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He nodded. “Last I saw, she was over by the Christmas tree.”
Had I walked right past her? Thank God. “She goes by Alice now,” I muttered. Lilly-Alice Nyquist had been “Lala” from her earliest days, because of her first two initials, and her natural affinity for music. Around the age of thirteen, she’d put her foot down and said she would be Alice from now on, that she’d had enough of being Lala.
No matter her name, I had to stay away from her.
“I didn’t know she was in New York,” I said.
“She moved here about a month ago. She’s playing with the Metropolitan Orchestra, now that her father’s retired,” said my dad.
Her father, Stefan Nyquist, had been my first serious violin instructor, the one who’d guided me from childish flailing to adolescent confidence over the space of ten years. He was a longtime family friend, and a renowned musician, like his daughter. My parents wished he’d become my father-in-law. They’d pushed me toward Alice for years, refusing to believe it was impossible.
“Maybe I’ll run into her later,” I said, although I’d do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. I excused myself from the circle around my parents and prowled the outskirts of the crowd in the great room. Christmas classics wafted from my parents’ state-of-the-art sound system, and voices rose and fell in merriment, bouncing off the frescoed ceiling.
A waiter stood at the bottom of the wide marble staircase leading to the second floor, holding a tray of glistening champagne with cranberries floating on top. I took one of the flutes as I made my way upstairs.
I loitered in the second floor hallway a while, and the balconies overlooking the great room, saying hello to family and friends. If Lala—Alice—was downstairs, then I’d stay upstairs, and everything would be okay. I took a sip of champagne, tasting tart cranberry on my tongue. Someone downstairs shouted from the piano. A cheerful group sang carols in multi-part harmony as a distant cousin played, punctuating each line with obnoxious glissandos. It was fun to belong to a musical family, but also loud. My mother corralled groups toward the food tables, and gestured up to me to join them. I would, eventually.
For now, though, I waved and made an escape toward the second floor gallery, a long, narrow chamber of photographs and family memorabilia between the bedroom wings. It had always been my favorite room in this house, which was why I’d suggested “The Gallery” when we were brainstorming names for our BDSM club.
Not that this gallery had much in common with The Gallery where I hurt and fucked masochistic women. This gallery was quiet, with frosted skylights that sparkled in the sun and glowed by the light of the moon. As I shut the door behind me, my gaze went there first, to those skylights I’d stared at since I was a boy.
“Milo?”
The soft, feminine voice sent a chill racing along my nerves.Danger danger danger.Alice Nyquist stood on the other side of the room in a fitted ivory sweater dress and tights, smiling her angelic smile. Good God, that smile. Her hair. Her legs. Her tits.
“Milo Fierro! I haven’t seen you in so long.” She started toward me, half at a run, her arms thrown out in welcome. “Your parents said you’d be here.”
I swallowed hard, trying not to shudder as her scent assailed me. “I never miss their Christmas party,” I said against her wispy, ginger-blonde hair. “You’re the one who never makes it. I was surprised to hear you were in New York.”
“I’m here.” She pulled back, her wide green eyes shining.
“Look at you,” I said softly. “You’re here.”
“I’ve been here almost a month now. I would have called you, but I thought you were working in Italy until the spring.”
She seemed so pleased with herself, so certain I’d be happy to see her. She didn’t understand how hard it was for me to stand beside her, to even be in the same room with her. I’d known Lilly-Alice all through her Lala years. She’d been a rival then, an adversary in pigtails, as likely to laugh as burst into tears. Even though she was six years younger than me, she’d always outplayed me on the violin.
Then she’d grown up and become Alice, the most beautiful woman in the world. Not just the most beautiful, but the most kind, bright, talented, emotional, mysterious, and fascinating woman on earth. I’d been with some top-flight women in my kink career, model-gorgeous women who’d do anything I asked of them sexually, women who’d debase themselves for me at a word.
None of them touched the depth of my feelings for Alice. She was real with me when other women were fake, and from an early age, she’d carved out a special place in my heart. She still played the violin better than me—I’d kept track through the years—but she was also so fucking perfect she made your soul ache.
I rubbed my eyes, nearly sloshing champagne on my sweater. I set the glass down on a table, because I needed my wits about me.
“Not in a drinking mood?” she teased. When she smiled, her Nordic cheekbones made her face look like a heart. Her mouth was so fuckable.No, Milo. No. This is why you can’t be near her.
I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here? I mean, here in the gallery?”
“I was getting a headache downstairs. Your parents are wonderful, but their friends talk so much. I don’t know how they had a son like you.”
When I raised a brow, she elaborated. “I mean, you don’t talk a lot. You’ve always been so quiet. Mysterious.”
Was she flirting? Didn’t she understand that I was dangerous? We were alone in my parents’ gallery, so alone. My mind raced, realizing there was no one to stop me from assaulting her, from forcing myself on her and working out all the perverse impulses she sparked in me.
“Does your head still hurt now?” I asked. It took all my self-control not to touch her, not to stroke a finger down her velvet cheek.
“No, I’m fine. It’s not that bad. I feel better now that you’re here. You look great, Milo, really. You have those…” She gestured, blushing. “Those dark, calming eyes.”
Holy shit. If she didn’t stop looking at me in that worshipful way, I couldn’t be responsible for the things I did to her.
