Chapter Thirteen
He wanted to play.
Just not in Austin.
Weary from a year of major financial gains, youngest son banker in a family of bankers, Nolan Fortune, wanted—badly—to get out of his hometown of New Orleans.
He wanted to tune out the noise, close his eyes and sink deeply into the world where it was him and his saxophone. Making music, not money. Just for the couple weeks that the executives at Fortune Investments, himself included, were off work over the holidays.
He needed to pretend to be someone else. To wear jeans, a bit of stubble on his usually freshly shaven face and a black leather vest if he felt like it. The yearning inside of him had to have a chance to break free for a bit or he was going to get really cranky.
He wanted to be his other self—Nolan Forte.
He wanted to travel with the band he secretly gigged with on weekends—the guys who had no idea he was a millionaire banker in a family of millionaire bankers—and get a little crazy. He wanted to be able to talk to people—women—and believe that he, not his money, was the main attraction.
A little crazy. Nothing harsh enough to land him in any kind of trouble. Or the news.
How spoiled was he that he was getting almost everything he wanted—the break, the time with the band, the stubble and jeans, the anonymity—and he still wasn’t satisfied?
But Austin...damn.
“Sorry you were outvoted, man.” Daly, their lead guitarist turned in the seat he was hogging to look at Nolan, who was stretched out in the seat behind him. The fifteen-passenger van had a lot of seats. The band had four guys.
“You planning to sulk the whole way there?” Daly came again.
He wasn’t sulking. He was contemplating life.
His life.
“The Florida gig could have been good,” he said halfheartedly. Not that anyone knew it, but he’d arranged the Florida offer himself, through a friend of a music shop owner he used to know.
“In a retirement resort? You’re kidding, right?”
With a shrug, he sat up, dropping his feet to the floor. “I hear they have great light displays,” he said, and then grinned. The answer was lame, even for him.
And the Austin gig, a repeat tour at a jazz club by the University of Texas from the year before, paid better than any gig the band had ever had. It made sense to go back.
“Hell, man, lightning might strike your sorry butt twice,” Daly continued, putting a wad of gum in his mouth, as he referred to Nolan’s supposed success with the ladies the year before. Or rather, one lady in particular.
Good thing Daly didn’t need his teeth to play, Nolan thought sourly. At the rate he chewed the sugary crap he was going to lose them all. In truth, Daly’s gifted fingers on any stringed instrument he picked up were being sold way too short with their little part-time band. He belonged in Vegas or LA or New York. On a stage in the serious jazz clubs where the real music lovers went to listen—not just to party.
“What was her name?” Daly prompted. “Emily something?”
It was at least the tenth time the guy had brought up a subject Nolan was trying his best to forget.
Daly just wouldn’t let it rest apparently. It wasn’t like she was the only woman who’d tried to contact one, or all, of them through their website. After checking with Nolan, Branham, who managed the site for them, did what they always did when that happened. He blocked the address.
“Elizabeth,” he said. “Her name was Elizabeth.” And he shut his mouth, wishing he could shut down the slideshow in his brain as easily.
Elizabeth Sullivan.
Lizzie.
God, she’d been a beauty. Not in the usual Texas sense, with high hair and lots of makeup.
Not Lizzie. The first thing he’d noticed about her, besides her straight, long dark hair and natural look, was that she wasn’t drinking. Not that first night. Or the second...
No. He was not going to indulge in another Elizabeth fest. He’d spent the past year getting her out of his system. Thanking his lucky stars that he’d gotten away before he’d done something stupid and ended up ruining his life like his big brother Austin had done.
Or falling in love, telling her who he really was and having her love his money more than she’d ever cared about him.
Nolan closed his eyes. They were still a good five hours out. Time enough to catch up on his sleep.
Because as soon as they got to town, he was hitting a bar. Any bar.
Not to play. They didn’t go on until the next night. Friday to Friday for two weeks. Fourteen nights in a row, except for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. But tonight he was going to drink. As much as he wanted. As late as he wanted. Whatever he wanted.
So there.
Yeah, that was the plan.
And it was good.
When the phone rang at five thirty Friday morning, twenty-two-year-old Lizzie Sullivan did not want to answer. At all. During the second and third rings she considered closing her eyes right back up and getting what sleep she could. Stella had been up all night, every hour or two, it seemed, and would be wanting to eat again way too soon.
At three months old, the baby should be letting her get at least four hours’ rest at a time. Sometimes she did.
Lizzie’s breasts were sore from too many feedings in the last few hours. Her lower belly muscles—thanks to the emergency cesarean section that had saved her life—still were not right. And she did not want to get out of bed.
She answered on the fourth ring. She had to earn the money when she could, which was why she’d gone back to work just six weeks after giving birth. There’d be no more calls after that morning as the schools where she substitute taught—all she could get since she’d been due to give birth during the first month of the semester—would be on Christmas break for the next two weeks.
Alliant High School needed a sub for freshman English. Classes started in two hours. Telling the automated system “yes” when it asked if she could be there, Lizzie threw off her covers and stumbled for the bathroom.
She’d always hated getting out of bed, but was