Free The Song in My Heart by Tracey Richardson Page B

words of coaxing, and Dess would be hers.
    But she couldn’t. Instead, she pulled her hand away as though she’d touched something hot. She shifted to create distance between them. Cleared her throat to drown out the voice in her head that said she must be nuts. No , she thought. I’m not nuts. I’m doing something smart for once.
    Dess scrambled to her feet, the color still high in her cheeks. “More chicken?” she asked with false cheerfulness. “Wine?”
    Erika shook her head. “Honestly, I’m a bit tired. Long day today. Long day tomorrow, too.” Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this!
    “You’re right, and tomorrow’s going to be even longer. Sloane will be back in the afternoon and we’ve got a ton of songs to learn yet. I think we should get started first thing in the morning.” She reached above her head to stretch, then yawned. “I’m going to turn in. Goodnight, Erika.”
    Erika rose and had to suppress the unmistakable need to hug Dess. Her arms hung loosely and inadequately at her sides, like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. “Goodnight, Dess.”

Chapter Seven
    Dess had never before slipped her guitar on her back and cycled to a private place on the island to play, as she and Erika were doing now. It had been Erika’s idea, and the absence of tourists was the only reason it was possible. They’d have been mobbed if it were summer, which was why during the busy months on the island, Dess kept mostly to her own property. The islanders knew who she was and left her alone. But the “fudgies,” as the islanders called the tourists, would most likely recognize her, hound her for autographs and photos and lob uncomfortable questions at her like grenades. Like why hadn’t she returned to her career and why had she removed herself from the public eye. She barely discussed those topics with people she knew and loved, let alone with strangers.
    The sun on her face, the wind sending her hair in six different directions, Dess felt a remarkable sense of not-giving-a-shit. There was nothing to care about, outside the fact that it was a gorgeous day to be outside playing her guitar. The sense of freedom lifted her, made her feel ten pounds lighter. Although it wasn’t enough to make her forget how badly she’d embarrassed herself in front of Erika last night.
    God , she thought with a cringe, her heart as heavy as a rock in her chest. She’d practically thrown herself at Erika, looking at her with puppy dog eyes, nearly begging to be kissed. And more. She’d acted like a groupie without any boundaries, and she should damn well know better. She did know better. She’d had plenty of men and women throw themselves at her when she was famous, having lost count at more than four hundred of the little come-on notes that had found their way into her pockets, her luggage, under her hotel room doors over the years. There had been many brazen propositions too and a few admirers who had even become pesky stalkers. It got so exhausting, so predictable, that there was nothing at all flattering about a stranger’s—or even a near-stranger’s—propositions. Erika, she figured, must have had a good laugh last night at her expense, and she didn’t know how, or even if, she should address what had happened. She wanted Erika to know it wouldn’t happen again, that they were professionals and that Dess would never act so ridiculous again.
    It’s that damned voice of hers , Dess decided. Deep as a still river, soulful as an angel’s, smooth as a weathered stone. And the knack Erika had for making it seem like she was singing only to you, that the words were meant only for you, that very special listener, was the coup de grace . Singing was more effective than alcohol as a panty remover, and she was sure Erika knew it too. Was sure, in fact, that Erika had seduced many women with her voice.
    The only thing Dess couldn’t quite square away in her mind was why Erika had backed away from what she had