Always - Iris Johansen [3]
“Not off the island, either,” Clancy said slowly: “Odd. It could mean she’s still carrying a torch for Baldwin.” His lips twisted. “Or maybe she’s frigid and that’s the challenge she poses for him.”
“No,” Galbraith said quickly and with utmost certainty. Then, as Clancy looked at him in surprise, he muttered sheepishly, “I mean, I can’t imagine her being cold to anyone she cared about.”
“She seems to have impressed you,” Clancy said. “Is the lady that much of a femme fatale?”
Galbraith shifted uncomfortably. “No. Hell, you know I’ve never had a thing for older women.”
“And she’s all of thirty-seven. Practically ancient,” Clancy said dryly. “She must be very beautiful to make you overlook her rapidly advancing decrepitude.”
“No.” Galbraith was frowning abstractedly and Clancy doubted if he even caught the sarcasm. “At least, I don’t think she is. It’s hard to tell.” He made a little gesture with one hand. “She’s just got something.…”
“That’s what Berthold said.” Clancy smiled faintly. “I’m beginning to be a bit curious about this singer who makes tough bastards like the two of you inarticulate. Does this phenomenon have a decent voice, or shall I put on my ear plugs?”
“She’s damn good,” Galbraith said. “Too good for a place like this. She reminds me a little of Streisand.”
Clancy lifted a brow. “Praise indeed. I can hardly wait to hear the lady and formulate my own definition of that special ‘something’ you think she has.”
“Well, you won’t have to wait long.” Galbraith nodded at the pianist, who had pulled a stool in front of the microphone and was carefully adjusting it. “She’s on right now.”
The introduction by the pianist was straightforward and without fanfare, and so was the woman who walked gracefully to the microphone and sat down on the stool. She was dressed in an elegantly tailored, long-sleeved white silk blouse and an ankle-length black evening skirt that had a vaguely Edwardian air except for the long center slit that reached midthigh. She was tall, Clancy noticed, and gracefully fine-boned instead of sexy as he had expected. Her long hair was a shade somewhere between light brown and honey and was drawn cleanly away from her face and fastened in back with a barrette. It was difficult to make out her features in the dimness of the cafe, but they didn’t appear exceptionally attractive. Then the spotlight came on.
Warmth. Gentle warmth in wide-set brown eyes. Her face held a touch of sadness in repose, but then she smiled. Sensitive, beautifully shaped lips smiled suddenly at the audience with such loving kindness that it made Clancy feel oddly breathless. “Hello, I’m Lisa. I have a few songs I’m going to sing for you tonight.” She spoke with a casual intimacy as if to a room filled with old friends. “Then I’m going to take requests.” She made a face. “Please, no opera. Madame Butterfly I’m not.” She chuckled in delight as she heard the whisper of laughter around the room, and Clancy felt again a queer half-aching tug at his emotions. What the hell was happening to him? “Ready?” She nodded at the pianist, who started the introduction. “Here we go.”
During the next forty-five minutes Clancy realized that Galbraith and Berthold were right: Lisa Landon was good. Her clear, bell-like notes held a hint of power skillfully restrained, and the emotion she conveyed was amazing. But he could scarcely appreciate her talent because his attention was focused on the woman, not the singer. The nervous, graceful hands that moved in impulsive gestures. The line of her creamy throat that rose from the stark white of her blouse. What a beautiful throat. Camellia soft, yet breathing, pulsing with life as no flower ever could. And that smile … His lips curved in a self-mocking grin as he realized how poetic he was waxing. When aroused he was usually more interested in breasts and hips than throats and smiles. And there was no question that