Any Way You Want It by Kathy Love

himself his subconscious had managed to think of her because of the question she’d asked about the sonata.
    How could she know that music? Any print version was long gone. Yet she said she was an authenticator. Of classical music. Was it possible she’d somehow seen it? And where?
    He had to know.
    It could be dangerous if she somehow tied the music of a composer known as Renaldo D’Antoni to him. Such a discovery would certainly require a lot of explaining on his part.
    But in truth, he could handle that. He could manufacture some believable lie. After all, she was hardly likely to think, “Ah-ha, vampire!” That just wasn’t the first explanation a person leapt to.
    So if she wasn’t going to piece together that Ren, the Bourbon Street rocker, and Renaldo, the classical composer, were the same person, then why not let all this go? There was no risk, no danger. He should just leave her alone.
    His focus returned to the doorway to his left as another group entered. Two guys and a girl with a hairdo that went out of style in the eighties. Or should have.
    Not even close to Maggie.
    He ignored the sinking disappointment in his belly. Okay, he did wonder about whether she had indeed recognized the music. And he could argue that was the reason he hoped she would return. But did he care that much? Those days were far, far in his past and better forgotten.
    His attention snapped back to the doorway as three women stepped into the dim barroom. His pulse jumped as he saw black hair—Maggie’s friend. Then he realized all the arriving women had black hair, and they were Asian.
    Another wash of disappointment deadened his hope.
    Okay, maybe he also needed to admit that he wanted to see Maggie again too. Something about her—she just drew him.
    “Dude,” Drake said after they finished up the song, “you’re doing it again. Josie only goes on a vacation far away once.”
    It took Ren a moment to figure out what his bandmate was talking about. Had he really repeated the first line of the Outfield song they were performing? Damn, he knew that song like he knew his own freakin’ name. Better, maybe.
    “I’ve been distracted.”
    Drake nodded. “I can see that.”
    Ren opened his mouth to ask what they should play next, when a prickling of awareness, like needles of both fire and ice, tattooed down his spine. He spun to see Maggie and her friends enter the bar from the left side door.
    She glanced up at him, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second, then she looked back to her friend. The tall, black-haired one. Erika?
    He watched as they crossed the room and stood at the bar, facing away from the stage. Waiting for a drink. Pretending not to be back here to see him.
    Ren moved to the mic, trying to ignore that he felt almost…euphoric? Euphoric was not an emotion he was familiar with but—he paused, curling his fingers around the mic—yep, it sure seemed like euphoric. Even if she was making a vain attempt to ignore him.
    “How are you all doin’ tonight?” He played up his learned southern accent, because people seemed to like it. He wondered if Maggie did.
    “I gotta tell y’all, I have a friend here tonight. Hey there, Maggie.”
     
    He nearly chuckled as she spun from the bar to face him, her expression somewhere between stunned and annoyed.
    But instead of laughing, he waved.
    She didn’t wave back. Instead her wide-eyed gape turned to a frown. She wasn’t happy. And he supposed he couldn’t blame her after the way he’d taken off so abruptly last night.
    Damn, he should just leave well enough alone. He should just let her stand there and have a drink, while he ignored her. Then she’d realize he was the same ass from last night and lose interest.
    He should do that, but he couldn’t.
    Just like he couldn’t stop his eyes eating up the sight of her. Tonight she wore a simple pink blouse with a high seam that nipped in to accentuate her full breasts. She wore faded jeans and boots—with a heel, and