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She needed something to do while she waited—anything to keep busy...
Slipping onto the bench, she tested out a melody, surprising herself with what she could remember, and a soothing calm seemed to be taking over as her fingers ran away with it.
She missed this. Maybe it was time she got a piano for her apartment. Inwardly, she laughed. It would never fit. She’d have to move. And even then it wouldn’t be as beautiful as this one. Or the one that sat untouched in her Yorkshire home. She’d never transport that down here either. It wouldn’t feel right. Even though it would never be played—not while her mum was still with them—it belonged there.
Her tune changed with her mood, and melancholy consumed her as she let it flow through her fingers.
She played and played, relaxing into the rhythm, losing sight of where she was—until the air became tight and an awareness rippled through her. Her fingers froze, her eyes shooting to the foyer.
How long he’d been there she had no idea, but there he was. Freshly showered, his damp hair curling around his face, he wore a grey sweatshirt that clung indecently to his upper body, and faded jeans. His bare feet were super-casual. All very laid-back and chilled, save for the man himself.
She swallowed.
His face was hard, set like stone, but his eyes—they blazed, and an emotion she couldn’t read seared her across the room. Heat consumed her, swirling through her core as guilt swelled.
She slipped her fingers from the keys, folding them onto her lap. ‘I’m sorry.’
There was a flicker of something—anger, pain, she didn’t know—and then it was gone, his face turned away as he crossed the room, heading for a drinks cabinet that looked fit for an exclusive bar.
‘Don’t be—you play well,’ he remarked.
There was no edge to his voice, no emotion. As if she’d imagined the whole thing. Except she hadn’t.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I really am sorry.’
Christ, why was she still apologising? He’d said it was fine. Only she didn’t believe him...
‘It’s been a while, and when I saw the piano I couldn’t resist.’
‘It’s fine.’ He extracted a bottle and glanced over his shoulder. ‘I was just surprised. I don’t know many people who play.’
She rose and stepped out from behind the piano, her mind scrambling to get back to her purpose, to the reason she’d come. But her brain felt clouded with the memories, the pleasure of playing, and then him in all his appealing and confusing glory.
He turned and walked towards her, two glasses of red wine in his hands. He offered one out. It was presumptuous, but it was what she needed, and she took it.
‘Thank you.’
He watched her lift it to her lips, then lowered his eyes briefly before returning them to lock with hers. It was fleeting, but she felt the trail of his eyes over her skin like the warmth of the alcohol gliding down her throat and her pulse skittered.
She looked away, needing to protect herself, to hide his effect on her, and she sensed him smile—did he know what he was doing to her?
‘Why don’t you take a seat?’
She bit back the ridiculous retort I’d rather stand. This wasn’t going to be quick and easy—sitting made more sense. Even if it did appear too comfortable, too relaxed.
Feeling his eyes on her, she walked to the sofa with deliberate grace and perched at its edge, her glass cradled between her hands.
He followed, his fresh, clean scent washing over her as he passed by, dropping onto the sofa alongside her. He was far enough away that they didn’t touch, but not so far that his scent didn’t continue to tease her, its heady quality drying her mouth with a multitude of wants and desires.
None of which tallied with the reason she was here.
She took another sip, using the wine’s soothing influence to urge her back on course.
Think of Tony.
Think of Marcus’s deceit.
