“You were going to tell me the truth,” she said, when she finally came up for air long enough to sip her wine.
“After dinner,” Bart said. “I want you to enjoy your dinner, first.”
“That sounds ominous,” she said, wishing she could make a joke about it.
Bart shook his head and drank some wine. “Nothing of the sort, but you may want to leave right after, and I want to enjoy our dinner, first.”
Kitty sighed and started on her salad.
When she looked up a moment later, he was smiling at her, and she felt her face heat.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothin’. Only it’s good to see a woman enjoyin’ her food. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve bought dinner for a lady only to have her pick at it.”
Kitty shook her head. “Just lucky, genetically speaking. I have a very high metabolism that lets me enjoy food without worrying about putting on the pounds.”
Bart narrowed his eyes. “Does it really matter so much to women? Shoot, no man wants to be seen out with a bag of bones.”
Kitty reached for her wine once more. “That’s nice to know, but you’ll have to take it up with the fashionistas.”
Bart snorted. “Oh. Them.”
Kitty surprised herself by laughing.
“That’s better,” Bart said. “You should laugh more often.”
Kitty froze then very deliberately returned her wine glass to the table. Before he could stop her, she pushed away from the table and stood.
“I’ll take that truth, now,” she said, trying desperately to ignore all the sensations she was feeling in response to the way he was looking at her.
This is business! She admonished herself. Forget the way he’s looking at you!
Easier said than done, she told herself.
When she finally looked up to meet his gaze, his golden eyes darkened.
“All right,” he said, his tone of voice a soft growl. “Come into the living room.”
44
Kitty moved ahead of him, careful to keep some distance between them. When she reached the far side of the room, she turned to face him and was surprised to see him drawing the curtains. She felt a quiver, deep in her belly, and had to force herself not to flee.
“You want to know why the boys won’t play in the big houses.”
“Yes.”
She thought she heard him sigh. He stuffed his hands in his front pockets like before and jingled his change. For some reason, he seemed to be finding it difficult to meet her eyes, now, and she was amazed.
“Are they in trouble with the law?” she asked, thinking it might be the only explanation.
Bart managed a small smile.
“No. It’s nothin’ like that.”
“Then what?”
He took a deep breath. “There’s somethin’ some of the men in our family do,” he said, “somethin’ we can usually control under normal circumstances. Once we hit twenty or so, we can control it pretty well, but there are things that can set us off—loud noises, wild crowds, flashing lights, that sort of thing.”
“The sort of thing they’d have to deal with on a big stage.”
“That’s just it, darlin’,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “See, in a small house, especially someplace like the Fiddlers’ Cave, the stage is small, it’s near a door, and the crowd’s only gonna be about a hundred people. It’s plenty loud, but everyone’s on the same level, and the really bright lights are limited to a handful of parcans. There’re no special effects or laser lights or smoke or anything else that might set us off.
“But in a big house…” He shook his head. “I learned lighting and sound in college, but I interned out in Vegas, and I can tell you that was one helluva challenge for me. I don’t want the boys to have to worry about all that—and they know it wouldn’t be easy, so they’re happy to take my lead on this.”
“Are you telling me they’d be willing, but you won’t let them?” she asked, incredulous.
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head quickly. “No, it’s somethin’ we’ve talked about—a lot—and they don’t want to take any chances, either.”
“Any chances on what?” she asked, exasperated.
Bart eyed her closely then seemed to nod to himself.
“Okay. You want to know, so here goes.” He moved to the far side of the room. “I want you to sit down, and promise me you’ll stay seated, no matter what happens.”
“I’m not going to promise anything, Bartholomew Saint, until you tell me what’s going on!”
“I’m gonna show you exactly what happens to us, but you gotta promise me you’ll stay put and keep an open mind. I’m not gonna hurt you, no matter what you see me do, but I can’t have you runnin’ outa here, until we have a chance to talk after.”
“Okay,” she said, dropping onto his couch. “Fine. Just do…whatever you’re going to do, so we can get on with this.”
“I need you to look at me—look at my eyes—and no matter what happens, you keep lookin’ at my eyes. Got it?”