“It’s Thursday night. We won’t get a table unless you’ve made a reservation. And if you’ll excuse my saying so, you won’t get in wearing torn jeans.”

Expertly maneuvering the toy car out of its tight parking space, Devin snorted. “Watch me.”

“IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE famous, I suppose.”

Rachel’s luscious mouth was set in a disapproving line. “You make that sound like a bad thing,” he joked. Mentally, he confirmed his game plan. Dine and dump.

They sat in a private alcove in one of Auckland’s most exclusive restaurants. Through the open bifold windows, city lights reflected in the harbor and the incoming tide lapped gently against the moored yachts.

Rachel unfolded the starched napkin and laid it on her lap. “I wouldn’t like to think anyone else missed out on their booking because of us, that’s all.”

Loosen up, will you? “Bread?” He passed the basket over. She took a whole wheat roll and declined the butter. “Why are you really here, Rachel?” She obviously wasn’t enjoying this any more than he was.

She looked guilty and he was struck with a sudden suspicion. “Did the chancellor want you to hit me up for another donation?”

“Of course not.” Her shock appeared genuine and he envied it. It must be nice not to suspect people’s motives in being with you.

“So you’re just punishing me then…for giving you a hard time?”

Her lashes fell, screening her eyes. “Sure.”

Maybe he should have chosen his words better. “I didn’t mean to imply spending time with you was a punishment,” he clarified. “Just that you’re not my type.” Oh, yeah, that made it better. “I mean-”

“Devin.” She lifted her gaze. “I’m not offended. You’re not my type, either.”

Perversely, he was piqued. “Not a nerd, you mean?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not housebroken.”

He chuckled. “Okay, I deserved that. Let’s try and be nice to each other.”

There was an awkward silence, then Rachel cleared her throat. “I understand your band produced a fusion of post punk and metal-” she paused, obviously trying to remember research “-which evolved into the grunge and later indie genres.”

“And here I thought it was about playing guitar and scoring chicks.” Devin dipped sourdough into herb-flavored oil. “Rachel, how the hell did you miss out on rock music?”

“I had…ill health in my teens, which forced me to drop out of school.” With tapered fingers she pulled the roll into smaller and smaller pieces. “Then spent all my twenties working days and studying nights to get my library degree.”

Devin was attuned to picking up wrong notes; her story was full of them. He shrugged. “Don’t tell me then.”

She glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to lie, just tell me to mind my own damn business.”

“You know, Devin, civility has a social purpose. It stops people from killing each other.”

He grinned. “I like to live dangerously.”

“That’s fine,” she said seriously, “as long as you don’t hurt bystanders.”

All alcoholics left casualties in their wake. Devin had to work to keep his tone flippant as he replied, “You say don’t a lot, you know that? You’ll make a great mother.”

She said nothing. Glancing over, he saw a bleakness in her expression that shocked him. He knew that level of despair intimately. Instinctively, he laid a hand over hers. “What did I say?”

“Nothing.” Sliding her hand free, Rachel gave him a small smile. “I’d have thought it would be easier studying business at an American university, considering most of your tax is paid there.”

He picked up his glass and took a sip of water before answering. “My royalties come in from a dozen countries and I’ve got more money in tax havens than I have in the States.”

“Don’t tell me then,” she said.

He laughed. “Touché. You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.”

When she dropped her guard-for about one millisecond-her smile was breathtaking. “Were you aware you have over four million Internet pages devoted to you?”

Devin leaned back in his chair. “If you’ve done your research there’s no point trying to impress you.”

“You could tell me your bio was grossly exaggerated,” she said lightly.

He could have played that card. It surprised him that momentarily he wanted to. “It’s not.”

If there were excuses, he wouldn’t make them. At sixteen he’d jumped on a roller coaster that had given him one hell of a ride for seventeen years. And if the gatekeeper had said, “Son, you’ll be famous, songs you help write will be an anthem for your generation, but it will cost you. You’ll all but destroy your body and soul, you’ll lose your identity, and when it’s over you’ll lie awake at night wondering if you’ll ever get it back,” Devin would still have bought a ticket.

They finished their bread in silence.

RACHEL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to think. The idea of Mark hanging around someone who could so coolly acknowledge such an appalling past made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

But she wanted to be impartial-or at least as impartial as she could be with her son’s welfare at stake. Heck, who was she kidding? She was a wreck over this. Fine, then. She’d factor in her emotional bias when weighing the evidence. Because it was important to her to be fair. God knows she’d had enough people judging her as a teenager not to jump to conclusions about someone else.

And while Devin was arrogant beyond belief, brutally honest to the point of rudeness and far too confident in his own sex appeal-flashing a charmer’s grin to the waitress delivering their meals-he also had an appealing self-awareness.

He took another sip from his water glass and Rachel wondered if she was being lenient simply because he’d given up alcohol. Having been raised by a drinker, she found it was a very, very big deal to her. Surely that meant some sort of rehabilitation had taken place?

But did it extend to drugs…groupies? She didn’t want Mark to be exposed to those, either, or any of the character traits she associated with rock stars-excess, selfishness, immaturity. She needed more information.

As she picked up her knife and fork, she asked casually, “Why study here…New Zealand, I mean?”

“When you’re running away, the end of the earth is a good place to go.” He glanced up from his steak. “I’m sure you read about my meltdown and the band’s collapse on the Internet.”

“Yes,” she admitted. But in his business, “taken to hospital suffering from extreme exhaustion” was all too often a euphemism for drug overdose or alcohol poisoning. As she ate her fish, her gaze dropped to his fingers, long, lean and powerful-musician’s hands. “Do you miss any of it?”

“I don’t need the temptations of the music industry right now.”

That sounded promising, but his clipped tone told her that she should change the subject. Reluctantly, Rachel backed off. “So, is your brother still in L.A.?”

“Yeah, Zander’s re-formed the band, with a new lineup.”

Devin’s curt tone hadn’t changed, but she was too surprised to notice. “Can he do that?”

He shrugged, putting down his fork. “He owns the name, and as the lead singer, he’s got the highest profile. For a lot of fans that will be enough.”

As Devin spoke he folded his arms so the dragon tattoo on his hand curved protectively over one muscled biceps. It struck her that he was suffering.

“But not all of them,” she said gently.

Devin looked at her sharply. “Did that sound maudlin? It wasn’t meant to. It was my fault as much as anyone’s that the band fell apart.” His mouth twisted. “Collapsing on stage disqualifies me from lectures on professional dignity. If Zander wants to try and wring a few more dollars out of the Rage brand, let him… Shit, I am still bitter, aren’t I?”

There it was again, the self-awareness that made him likable.

“Speaking of bitter,” he added, “how’s Paulie?”