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“With all my heart and soul.”
“What happened?”
“A car accident. Four years ago. A truck’s tire blew, and the driver swerved out of control, jackknifed and skidded across the highway. A minute later or a minute earlier, and the road would have been deserted. Instead, I got there just as he crossed into the oncoming traffic lane. The truck’s fuel line ruptured. The dragging chassis struck a spark. My windshield blew out, glass everywhere. The doctors were afraid I was going to be blind. I wish I had been, rather than—”
His jaw clenched, his entire body going rigid as he fought the demons in his memory. He breathed deeply, then again, and slowly relaxed. His fist uncurled.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I’m alive, even if it’s not the life I intended.” He turned to face her, then smiled sadly as he wiped her cheeks with his gloved thumb. “It’s I who should apologize to you. I’ve made you cry.”
She bit her lip, good manners warring with turbulent emotions. Emotion won. “Would it be too hard for you to play it once more? I’d like to try it again.”
Rikard straightened, his fingers returning to the keyboard. After a deep breath, he began playing the song from the beginning, although this time, he played only the melody line, without any of the embellishments.
Gayle couldn’t match the strength of his loving and losing, but she’d experienced her own losses over the years. Her beloved aunt, dying of a lung infection. Her dog, Tiger, who had been her inseparable childhood companion. Even the slow corporate death of spending more and more time on the road, until her life became a series of disconnected hotel rooms with no goal beyond reaching the next assignment, the next contract, and her hobbies, interests, and existence outside of her job faded away.
She put all of that emotion into the song. And when it ended, she sat, stunned, as the last notes faded. She’d heard the difference. It was unbelievable.
Rikard brushed his gloved fingers across the keys in a caress too light to sound them, then closed the piano with a snap. The music fluttered to the floor.
“Yes. That time you let me hear your soul.”
He stood, gracefully sliding off the bench in a well-practiced move. Offering his hand to her, he said, “Come. It is time for that lunch I promised you.”
Gayle slipped her hand into his, and allowed him to pull her off the bench and out of the music room. She felt somehow lighter than she had before, yet at the same time, her heart was weighted by what she’d learned of him. It explained how come such a dishy guy wasn’t already taken. Another woman had won his heart, a woman he’d loved so fiercely that it had taken him four years after her death before he was able to reenter the dating scene. No wonder he was only interested in scene play, at first, rather than a relationship.
That was okay. They’d go slow. It would be better for both of them that way.
Chapter Three
The eat-in kitchen boasted a glass-walled breakfast nook that overlooked the back deck with a panoramic view of the well established orchards. The round table and chairs were of white-painted wrought iron, the table topped by a thick piece of beveled glass and the chairs cushioned with pale blue and white striped pillows.
Blue- and white-striped placemats were already set kitty-corner on the table, the matching linen napkins folded in graceful fans beside them. Condensation frosted the chilled white china plates resting on top of pale blue chargers. Swirls of blue glass patterned the water goblets, already filled with ice water and a thin slice of lemon. Condensation frosted their sides as well.
Gayle shook her head. This was not what she was expecting.
“I was just filling the water glasses when you arrived,” Rikard told her. He released her hand and walked over to the stainless-steel refrigerator, opening it and withdrawing a pale blue salad bowl. From what she could see over his shoulder, the refrigerator was well stocked, but neatly, rather than filled with things stuffed haphazardly where there was room.
“It’s more Martha than Marquis de Sade.”
Rikard laughed, the sound wrapping her in warmth that made her stomach flutter. “But I told you, the goal for today was to get to know each other better, and establish trust. There’s plenty of time to torture you with food later.”
She stood awkwardly next to one of the chairs. “Do you want me to serve you?”
“No. I’m not one of those dominants who equates submission with household service.”
He held out a chair for her, giving her the better view of the apple trees to the south, and leaving the eastern view of the deck and kitchen for himself. Once she was seated, he grabbed salad tongs and served the mix of field greens, sliced strawberries, and a balsamic vinaigrette dressing onto her plate.
After helping himself, he returned the bowl to the refrigerator. Then he set a covered platter, no doubt the second course, on the counter to warm up to room temperature. Finally, he returned to the table and claimed his seat.
He snapped his napkin open with a sharp crack, making Gayle jump.
A hint of a smile played about his lips, although his mask made it difficult to read his expression.
She spread her own napkin, waiting until he picked up his salad fork before reaching for her own. “What kind of a dominant are you, then?”
“I enjoy caring for my submissives, surrounding them with elegance and comfort, so that they may give themselves completely to the moment, with no petty worries to distract them. Skin that has grown accustomed to fine silks and velvet, redolent perfumes and exotic oils, will feel the contrast of a loving lash far more than one dulled and deadened by overwork and uncomfortable clothing.”
