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  In the Mood

  Lynne Connolly

  Book one in the Nightstar series.

  The sound of a saxophone drifting from a Chicago blues club sends Matt inside, hoping to sign the player for his recording studio. Instead he finds V. Passion drives them from that moment on, and Matt can’t get enough of her sweet body and generous spirit. But as a former drug addict who spectacularly crashed out of the rock band Murder City Ravens, he has a lot to prove.

  V thinks she’s happy with her lot until she receives an offer to join one of the most innovative and exciting bands in the world. Joining Murder City Ravens could sever her from Matt forever. How can she join the band when she’s spending her nights with the man who nearly destroyed it?

  Matt and V have decisions to make that might give each their life’s dream, but could split them apart. Which is more important—personal fulfillment or love? Is it possible to have both?

  In the Mood

  Lynne Connolly

  Chapter One

  A breath of a note shivered through the air as the club door opened. Matt paused, then stayed to listen. It sounded great. Better than great. Whoever was playing that saxophone knew how to wrench the heart out of the music.

  Abruptly changing his plans for the evening, he walked toward the door. Chicago had managed to turn a thriving music area into a tourist trap, but for those who knew where to look, a few of the old-style clubs remained. Clubs that attracted tourists but were still all about the music. After all, tourists loved music too.

  This type of club didn’t have people queuing behind velvet ropes and VIP areas or tourists turning up in droves. The savvy might pick this place out, because it was small and laid back and looked as if it had been there for some time.

  The man at the door looked at him, then blinked and stared, dark eyes widening. “Are you Maxx Syccoraxx?”

  He grinned. “People ask me that all the time.” He was used to the question by now. It was better than, “Didn’t you used to be Maxx Syccoraxx?” Yes, that was who he used to be; lead singer with an up-and-coming rock band. No more. Drink and drugs had finished all that for him, burned him out. Now, with his body filled out and hair cropped short, he looked like a different man, but sometimes people still recognized him.

  He hadn’t done so badly. He was still here, unlike some of the people he’d met in his wild years. And he had to admit, the band had gone on to greater things without him, mainly due to his replacements and the way they gelled with the other members. Though sometimes he had to grit his teeth before he admitted it. Failure never came easy, but he was in the process of mending his reputation and his fortune. That worked for him.

  He strolled into the club. Inside, the place looked pretty normal. A bar ran down one side of the room with stools set in front of it, about half of them occupied, and the other side had small tables with bentwood chairs or simple wooden stools arranged around them.

  Every time he entered a place like this, chills of recognition and excitement went up his spine. He just felt it, like coming home. This was where he’d started, in the small, smoky, sometimes seedy clubs and bars, in his case in New York. He never lost that excitement, and if he ever did, he’d start worrying.

  He’d arrived in time. The saxophonist was playing an extended riff on Summertime, always one of Matt’s favorites. His mother said she’d sung it to him when he was a baby, and it was true he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know that song.

  And now another time, another place, another version. A magical version. He let the notes wreathe around him, luring him into listening to more, but he wouldn’t look at the stage until he’d heard more. If the player was male, he still wanted sex with him, just from the seductive music, although his usual preference ran to something softer and rounder. The kind with gentle voices, plump breasts and sweet, shivering bodies.

  Shit, he was one sex-starved bastard. He’d been too busy to think about sex recently but that had changed abruptly when he’d heard the first notes of the song.

  He bought a beer at the bar, then found a seat at one of the small tables at the back. The man who served him glared at him, his gnarled, brown hands showing nicks and scars from old brawls, but he didn’t comment. Matt would bet this guy had made him for sure. Seen a lot of life, that guy.

  He’d deliberately kept his attention away from the little stage at the front of the room. He wanted his first aural perceptions unaffected by anything he saw. Now, sitting alone at a small table, he looked up. And lost his breath.

  The sax player was tall and slim, with soft bits in all the right places, and she wore a short, sassy dress in an antique gold color, a foil for the blonde hair that flowed down her back and curled around her body. Strands of it clung to her instrument as if they wanted to bind the two together, player and sax.

  The notes shuddered through him, through her, as they did through the dozen or so patrons here tonight. An inner voice told Matt to snatch her away, lock her up somewhere he could enjoy her and nobody else could get to her. This was his music, she was playing for him alone.

  His professional self rejoiced. Not many people had that ability, to speak so personally to someone else. He’d seen it a few times on the stage, with popular artists who could create a still point around them, shrink a space the size of a sports arena to a small, intimate room. A couple of actors, a ballet dancer, half a dozen musicians, all but one of them famous and wealthy, or on their way to being so. An exception was the woman in this club tonight.

  The private part of him didn’t give a fuck. This woman personified all his wet dreams. And she could play the sax too.

  Her solo came to a breathy close and the rest of the quartet came in. He’d hoped to hear better than good, but they were just—good. They knew how to play, they could swing, but they didn’t have the extra something that made a band special.

  She looked so fucking beautiful. She’d make any audience cream its collective pants.

  He wanted her, and he didn’t just mean personally. She confused him, because he didn’t know which he wanted more. As if appearing from a wish or a prayer, she was just what he needed professionally right now. He hadn’t expected the musician he’d been hunting all over the music world for in this place—and hopefully available.

  Shit, if anyone else had signed her, he’d still have her. He’d pay anything. The band he was working with right now—his stomach knotted at the thought. They were the reason he’d come out tonight, to get some rest, some respite from a session that was growing far too intense for his comfort.

  Forcing all thoughts of his day job out of his mind, he leaned back, picked up his beer and listened to the band.

  “Hey, girl. You did good tonight.”

  V gave her uncle a sweet smile. “Thanks.”

  “You know I’d give you a permanent place in the band if you wanted one.”

  She kept her smile firmly in place. “Thanks. But I’m not looking right now.”

  “I know that’s what you say, but you think about it, hey?”

  After carefully putting down her sax, she leaned forward and kissed his grizzled cheek. The stubble he retained as part of his image was silver now, so much a part of him she couldn’t imagine him without it. “I promise. But this is what I like. Coming in when I’m in the mood.”

  Claud shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying. Ready to leave, baby girl?”

  She sighed. “I guess.” It felt like a letdown to go tamely home and climb into her solitary bed. She’d played well tonight, she knew it, but restlessness consumed her now. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough. She wanted more, but she didn’t know for sure what “more” was. Like that song from West Side Story, Something’s Coming, she felt fearful, excited and restless.

 
She ran her fingers over the stops on her sax, enjoying the feel of the smooth pads.

  “Funny it’s you who turned out to have the musical talent.”

  She glared at Claud. “Racist, much? Blue-eyed blondes can’t play the blues?” Only then did she see the twinkle in his dark eyes. She gave him a mock punch, careful to keep it light. “Okay, you got me.”

  “I told you,” he said softly. “Music has all the colors of the rainbow, and then some.”

  A deep velvet voice chimed in. “Pardon me, may I have a word with you?” A strange sense of recognition shivered through her, but she’d never heard him before.

  She turned away from her sax case and knew why she’d had the sense of a hot, concentrated gaze on her for the last half hour. She hadn’t imagined it, because here he was. Tall, stern features, startling green eyes, a true, deep green. That kind of mouth on a man shouldn’t be allowed either. It promised far more than it could ever deliver, full and rich, the color like the most sinful of strawberries.

  Not that she was about to find out, she reminded herself. She deliberately turned to crisp efficiency. “Is there something I can do for you?” She didn’t have to turn around to know that Claud had moved a little closer.

  The man smiled. If she’d been the impressionable type, she’d have fainted dead away on the spot. She didn’t because she wasn’t. In fact, she didn’t show any emotion, except a glance at Claud to make sure he didn’t crowd her too protectively.

  “I’m Matt Sinclair. I own a small recording studio close by, Kismet. You know it?”

  She knew it. Now she knew why she thought she’d seen him before. Sinclair was making quite a name for himself. Again. After blowing his first chance, he’d reverted to his original name and started over. She had to admire that, she supposed. And what he’d achieved in his short, meteoric prior career.

  She merely nodded. “You’re not going to say I’m a star and you want to make an album with me. Please say something more original than that.”

  The grin turned lopsided. “Kind of. But not as dramatic.”

  Beside her, Claud grunted. “You’re not the first person to try somethin’ with her. How do we know you’re really this guy Sinclair?”

  V nudged him. “He is. Take my word for it.”

  Sinclair’s dark brows rose in surprise and she grinned. “Not as famous as you think, then?”

  “Nah,” he said. “And I wish—” He broke off. “The point is, I’m making a new album for a band, and they want to locate a sax player for a fill. One track. Interested?”

  Fuck, yes. But maybe— “What band?”

  “Murder City Ravens,” he said, meeting her gaze directly.

  The world shrank to two people. She forgot what she’d asked him, what he’d said. Sounds ebbed away until she heard her uncle’s gruff tones. “Are you all right, girl?”

  She shook her head, feeling her hair tickle her cheek as it drifted forward and stuck to her lip gloss. The cosmetics people should really concentrate on inventing a nonstick version.

  She pulled the strands aside with a hand she realized was shaking. It wasn’t the job offer that affected her this way. She must be tired or something. “Your old band?”

  A light she could have defined as anger, or maybe a spark of vitality, something, lit his eyes. “The same. If you’ve heard their stuff, you’d know they don’t usually use a sax, but this track needs one. Something to soar above the main riff, something with a touch of sexy.” His eyes gleamed again, or maybe it just looked that way because he shifted and the reflection changed.

  She realized something else with a shock. Shit, her mind was working slow tonight. “They’re doing their new album with you?” The man standing in front of her had crashed and burned, and nearly taken the band with him. Their reputation was climbing fast, and they wanted him to produce the crucial third album, the first one with the new members?

  She met his eyes again and knew he’d read her thoughts. It probably wasn’t the first time he’d seen that question in someone’s face. He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a great producer.”

  Laughter broke the tension. Claud stepped back, giving her a little space. He ran his gnarled hand along the yellowed ivory keys of his piano and closed the lid. He’d told her once that every time he closed the instrument he moved a little closer toward closing it for good, so he always did it reluctantly.

  She turned to finish stowing her instrument in its case, but when she snapped the last fastener closed and reached for the handle, someone else’s hand got there first. From the wrinkles on the back, she recognized her uncle’s. “I’ll take care of that for you. Do you want it dropped at home or your apartment?”

  “Home, please.” Except she’d be going with it, of course. She frowned when he batted her hand away from the handle. “I managed to carry it all evening.”

  “So let me take the strain for now. You just relax, darlin’. The club don’t shut for another hour—stay and talk business with this guy Sinclair.”

  “This guy Sinclair can hear every word,” a wry voice said from behind them.

  “I am fully aware of that,” Claud said without turning around. “I recall who you are now, so you get a chance with her. Blow it and you don’t get a second.” He put his arm around her waist and urged her to turn around. “I’ll drop the sax off for you.”

  “Thanks.” She’d never felt attached to her instruments, although this one meant more than the others because her mother had given it to her. She’d played Happy Birthday to her last month and at last, her devoted ma had approved of her playing. Although she still told V not to give up the day job.

  Like most of her family, V was drawn to music, but her mother didn’t want anything more for her baby girl. She’d lived in Chicago a long time, she told V, and seen artists come and go. Mainly go, dragged down by the lifestyle or the substances freely available in the community.

  Now a man with eyes as green as the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day wanted her to take another step. But she felt comfortable with it. When she didn’t, she wouldn’t do any more. “I can fit in a little session work,” she said to Claud.

  Her uncle smiled, easy. “Sure you can. It could be a good gig. If you do this one, then you can do another.” Unlike her mother, her uncle encouraged her to push forward a little, to go beyond her comfort zone.

  “Do I get any say?” Sinclair folded his arms over his admittedly powerful chest.

  Claud flapped a hand in his direction. “Some. You look after our little girl, y’hear?”

  “Sure. If she does the job, I’ll put her name on the list if she does it right.”

  He meant the list of session musicians available for hire. A great opportunity and regular money, and yeah, she could do that too.

  He turned his attention to her, his gaze searing her from her head to her feet. “I do a mixture of stuff right now, picking up work where I can. I don’t have to tell you that this album could make my studio’s name, so if you don’t come up to scratch, you don’t make the final cut. But if it’s good, then work will come. Not because of me, but because of the band. Murder City Ravens is going stellar. If the session works out and you want it, you can have a credit, but that’s up to you.” Having a credit on the album would spread her name around.

  “Yes,” she said impulsively. “I want it.”

  Claud picked up her sax and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t stay out late, baby girl.”

  She flashed him a cheeky grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Claud. I mean, it’s early now, right?”

  Claud gave the gravelly chuckle, reminding her that, although he didn’t smoke now, it wasn’t too long ago he’d had his last cigarette. Much to the relief of the family. He stepped down from the low dais, slower now from the arthritis he always worried would attack his hands one day, and grabbed his coat.

  Her cousin George had packed up his double bass and stood grimly to one side. She’d been aware of his steady regard all through the exchange.
George hadn’t missed a thing, but when his father spoke, George stayed silent. Unless he was needed, George spoke through his music.

  The men sauntered toward the exit, Claud glancing behind as if he’d changed his mind and wanted to come back.

  “Very protective, your—”

  “Uncle,” she said firmly.

  She stepped down from the stage, pretending not to notice his outstretched hand. She wanted to brace herself before he touched her. Enough tension sizzled between them now so fuck knew what would happen when they finally made physical contact.

  He took her to a table at the back. That was why she hadn’t seen him when he’d first entered, only sensed him. The dim lighting meant she couldn’t see him until he’d approached the stage.

  He grinned. “I can’t think why I haven’t found this place before. I like it.” He glanced around at the plain wooden chairs and the tables scarred by generations of glasses and cigarettes. They gleamed with the kind of polish not gained from a can, but from years of elbows and arms rubbing against it.

  She stared at the tabletop and traced a ring with the tip of her finger. “Why is it so hot tonight?” she wondered before she looked up and saw why.

  Most of the heat was generated by his avid gaze. She’d glanced up too fast for him to look away, or maybe he never meant to.

  His gaze met hers and they burned together. She’d never felt closer to anyone in her life before, never felt anyone’s soul pass into her and through her, taking her on a wild journey to a new country.

  She blinked, deliberately breaking the connection, and forced a laugh. “Fuck, you’re good. Is that what you did to your fans?” She didn’t have to ask. She’d seen him once, when the band had come to Chicago on its one and only world tour when he’d sung lead.

  Now she knew charisma wasn’t intangible. It existed. It sat at this table with her, watching her, daring her to do—what?

  “What did I do to my fans? You saw me?”

  “I-I— Yes, I saw you.” She decided to come clean. Surely she could talk about that without the situation getting worse? “You came to Chicago on your world tour. I saw what you could do then. You grabbed the audience by the balls and didn’t let go. You held them in the palm of your hand.”