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It had been a long time since she’d had an urge for a man. A particular man. She missed the feel of one against her, that was true. The strength and the heat, that flash of fire in the belly that came just before release.
She was a woman who enjoyed sex, Darcy admitted, the problem being there’d been no one to tempt her for more than a year.
Sure and she was tempted now, she thought when Trevor looked up and their eyes met. She enjoyed, absorbed, the edgy little thrill that whipped down her spine. The man tempted her in all manner of ways. So . . . it was time to arrange for that night off.
She smiled down at him, slow and sly, then deliberately stepped back. Let him do some thinking about that, she decided.
Restless, not ready to face the long day, or even dress for it as yet, she wandered her rooms. She put on the kettle for tea more out of habit than desire. The rooms, such as they were, were the first she’d had all to herself in all of her life. It had been a shocking surprise to realize she missed the company of her brothers. Even their untidiness.
She’d always liked things just so, and her rooms reflected it. She’d painted the walls a quiet rose. Well,she’d browbeaten Shawn into doing most of the work,but the results were pleasing to her. From her bedroom at home, she’d taken her favorite framed posters.Monet’s water lilies and a forest scene she’d found in a bookshop. She liked the dreaminess of them.
She’d made the curtains herself, as she had a fine hand with a needle when she wanted to. The pillows she piled on the ancient sofa were from her hand as well. A practical woman who preferred nice things understood it was cheaper by far to buy a length of satin or velvet and put in the time than to plunk down the cost for ready-made.
And it left more spending money for shoes or earrings.
Standing on a table was her wish jar, full of coins that came from tips. And one day, she thought, one fine day,there would be enough for her to take the next trip. An extravagant trip next time, to anywhere.
A tropical island, maybe. Where she could wear an excuse for a bikini and drink something foolish and fruity out of a coconut shell. Or Italy, to sit on some sunbaked terrace and look out over red-tiled roofs and grand cathedrals.
Or New York, where she would stroll along Fifth Avenue and gaze at all the treasures behind the forest of shop windows and pick out what was waiting just for her.
One day, she thought, and wished whenever she imagined it that she didn’t see herself alone.
It didn’t matter. She had enjoyed her week in Paris alone, so she would enjoy the others, in their time. Meanwhile, she was here, and so was the work.
She brewed the tea first, and told herself that since she was up early she’d lounge on the sofa, page through one of her glossy magazines and enjoy a quiet morning.
Before she settled in, her gaze landed on the violin she kept on a stand, more for decoration than convenience. Frowning, she set her cup aside and picked up the instrument. It was old, but had a clear voice. Would it be this, she wondered? Would it be the music that had always been part of her life that finally opened the doors for her, that took her into those places she dreamed of and rolled out the red carpet she was dying to walk on?
“Wouldn’t that be odd,” she murmured. “Something you never think twice about because it’s always been there.”
Idly, she rosined the bow, tucked the violin under her chin, and played what came first to mind.
He’d expected her to come down. Trevor left the site, slipped into the kitchen with the excuse of making a phone call. But she wasn’t there.
He heard the music, the aching, romantic notes of a violin. The kind of music, he thought, that belonged to moonlight.
He followed it.
Her door was at the head of the stairs, and the music seemed to swell against it, rising up like hope, sliding down like tears.
He didn’t even think to knock.
He saw her, half turned away, eyes closed. Lost. Her hair was loose, still tumbled from sleep to rain down the back of a long blue robe. One narrow bare foot tapped the time.
The look of her clogged his lungs. The music she made had his throat burning. She played for herself, and the quiet pleasure of it glowed on that remarkable face.
Everything he wanted, had planned for, dreamed of, seemed to melt together in that one woman, that one moment. And left him shaken to the bone.
The music soared, note echoing against note, then slid away to silence.
Still drifting, she sighed, opened her eyes. And saw him. Her heart stuttered, an almost painful sensation. Before she could recover, before she could slip on the mask of a knowing smile, he crossed to her.
She felt her breath catch, as if someone had squeezed a hand over her throat. Or her heart. Then his mouth was on hers, hot, fierce. Glorious.
Her arms fell weakly to her sides, as if the fiddle and bow had taken on great weight. His hands were on her face, in her hair, and need pumped like heat from his body into hers. She took, had no choice but to take, that hard slap of desire.
She gave, finally; he felt her give. That slow, somehow liquid surrender of the female that made every man feel like a king. Because she did, because it brought the ache inside him toward something like a tremble, he gentled—lips, hands—cruising now, caressing. Savoring.
When he drew away, she fought off a shudder, forced a smile to her lips. “Well, now, good morning to you.”
“Just shut up a minute.” He pulled her back, but this time simply rested his cheek on top of her head.
She wanted to step back. This embrace was more intimate than the kiss, and just as stirring. Just, she realized as she relaxed against him, as irresistible.
“Trevor.”
“Ssh.”
For some reason, that made her laugh. “Aren’t you the bossy one!”
The tension he’d worried would blow off the top of his head faded away. “I don’t know why I bother. You don’t listen anyway.”
“Why should I?”
He held her another moment, steady enough now to appreciate that her robe was very thin. “Do you ever lock that door?”
“Why should I?” Now she did step back. “No one comes in and stays in unless I want them to.”
“I’ll remember that.” He lifted a hand, brushed at her hair. “I didn’t know you could play.”
“Oh, music is the Gallagher way.” She gestured with the violin, then set it back on its stand. “I was in the mood for some, that’s all.”
“What was it you were playing?”
“One of Shawn’s tunes. There aren’t any words to it.”
“It doesn’t need any.” He saw it, the way her eyes warmed with pride. “Play something else.”
She only moved her shoulders, laid the bow aside.“I’m not in the mood now.” She picked up her tea, and now her eyes were sharp with both humor and calculation. “And I’m thinking I might start saving my songs for those who pay.”
“Would you sign a recording contract? Solo?”
She nearly jolted, but recovered neatly. “Why, that would depend on the terms.”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, I want this and that. And all of the other things.” She walked to the sofa, sat, crossed her legs. “I’m a selfish and greedy creature, Magee. I want lavish luxury and pampering and slavish admiration. I don’t quibble about working for them, but I want them at the end of the day.”
Considering her, he sat on the arm of the couch beside her and, testing, trailed a fingertip over her collarbone, paused just above the rise of her breast. “I can get them for you.”
Her eyes went cold, shot out a blast of air so frigid it could have frozen blood. “I’ve no doubt you can.” With one sharp move, she knocked his hand aside. “But that’s not the sort of work I have in mind.”
“Good. Then we keep one separate from the other.”
Ice turned to fire in the blink of an eye. “Was that a little experiment, then? And what would you have done if I’d laid back
for you?”
“Can’t say.” He took her cup and helped himself to her tea. “You’re a delectable package, Darcy. But you’d have disappointed me.” He placed a hand on her shoulder when she started to spring up, felt the temper vibrating like a plucked bow string. “I’ll apologize for it.”
“I don’t trade myself for profit.”
“I didn’t think you did.” But there had been other women who’d offered. It had, and did, leave a nasty taste in his mouth. “I want you on two levels, one as a business, one as a man. I’d like you to understand the first has nothing to do with the second.”
She eased back, struggling with the temper she knew could be an ugly thing. “And you’d like reassurance of the same from me.”
“I just got it.”
“You could have done so with more style.”
“Agreed.” It had been cold, calculated—something, he thought, that his grandfather might have done. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.
“And which level would that apology come from?”
Touche´, he thought. “One from each, as each was out of line.”
She took her tea back from him. “Then I’ll accept each.”
“Let’s put the business aside for now. I need to go to London for a couple of days.” He’d intended to put it off, but . . . she wanted things, why not give her a taste? “Come with me.”
She’d clicked her temper back to simmer, but this sudden twist blanked it out and left her puzzled. Wary. “You want me to go to London with you? Why?”
“First, because I want to take you to bed.” He took the mug back again, thinking as he did that the tea had become a kind of prop between them.
“That we’ve established already. There are beds in Ardmore.”
“Our schedules haven’t been meshing in Ardmore. And second, I enjoy your company. Have you been to London?”
“No.”
“You’ll like it.”
