Love's Rhythm Read online

  Now all he needed was an address.

  And the guts to find himself there.

  Chapter Two

  Twenty-two six-year-olds gazed up at her, some with snotty-noses—it was winter, after all—some with wind-kissed cheeks, all with wide eyes and open mouths. All silent and enrapt. All sitting motionless on the reading rug.

  Wombat Stew. Worked every time.

  Lauren Robbins turned the page of the classic Australian picture book, revealing a colourful illustration of a dingo stirring an iron pot while the poor wombat watched. Unbeknownst to the dingo, however, the wombat’s friends were about to teach him a lesson. Lauren gave her class a sideways grin before effecting a shocked expression, waiting to see who would spot the other animals’ plan first.

  “‘The very clever Dingo stirred and stirred’,” she read, letting the singsong quality of the narrative dance through her voice. She watched the children’s reaction, her lips curling at the first hint of a comprehension. Thomas Missen was the first. The little boy realised the dingo was going to be without his stew a mere heartbeat earlier than Rachel Jones to his left. As the words of the story rolled off Lauren’s tongue, the rest of the class caught up, giggling and squirming with delight as the lucky wombat escaped being devoured by the egotistical dingo thanks to the help of his clever friends.

  “Again!” Thomas cried when—the last page read—she closed the book and placed it gently on her lap, cover down.

  “Again!” the rest of the class called out, eyes bright and wide and happy.

  She let out a sigh and shook her head. “Alas, my cherubs, the day is almost done. Any minute now the bell will sound and you will all flee to your homes, forgetting all about me and the wombat and the hungry dingo.”

  “No we won’t.” As one, all twenty-two students shook their heads emphatically, their expressions part mortified she would suggest such a thing, part frantic the bell would indeed ring before the afternoon ritual was complete and the book read again.

  She huffed out another melodramatic sigh, slumping her shoulders and pouting out her bottom lip. “And I shall be left here with a messy room because my sweet, impatient students neglected to tidy their desks and tuck their chairs under their—”

  Before she could finish, the six-year-olds were on their feet, scrambling for their tiny work areas, shoving papers and books and pencils into their respective places and pushing chairs with gusto beneath knee-high tables.

  Lauren watched them, unable to contain her smile. As always, their enthusiasm for the simple joys of life—an entertaining book and a soft rug on which to sit—made her happy. The innocent joy of a child. Unlike the unpredictable moodiness of a teenager. The thought drew a grimace and she shook her head. She’d deal with the teenager when she got home. For now, it was her kindergarteners and Wombat Stew.

  “Please, Miss Robbins—” Thomas was back on the rug, back ram-rod straight, legs perfectly crossed, hands on knees, elbows locked, “—again.”

  Twenty-one children all but flew to the carpeted area to join him in his plea, all eyes wide and fixed on her, their small bodies squirming with pent-up delight and anticipation.

  She cast their desks an exaggerated inspection from her low reading chair, her fingers curled around the edge of the picture book on her lap. “Well,” she drew out the word, knowing what was coming next.

  “Please, Miss Robbins!” the class erupted as one, a jubilant cacophony of young voices. “Please, please, please?”

  She rolled her eyes and wriggled her bottom, grinning at them as she made a show of lifting Wombat Stew from her lap. “Oh, okay then. One more time, but only because you asked nicely.”

  Her class giggled, a short burst of laughter that fell to elated silence when she opened the book to page one.

  “‘One fine day, on the banks of a billabong, a very clever dingo caught a wombat…’”

  The rest of the book was listened to with just as much enthusiasm and appreciation as the first two readings, and by the time the bell did ring for the day’s end, Lauren was more in love with it than before. It was a perfect way to end the day—quiet children hanging on to every word she uttered, an almost tidy room and Saturday and Sunday waiting for her on the other side of the door. As soon as she finished packing everything away, her weekend would begin. She’d take a relaxing walk to her car on the other side of the school to unwind, the cool winter air a refreshing kiss on her skin. The traditional after-work margaritas with Jen would come next, then it was a weekend spent with Josh doing little but watching movies and experimenting with the new fondue thingamabob she’d won in the school’s last fund-raising guessing competition. How she knew there were exactly 2,442 M&Ms in old Mr. Bateman’s milking bucket was beyond her, but hey, she wasn’t going to turn down a thingamabob that gave her an excuse to eat melted chocolate, was she?

  Forty minutes after the last child waved goodbye, Lauren collected her bag, a rather beat-up leather satchel someone she refused to think about had given her during a life she also refused to think about. She slung the satchel over her shoulder, checked that the class goldfish, SpongeBob, had been given his weekend feed-block and exited her room, closing the door behind her.

  The sky had already begun to turn pink with dusk by the time she’d made her way halfway across the small school’s smaller playground. Winter played with the leaves and branches of the ancient gum trees standing guard around the grassed area that served as a Stuck-in-the-Mud arena, a marble-playing stadium and, for the older students, a Catch-and-Kiss amphitheater. She lifted her face into the whispering rasp of the breeze, taking a deep breath of the unpolluted afternoon. That she had ended up here, in Murriundah, the parochial country town she’d grown up in five hours away from Sydney, didn’t surprise her in the slightest.

  Well, not any more. She had to admit, fifteen years ago she’d thought she’d kind of be anywhere else but—

  “Hello, Lauren,” a deep male voice said behind her.

  Lauren squealed. An honest to goodness squeal. At the same exact second she spun on her heel and swung her satchel, weighed down with two textbooks, her uneaten lunch, car keys, half-empty water bottle, twenty-two hand-drawn self-portraits tucked in a sturdy cardboard folder, her purse and her iPad.

  The satchel smashed into the temple of the man standing behind her.

  There was a solid thud, a surprised oof, followed by an even more surprised, “shit that hurt,” before the man went down like a bag of bricks, collapsing to the ground in one fluid, graceful drop. No, not just the man, the rock star. The rock star the whole world idolised, the one who’d grown up in this very parochial town with her.

  The rock star who’d stolen her heart in that life she refused to think about.

  Lauren’s mouth fell open. Her pulse turned into a sledgehammer. She stared at the motionless man lying at her feet, refusing to believe what her eyes were telling her. Nick Blackthorne was here in Murriundah, and she’d rendered him unconscious with the very satchel he’d given to her fifteen years ago.

  “Oh, no.”

  The words were a whispered breath. She dropped to her knees, the ground’s winter-damp seeping through the linen of her trousers as she reached out with one hand and gave Nick’s shoulder a gentle push. “Nick?”

  He didn’t move.

  Oh boy, Lauren, you’ve KOed the world’s biggest rock star.

  She shoved him again, a little harder this time. “Nick?”

  He didn’t make a sound. Not a bloody one.

  “Shit.”

  Her heart slammed into her throat, just as hard as the satchel had hit his head. She licked her lips and brushed a strand of his black hair from his forehead. He was just as gorgeous as always. Older, yes. He was almost thirty-seven after all, but the years looked good on him, so good. In fact, they suited him. When he’d been a teenager, he’d been god-like in his beauty. When he was in his twenties, that god-like beauty had verged on painful to look at. She’d spent many nights lying in the bed they�
��d shared for a year and a half, gazing at him while he slept, wondering at his perfection, her belly knotting with love, her sex constricting with longing. And then it had become just her bed, Nick nothing but a ghost in her heart.

  She’d stopped reading articles about him somewhere in his late twenties, knowing each one would only make her stupid heart ache. But it was impossible to avoid seeing images of him. He kept popping up on the national news. Australia loved one of their own, especially when they’d won a Grammy or Billboard Award, or when they were dating Hollywood royalty or British royalty, something Nick Blackthorne seemed to do on a regular basis. Even worse was the local Murriundah Herald, the small newspaper constantly keeping the town aware of their famous son and his activities. Those images were hard to escape, and when she had let herself stare at them for longer than a heartbeat, she’d noticed his late twenties and early thirties only elevated his looks to a lived-in sexiness. The tiny seams around his eyes, the lines by his nose, they all heightened what she’d never forgotten—Nick Blackthorne was a sexy, sexy man. And now here he was, unconscious on his side in the Murriundah Public School’s muddy playground, looking even sexier than she remembered.

  Damn it, what was he doing here? What the hell was he doing back here?

  For me?

  She frowned, shaking her head at the notion. No. Nick wouldn’t be here for her.

  Could be. Isn’t that what you’ve dreamed about for the last fifteen years?

  Her frown turned into a scowl. No, it bloody well wasn’t. She had moved on. She wasn’t still the naïve young woman with impossible fantasies and fairy-tale wishes of happy-ever-afters. And if he was here for her—her heart smashed harder into her throat at that thought—he could bloody well bugger off. The last thing she wanted was—

  He groaned. A barely audible noise deep in his chest.

  Lauren started, a tiny yelp slipping from her. “Nick?”

  She nudged his shoulder again, but the groan was about it. “Well, at least I know I didn’t kill you,” she muttered, giving him a glare. He lay there on the cold ground, long, lean body decked out in black jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket she knew would cost more than she earned in a month.

  Lauren rubbed at her mouth. What was he doing here? And was he alone? Surely he travelled with an entourage? A bodyguard? She’d seen enough paparazzi images of him to know there was usually a hulking great big guy shadowing him wherever he was. Where was that guy?

  She sat back on her haunches, studying the empty playground around her. There were no massive hulking great big guys running at her, which meant she would have to deal with the unconscious Nick.

  A tight twisting sensation stirred in the pit of her belly and she bit back a groan. She was not going to get all horny and excited at the idea of dealing with Nick. Besides, there wasn’t a hope in hell she could lift him by herself and carry him to her car, even if she wanted to. At five-foot-six and one-hundred-and-thirty pounds wringing-wet, she wasn’t exactly the lugging-unconscious-rock-stars-around type even if said unconscious rock star had more than once lay full-length atop her in bed, on the living room floor, the kitchen bench, the—

  Lauren slapped her hands to her face, killing the utterly insane train of thought. God, was she an idiot? What the hell was she doing thinking about Nick making love to her?

  “You a masochist, Lauren Robbins?” she snarled under her breath, grabbing at her satchel/instrument of destruction before digging her phone from its lethal contents.

  She turned it on, keying in Jennifer’s number. Hopefully, her best friend was sticking with Friday-afternoon tradition and had closed her vet clinic early. Jennifer was used to dealing with heavy, unresponsive animals, being the only vet in the district. Dealing with an unconscious Nick Blackthorne would be a breeze.

  “I’ve got the margaritas chilling in the fridge already,” Jennifer Watson said the moment the connection was made, not bothering with any kind of greeting. “Tell Josh you’ll be home later than normal tonight.”

  “I’ve got a problem, Jen,” Lauren answered, trying hard not to let her gaze roam over Nick. Trying but failing, damn it.

  “What’s up? And if you tell me you’re marking school books I’m coming over there to thump you.”

  “I’m not marking school books, Jen.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “Now shut up and listen carefully.”

  Jennifer made a dramatic ooh sound before laughing. “Okay, Miss Robbins, I’m listening. What’s your boggle?”

  Lauren bit at her bottom lip. “Umm, you know how I told you I once dated Nick Blackthorne?”

  Jennifer let out a sharp snort. “You mentioned it in passing years ago and never let me bring up the subject again. Is this a confession? Did you lie to me? Or are you going to tease me some more with tales of your past? Did you also date Hugh Jackman? Guy Pearce? Geoffrey Rush?”

  Lauren laughed, rolling her eyes. “No, I didn’t. But I did date Nick Blackthorne.”

  “And I’m going to say the same thing I said when you told me before—lucky bitch. Now tell me what’s up?”

  Lauren took a deep breath. “Well, he’s here now.”

  Silence answered her. For a good twenty seconds or so. Then Jennifer said, “Nick Blackthorne is here?” Her voice, normally calm and laced with mirth, like she knew a really funny joke and was on the verge of sharing it, raised an octave. “In Murriundah?”

  Lauren gazed at Nick’s face, his stormy-grey eyes shuttered by thick black lashes resting on cheekbones high and strong. A decidedly purplish bruise was beginning to make itself known on the side of his face. “In Murriundah,” she answered on a sigh.

  Jennifer made a strangled little sound. “And?”

  “And I just knocked him unconscious in the school playground.”

  “What the fuck?”

  Lauren jerked the phone from her ear.

  “What the hell do you mean you just knocked him unconscious?” Jennifer continued, her voice far from calm and loud enough Lauren could hear each word even with the phone nowhere near her ear. “Why? With what? And why? Jesus Christ, Robbins, who are you really and what—”

  Lauren returned her phone to her ear. “Jenny!” she snapped, “I don’t have time right now. I need your help. I can’t move Nick by myself and I can’t leave him on the ground. He’ll catch a cold—”

  “A cold?” Jennifer interrupted. “You can’t leave him on the ground because he’ll catch a cold? How ’bout you can’t leave him on the ground because he’s Nick Blackthorne?”

  Despite herself, Lauren laughed. “Jen, I need you to forget about that for a moment, and by forget, I mean don’t tell anyone he’s here. I don’t know why he is, nor why he’s here seemingly without a bodyguard, but I’d rather we not have the whole town suddenly appear on the Murriundah Public School playground until I know why he’s here, okay?”

  “Okay,” Jennifer replied, “but can I at least bring my camera?”

  “Jen!” Lauren heard her teacher’s voice, and the exasperation in it. Her belly knotted tighter. She remembered this emotion all too well—the exasperation at being accosted while out with Nick, of being pushed aside as girls and women—and some men—tried to slip their phone numbers or their underwear into Nick’s pockets. “Please,” she said. “I need you to be my friend for a moment, not a fan. Okay?”

  The question drew silence from Jennifer.

  Lauren caught her bottom lip with her teeth. “Please?”

  “Sorry,” Jennifer said, and Lauren’s heart thumped a little harder at the contrition in her voice. “Really, I’m sorry. Of course I can do that. You just threw me for a loop there, teach. I’m calm. I’m cool. Hear how cool I am?”

  Lauren chuckled at her best friend’s ultra-contained enunciation. “I can hear. Now get your arse here as quickly as you can. And maybe bring a gel ice-pack.”

  Jennifer burst out laughing. “I can do that too. But on one condition. You tell me everything, little Miss Secrets, and I mean everything. The
re’s no way you’re sitting on something like this.”

  Everything? Lauren swallowed, studying the motionless Nick. No one knew everything, not even—

  Oh, shit, Josh.

  “Can we take him to your house?” she asked, her mouth dry and her blood roaring in her ears.

  “Oh, gee, let me think—” Jennifer made a clicking sound, “—can I bring the Nick Blackthorne to my house? Golly, I don’t know…”

  “Jen!” Lauren growled.

  Her best friend laughed—back to the same old Jen that Lauren had known for ten years, since the day she and Josh had arrived in Murriundah only to find an injured possum on their new home’s front porch. They’d taken the possum to the town’s only vet—one Dr. Jennifer Watson, who herself had been in the town for a grand total of five days. Jennifer had babbled the whole time about all sorts of things, from sexing possums to the right playlist for unpacking a house, making Lauren and Josh laugh and the rest was history. The two women had been fast friends since.

  Her gaze wandered back to Nick’s face, tracing the line of his lips. She remembered the feel of them so very, very easily, as if their caress on her skin had happened only yesterday. His kisses had been sublime, romantic, sweet, hungry, animalistic, reverent…

  Had been, Lauren. Had been. Past tense. You need to remember that.

  “…in about ten.”

  Lauren blinked, her cheeks filling with heat as she realized she’d completely tuned out on her friend.

  You sure that’s why your cheeks are hot? It’s nothing to do with the fact you just relived a million kisses from the man before you in a single wonderful, tormenting heartbeat?

  “What?” she blurted out, turning her back on Nick. It was safer that way.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do you want me to collect Josh on the way?”

  “No!”

  The word burst from her, sharp and forceful.

  “Okay,” Jennifer said, and Lauren could see the wheels of her friend’s mind ticking over, processing everything she’d learnt so far. Processing and digesting and coming up with theories.