Once More With Feeling by Nora Roberts Page B

home. I want to leave room for dessert. Did you see that pastry tray?”
    â€œI suppose I could roll you to Cornwall,” Brand considered, adding some burgundy to his glass.
    Raven laughed, a throaty sound that appealed and aroused. “I’ll be a bag of bones by the time we go to Cornwall,” she claimed. “You know what those whirlwind tours can do.” She shook her head as he offered her more wine.
    â€œOne-night stands from San Francisco to New York.” Brand lifted his glass as Raven gave him a quizzing look. “I spoke to Henderson.” He twirled a strand of her hair around his finger so absently, Raven was certain he was unaware of the gesture. She made no complaint. “If it’s agreeable with you, I’ll meet you in New York at the end of the tour. We’ll fly to England from there.”
    â€œAll right.” She took a deep breath, having finally reached her fill of the roast beef. “You’d better set it up with Julie. I haven’t any memory for dates and times. Are you staying in the States until then?”
    â€œI’m doing a couple of weeks in Vegas.” He brushed his fingers across her cheek, and when she would have resisted, he laid his hand companionably over hers. “I haven’t played there in quite a while. I don’t suppose it’s changed.”
    She laughed and shook her head. “No. I played there, oh, about six months ago, I guess. Julie won a bundle at the baccarat table. I was a victim of the slots.”
    â€œI read the reviews. Were you as sensational as they said?” He smiled at her while one finger played with the thin gold bracelet at her wrist.
    â€œOh, I was much more sensational than they said,” she assured him.
    â€œI’d like to have seen you.” His finger drifted lazily to her pulse. He felt it jump at his touch. “It’s been much too long since I’ve heard you sing.”
    â€œYou heard me just the other day in the studio,” she pointed out. She took her hand from his to reach for her wine. He easily took her other one. “Brandon,” she began, half-amused.
    â€œI’ve heard you over the radio as well,” he continued, “but it’s not the same as watching you come alive at a concert. Or,” he smiled as his voice took on that soft, intimate note she remembered, “listening to you when you sing just for me.”
    His tone was as smooth as the burgundy she drank. Knowing how easily he could cloud her brain, she vowed to keep their conversation light. “Do you know what I want right now?” She lowered her own voice as she leaned toward him, but he recognized the laughter in her eyes.
    â€œDessert,” he answered.
    â€œYou know me so well, Brandon.” She smiled.
    She wanted to go dancing. By mutual consent, when they left the restaurant they avoided the popular, trendy spots in town and found a crowded, smoky hole-in-the-wall club with a good band, much like the dozens they had both played in at the beginnings of their respective careers. They thought they wouldn’t be recognized there. For almost twenty minutes they were right.
    â€œExcuse me, aren’t you Brand Carstairs?” The toothy young blond stared up at Brand in admiration. Then she glanced at Raven. “And Raven Williams.”
    â€œBob Muldroon,” Brand returned in a passable Texas drawl. “And my wife Sheila. Say howdy, Sheila,” he instructed as he held her close and swayed on the postage-sized dance floor.
    â€œHowdy,” Raven said obligingly
    â€œOh, Mr. Carstairs.” She giggled and thrust out a cocktail napkin and a pencil. “Please, I’m Debbie. Could you write, ‘To my good friend Debbie’?”
    â€œSure.” Brand gave her one of his charming smiles and told Raven to turn around. He scrawled quickly, using her back for support.
    â€œAnd you, too, Raven,” Debbie asked when he’d