Riffing with the Muse: Flynn's Crossing Romantic Suspense, #11

RIFFING WITH THE MUSE

Flynn’s Crossing Romantic Suspense Series Book 11

Yvonne Kohano

Nanokas Press

A Division of Kochanowski Enterprises LLC

Copyright © 2017

About RIFFING WITH THE MUSE

Musical muse or angel in disguise?

After twenty years, Kaane Scott had nothing. Na-da. Zilch. Melodies that once flowed so easily, dried up. Words that tripped over themselves to follow, silent. He couldn’t even bring himself to call it Rebellion’s farewell concert tour. Farewell meant he was done.

Evangeline Reed was just beginning. Use this gift to follow your passions, my dear, wherever they take you. Her aunt’s words hung in the air like the lingering hint of her favorite perfume. Angel’s art, her passions, her life all felt brand new.

Kaane didn’t feel done. He needed the muse to bring it back. If she came in the form of a cupid face and breathy voice, so be it. If she pushed him to face the one reality he never wanted to admit, it might be the price he had to pay.

Could they create the perfect harmony together?

Length: 94,000 words

The Flynn’s Crossing series is contemporary romance set in the northern California foothills, suspense driven by small town secrets, and complex characters in compelling stories about friendship and love. You can enjoy the books out of order without ruining their surprises!

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Prologue – February

Sun sparkled off metal jewelry hanging from an intricate assembly of tree branches in the front window. It cast brilliant reflections on canvases displayed on the walls and pottery and woven items arrayed on tables. The room stood empty of people, exactly the way he wanted it.

Pulling his hat lower on his forehead and punching the glasses slipping down his nose, he glanced up and down the bustling street. At this hour on a weekday, most people had a place to be and things to do, and none seemed to note that he lingered outside the gallery. He met no one’s eyes and cast his to the ground when anyone approached. He’d become a master at appearing inconsequential in public. Privacy was everything to him, and he was willing to pay the price for it.

Satisfied no one cared about his actions, he straightened and examined the interior of the shop. He didn’t want an audience. Last week, someone transferred the sculpture from the window display to a pedestal deeper in the store, making it impossible to get up close and personal without going inside.

No chime sounded when he pushed open the door, a rarity on this small town’s Main Street. He paused and scanned the exhibit area, expecting to see security cameras peering from corners or one-way glass framing a back office, but nothing indicated an unseen watcher. The owners obviously hoped customers would behave like civil, respectful human beings. That kind of trust was a commodity long missing in his life.

His past life. He had to get used to saying it that way. It was no longer his path. That didn’t mean he still couldn’t have pretty things to remind him of those times. Meaningful things, like the metal work in front of him.

A deliberate rusty patina accented exuberance in the structure. At its center stood the facsimile of an oversized guitar, upright on its end. Not just any guitar, but a Gibson Les Paul model dating back to the 1950’s. He’d had one like it once upon a time, until in a fit of pique, he’d cracked it into shards over an amp in that recording studio on the Burbank strip. His action marked the beginning of the end for him, though he didn’t know it at the time.

This artist captured the instrument’s unique lines and markings perfectly, even in steel. Floating from the frets of the guitar, musical notes tracked the song being played. They made no sense without a score behind them, but that didn’t matter. He loved the look of it, the feel of rapturous joy in what it represented. He swore he could hear its pristine electric tones.

When had he last felt that kind of sheer bliss when he struck a chord? It had been months, years even. Not that it mattered anymore. Old life.

The boys called it a dry spell, a temporary affliction he could easily overcome with dedication, or concentration, or a damn good party. From that little resort in Mexico where the tequila flowed faster than its fake waterfall and senoritas were more than happy to oblige him, to the austere snowy peaks above Aspen, he’d tried. Damn right, he’d tried. The words didn’t come, the notes didn’t make sense, and soon, he’d heard the whispers.

Has-been. Phoning it in. Lip-syncing because his voice was crap. No new songs in the past six years. No longer playing because he was too stoned to find the right key. Falling over a mic stand and landing on the first three rows, to the joy of surgically-enhanced women more than delighted to give him anything for the chance to say they’d had their hands all over the great Kaane Scott.

Once great. Maybe never great was more like it. Maybe he’d been fooling the world all these years. It was possible, given the star-making machine of the music industry. Plenty of dudes out there could barely sing, but they could screech and slam the strings like they knew what they were doing. Fans screamed in response and spent money on whatever crap they slung out there.

Kaane directed his feet in a path to the back counter. From his previous reconnaissance, he knew this is where the deal would be made. He’d hate to get into a long discussion about why he wanted it. But he had to have that guitar, and he didn’t want anyone to take one look at him and it and make the connection.

Checking his reflection in a small mirror on the wall, he was satisfied no one would. This disguise was about as unobtrusive as he could get. Plus, he’d been out of sight and off the gossip rag circuit for long enough. He ignored the pang that idea caused. Late and never great.

His fingers hovered over the bell on the counter when voices captured his attention.

It’s the coward’s way out, ya know. The gruff bass voice rang with disgust and trailed off into grumbles.

I understand why you say that, but I have to face facts. I’m not that good. The woman’s reply was no less forceful for being a breathy series of tinkling notes. She continued in a slightly higher pitch. In fact, I’m an amateur, and if it wasn’t for your friendship with my –

Balderdash. Ya know that any artist’s work must be reviewed by a committee of the co-op before display. It wasn’t my decision.

Humor lightened the woman’s response. Yes, and you execute absolutely no control over any of the others, Thomas. Look, lots of artists have day jobs, and my only regret is if I find one, it will keep me from covering as many hours here as I have over the last few months.

The intriguing voice reminded Kaane of flowing water and wind chimes in a gentle breeze. He should make noise or call out to let them know he stood here. Instead, he leaned closer to the counter and cocked an ear toward the room out of view.

More rumbling with indistinct words followed, sounding like a question. Then, from the woman, That man only came in a couple of times, and I don’t think he was interested in my work but in me. I still shiver when I think of him, but I doubt he’ll be back. Just some weird tourist.

Unintelligible snarls preceded a firmer tone. The man said, Ya just haven’t promoted your stuff properly. I mean, look at Bettie’s crap. Juvenile, if you ask me. But she sells stuff, and why? She kisses up to the crowd. Your work is fine, just fine. Ya just need to work it with a little more juice, if you know what I mean.

A tsk-tsk sounded before the woman replied in full amusement. You and Bettie have been more than generous in allowing me to hang my pieces here for as long as you have. I am sure other artists want the wall space. Everyone’s been more than gracious. Just because they were all friends of my –

Now see here, Ms. Reed, I will not have you –

If they were caught up in their tiff, they’d be less likely to look twice at him. He’d gladly take any advantage in the situation. Kaane’s palm slapped the bell, and he jumped back when it rang out in a C-sharp, an octave higher than he anticipated.

The argument ceased mid-sentence. A rustle of bodies followed, drawing his gaze to the shadowed back area. A tall man appeared first, slightly stooped over and walking with a slow gait through an unlit passage. Kaane glanced at him, registering bristly white eyebrows in a crevasse-lined face. When his attention shifted to the woman exiting next, he forgot why he was there.

It must have been a trick of the reflected sun, but a sudden brightness framed the previously dark corner. A shimmering spotlight lit her hair in a glow of almost unnatural white-blond. Fluffy curls around her head disappeared behind her shoulders like foaming surf on the shore. She glanced in his direction and shifted away. A second later, her gaze snapped back, and a circle of surprise matched her lips to her rounded eyes. A shy smile followed before she ducked her head, but that one smile was all it took.

An angel had landed in Flynn’s Crossing. A cherubic roundness to her pinkened cheeks became more pronounced as deep red lips pulled into a bow of unhappiness. A cascade of curls continued inches past her shoulders, caught at the nape of her neck by a large clip. She was short, barely coming up to the old dude’s armpit, and her curves would have done Marilyn Monroe proud.

The stirrings of excitement began in his fingers, the tips itching with the urge to feel strings under them. He knew exactly which notes he’d pick to fire the first glissando up the scale from the clear bell-like sound of her voice. The notes would wander after that, as her tones did up and down with each syllable. The sparkle in the brief seconds their eyes met would fuel his creative juices. She looked away, but he still felt the jolt of those electric eyes as if they pinned him now.

Her attention focused on the old man, and Kaane wished it would shift in his direction once more. In a soft voice, she said, I’ll pick up my pieces later in the week, okay? I mean, unless you happen to sell of them before then. She gave a short bark of disbelieving laughter, but Kaane didn’t think he’d ever heard a sadder sound, like the joke was on her.

The old man shook his head with fierce movements, but the young woman smiled and raised a finger over his lips as he began to speak. She reached up on tip toes and laced fingers in the white mane to pull the old guy’s face down and give him a soft peck on the cheek, and damn if the dude didn’t look like he was going to teeter to the floor. Then as fast as her angel wings could carry her, she was gone with a subtle creak of a distant door. Both men stared after her in the sudden emptiness.

The old man recovered first, clearing his throat and turned to the counter with spry movements that belied the earlier shuffling. Help ya with something? Curtness sharpened the words, as if Kaane’s presence was the reason the woman sprinted away.

Hardly the kind of selling he’d preached to the girl. Kaane’s gaze stayed frozen on that corridor where the angel took flight. His heart thrummed in a resounding beat, one he hoped he could replicate. Soon it fell silent, and he glanced back at the guitar, reminded of his errand.

Ah, hi. I’ve been admiring this store on my previous visits and I wanted to know more about how this all works. Kaane made a circle with his fingers, indicating the shop, proud of coming up with a cover story so fast.

The old man’s eyes tightened and focused on Kaane more sharply. We’re a cooperative. Artists display here, and we work here too. You an artist? We’re full up.

But, I thought I just heard –

Ya didn’t hear nothin’. Just an artistic difference of opinion between professional colleagues. Look, ya got a portfolio or something you want to leave with me?

Kaane took a step back. Reed. The old guy had called her Ms. Reed. It shouldn’t be too hard to find her work. Why is was suddenly so important to see what she did wasn’t completely clear, but then, it wasn’t often that he ran into an angel. He needed a heavenly body with a desperation he didn’t recognize.

I’ll, ah, look around for a while, if you don’t mind. Tell me, is there information about the artists? I’m curious about the person who did that metal piece, the guitar.

The old man dropped the attitude and gave a genuine grin. Oh yeah, DK’s work. I’ve got a flyer here someplace. Let me look in the back. Meant to put it out there, but in all of the hullabaloo. He waved a hand in a direction Kaane took to mean the disagreement with Ms. Reed. The man’s muttering continued as he disappeared.

Kaane didn’t waste any time glancing at the guitar again. The urge to hold on to it like a talisman had disappeared. No, he needed something else, something to remind him of the angel. Already, the music and the words she brought him evaporated. He had to have something to hang on to, or the first hope he’d felt in forever would disappear too.

He inspected the walls for anything that said Reed. In some corners, artists had their names in large lettering or biographies in plastic frames. Others had postcards or brochures, and in his haste around the room, he knocked some to the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up. Ducking into the final alcove as he heard feet scuffing on bare concrete, he froze for the second time that morning.

‘E. Reed.’ The signature marked a collection of paintings in dark muted colors. Swirls, ambiguous forms, and indistinct shapes filled the frames, none with any real pattern to them. Another set of pictures crafted from a different process were stunningly realistic. Yet a third collection of smaller works looked like chalk on a sidewalk.

He glanced between the three styles, and the tingling returned, this time shaking his hands with its ferocity. The art spoke to him, but probably not the way the artist intended. He heard music, and it didn’t matter if this work was any good. They were all signed by the angel, and he had to have them.

Ah, there ya are. Found the brochure. Here it is. Paper appeared in front of Kaane’s face, and he nearly batted it away as it blocked his view.

What do you have about this artist? He motioned to the wall in front of him, and the paper dropped abruptly.

This artist. This one here? The old man’s voice held a tone of incredulity.

Kaane nodded, not taking his eyes off the paintings. The one with those twisting grays would make terrific cover art for an album.

The old man chuckled as if he didn’t believe it. Well, I’ll be damned. Too bad we weren’t a few seconds faster, young man. You just missed her. It would have made her day to know someone was interested in her stuff.

I’ll take them. Kaane shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from caressing the nearest Reed piece. Forcing himself to turn away was nearly impossible.

The old man’s eyes widened until his brushy eyebrows met his equally bushy head. Which ones?

All of them.

The man’s mouth fell open in surprise. Eyes narrowed and focused on Kaane as if trying to place his face. You from around here, boy?

Unsure which answer would garner him less attention, Kaane remembered the tourist comment. Yes, I’ve been living here for a long time. I have a ranch in the south end of the county.

Sharp eyes flicked to his boots, worn and dusty enough to pass for cowboy gear, and traveled up his jeans, pausing on the holes. The jacket was similarly distressed, a cast-off found at a thrift store to aid his disguise. Resignation drew deeper lines in the old man’s face when their eyes met once more.

Let me list prices for you, son. DK’s work, that’s the metal stuff, don’t come cheap, not since she made it big. My discovery, I’m proud to say. And the work you’re staring at like you want it for your next meal, well, I am hopeful her work will be just as good – ah, I mean, important – someday.

Kaane hid his smile. He knew where the old guy was going. He didn’t look like he could pay. If he slapped his plastic on the counter, the man would probably think it was counterfeit. At least the name on the credit card wouldn’t draw the man’s attention.

So, what do you do, son? Shuffling returned the old man to the counter, where he pushed through papers littering the surface. Kaane lingered behind, wondering where he’d place the chalk drawings. He hadn’t done anything that could be called decorating in the house.

Oh, you know, I take care of my ranch. Trying to dress the place up a bit, you know? His memory lingered on the angel’s perfect smile with that trace of sadness in its depths.

Ya want the guitar too, son?

Kaane allowed himself to smile, trusting the old man wasn’t in his fan base and wouldn’t recognize his trademark grin. Yeah, throw that in too. You take plastic, don’t you?

Chapter 1

‘My dearest Angel, my wish is that you use my gift to allow yourself to explore your loves, your desires, your passions. I have but one regret in life, that I did not seize opportunities and take risks when I had the chance. I see you following in my footsteps, and that troubles me.’

She wished she had the courage to crumple the pages in her hands, but this tenuous link to the past kept her from doing so. She flattened the crepe-like paper and traced the handwriting. So perfect, each letter formed as if respect for the written word drove the pen forward.

‘Follow your heart. Use this time to explore, experiment, and examine life on the edge. Do things you would not normally do. Try new adventures. I hope you find a bigger world and someday, have a heart overflowing with love. Your mother would have wanted that for you beyond all else, to find a life of passion.’

Evangeline Reed sniffed, the words floating in a blur as tears filled her eyes. Passion. What did she know about passion? She thought it would find her and carry her to places she’d only read about in books. Where had this gotten her so far?

‘I know how much beauty and art mean to you, my dear. Please, though, maintain balance in your life. Open your heart to love as you open your mind to opportunities and your muse to creativity.’

Her muse. She doubted she had one. Her art was proof of that. As to love, well, there was no question in her mind. Nice men kept their distance. Weirdos, on the other hand, she seemed to attract with ease. That pervert tourist who followed her home from the gallery a few months ago, claiming to want to know everything about her work, wanted something else entirely.

‘Love may not come in the form you expect. Its source may be a mystery that even disguises itself as a curse. That is the way it was for your parents, and maybe in some ways, it was true. Your father never recovered from the loss of your mother. I sometimes wonder if his accident was a welcomed end.’

Angel was even more convinced of this than her aunt had been. After her mother’s death, Dad became a hollowed-out shell of himself. He threw himself into work, taking every job that came his way, not matter how dangerous the fishing or rough the seas. When he was swept overboard, others on the crew said it seemed like he didn’t try to save himself.

Love. Was this what it did? Or was her family just cursed? Her mother, dead and gone too young. Her father, heartbroken and following. Aunt Jenny who, according to her own story, had bypassed her chance at love. Her regret kept her company for the remainder of her years until she also met an untimely demise.

The crack of knuckles on the wood door forced her out of her miserable thoughts. She snapped the pages along their creases and folded them with a shaking finger. She made up her mind, and she would make the best of it. She couldn’t afford to give it more time.

Hey, anyone at home? The knocking resumed, accompanied by a cresting rise in the chattering voices outside. Angel gave the pages one last lingering look, then opened the desk drawer and slid them inside. Wiping at her eyes, she sniffed a final time and lifted her chin. Her friends would not know how much this decision cost her. She forced a smile to her face as she paced toward the door with determined steps.

Her yank on the knob revealed a raised fist. Its hand attached to a woman about Angel’s height, though the resemblance ended there. Pixie features matched the elfin body, a stark contrast to the rounds and mounds Angel moaned about when she was brave enough to look in a full-length mirror. DK McGiven Cassidy looked perpetually pleased with the world, even when her husband teased her about being a little devil. The delighted gleam that came to DK’s eyes when he said it took any sting out of the words.

There you are. I was getting worried, and Roxy was about to take a cleaver to the lock to make sure you were okay. Of course, she had one in her back pocket.

DK gave Angel a hard hug and pushed past into the living room, pulling a big carton from a tote bag and spinning toward the kitchen. Our favorite ice cream for tonight. Does that go with the menu?

Angel chuckled, because they all knew mint chocolate chip went with any menu. She didn’t get a chance to respond when she was engulfed in the next pair of strong arms.

Damn, something smells good. Did my cooking lessons inspire that beef stew? I have taught you well, grasshopper. A series of appreciative sniffs followed the hugs as Roxy LaFollette sailed to the slow-cooker and lifted the lid. I can’t believe you used this contraption rather than a real pot on a real stove, but I might be able to forgive you. She opened a drawer and grabbed a spoon as if she lived there and scooped out a taste. Slurping it loudly, she said, Oh yeah, baby, I can forgive you. Good job, girlfriend.

Well thank the spirits for that. Here, sweetie, these are for you. Hothouse, I apologize. But daffodils will be coming in soon. Your aunt so loved those flowers. Tess Willowspring pushed a bouquet of mixed blooms into Angel’s hands and gave her a kiss on each cheek. You look pensive, dear. Is the gray weather getting to you?

Angel shut her eyes and took the proffered hug. Where DK gave off impish mischief and Roxy spun with the controlled energy of a tightly-wound top, Tess exuded peace and calm like the soothing scent of the flowers she worked with. Peace and calm, just what she needed.

The chuck of a cork coming out of bottle had Roxy yelling ‘opah’ and DK countering with ‘celebrate’ as Tess stepped back and examined Angel’s face with close attention. Angel forced her smile to brighten, thanking her for the flowers and using the excuse of searching for a vase in the lower cabinet as a reason to turn away.

Before she’d realized her life as an artist would be over today, she had invited her close friends to laugh and eat comfort food and drink wine. They would not approve of her killing her dream, especially since it had only been a year. She had to tell them, but for now, she would engage in good-hearted verbal hair-pulling with women who loved each other like sisters.

DK passed her a glass of a deep red wine and said, So, I heard about what happened at the gallery today. She lifted her glass in a figurative salute.

Was her work that bad? Angel dipped her head. Evidently DK applauded her choice to remove her pedestrian scribbles from the co-op where they stood out, not because they were good, but because they were memorably bad.

What happened at the gallery? Spill, Roxy demanded, passing around a tray of cold meats and cheeses with a bowl of olives in the center.

Better this came from her than being reported by DK. She struggled to force the reality around the hard lump blocking her breath. I, ah, I decided to –

Tess’s words overran hers. I heard about it too. Thomas couldn’t wait to gossip. And congrats on selling that guitar piece, DK.

DK waved a dismissive hand. I know, right? But that’s not the important part. Did you hear the rest of it? Thomas called me right after and told me that –

Wait, you sold that guitar with the notes coming out of the top? That was an outrageously expensive hunk of metal. Did you get full price? Roxy plopped down on the sofa and stuffed a slice of cheese in her mouth.

Yes, I got full price. Do you think Thomas would allow anything else? That man does not bargain. Besides, the buyer didn’t ask for any discounts. But anyway, that’s not the part we need to drink to. Angel is going to –

She couldn’t take this any longer. I’m taking my pieces out of the gallery. They aren’t selling, they’re all amateur crap, and I’m getting a regular job.

The room fell silent with her outburst. A sizzle of something wet hitting something hot sounded from the kitchen and the old grandfather clock against the far wall ticked like an ominous countdown to an explosion. Any moment now, it would come. They would sigh with relief and applaud her for coming to her senses. She was no painter. She could barely draw a decent stick figure. Her sense of color was bizarre. It was best to go back to what she knew, books and research.

Around the cheese, Roxy said, Wait. What? You’re giving up on your art? But why? I thought you really loved the painting stuff. How can you just quit? Your aunt would have a fit.

Angel sat up straighter, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin. My aunt was a realist. Yes, I know she intended for me to try things until I found what I love to do, but I also don’t think she’d like me to fritter away the money she saved with such determination for all those years. Look, I’ll find something else to do.

Roxy didn’t look convinced. Tess openly frowned at her, and Angel knew what was coming. Like almost any child who grew up in this town over the past few