Rocco Page 6

  “I’m sorry. You can’t smoke in here, sir.” The waitress put down her tray and handed him a tumbler of whiskey, nodding in the direction of a bouncer who was heading over to their table.

  “Hell, there isn’t anywhere a man can smoke anymore.” Rocco stared at the bouncer until the fucker backed off. Damn. With Grace constantly on his mind, and in the kind of place he had always imagined her singing, he needed his nicotine fix more than ever.

  “Nothing has changed in six years, Rocco. Smoking is still addictive. It still causes cancer. And you are still going to kill yourself if you don’t stop.”

  “Why the fuck do you care?”

  “I never stopped caring.”

  She had never stopped caring. And he never stopped being a fucking ass.

  He closed his eyes and imagined her gentle curves, her thick long hair, the swell of her hips, and the sound of her voice as she sang in the car every day when he drove her to high school, telling himself over and over he was too old and too fucked up and too tainted by the violence of their world to be messing with the sweet beautiful innocence of Grace.

  It was because of her that he’d been given the nickname, Frankie. He’d gotten stone cold drunk only once since moving to Vegas, and that was because Luca had dragged him out to a club one night on the pretense of holding a meeting, much as he had done now, and the singer had looked and sounded so much like Grace that he thought his heart would fucking break. He’d poured a bottle of whiskey down his throat to numb the pain, and Luca had caught him singing Sinatra tunes in the restroom. He had never lived it down.

  “So?” Luca persisted. “What do you think?”

  Fuck. He couldn’t deal with this. Own a jazz club and be reminded of Grace every fucking night?

  “Give it to someone else.” He finished his drink and walked out of the bar as the band started to play “The Impossible Dream” behind him.

  FOUR

  Mike couldn’t believe the hotness of the vocalist on stage at the Stardust. All that thick, red hair, big tits, lush curves, and the bright orange dress that was so short it was more than a tease … He wouldn’t mind her in his bed for a night. Too bad about the voice. She sounded like a dog with a cold.

  He looked over at Mr. Rizzoli talking with Danny at the other table. What the fuck was that about? Mr. Rizzoli was up to something tonight, and he was pretty damn sure it had to do with the papers he’d offered Frankie. He hadn’t seemed put out when Frankie stormed out of the club. Instead he’d just tucked the papers away, ordered another drink, and called Danny over for a meeting. Since Frankie had gone, Mike’s job was to look out for Mr. Rizzoli and make sure Danny didn’t get any ideas. Desperate men did desperate things, although with two casts and a face full of bandages, he didn’t think Danny would be able to do much.

  The vocalist left the stage and teetered through the crowd on her high heels. Mike held his breath, hoping she’d notice him, but she walked right past him and stopped in front of a dude in a dark suit. No big deal. She wasn’t really his type. He liked blondes, small and petite, women with soft voices and gentle hands. He liked women who made him feel like a man, and who reminded him of his first love, Melinda, and the good times they’d had until his best friend offered to drive her home from a high school party and their car had gone over the side of a cliff.

  Losing them both, and finding out they’d been sleeping together behind his back, had changed the course of his life. Unable to focus on what had been a promising boxing career, he’d started throwing fights in exchange for payouts from the mob, and eventually joined Luca’s crew as an associate and then as a made man. It wasn’t the life he’d dreamed about, but he liked hanging with the crew and using his skills to protect the bosses or rough people up when they tried to cheat the mob. He liked the prestige of being a made man, and the connections and money that came with it. With Luca’s backing, he’d been able to set up a chain of boxing gyms so he could help others succeed where he’d failed.

  When she got nothing more than a lukewarm smile from the man in the suit, the vocalist moved on, butchering a slow, stripped-down version of “Estate,” an Italian song made famous by the bossa nova icon, João Gilberto. Gah. Mike wished Luca would finish up, too. He really wasn’t much of a jazz man. He preferred the heavy beats of bands like Rammstein that could get his heart pumping when he was working out at his gym.

  He felt a prickle of awareness only seconds before he caught a woman watching him from the bar. Long, blonde hair tumbled down her back in a riot of curls. She was small and slim with a waist he could swear he would be able to get his hands around, sweetly curved hips, snugly outlined in a tight, black dress, and the rack … Whoa. Why hadn’t he noticed that bombshell walking in the door? It was like someone had taken his pornographic fantasy and made it real.

  Her eyes widened when he caught her watching, and he could have sworn a blush rose up in her cheeks. She dropped her gaze, but seconds later her lashes fluttered and she looked at him again. He felt a jolt of heat in his groin at the obvious invitation.

  “Gonna grab a drink,” he called over to Luca. He waited for a nod of approval and made his way to the bar, wishing he’d worn something other than a worn pair of jeans and a T-shirt, although the T-shirt did show off his biceps and abs, tight and hard after the daily workouts that kept him in shape. He might have failed as a professional boxer but that didn’t mean he quit the sport. There was a lot of money to be made in underground fights, even when he didn’t rig them.

  “Is this seat taken?” He gestured to the conveniently empty seat beside the woman and was delighted when she licked her lips and smiled.

  “Now it is.”

  She had soft, sultry voice, smooth and warm that brought to mind hot sticky nights in the Nevada heat, sweaty sheets, and sexy moans. He settled in beside her and flagged the bartender down for a drink. “You want anything?”

  “Whatever you’re drinking.”

  He glanced down and saw an empty highball glass in front of her, when he would have expected some kind of girly drink with an umbrella. A woman after his own heart.

  “You like jazz?” she said after he ordered their drinks.

  “Not really my thing. I came with friends.”

  “I saw you.” Leaning closer, she traced a long, pink fingernail over the back of his hand sending all the right messages to the wrong part of his body. “You were kind of hard to miss with all those muscles. Are you a fighter or a bodybuilder or something like that?”

  “Yeah.” A smile spread across his face and his chest puffed out of its own accord. “I own a chain of boxing gyms called Mike’s Gyms. I’ve got three in the city, and I’m gonna open a fourth.”

  “I know them.” A smile spread across her fucking beautiful face. “You’ve got a picture of Popeye on the sign outside the one in Centennial Hills.”

  Now didn’t that just make his day. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

  “Tiffany.”

  Pretty name for a pretty girl. And smart, too. And from the looks of her she liked to stay in shape, just like him.

  “You here alone?” He gave a quick look around for dudes who might take offense to him hitting on Tiffany, but no one was paying them any attention.

  “Yes. I just got off work. I was supposed to meet a friend, but she had an emergency at home and had to bail.”

  “That’s too bad. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be spending the evening alone.”

  She looked up at him through her thick golden lashes. “I’m not alone now.”

  Holy shit. She was coming on to him. Play it cool. Play it cool. “I’ll keep you company as long as you like.”

  “I’m not really into jazz either,” she said. “I just came here because of my friend. Do you want to go someplace else? Maybe grab a bite to eat. I know a nice little Italian restaurant nearby.”

  Mike’s heart did a little skip and he looked over his shoulder to see Mr. Rizzoli shaking Danny’s good hand. Thank fuck. He was done with th
e meeting and Mike was free. “Are you Italian?”

  “On my father’s side.”

  “I’m Italian, too,” he said proudly. “Both my parents. And their parents before them, and back generations.”

  A beautiful smile spread across her face. “My father would love you. He’s always wanted me to go out with an Italian guy.”

  Was she thinking of him as more than just a one-night hook-up? Mike didn’t dare hope. A beautiful girl like her had to have guys chasing after her all the time. And yet, he was a good-looking guy. Sure he was big, but it was almost all muscle. Women liked muscles. They liked their men to be strong. No one in the Toscani crime family was stronger than him except maybe Frankie, but that dude was in a bad-ass class of his own.

  “I’m not going to say no to an Italian meal with a beautiful woman.” Swallowing hard, he gave a little push to see how far this might go. “Maybe afterwards…”

  Tiffany wound her cool hand around his bicep. “Could we go to your place?”

  Hell yes! This night was just getting better and better.

  “Sure. I’ve got two dogs, though. Don’t know if you’re a dog lover. They’re big, but they’re friendly.”

  “I love dogs!” Her eyes sparkled. “My roommate has a rescue puppy. He’s so cute. Maybe you could come and see him some time.”

  For a moment Mike was lost for words. She was perfect. Everything about her was fucking perfect. He had never imagined the perfect woman existed and there she was sitting beside him wanting to eat Italian food, go back to his place, and meet his dogs. “Let’s go.” He slid off his stool and held out his arm to help her.

  Tiffany curled her hand around his bicep as they left the bar. “It will be nice to be with a guy who’s so strong. You make me feel safe. No one’s going to bother me when I’m with a guy like you.”

  His smile faded and his protective instincts surged to the fore. “Is someone bothering you?”

  She hesitated for the briefest of moments and then shook her head, but Mike had a feeling she was just being shy. No matter. He would convince her to talk and then he would make sure she never felt unsafe again.

  He checked in with Mr. Rizzoli to make sure he was good to go, then he puffed out his chest and escorted the beautiful bombshell out of the bar. Imagine. Him with a woman like this.

  It was almost too good to be true.

  FIVE

  Grace woke up with the worst hangover of her life.

  She lay in bed willing the light to disappear, the traffic to still and Ethan to stop pounding on her bedroom door.

  “Your phone has been buzzing,” he shouted. “If you’re decent, I can bring it in.”

  Was she decent? A quick check revealed she was more than decent. She’d fallen asleep in her clothes after letting Ethan and Miguel drag her out to a party the previous night. “Okay.”

  Ethan staggered in looking as bad as she felt, which for him took his handsomeness down to a nine point five out of ten. Tall and blond with a thick beard, pale blue eyes and a ripped muscular body, Ethan looked nothing like a jazz singer and everything like the missing Hemsworth brother Olivia insisted he was.

  “Glad you made it to the party?” he asked, handing her the phone. “Wednesday is the new Thursday. Miguel and I plan to go out every Wednesday night so if you want to come again next week…”

  “This is not the best time to ask.” She checked the screen for messages and groaned. “Oh my God. I’ve got a last-minute gig this afternoon, and I can barely talk.” Jingle singing was a niche skill and she usually got her work through the production companies that hired talent for radio, movies, and television. For the most part, they were totally disorganized and more often than not she was called in at the last minute when someone was up against a deadline. Grace didn’t mind the last-minute work, but delivering three to five words in a short and punchy way with real power was inordinately more difficult after spending a night drinking too much and shouting over loud music.

  “You want me to make you some tea with honey?”

  She pushed up on one elbow and raised her eyebrow. “You’re offering to make me tea? Now I’m suspicious.”

  “Just looking out for our new vocalist.” He gave her a hopeful look. “I don’t want you to strain your voice before those talent scouts see us at the Stardust next Tuesday night.”

  Grace fell back on the bed. “I gave you the referral. I wasn’t volunteering to sing.”

  “I’m worried Sunita won’t show.”

  “I know she hasn’t been there for you recently, but I’m sure she won’t let you down.” Grace patted his hand. “You told her that it’s a well-known club, didn’t you? That it could be the break you guys have been waiting for?”

  “Yeah.” Ethan sighed. “Even when she does show up now, though, her voice isn’t the same. She’s lost her range. I think it’s from all the smoking. And she’s usually high and forgets the lyrics. I auditioned three new singers this week and none of them were a good fit. But you…”

  “No, Ethan.”

  “With your voice and Miguel’s arrangements, and maybe some of the songs I’ve written, the band could really go places, maybe even get a recording contract.”

  Uncharacteristically irritated by the pleading note in his voice, Grace threw back the covers and slid out of bed. “Look at my face, Ethan. Can you see this face on an album cover? On a video? On a promo poster? On stage? No one wants to see a scarred singer.”

  Guilt flickered across his face. “You can barely see it. The only time I ever notice it is when you bring it up.”

  “That’s because you’re my friend.” She grabbed her bathrobe from the floor.

  “You could wear a mask,” he suggested. “Something mysterious. It would make us stand out from the crowd.”

  “Now you’re getting desperate.”

  “Grace.” Ethan groaned. “I am desperate. If she doesn’t show or worse if she shows up and messes up, I don’t know what I’ll do. We’re getting a bad reputation, and the jazz community in the city isn’t that big.”

  “Cancel the gig then. Don’t book anything until you get a new singer.”

  “I already told the guy we’d be there. I thought for sure one of the women I auditioned would work out, but none of them were very good.”

  “Then you’d better sit on Sunita’s doorstep and keep her drug-dealer boyfriend away.” She turned and gave him a sympathetic hug. “Olivia and I will come out to support you guys. Even if you have to go instrumental, we’ll be there to cheer you on.”

  He sighed and brushed his lips over her forehead, the barest peck, but after what Olivia had told her, that small show of affection made her tense up inside.

  “I’ll get you that tea,” he said quickly, moving away.

  Grace followed him to the door. “You’d make someone a pretty good boyfriend. Why are you single, again?”

  “Just waiting for the right girl to come along, and my best chance of meeting her is if I’m in a band with an amazing vocalist who will draw crowds of people to come and see us.”

  “Ah. The truth comes out.” She laughed despite herself. “You want me to sing so you can meet women because your charm and extreme good looks are just not working for you.”

  Ethan smiled, and Grace wondered why she never had taken that next step with him. They had a lot in common, an easy friendship, and there was definitely an attraction. Last night they’d danced together for hours, and she’d almost given into temptation when his lips brushed over her cheek. But then Rocco’s face had flashed in her mind, and all she could think about was him. His touch. His scent. The heat of his body when he had pinned her to the wall. The deep voice that made her melt inside. Now that she’d seen Rocco again, moving on wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought.

  By noon she was in the studio and ready to record. It was a union job so she didn’t have to worry about getting paid, which often happened with non-union jobs. She chatted briefly with the other session singer, before t
hey reviewed the script and discussed phrasing, tone color, cut-offs, and glottal starts for vowels. Her voice was still rough from last night and she did a few extra warm up exercises with her partner before they let the producer know they were ready to go.

  They had gone through a few takes of a catchy craft beer jingle when she noticed movement in the control room though the glass of the vocal booth. As she punched out the brand name with a long trill, her eyes focused on the newcomer who was shaking hands with the producer.

  Rocco.

  A thrill of excitement shot through her body and suddenly she was sixteen again, and her breathtakingly gorgeous twenty-six-year-old boyfriend was waiting for her after school, leaning against an ancient black T-bird in a black leather jacket. What the hell was he doing here? And how had he found her?

  Grace’s tone wavered and she signaled that she needed a break.

  “You okay?” her partner asked.

  “Yeah. I just need … some water.” She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and poured a glass of water. If she focused on her session partner, instead of the producer and audio engineer, she wouldn’t see Rocco standing behind the glass with his arms folded, legs apart, dominating the control room with the force of his presence alone.

  “There’s no beer like Millcreek beer night, noon and morning…”

  They did ten takes until the producer was happy with the jingle that seemed to advocate twenty-four- hour drinking. Grace quickly filled in the paperwork the union had sent her and took it to the control room to get it signed.

  “Great job.” The producer scrawled his name on the document. “Keep that up and we’ll be requesting you for some national slots.”

  “That would be great.” Her session partner had earned $12,000 from a single thirteen-week run of a national spot, more than enough money to keep her going for months if her other contracts dried up.