"Roberts, Nora - Once More With Feeling" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

Just reflex, just an old habit, she told herself and struggled to keep
her hands passive in his. "I'm sorry, Brandon," she answered with
perfect calm.

"I'm booked." Her eyes slipped past him in search of Marc, whose head
was bent over his guitar as he jammed with another musician. Raven
could have sworn with frustration. Brand followed the direction of her
gaze. Briefly his eyes narrowed.

"Tomorrow, then," he said. His tone was still light and casual. "I
want to talk to you." He smiled as to an old friend. "I'll just drop
by the house awhile."

"Brandon," Raven began and tugged on her hands.

"You still have Julie, don't you?" Brand smiled and held onto her
hands, unaware of--or ignoring -her resistance.

"Yes, I..."

"I'd like to see her again. I'll come by around four. I know the
way." He grinned, then kissed her again, a quick, friendly brushing of
lips before he released her hands, turned and walked away.

"Yes," she murmured to herself. "You know the way."

An hour later Raven drove through the electric gates that led to her
house. The one thing she hadn't.allowed Julie or her agent to thrust
on her was a chauffeur. Raven enjoyed driving, having control of the
low, sleek foreign car and indulging from time to time in an excess of
speed. She claimed it cleared her head. It obviously hadn't done the
job, she thought as she pulled up in front of the house with a short,
peevish squeal of the brakes. Distracted, she left her purse sitting
on the seat beside her as she sprang from the car and jogged up the
three stone steps that led to the front door. It was locked. Her
frustration only mounted when she was forced to go back and rip the
keys from the ignition.

Slamming into the house, Raven went directly to the music room. She
flung herself down on the silk-covered Victorian sofa and stared
straight ahead without seeing anything. A gleaming mahogany grand
piano dominated the room. It was played often and at odd hours. There
were Tiffany lamps and Persian rugs and a dime-store flowerpot with a
struggling African violet. An old, scarred music cabinet was filled to
overflowing. Sheet music spilled onto the floor. A priceless Faberge
box sat next to the brass unicorn she had found in a thrift shop and
had fallen in love with. One wall was crowded with awards: Grammys,
gold and platinum records, plaques and statues and the keys to a few
cities. On another was the framed sheet music from the first song she
had written and a breathtaking Picasso. The sofa on which she sat had