bad Influence

3

T HE MAN WAS ABOUT AS irritating as they came, Paige thought as she drove south on Route 101 toward Los Angeles. Zach Reed was cocky, outrageous, egotistical, obstinate and patronizing. I think you’d like my edge, her foot. What she’d like would be to have him gone, him and his grandmother with her wacky ideas. She didn’t need Zach Reed in her life. That she’d woken up thinking about him didn’t put her in any better mood.

Here she was, driving down one of her favorite stretches of highway on a beautiful morning. She ought to be enjoying it, reveling in it. She certainly didn’t need to be getting an ulcer over the headache next door.

No matter how sexy he was.

The highway wound along right next to the water, with nothing between it and the waves but a riprap-covered slope. The narrow beach was deserted at this hour. The sun was only just beginning to peek over the inland coastal bluffs. Bereft of buildings, this stretch was the province only of the wet-suited surfers who bobbed out in the waves, their cars parked in a line on the shoulder. Between Santa Barbara and Ventura, Route 101 was as close as you could get to the edge of the continent without falling off.

And the thought had her snorting in irritation. Live life on the edge, indeed. Zach Reed was one of those guys who considered himself the answer to every woman’s prayer. Well, she didn’t have any prayers for him and she didn’t need any answers. She was perfectly happy with her life as it was—or would be if she could take care of Lyndon’s concerns about the museum.

And that meant dealing with Zach Reed, no matter how little she wanted to do it. She flashed briefly on that moment in the parking lot, that instant he’d been so close she could feel the heat from his body, when she’d seen in his eyes where he could take her.

Paige shivered. She liked nice men. She liked quiet, respectful relationships. Zach Reed wasn’t about any of those. An affair with him would be a wild roller coaster, a thrill ride that would take her breath, her will and very possibly her sanity.

Not that she was even remotely considering it. She ran the windows down and let the breeze come in. No more thinking about Zach Reed. He was already miles behind her. Getting out of town for the morning was the perfect antidote. She’d head home, pick up some clothes, her laptop, the files she needed for work.

If she’d timed it right, she’d hit L.A. just after rush hour and get straight through to her Hancock Park condo. Call it an hour and a half, maybe two. She’d be back in Santa Barbara by early afternoon.

Adjusting her sunglasses, she settled in more comfortably and headed down the highway.

Z ACH LEANED BACK ON the couch in Gloria’s guesthouse, looking up through the skylights to the overcast sky above. By noon, it would burn off to reveal a blue so pure it hurt the eyes. For now, it was gray and inscrutable. Idly he strummed the electric guitar he held and began to play a blues riff. A two-note riff in E, that classic staple of the blues, that low thud that was the rhythm of a heartbeat, the rhythm of footsteps.

The rhythm of sex.

Without conscious thought, he vaulted off into the high, wailing notes of a solo that he played against the basic rhythm in his head. He played on instinct, fingers stroking the fret board, working the strings, pulling out the keening cries of pain and ecstasy. It was what he’d always loved about the blues—being able to go with it and see where it took him. He was never happier than when he was playing lead over the rhythm laid down by his band.

His band.

What did you do when you’d had a job for over twenty years and you got laid off?

On impulse, he picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Creative Music Associates,” a woman’s voice said crisply.

“Is this Bonnie?” Zach asked.

“Yes, it is. Is this Zach?”

“Bingo. Still trying to reach Barry.” They’d become good friends over the past three weeks, his manager’s secretary and he.

“Just a minute, Zach, I’ll see if I can get him.”

He went on hold, listening to the latest White Stripes release.

The phone line clicked. “Jimmy, hey, good to hear your voice, man.” Barry Seaton, happy and hearty and slick as goose shit.

“It’s Zach, Barry, and it’s good to hear your voice, too.” Zach could take only sour satisfaction in the awkward silence, given the number of times his manager had ducked him of late.

Barry, to his credit, recovered quickly. “Oops, hit the wrong button. Hey, sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you on that Crossroads thing. That sucks that they dropped you, man, seriously.”

Crossroads Records, his erstwhile recording company, which after three well-received albums had elected not to renew his contract. “I’m not too worried about it, Barry, because you’re going to hook me up with another company, right? I’ve already got songs for the new album.”

“Oh, hey, yeah, I’m working on it. The blues is a harder sell than it was when Stevie Ray was making headlines.”

Zach drummed his fingers. “Nine albums over eighteen years, Barry—you ought to be able to do something with that.”

“Come on, Zach, you’ve been in this industry long enough to know how it works. It’s the numbers, man, pure and simple. I don’t give a damn how good the reviews are, you’ve got to move units.”

And Zach didn’t.

“Get your booking agent—Sarah is it?—have her set up some dates, put you on the road. Maybe I can shake something loose.”

“She says it’s hard to set up dates without the record company backing.”

“She might be right.”

“Oh, come on, Barry, I’ve been playing some of those clubs on the circuit for fifteen, eighteen years. And you ought to be able to find someone who’ll take me on for a new album. After all, I make money, we make money,” he said, playing the one card he knew would get Barry’s attention.

“Look, I’ll make some calls, get back to you.”

Zach almost growled in frustration as he disconnected. In Barryspeak, that meant never, and meanwhile his bank balance continued to drop.

He’d gotten a guitar for his tenth birthday. By eleven he’d blasted through every songbook he could lay his hands on, learned all that his teachers could pass on to him and found his home in the blues.

By thirteen he’d joined his first band. He still remembered how it had felt walking into the audition held by a group of guys in their twenties. “What the hell is a kid doing here?” one of them had demanded. “Great, a refugee from Musical Youth,” another had muttered.

Zach had just ignored them and plugged in his guitar. Let them talk, he’d figured—all he’d wanted to do was play. And when he’d begun to solo to the backing riff in his head, they’d first quieted, then stared, then one by one picked up their instruments and begun to play with him.

Five years later he’d released his first album. It had been put out by a small indie label, one without wide distribution. It hadn’t done much to make him money, but with the pittance of an advance, he’d bought his first beat-up van and gone on the road. When that label had gone under, he’d switched to another. By then, he was touring as the Zach Reed Band. By the time he’d switched labels yet again he’d amassed a critical success and a small, rabid fan base.

Unfortunately small, rabid fan bases didn’t pay the bills. He didn’t care, for years he hadn’t cared, content as long as he was playing. So what if he was in a different city every night? So what if he was piling into his van with the guys to go from club to club on the giant Pacific Northwest blues circuit that ran from Chicago to San Francisco to Portland and Seattle? So what if they ate in diners and slept in fleabag hotels or the back room of a club if they were lucky and in the van if they weren’t?

He hadn’t cared. But this time his label hadn’t gone under—it had dumped him. This time Rory, his bass player, and Angel, his guitarist, had begged off for local gigs. Good reviews weren’t enough. They wanted—needed—successful albums to keep their heads above water. And it wasn’t happening.

Zach was damned if he knew why. He’d always figured that talent would prove out. He’d always assumed all he had to do was play and make the best albums possible and sooner or later it would come together. Only it hadn’t. It hadn’t at twenty, twenty-five, thirty or thirty-five. He had a treasure trove of amazing memories, but he’d never quite broken through, no matter how well respected he was. He was thirty-six going on thirty-seven and he didn’t have a clue what came next.

Sure, some of the legendary bluesmen had stayed on the road until they’d wound up being broken-down old guys with nowhere to go. He’d played more than one fund-raiser for their cause.

He didn’t want to become a beneficiary.

Part of him said to keep pushing until he made it, but in some small, disillusioned corner of his brain he was starting to wonder if maybe that would never happen.

So he’d come to visit Gloria. Here, he could suck up a shot of her feisty energy and have a home base for a couple of weeks while he figured out what to do.

But then she’d gotten into the accident with the tight-assed antique next door. The antique with the entirely too tasty morsel of a granddaughter.

Thoughtfully Zach set his guitar aside. Paige Favreau, so neat and proper, so calm and controlled. She might tell him that she didn’t want any part of him; he knew better.

He saw it in her eyes.

It was enough to make him think.

He didn’t know what to do about his career, but he did know one thing. Gloria wanted the museum, and that was enough for him. On his twelfth birthday she’d given him a vintage Les Paul. His parents had objected on the grounds that no kid needed a guitar worth a few thousand dollars. What was money for, Gloria had countered, if not to enjoy? She’d believed he was going to go somewhere with his music, and with the Les Paul in hand, he had.

So if Gloria wanted a burlesque museum, a burlesque museum she would get, and Paige Favreau could just be the way to make that happen. She had Lyndon’s ear and she looked like the type who could change his mind. And if, in the process of getting her to loosen up and get behind the museum, Zach could get her to loosen up and spend some time with him, well, so much the better.

Yeah, he could do worse than stick around to look after things for a few weeks. And he could put off figuring out what the hell he was going to do with his life.

After all, figuring out how to convince Paige Favreau she wanted him in her bed was bound to be a lot more fun.

Shaking his head, he rose to go to the main house to check on Gloria. They’d always been a likely pair, with the same irreverent sense of the world and exasperation with the rules.

He walked in to find her at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and doing the crossword puzzle.

“You’re up and around bright and early,” he observed.

“I figured I had to make my move while you weren’t here giving me the hairy eyeball.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” she allowed. “I think I’ll live.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He walked past her, squeezing her shoulder before going after coffee.

“Nona can get that for you,” Gloria said.

“I can get it myself.” Zach got out a mug and filled it.

“How about a little car shopping today?” Gloria suggested. “I feel like doing a few test-drives.”

“Don’t see why we couldn’t. I like the idea of you in one of those Mini Coopers.”

She snorted.

“A pink Ferrari?” he suggested.

“Better, but I’m still going to pass.”

“Just a Bentley gal at heart, eh?”

“You know me well.”

“That I do.” He took a drink of coffee and came back over to sit down. “You know, I’m the last person to tell you to blend in, but have you really thought through this museum thing?”

“What do you mean? You know I’m committed to pulling this off. It’s not just for jollies. There are people out there from the business, old people who don’t have a pot to piss in. This museum can help.”

“Not if you keep going out of your way to rile people up. Right now you’ve got a whole lot of really excited folks on your hands, and I don’t mean in a good way. Maybe it’s time to rethink things.”

She eyed him. “You’ve been talking to that stiff-necked old coot next door, haven’t you.”

“His granddaughter, actually, but I was thinking about this anyway. If you want this thing to come off, you’ll be better off playing nice. Why set it up in a way that’s calculated to piss people off? Do it somewhere else.”

“I locate it somewhere else and I have to pay rent, which cuts into profit. I’ve got so much room here I’d never even notice.”

“You’re going to have a fight on your hands to get that variance.”

“I don’t mind a fight.”

The corners of his mouth tugged into a grin. “I know you don’t.”

“And I like twisting their tails.”

“I know that about you, too.”

She laughed. “You know it because that’s how you are.”

One thing he’d come to grudgingly accept over the years, though, was that sometimes you had to give a little to get a little. “Come on, you’re smart enough to know that you’ll probably have an easier time getting it through if you play it soft.”

“I know, but I can’t stand that superior look Favreau next door gets on his face. He turned me in for not having my trees trimmed to the exact right height under the power lines on the property frontage. The city came in and practically shaved my jacarandas. And his fool gardener is always chopping on my bougainvillea.” She glared out the window at the long, low wall between the two properties, covered on her side with a profusion of greenery and blooms that ended abruptly at the top of the fence as though shaved off with a chain saw.

“Maybe he needs a hobby.”

“The man’s already got one—being a pain in the neck.”

“Is that a hobby?”

Gloria snorted. “For him, it’s a career.”

P AIGE SAT AT HER desk in her home office, talking into her headset while she simultaneously packed files into her laptop case.

“Yes, I know it’s going to be a big delay, Alma. I know you were planning to have everything redone by June in time for Peter’s graduation. But it’s a family emergency and I don’t have a choice.”

“I hope you realize what an imposition this is to me,” a tart voice said into her ear.

Next time I’ll have my grandfather plan his accidents better, Alma. “Yes, of course. If you’d prefer to take the project to another designer, I’ll understand,” Paige said and crossed her fingers. A few seconds ticked by.

“I don’t think I’d feel right doing that,” Alma said grudgingly, as though granting a favor. “After all, he is your grandfather.”

Toothaches were nothing compared to this, Paige thought. “Great. Okay, I’ll keep you posted, but we should be able to get rolling again in about six weeks. In the meantime, we can stay in touch by phone and e-mail and I can have some samples sent to your house.”

“Don’t forget to give me your cell phone number,” Alma said.

Not a chance. “Don’t worry, Alma. We’ll still be working together, it’ll just move a little more slowly. Thanks for your understanding.” With a few more pleasantries, Paige disconnected.

And cursed like a sailor until the air in the room turned blue.

“Wow, I didn’t know you knew how to talk like that.”

Paige glanced up to see Delaney in the door, looking at her inquiringly. “Clients,” she said dismissively, pulling off her headset. “The ones I wanted to keep asked to change to avoid the delay. The one I really wanted to get rid of has decided she’ll do me a favor and wait.”

“Dontcha just hate it?” Delaney asked cheerfully, crossing the room to give her a quick hug. “How’s your granddad?”

“Better. Still hurting, and he can’t do much for himself, but I think he’s past the scary stage. Thanks for asking. And for keeping an eye on my place while I’m gone. You’re the best.”

Delaney waved a hand at the sleekly opulent room. “It’s no hardship to hang out here, trust me. So you didn’t hear the rest of Kelly’s announcement the other night.”

“Oh, God, right, Kelly. So what’s the deal?”

“She and Kev talked it over and they’ve decided to go ahead and have it. They’re getting married.”

Paige’s eyes widened. “Little Miss Footloose and Fancy-Free?”

“They have been living together for a couple of years now. That’s kind of serious.”

“Yeah, but there’s serious and there’s serious. ” Paige thought for a moment and a slow smile spread over her face. “Kelly with a baby. That means we get to be aunties.” Her eyes widened. “Baby shoes,” she shrieked.

“Definitely.” Delaney grinned. “The wedding’s in two months.”

“Kelly and Kev—who would have guessed?”

“Maybe Kev.”

“They’re going to make great parents,” Paige said dreamily.

“You know it. Anyway, we’re cooking up a party for them, so I’ll let you know. Assuming you’ll be here.”

“I’ll have to play it by ear right now.”

“Where’s your grandpa today? Did you just leave him on his own with a few crackers and a bottle of Coke within reach?”

“Oh, he’s got a housekeeper to keep an eye on him. Anyway, I’m just down here for the morning so I can get some stuff together. After that, I head out.” And, galvanized by the thought, she began moving around her office in hyperdrive, gathering things together.

With a sigh of pleasure, Delaney sank down into her favorite seat—a deeply overstuffed chair in a bronze damask. “So what’s it like there? Are you going stir-crazy?”

“Not really. It’s kind of nice. I’m getting a chance to spend time with my granddad, which I haven’t in a while, and it feels good to be helping. It’s actually more like being on vacation than anything. Sleeping in, no meetings, just like a little getaway.”

“You need that. You’ve been running like a mad dog since you went out on your own. You need a chance to catch your breath. How long are you going to be gone?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Paige slid her laptop into its carrier and added the power cord. “A few weeks, anyway. Maybe more. I want to stick around until I’m sure he’s all set.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t hurt bad.”

“Nothing lasting, but he’s not going to be up and driving anytime soon. I want to stay and finish the job. Besides, there’s this whole other thing going on.” She set the laptop case next to a tote bag on the floor.

“Define whole other thing. ”

“A zoning issue. My grandfather’s all up in arms about his next-door neighbor wanting to turn her home into a burlesque museum.”

Kelly gave a startled laugh. “A burlesque museum? Like strippers?”

“Tamer, I think. More like vaudeville. My granddad’s neighbor was a big star back in the day.”

“Who?”

“Gloria Reed.”

Delaney tapped her feet lightly on the carpet. “The name’s vaguely familiar. I think I might have read an article on her somewhere, maybe.”

“Under whore of Babylon, if you listen to my grandfather.” Paige unplugged her BlackBerry from its wall charger and headed toward her desk. “Anyway, she wants to start this museum to commemorate burlesque.”

“Hey, why not? There’s a banjo-picking hall of fame.”

Paige stopped. “A banjo-picking hall of fame?”

“Yup.”

“The world is a stranger place than we know.” She tossed the electronics into her purse.

“You said it. A burlesque museum, huh? I’m guessing your grandfather is unthrilled.”

“Try ballistic. He’s dead set on blocking it. If I’m not around to work on it, he will, and that’s the last thing he needs to focus on right now.”

“Can’t you just go to the city and complain?”

“I guess. They need a zoning variance to do it at her estate. If they don’t get it, no museum. I don’t know if they’ve applied or not. The grandson says it’s going to happen.”

“The whore of Babylon’s grandson?” Delaney perked up. “How old?”