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Authors: Patricia Rice
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than me, but he lived next door until my family moved away when I was ten. We bumped into each other regularly on the circuit."
That meant he could probably tell her all about the two-timin' bastard's escapades. As if he heard her thought, Flint avoided her proximity by straightening chairs. In those cowboy boots, he looked almost too tall for the room.
"How do you know him?" he asked with an edge in his voice.
"He used to play with the Buzzards," she replied, keeping it casual. She could see George Bob opening his office across the street. She'd have to be quick.
"Yeah? I didn't know that. When he came up to Nashville, I helped him get a few jobs." He stacked a few misplaced chairs and held them over his head to carry them to the back where they belonged.
Jo sighed in regret again. He looked good in jeans. "I heard about his recording contract." She moved the ugly white mugs to the closed cabinet to make room for the pretty cups in the glass display cabinet and tried to look disinterested. She didn't know why she ought to be interested in RJ's doings, except he seemed to make Flint real uneasy.
When she didn't throw a tantrum or drop anything, Flint returned to top off his cup. "Yeah. That's why I asked about him. Is he a real good friend of yours?"
"When Nashville called, he walked out on the Buzzards and left them stranded. I don't reckon he has a lot of friends here right now."
His hard expression eased a little. "Well, that's the music business. His manager and the record company probably made that decision."
She nodded knowledgeably. "The Buzzards weren't pretty enough."
"Right." Flint straightened his shoulders as if to steel himself and produced a multifolded scrap of paper from his wallet. "You wouldn't happen to know if any of the band wrote this, do you?"
That caught her by surprise. Jo stopped stacking plates to stare at the scrap. It looked like one of the invoice envelopes she usually scribbled on. She was afraid if she took it, it might self-destruct. Or she might.
A sunbeam through the newly cleaned plate-glass window struck Flint square on his bronzed cheekbone, and she had to admit he had the deepest, most honest eyes she'd ever seen on a lying, conniving music man. That high brow of his gave him an earnest, intellectual look that appealed to her, and the jut of his square chin begged for her to lean over and suck his sculpted lips.
And she knew better than to believe the image or give in to the urge.
"Why do you want to know?" she asked, without taking the scrap. Her hands were sweaty with anticipation. Despite the peculiarity of the conversation, Jo thought that had more to do with kissing than any expectation of what Flint was about to say.
"I composed the tunes for the lyrics RJ gave me, but later, I found that rhyme from one of his songs in his car. It's not his handwriting." He hesitated, then plunged on. "I have some reason not to trust him, so when he sold his album based on the songs we wrote together, that scrap made me nervous."
" We wrote?" She was trying hard to follow this while watching a kaleidoscope of pain, confusion, and anger in Flint's flashing eyes. He looked as volatile as she felt. "Randy's been using some of the band's material on the circuit," she said carefully.
Which was why he was such a sneaking low-down thief, using their songs to make his career and not paying the band—or her—a dime, and then forgetting their existence when he cut a deal. just thinking about it made her want to reach for a shotgun—and then Jo's brain did a quick backtrack. "Wait a minute. You composed the music?"
Taking a seat on the far side of the counter, Flint visibly braced himself. "The tunes he was playing sucked, but the audience loved the lyrics. I was staying home at the time, so I put the words to better music."
"The words? To Randy's songs?" She couldn't really believe where he was going with this. She'd written the only original lyrics Randy ever sang. As Randy said, it was
That meant he could probably tell her all about the two-timin' bastard's escapades. As if he heard her thought, Flint avoided her proximity by straightening chairs. In those cowboy boots, he looked almost too tall for the room.
"How do you know him?" he asked with an edge in his voice.
"He used to play with the Buzzards," she replied, keeping it casual. She could see George Bob opening his office across the street. She'd have to be quick.
"Yeah? I didn't know that. When he came up to Nashville, I helped him get a few jobs." He stacked a few misplaced chairs and held them over his head to carry them to the back where they belonged.
Jo sighed in regret again. He looked good in jeans. "I heard about his recording contract." She moved the ugly white mugs to the closed cabinet to make room for the pretty cups in the glass display cabinet and tried to look disinterested. She didn't know why she ought to be interested in RJ's doings, except he seemed to make Flint real uneasy.
When she didn't throw a tantrum or drop anything, Flint returned to top off his cup. "Yeah. That's why I asked about him. Is he a real good friend of yours?"
"When Nashville called, he walked out on the Buzzards and left them stranded. I don't reckon he has a lot of friends here right now."
His hard expression eased a little. "Well, that's the music business. His manager and the record company probably made that decision."
She nodded knowledgeably. "The Buzzards weren't pretty enough."
"Right." Flint straightened his shoulders as if to steel himself and produced a multifolded scrap of paper from his wallet. "You wouldn't happen to know if any of the band wrote this, do you?"
That caught her by surprise. Jo stopped stacking plates to stare at the scrap. It looked like one of the invoice envelopes she usually scribbled on. She was afraid if she took it, it might self-destruct. Or she might.
A sunbeam through the newly cleaned plate-glass window struck Flint square on his bronzed cheekbone, and she had to admit he had the deepest, most honest eyes she'd ever seen on a lying, conniving music man. That high brow of his gave him an earnest, intellectual look that appealed to her, and the jut of his square chin begged for her to lean over and suck his sculpted lips.
And she knew better than to believe the image or give in to the urge.
"Why do you want to know?" she asked, without taking the scrap. Her hands were sweaty with anticipation. Despite the peculiarity of the conversation, Jo thought that had more to do with kissing than any expectation of what Flint was about to say.
"I composed the tunes for the lyrics RJ gave me, but later, I found that rhyme from one of his songs in his car. It's not his handwriting." He hesitated, then plunged on. "I have some reason not to trust him, so when he sold his album based on the songs we wrote together, that scrap made me nervous."
" We wrote?" She was trying hard to follow this while watching a kaleidoscope of pain, confusion, and anger in Flint's flashing eyes. He looked as volatile as she felt. "Randy's been using some of the band's material on the circuit," she said carefully.
Which was why he was such a sneaking low-down thief, using their songs to make his career and not paying the band—or her—a dime, and then forgetting their existence when he cut a deal. just thinking about it made her want to reach for a shotgun—and then Jo's brain did a quick backtrack. "Wait a minute. You composed the music?"
Taking a seat on the far side of the counter, Flint visibly braced himself. "The tunes he was playing sucked, but the audience loved the lyrics. I was staying home at the time, so I put the words to better music."
"The words? To Randy's songs?" She couldn't really believe where he was going with this. She'd written the only original lyrics Randy ever sang. As Randy said, it was
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