Page 94 of Lethal Obsession

“Practice,” he says sternly, wagging a finger at me.

I give a gurgle of laughter that elicits one of the rare, open smiles that touch me somewhere deep inside every time I see them. “Fine, then.” I nod at the electric keypad on the door. “What is this, your private kink room?”

“Private kink room?” He shakes his head, casting his eye skyward. “You have a one-track mind, Borovsky. Now. Stand aside.”

Still laughing, I do as he says.

The door clicks open, and just like that, the laughter dies in my throat.

In the middle of a vast salon, beneath a vaulted ceiling, stands a Steinway grand piano.

I take a tentative step toward it, then halt, a thousand questions stuck in my throat.

“I commissioned an acoustic engineer to design this salon.” Alexei’s voice, coming from behind me, is low and quiet. “The floors are engineered wood, which apparently combines with the vaulted ceiling to provide optimum sound. You can open the sliding doors, if you want,” he says, “or keep them closed. It’s up to you.”

Unable to find my voice, I cross the floor to the piano and press one of the keys, almost sighing with pleasure at the mellow tone.

“It was tuned yesterday,” Alexei says. “By the same guy who set up your piano in Granada. Don’t worry,” he adds. “Andrew told him the piano was for a corporate client, so nobody knows it’s for you.”

I stroke the sleek surface, my heart too full to easily speak.

“I hope I got it right.” For the first time, I hear a trace of uncertainty in his voice. “Nobody else has used it, if that’s a concern. The room has been . . . closed since the yacht launched.”

I turn to find him watching me, his lone eye shadowed and watchful.

“You’re worried I don’t like it?”

He clears his throat, tilting his head in an ameliorating gesture, and I almost laugh.

Almost.

I cross the floor, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him, long and sweet, on and on. I try to put into the kiss all the things I know I don’t have words for.

The beautiful piano.

The incredible space.

And most of all, the fact that he did all of this months ago. Not recently. Not even since Paris.

Before.

Before he ever knew we were going to be together. He had this room specially designed for me, without ever knowing if I’d even see it.

And somehow, that knowledge is a greater gift than even the piano itself.

“You thought of me,” I whisper against his mouth. “Even before Paris, you were thinking of me.”

He pulls back, looking down at me. “You’re all I’ve thought of. For years now.” His eye narrows. “You know that, Ofelia,” he says slowly, “don’t you?”

“I . . .” My voice trails off.

How do I explain the years of loneliness and doubt? The ever-present fear, lurking even now just beneath the surface of sunshine and laughter, that this can’t last? That one day soon he’ll sail away, leaving me alone once again?

“Ofelia?” He tilts my face up towards his own. “What is it?”

But I can’t say those words. I don’t want to bring them into this room. Into this perfect time we have together.

Instead, I turn toward the one thing that says more than I ever can: the piano. “I want to play you something.” I nod to the sofa near the windows, avoiding his eyes as I pull the score up on my phone.