Public Secrets by Nora Roberts

keep her close awhile. Jane’s making noise again.”
“Bitch,” Johnno said mildly, then picked up a glass of Coke liberally laced with rum.
“She won’t get anywhere this time either, but it’s a nuisance.” He cast a quick look at Emma and saw she was occupied with talking to Charlie. “She’s trying to say she was tricked into signing the papers. Pete’s handling it.”
“She just wants more money.”
With a grim smile, Brian nodded. “She won’t get more out of Pete. Or out of me. Let’s have a sound check here.”
“Hello there, Emmy luv.” Stevie stopped beside her to poke a finger into her belly. “You auditioning for the band?”
“I’m going to watch.” She stared up at him, fascinated by the gold hoop he now wore in his ear.
“That’s fine, then. We always do better with an audience. Tell me something, Emmy.” He bent down close, whispering. “Truth and nothing but. Who’s the best of this lot here?”
It had become a standard game by this time. Knowing the rules, Emma looked up, then down, then side to side. Hunching her shoulders, she bellowed, “Da!”
It earned her a snort of disgust and a lot of tickled ribs. Struggling not to wet her pants, she squirmed to the back of the chair.
“It’s illegal in this country to brainwash children,” Stevie said as he joined Brian.
“The kid has taste.”
“Right, all bad.” He took his Martin out of its case and ran loving fingers down the neck. “What’s on first?”
“We’ll lay down the instrumentals on ‘Outcry.’”

“Saving the best for first.” With a nod, Stevie sped through some experimental chords. “Let’s get to work, mates.”
Of the four, Stevie was the only one who had grown up with real money, in a true house with a garden and two live-in servants. He was used to the finer things, expected them and was easily bored with them. He’d fallen in love with the guitar, and had made his proper parents rue the day they had given it to him.
At fifteen, he’d formed his own band. Stevie and the Rousers. It had lasted six months before bitter infighting had broken it up. Undaunted, he’d formed another, then another. His natural, flashy talent with the guitar had drawn many hopefuls to him. But then they’d looked to him for leadership that he’d been innately incapable of providing.
He’d come across Brian and Johnno at a party in Soho, one of those candlelit, smoke-and-incense-choked gatherings his parents were terrified of. He’d been attracted immediately to Brian’s intensity about music, and Johnno’s caustic, careless wit. For the first time in his life, Stevie had joined instead of formed. He’d followed Brian’s lead with relief.
There had been lean days, grubbing in pubs begging for a chance to play. There had been heady days spent writing songs and creating music. There had been women, gloriously sweaty acres of them ready to fall on their backs for a fair-haired man with a guitar in his hand.
There had been Sylvie, the girl he had met on their first gig in Amsterdam. Pretty, round-cheeked Sylvie with her broken English and guileless eyes. They’d made love like maniacs in a filthy little room where the roof leaked and the windows were coated with grime. He’d fallen in love, as much as he believed himself capable. He’d even entertained ideas about bringing her back to London with him, setting up house in some cramped cold-water flat.
But Sylvie had gotten pregnant.
He remembered when she’d told him, her face pale and her eyes full of hope and fear. He hadn’t wanted children. Good Christ, he’d only been twenty. His music had come first, had had to. And if his parents had discovered he’d fathered a child with a Dutch cocktail waitress … It had been lowering to realize that no matter how far he’d run, how much he’d protested, what his parents thought had still mattered so much.

Pete had arranged for an abortion, discreetly, expensively. Sylvie, with the tears flowing down her cheeks, had