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interested in, trust me. She’s very straight, J.D. When you say joint, Maggie thinks elbow or knee, get the picture? And besides, she wouldn’t be caught dead with a guy whose hair is longer than hers.”
    Rick turned in his seat to take a look at the object of the discussion, now seated at the table where the waitress had placed her lunch. Rick turned back to J.D. with a wide grin on his face.
    “Hey, that looks like—”
    “It certainly does … ” J.D. got up from the table and walked over to where she sat. He pulled out a chair, turned it around, and straddled the seat in one motion.
    She looked up at him in utter astonishment.
    “You!” Her smile told him she was as pleased as she was surprised at his sudden appearance. “For God’s sake, this is unbelievable.”
    “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” He reached his right hand to her. “We never did g et introduced yesterday. I’m J. D. Borders. You’re Maggie Callahan.”
    “How do you know my name?” she asked, puzzled.
    He cocked his head toward the table where he’d been sitting, indicating the promoter. “I asked.”
    “What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly, then flushed dark pink, adding, “I mean, people don’t normally just walk in here off the street for lunch … ”
    “Looking over the stage. I’m playing here with my band tomorrow night and Wednesday.”
    She paused, trying to recall the acts scheduled that week, then suddenly remembered the T-shirt.
    “Monkshood,” she said aloud.
    He nodded.
    “Are you any good?” she asked.
    “Come and find out for yourself.” His grin was a casual invitation.
    She smiled slightly. “I just might do that.”
    He asked about her ankle, and she told him it was better. They made some small talk for a few minutes. He was running out of things to say but wasn’t willing to leave now that Fate had allowed him the good fortune to unexpectedly cross her path again.
    He liked looking at her face. Pretty skin that he knew would be soft to touch, heart-shaped mouth that would be warm and sweet to kiss, those eyes that drew him in and made him o blivious to everything else…
    He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Do you know where this place is?”
    “Sure,” she said, glancing at the scrap, “it’s a club in t own. Mostly jazz. They get some fine musicians there from t ime to time. I used to go there a lot.”
    “Well, one of the finest is playing there tonight. Hobie Narood. Know who he is?”
    “Of course,” she said with a nod, “anyone who’s listened to a jazz station on the radio for more than ten minutes knows who Hobie Narood is. I’ve seen him play several times. He is the very best of the young sax players. Or, at least, he was. He’s in Philadelphia? I hadn’t heard. I though t he’d retired or something… ”
    “ ‘ Or something’ is closer to truth,” he told her. “He’s taken a few years off to get himself together. More or less.”
    “Drugs?” she asked.
    “No,” he replied slowly. “Hobie’s a product of two cultures. His mother was of Jamaican descent, raised in England—hence his name, Hobie, as in Hobart—and his father was African. From Anjjoli. His father was the minister of justice. Under Kashad, the former president. Both of them were assassinated in the coup two years back.” He looked at her blank expression and asked with just a touch of humor, “Don’t you keep up with international politics here?”
    “Of course,” she said. “I just didn’t know that about him. And I was wondering how you knew so much.”
    “Hobie and I go way back. We played in a band together for six years. Daily Times. Ever hear of it?”
    “Yeah.” She obviously had, judging by the look on her face. “Daily Times was very big when I was in college. You were in that band?”
    He nodded to indicate he had been.
    “What did you do?” she asked directly.
    “Played the piano and sang and wrote most of the songs.”