“A little. Not concert-worthy or anything, but enough to work on my music.” Truth be told, Henri created melodies in his head, pecked out a basic draft on the piano, then relied on others to bring his visions to life. Try as he might, he’d never mastered any instruments.
“We’ll work out a schedule to suit us both. Through the week I’m often gone. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”
Gone? “You’re supposed to be here, helping me.” Why did having an audience suddenly matter?
“I am. But on Mondays I have acting lessons. On Wednesdays, dance. My languages classes are online, to be taken anytime.”
“Acting? Dance? You’re a singer, not an actor or dancer.”
Sebastian must have possessed the air capacity of a blimp, for he sighed deeper than Henri had ever heard. “Let me guess. You know absolutely nothing about opera.”
“Not true.” Hmm…. What had Henri read? Oh yeah, he kept getting distracted. “I know you sing.”
“In four different languages. And act. And dance. One doesn’t merely singThe Barber of Seville,oneisthe Barber of Seville.”
Margo had forced Henri to take dance lessons once. They didn’t take. He had no sense of body rhythm at all—the reason he’d turned down a stint on a reality show where he’d be paired with a professional dancer. His career wouldn’t have survived the embarrassment. Wild, drugged-out binges ending in rehab? Fans expected those. Tripping over his own feet while trying out a routine he couldn’t even pronounce? Career suicide.
A man of Sebastian’s size might need a lot of lessons.
“Why languages?” Hell, some days, Henri barely managed English, though Margo insisted he learn enough French to perpetuate the image of a Cajun heritage and charm reporters.
“Have you ever sung in Italian?” Again a brow arched over one of Seb’s eyes. Henri used to try for raised-eyebrow glares, but never mastered moving his brows independently.
“No.” Henri had plenty of Italian fans, but had never felt the need to connect with them on a more personal level. Besides, then he’d have to do the same for his Spanish, German, etcetera fans. His grandmother had spoken Cajun French, but he’d never learned enough to qualify as fluent, just a few well-practiced phrases. Until she’d tried to capitalize on his ancestry, his mother hadn’t encouraged embracing the familial roots. She and Grandma Lafontaine hadn’t seen eye to eye.
“It’s not enough to babble sounds. You have to understand the words to bring them to life.” Sebastian’s chest swelled, and he released a melody Henri couldn’t understand. The words sounded damned good, though, and even without grasping the full meaning, the sorrow behind them clearly shone. Sebastian finished, offering a challenge with his eyes.
Holy fuck, the guy owned one hell of a set of pipes. Not that Henri would tell him and feed another singer’s overgrown ego. “I suppose I can amuse myself while you’re gone.” It wasn’t like he could fire up a joint anyway until he found out the guy’s views on recreational drugs. And Henri’s being here to learn “discipline” didn’t bode well for Sebastian joining in.
“Good. Get settled, make yourself at home. Feel free to clean up before dinner.”
Was that a hint?
The hell with Sebastian Unger and his arrogant opinions. How could anyone expect Henri to be squeaky clean after riding a thousand miles? Of course, his stop in Vegas didn’t help. At least the one-nighter he’d picked up didn’t seem to realize he’d slept with the real Henri Lafontaine and not an impersonator. Hell, Henri had encountered three look-alikes himself while on his hunt for a willing body. Sex with someone who looked like him? Too disturbing, even for him.
He settled for picking at his helmet-hair and headed downstairs, following a soft tenor melody into the kitchen. He sniffed but didn’t smell cooking. His stomach rumbled anyway.
“Do you eat seafood? Lucas didn’t say.”
Because Lucas didn’t know, having only recently entered Henri’s life. “I’m starving. I’ll take anything.” Maybe he should have given Lucas a list of food favorites to have on hand. He had no intention of giving up pizza, burgers, and fries while hiding from the world. And who knew what kind of delivery service he might find.
“Have a seat.” Sebastian pointed with a knife to a rustic wooden table that might have been handmade. “I’m making tuna salad.”
Henri plopped down in one of six mismatched chairs. Tuna salad. He hadn’t eaten a tuna salad sandwich since high school. “Wait! What?” Henri stared down at the plate and glass of tea Sebastian set before him. “This isn’t a tuna salad sandwich.”
“Of course it is.” Sebastian took a seat opposite of Henri. Real wood paneling gave the room a homey feel, unlike the marble and granite of Henri’s primary home—pretty, but uninviting. “Anything worth doing is worth doing with style.” Sebastian sounded like Dr. Worthington, with her “Nothing worthwhile is easy.”
Instead of the usual loaf bread his mother had used, the creation on Henri’s plate involved a sesame-seeded Kaiser roll. Bits of green that weren’t iceberg lettuce peeked from between the bread. He lifted the top of the bun to find the brownish bits he expected, mixed with tomato, onion, and chopped celery. “You don’t half do anything, do you?” At least the creation wasn’t meticulously prepared for maximum nutrition and minimum flavor, like the stuff at the rehab facility.
“Some people live, others live well, even in the simple things.” Sebastian bowed his head and folded his hands before biting into his sandwich. Uh-oh. Henri didn’t have much experience with believers beyond the ones who wrote him to inform him he was headed for Hell. Non-news. If Hell existed for sinners, he’d already paid for his ticket, though to be honest, Heaven and Hell hadn’t recently crossed his mind. “Heaven and Hell,” now there was a good song title.
Take me to Heaven,
Send me to Hell,
Something, something, something, something.
He’d work on the lyrics later. His sandwich waited. He took a bite and chewed. Wow! Damned good for a simple meal.
