Motor City Fae Read online

  It wasn’t long until she heard “Bad Moon Rising,” the house band’s signature piece. When the last chords faded, Greg Novak’s growly bass voice came over the microphone. “Thanks for coming out, folks. We’ve got a real treat in store. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up for my good friend Ric Thornhill.”

  Meagan’s ears perked up. “Why didn’t you tell me Ric Thornhill was playing? I love his music!” She had several of his CDs at home, though she’d never had the chance to hear the obscure artist live. She’d never even seen a good, clear photo since his album covers were usually landscapes, he didn’t perform on television and made few public appearances. His Celtic folk and rock guitar riffs were phenomenal and his rich baritone was pure, bottled sex appeal. She’d always wondered if his looks measured up to the promise of his voice.

  Jase shrugged. “I didn’t know. Now will you believe the cards?” Jase had gotten her here tonight by claiming his Tarot cards had insisted.

  “Maybe.” She winked and grinned while she clapped furiously. Then she whistled through her fingers and stomped along with the rest of the crowd as an impossibly tall, whipcord-lean man took the stage. Would he be as sexy in person be as his music suggested?

  One look at his six-foot-plus physique and shoulderlength golden hair had Meagan’s hand hanging limply in space, the whistle dying on her lips.

  Oh, God, it was him.

  Ric smiled out at the crowd, acknowledging their raucous welcome, though he was getting far less of a kick out of it than usual. He was distracted tonight by his mission and by the woman he’d met this afternoon. He wouldn’t let it affect his performance, he owed Greg better than that, but it was sure putting a dent in his mood.

  Settling back onto a tall stool in front of the mike, he lifted his favorite acoustic guitar off the stand beside him and launched into a folk ballad. It was a favorite with audiences and the Novak brothers and their band-mates knew it well, having spent plenty of late nights jamming with Ric in L.A. and San Francisco.

  “The minstrel boy to the war has gone,

  In the ranks of death, you will find him.

  His father’s sword he has girded on,

  And his wild harp slung behind him.”

  As he moved into the second verse, he allowed his gaze to wander about the audience, grinning conspiratorially at the men and flirtatiously at the women.

  Eye contact was one of the differences between an ordinary musician and a bard. That and the magic, of course. Drawing from within himself, he let a trickle of power flow through his voice to the audience, easing tension, soothing minor hurts. It was Ric’s way of thanking them for listening to him sing.

  He ignored a couple of openly inviting gazes from the younger crowd, both male and female. While Ric might normally have taken one of the women up on her invitation, tonight he had no time for dalliance. As soon as his set was over, it was back to work for Alaric of the Thorny Hills, queen’s bard and knight of the Seelie Court.

  The song ended and at a word from Greg on the drum kit, Ric switched to his Fender Strat. The band launched into a jazzier, more upbeat tune. Ric resumed his perusal of the faces in the room. It was a good crowd tonight; the place was packed, with lots of finger-tapping and humming along. The scents of hops and humanity mingled in the warm humid air and Ric smiled at those too.

  In the back corner booth was a tall young man with chocolate skin, beaded dreadlocks and a trim goatee. His liquid dark eyes gazed longingly, not at Ric, but at George. Ric made a mental note to point him out to George at the break. There was a woman beside him, but her face was obscured by the heavy-set man in front of her. When the man moved to the side, Ric made a point of establishing eye contact with this last listener.

  His fingers stopped on the strings. Literally stopped moving. He had to consciously think about closing his mouth. He managed not to drool, but he couldn’t manage to stop staring.

  Her.

  The whirlwind woman from the art co-op, the copperhaired cutie and if the gods were kind, the artist named Meagan Kelly. She was sitting in the back of Greg’s club, a glass sliding from her limp fingertips and a look of shock on her face that probably mirrored the one on his own.

  Lana, the bassist and Greg’s cousin, nudged Ric with her elbow as she wiggled beside him in her tight leather pants. Ric shook his head and grinned at her as he picked up the rhythm and started playing again. He was glad George was carrying the melody. Lana gave him a wicked smirk and shimmied off in the other direction, stopping to lean suggestively into Vince at the keyboard.

  Whoa. Ric carefully kept his gaze away from the back corner. No one had ever affected him enough to make him stop playing before, not in eight hundred years as a musician. Mission-related or not, that spelled trouble.

  Somehow he made it through the rest of the set, though he had no idea afterward what they’d played. As soon as they stopped, he pulled George aside and talked him into introducing Ric to the woman in the corner. It didn’t take too much work. Apparently George had been keeping an eye on her friend for a while.

  “Jase Monroe, right?” George held out a hand to the dark-haired man. “I’m George Novak. We’ve met before.”

  The young man’s eyes went wide and he took George’s hand with a shy grin. Ric suppressed a smile at the excitement Monroe was obviously trying to hide. The young man’s thoughts were right at the surface and they were all about George. “Uh-yeah, I’m here a lot. Your music is fantastic.” His soft voice betrayed more than a hint of the Caribbean.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” George beamed, clearly pleased. He nudged Ric forward. “This is Ric Thornhill, an old friend of mine from San Francisco.”

  Ric shook hands with the young human, but all his senses were focused on the woman who’d been utterly still since their approach.

  Monroe gestured at the woman across from him. “And this is my dear friend, Meagan Kelly.”

  Ric turned his gaze on his quarry. “So we meet again, lovely Meagan.” She was dressed less casually tonight, her paint-splotched leggings and tank top having been traded for a figure-hugging halter in lime green over a short, snug, black leather skirt. She looked so delicious his mouth practically watered.

  He captured her hand as he slid into the booth beside her. There it was again, that zing, that magical electric charge radiating from the spot where his skin touched hers. He didn’t resist when she tugged her hand away. It was far easier to think without the added distraction.

  “Apparently we do.” She spoke so quietly that only he could hear. Someone had turned on the sound system and was playing a loud punk anthem. A quick glance told him George had sat down beside Jase and would undoubtedly keep the other man’s attention focused for quite some time.

  “I’m not stalking you or anything,” Meagan continued in a rush of words that let Ric know she was as affected as he was by whatever it was that sparkled between them.

  Once again, he couldn’t pick up anything but nerves from her jumbled thoughts. “When I ran into you this afternoon, I had no idea who you were.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind.” His actual thoughts had been running more to the ideas of fate, destiny, kismet.

  “I am a fan, though.”

  “How’s your nose?”

  Their words popped out simultaneously and they both laughed.

  “My nose is fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. And I’m glad you enjoy my music.”

  After a few moments of awkward silence, he looked over at the pair across the table. “George was trying to screw up his courage to ask your friend out. I hope you don’t mind that I asked him to bring me over here with him?”

  “Jase will be thrilled.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, forcing him to lean even closer so he could hear.

  “He’s had a crush on George for months, but he’s shy. He’s a brilliant potter, but right now he’s still struggling, so he doesn’t see himself as much of a catch.”

  Judging from the small
smile playing at George’s lips, he’d heard, but Monroe probably hadn’t. It wasn’t Ric’s place to mention that like him, the Novaks had betterthan-

  human hearing. Instead he turned his attention back to Meagan.

  “And you’re the talented Meagan Kelly, who paints lovely, idyllic landscapes.”

  He thought she flushed, although even with his elven senses, it was hard to tell in the dimly lit club. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I bought it, though I didn’t know at first that it belonged to the whirlwind I’d encountered. So I guess you could say I’m a fan of yours, as well.”

  Meagan could barely breathe.

  Simply listening to his voice, with its soft, warm baritone and the slight British accent, was enough to make all her female parts start to melt. Finally, there was the man himself, dressed in the same black slacks and maroon silk shirt as earlier. His long, muscular thigh was plastered alongside hers in the narrow confines of the booth and his potent, masculine scent made her feel overheated and woozy.

  Meagan gulped at her beer, before she caught herself and slowed down. Something told her she’d need all of her faculties to deal with this guy.

  They chatted for a few minutes about nothing important—Detroit, her work, his music and the club. All the while, undercurrents kept pulling her closer to him, even as part of her wanted to pull away. She looked over at Jase and George and told herself to stop being a coward. If Jase could go after the guy of his dreams, so could she. Even if it was only for this one night. She grinned in response to the anecdote he’d related.

  “I’d like to talk to you after we’re done playing,” he murmured and the bright, intense look in his eyes radiated sincerity. “Can I take you out for a bite to eat after the show?”

  Alone? With him? A warm thrill skittered up her spine and she clenched her thighs together. “Sure.” Her voice trembled as she smiled up at him and nodded.

  “Till later.” He kissed the back of her hand and slid gracefully out of the booth. George stood as well and together she and Jase watched them make their way back to the stage. She could still feel the imprint of his lips on her skin.

  “Meagan, would it bother you if I let you drive my car home?” Jase’s words didn’t quite cut through the fog in her head. He reached over and tapped her chin. “Close it, girl, no need to catch flies.”

  Meagan tore her eyes away from the stage and looked up. “Oh. Sorry. I’ve got another ride, so you don’t need to worry.”

  “Found one that flips your switch, eh?”

  She shivered and took a sip of beer. “That man flips switches I didn’t even know I had.”

  The band struck up Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Meagan gestured to a passing waitress and ordered a diet cola. If she was actually going out with Ric Thornhill in a few hours, she wanted to be stone-cold sober.

  Chapter Two

  The butterflies in her stomach were doing gymnastics as she faced Ric across a linen-draped table a few minutes past midnight.

  “What do you recommend?” he asked. They were in an elegant Italian bistro a few blocks from the club.

  She shrugged. “I’ve never been here before. It’s outside the budget for a starving artist.”

  “Aren’t you able to make a living from your paintings?” His hand touched hers on the table, a fleeting caress that left her wanting more.

  “I do now,” she admitted. “But only recently. Up until the last few years I was trying a more contemporary, abstract style and it wasn’t working out.”

  “No, it’s obvious that your heart is in the landscapes. That’s what drew me to that window this afternoon.” He paused and sent her an enigmatic smile that seemed to shimmer in the light from the candle on their table. “A circumstance for which I’m rather grateful at the moment.”

  How was she supposed to respond to comments like that? He was miles out of her usual league. She knew she wasn’t exactly a schnauzer; men didn’t run from her screaming, but she sure wasn’t supermodel caliber either.

  Short and curvy with out-of-control hair that usually had paint in it, she was a definite girl-next-door type. That didn’t seem like the kind of woman to attract someone as gorgeous and talented as Ric.

  “Wine?”

  She blinked. “Uh—okay, I guess.” Great, what had happened to her resolve to stay sober around him?

  He ordered the wine in what was probably flawless Italian, so she had no idea what he was asking for. She let him order her food for her too. She hoped it wasn’t squid or snails or something, but one look from those incredible gold eyes and she’d probably eat worms raw. Worse yet, she’d like them.

  “So did you grow up here in the Detroit area?” The question was standard, but his warm expression made her think he might be genuinely interested in getting to know her.

  “Mostly. I spent a couple years in California when my dad got transferred out there, but when he retired, we moved back to Michigan.”

  “And your parents, are they still nearby?”

  “No.” She fought back a wave of sadness. “They were both in their late forties when I came along. Dad died about five years ago and my mom passed away last year.”

  He reached over and took her hand, sincerity radiating from his gaze. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He could sense her grief, but there was nothing in her thoughts that told him what he needed to know.

  “Hey,” she rallied, forcing a smile. She made a halfhearted attempt to pull her hand away, but gave in when he resisted. “At least I had great parents and a happy childhood. That’s more than a lot of people can claim.”

  He guided the conversation into more neutral waters and she let him. No need to get too personal too fast.

  Music was the obvious starting point, though she thought she already knew what he liked. To her surprise, his tastes turned out to be almost as eclectic as her own, ranging from soulful ballads to raucous punk.

  The longer they talked, the more she liked him. She told him about her art and he laughed at her stories about her students at the co-op, seeming to have a sense of humor almost as warped as her own. Every so often their hands brushed against one another’s as they reached for a morsel. Each time, Meagan felt the touch all the way to her bones.

  The food was too good to ignore, so they focused on that, chatting idly as they ate. He’d grown up in Wales, he told her, but now lived in the San Francisco area when he wasn’t touring. She also learned that he liked to touch the person he was talking to.

  By the time they polished off Giannola’s to-die-for Gorgonzola ravioli and a bottle of pinot noir, they were both eating with one hand, with their others clasped atop the table. It should have felt awkward, given how recently they’d met, but it didn’t. And oddly enough, her arm hadn’t gone to sleep either, now that she thought about it.

  Maybe he really was as magical as his voice.

  “Shall we go?”

  Ric’s words startled her out of her thoughts, making her choke on the water she’d drunk. She went into a spasm of coughing.

  He was around the table before she even saw him move, on one knee beside her with an arm around her waist. “Breathe. You can do it.” His gentle whisper was as soothing as his touch.

  He handed her a clean napkin when the coughing subsided. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she lied, wiping her eyes. Great, she thought, grimacing at the mascara and eye shadow streaks on the snowy white linen. She not only looked idiotic, she probably looked like an idiotic raccoon.

  “Shall we go?”

  Shoulders slumped in embarrassment, she nodded, refusing to look up at him as he stood and signaled their waiter. As soon as she stood, she excused herself and dashed off to the restroom.

  Ric sat back in his chair to wait for Meagan. He’d stalled all he could. Now that dinner was over he needed to start asking the difficult questions. She’d said nothing to verify his belief that she was the missing Rose heiress, but none of her comments had proven otherwise
, either.

  He’d even dipped into her thoughts, but he’d picked up little more than an instant attraction that rivaled his for her, along with a few self-deprecating asides to herself that almost made him laugh out loud.

  He drained the last dregs from his espresso and glanced around the room. The middle of a delicate mission was no time to be losing his edge. A man in the far corner of the dining room allowed Ric to make eye contact and raised his wineglass in a mocking toast.

  All the blood drained from Ric’s head. Owain le Faire.

  Son of a bitch, this was one complication he hadn’t expected. How had the queen’s most powerful enemy tracked him here, not just to Detroit, but to this very restaurant? Were those really goblins Ric had seen earlier and were they working for Owain, following Ric? Or had Owain honed in independently on the idea that Meagan was the heiress—the one person who could thwart Owain’s plan to overthrow the queen and claim the Seelie throne?

  Ric immediately stood and met the waiter halfway to the table. He thrust a wad of cash into the man’s hand and continued toward the restrooms. How to get out without Owain following? The other elf undoubtedly had accomplices nearby. Ric had to think of something fast.

  A couple stood from a table near the back hallway, ready to leave. Perfect. Ric hummed a quick spell and formed a glamour around them. The short, sixtysomething man now resembled Ric, while his silverhaired wife looked like Meagan. A Fae like Owain would be able to see through the illusion, but only if he thought to look. Ric made sure the glamour would fade in a few minutes, before any harm came to his unwitting accomplices. Then he waited outside the ladies’ room door for Meagan.

  Hands settled on her shoulders as she stepped out of the ladies’ room and Meagan let out a shriek.