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“May I?” he asked, already reaching for it.
She handed the pages over without a word. Odd, that he felt he could order her to dress in a certain way, speaking casually of touching her body as if it was his right, but had to ask for permission to touch her music.
He stepped back, inviting her to enter the spacious two-story foyer with a casual wave of his gloved hand, even as he eagerly studied the fanfold of pages. More wrought iron decorated the sweeping stairway to the second floor, and lined the upstairs balconies overlooking the flagstone entryway. He closed the doors without looking, his attention on the papers in his hands. His foot tapped softly, unconsciously keeping the beat as he scanned the music.
Reaching the end of the piece, he shook himself out of his fugue state. He folded the music and tucked it under his arm, then took her hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing the lightest of kisses across the backs of her fingers.
“Welcome to my home.”
Gayle shivered, the drumbeat of desire beginning to pulse in her ears. “It’s lovely.”
“The first floor holds the kitchen, living room, music room and home theater. Upstairs are the bedrooms, playroom, and my studio. We’ll be visiting the playroom later.” His fingers tightened on hers with relentless promise, then he turned and led her through an arch into the music room.
A grand piano claimed pride of place in the room, the mahogany gleaming in the sunlight that streamed through windows covered by rich gold sheers. Gold satin padded the walls above mahogany wainscoting, and she realized the room was designed to soak up sound, so the music of the piano would not echo off the walls and windows.
A neatly folded, padded drape sat on the chair nearest the piano. The instrument was normally covered, then. Rikard had removed the drape in preparation for her visit.
Cold chills collected in her stomach, and she stopped dead in her tracks. “I can’t do this.”
“You can, and you will. While I wear this mask,
I am your master, and you are mine to command.” Rikard’s voice was cold and implacable, then gentled as he brushed a gloved finger across her cheek. “Come, we will make a game of it. You will sit with me at the piano, and I will pick out the tune with one hand. See if you can sing along with me.”
Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she nodded. “Yes, Master Rikard.” He wasn’t expecting perfection. It was just a game.
He pushed the piano bench to the left, so that he could sit on the end and still be centered in front of the keyboard. Placing the score on the music rest, he accidentally hit the corner with the trailing sleeve of his poet shirt, sending the pages flying.
Gayle bent and grabbed the music, then arranged it before him, no longer worried about needing to be perfect. She suspected he might have fumbled the pages on purpose, to put her at her ease. If so, it had worked. Rikard took his position on the bench, shifting bench and music slightly until everything was aligned as he desired. Then he patted the bench beside him.
“Join me.”
She slipped onto the bench, her leather skirt sliding smoothly across the glossy mahogany. Rikard wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, holding her close, then proceeded to “pick out the tune” with his right hand.
He played the melody line flawlessly, interspersing it with accent notes from the accompaniment, his fingers dancing across the keys. She frowned. If he was this good, he should be playing professionally, not composing music for other people to play.
“Now sing,” he ordered, as he began the piece again.
Gayle breathed deeply, cleared her mind of everything except the music, and sang. When she finished, she turned to face him, eagerly anticipating his reaction. She’d nailed it.
Rikard’s head was bent, his hand curled loosely in his lap.
“You sang every note as written, no easy task in a Sondheim piece.”
“So why do you sound disappointed?”
“Music is not about getting the notes right, any more than poetry is about spelling the words correctly. It’s about freeing your soul.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Listen.”
He began the piece again, his voice light and wistful as he described a love who was with him every single day. Then his voice broke on a ragged inhalation, and shook with agony as he cried, “And you won’t go away!”
His love would not leave him alone, no matter how much he wished she would. Gayle’s heart ached for his pain. Then his voice shifted again, turning flat and toneless as he revealed if she ever did leave, it would kill him. Dull and hollow with hopelessness, he whispered, “Dying day after day after day, as the days go by.”
Gayle blinked her blurry eyes, focusing on Rikard’s bent head, the fall of his blond hair screening his black mask from her sight. His right hand was fisted on the keyboard, the leather of his glove stretched taut across his knuckles.
“Did you love her so very much?” she whispered.
