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She considered that. ‘But peace has been long-established in the RKH. Surely you don’t feel that there’s a risk of war now?’
‘There is always a risk of war,’ he responded quickly, with a quiet edge to his voice. And she felt the weight of responsibility he carried on his shoulders. ‘But I was raised to avert it. My whole life has been geared towards a peacemaking process, both within the borders of my land and on the world stage.’
‘How does one man do that?’
He was reflective and, when he spoke, there was a grim setting to his handsome features. ‘In many different ways.’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Why didn’t you become a concert pianist?’
The change of subject was swift but she allowed it. ‘Reality intervened.’ She said it with a smile, careful to keep the crushing disappointment from her voice—a disappointment that still had the power to rob her of breath.
‘Oh?’
She took another bite of her meal—the last on her plate—and waited until she’d finished before answering. ‘The Juilliard is expensive. Even on the partial scholarship I was offered, there’s New York’s cost of living.’
‘And you couldn’t afford it?’
Before Max, she could have. Easily. Her mother’s inheritance had made sure of that. ‘No.’ A smile that cost her to dredge up. ‘It was a pipe dream, in the end.’
He nodded, frowning, then stood. ‘I asked you here tonight because I wanted to show you something.’
‘Not because you wanted to drag me to bed?’ She teased, glad to move the conversation to a more level ground.
‘Well, that too.’ He held a hand out to her. ‘Come.’
It didn’t even occur to her not to do as he said. She stood, putting her hand in his, aware of how well they fitted together, moving behind him, her near-nakedness only adding to her awareness of him. The Presidential suite was, as you might expect, enormous. In addition to the main living and dining area, there was a saloon and bar, furnished with the finest alcohol, a wall of classic literature titles, several in German and Japanese to cater to the international guests and now, a baby grand piano in its centre. Her heart began to speed for an entirely different reason now. Anxiety, longing, remorse. She lifted her gaze to him to find that he was watching her.
‘That’s a Kleshnër.’
He lifted a brow.
‘The type of piano.’ She moved towards it, as if drawn by an invisible piece of string. ‘They’re made in Berlin, only forty or so a year. They’re considered to be the gold standard.’ She ran her finger over the lid, the wood smooth and glossy. Her heart skipped a beat.
‘Play something for me.’
She jolted her eyes to his.
‘I want to hear you.’
She bit down on her lip, letting her finger touch the keys. How long had it been? Too long. Her insides ached to do as he said, to make music from ivory and ebony, to create sound in this room. But the legacy of her past held her where she was, the pain that was so intrinsic to her piano playing all bound together.
‘You are afraid.’
The words inspired a complex response. She shook her head a little. ‘Not really. It’s just...been a very long time.’
His eyes narrowed speculatively, laced with an unspoken question. ‘Play for me.’
She moved around behind the piano, staring first at the keys and then at his face, and it was the speculation she saw there that had her taking a seat behind the piano, her fingers hovering above the keys for several seconds.
‘What would you like to hear?’
‘Surprise me.’
She nodded again, and then, a small smile curved her mouth. ‘This will be a first.’
‘Oh?’
‘Playing in only my underwear.’
His smile set flames alight inside her body. ‘I could get you something, if you’re cold, though I should tell you it is likely to decrease my enjoyment of your playing.’
