Chapter Eight

He couldn’t stop staring.

She’d stepped out of a 1930s pinup magazine. Her creamy, soft breasts pushed out of the skintight fitted red dress that narrowed at her waist. The hem stopped at her knees and had a slight slit in the back. Tiny black beads ran the back length of her stockings; her feet were tucked into slim high heels with straps that wrapped around her ankles. She was completely polished on the outside with a flippant tongue hiding on the inside. Val wanted the whole package.

Val wasn’t the only one looking, either. Men of all sizes, ages, and marital statuses were watching her. Lord help him if she sang as sexy as she looked.

“Is that Meg?” Val heard Gabi’s voice on his right. He nodded without looking at his sister.

“My goodness, she takes performing with Jim to quite an extreme.”

“It’s her fan moment.” On his Fantasy Island.

From across the crowded room, her eyes lifted to his. Instead of looking away, she hoisted her martini glass in salute before tipping it to the edge of her red lips. When she licked the moisture off the rim of the glass, he had to look away or risk embarrassing himself in front of his guests.

“It looks as if her two companions aren’t quite enough to entertain her,” Gabi said without malice.

The lights on the stage went up, keeping Val from commenting on his sister’s observation.

He zigzagged through the crowd and took the stage to introduce his special guest. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me this lovely evening.” Val looked over the heads of his guests, found the bright eyes of Margaret watching his every move. “Tonight I’ve asked a special guest, and an icon I dare call friend, to my stage. Please put your hands together for a man who needs little introduction, Mr. Jim Lewis.”

Few people in attendance knew Jim was going to perform, and with the announcing of his name, the audience applauded with enthusiasm that honored his friend.

Jim walked from the back of the club, shaking hands along the way. When he reached the stage, he shook Val’s hand and leaned into the mic. “How about a round of applause for your host.”

The crowd kept clapping.

Val tilted his head in appreciation and moved offstage.

“It’s hard to say no to Val,” Jim said. “Especially when he gives me the best villa for nothing.”

The audience laughed and Jim took to the stool in the center of the stage. Val’s house band moved into place behind his friend. A stagehand produced Jim’s guitar and set a glass of water on the table beside him.

Jim ran his fingers over a few chords and the room grew silent.

“I’ve been singing for my meals for nearly thirty years.” He strummed the guitar again, stopped.

The crowd laughed.

“I’ve performed in concert halls, auditoriums, stadiums . . . but none are better than venues like this . . . where I can play, chat, and feel like I’m in your living room talking crap about the neighbors.”

The keyboard player knocked back a few notes and stopped.

“Have you ever had a neighbor, hotter than your girl?”

The keyboard played again, and this time the drummer played with him.

“Oh, baby, it’s a bad thing when your girl finds out.”

The keyboard, drums, and now a bass prepared for Jim’s opening.

“That you have ‘The Baby Next Door Blues.’”

Jim leaned into the mic, hit the first note, and wrapped the audience around his chubby little finger.

Val had heard him many times, sometimes in his own living room. But here, onstage and in his element, Jim vibrated.

Val found himself watching Margaret. Her hand tapped the top of the table to the beat of the music; her lips mouthed the words to one of Jim’s most famous songs.

The song dipped low, wound its way to a high note, and finished with a round of applause.

Margaret was the first on her feet, and one of the last to sit down before Jim moved to another hit.

Val wound his way through the tables until he found the sweet spot in the back where all the notes could be heard in full stereo. Jim helped design the acoustics, making sure there wasn’t a corner missing anything critical. But here, in the center of the room, Val could hear every note as clear as an early morning bird greeting the day.

The second song moved faster than the first, two horn players added flavor to the music.

When the song was over, and the audience calmed down, Jim looked over the crowd. When his eyes landed on Margaret, Val felt his pulse jump.

Was she nervous? Did anything make the woman numb with anxiety?

“Have you ever met someone in your life and said, hot damn . . . if only I was twenty years younger?”

“Try thirty,” Michael Wolfe countered from the floor.

Jim tossed his head back and laughed. “I met this sassy, sweet thing only a few hours ago. If her voice is as sexy as her dress, we’re in for a treat. Let’s hear it for Meg Rosenthal.”

Margaret took the stage as if she’d done it so many times before. Val found himself mesmerized. Jim slid a hand around her waist, kissed her cheek. She lifted a leg and batted her lashes at the audience.

“Go girl!”

Val heard the call, but didn’t note where the man who yelled it was.

Instead of moving to the microphone, she blew a kiss to Jim before moving behind the keyboard. “Do you mind?” she asked.

Ruben lifted both hands and stepped away, giving her space. One of the stagehands moved forward and tilted the mic to the level of her lips.

“So what are we going to sing, baby girl?” Jim asked.

Margaret placed her fingers to the keys, ran through a couple of familiar chords. “It’s baby girl now? What happened to your future wife?”