She had already been upstairs while she had waited for him to come home—smoothing and straightening the covers on the bed, fluffing the pillows, standing and looking at the room and wondering what it would be like to walk into it with him.
He turned on the lamp beside the bed. It was a beautiful old rose-tinted globe that sat on a packing crate. The floors were unfinished, the walls spackled with drywall mud. The bed was only a mattress on the floor beneath the windows. It was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen.
He wished he could have given her candles and roses, a huge four-poster with satin sheets. All he could give her was himself.
And suddenly he was as nervous as a boy on his first date.
“The atmosphere’s a little thin in here.”
“It’s perfect,” she told him.
He took her hands and raised them to his lips. “I won’t hurt you, Van.”
“I know.” She kissed his hands in turn. “This is going to sound stupid, but I don’t know what to do.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, testing, tempting. “You’ll catch on.”
Her lips curved as her hands slid up his back. “I think you’re right.” With an instinct that was every bit as potent as experience, she let her head fall back, let her hands glide and press and wander.
Her lips parted for his, and she tasted his little groan of pleasure. Then she shivered with pleasure of her own as his strong, clever hands skimmed down her body, his thumb brushing down the side of her breast, his fingers kneading at her waist, his palm cupping her hip, sliding down her thigh, before its upward journey.
She pressed against him, delighting in the shower of sensations. When his teeth scraped lightly down her throat, over her bare shoulder, she murmured his name. Like the wind through the trees, she sighed for him, and swayed. Pliant and willing, she waited to be molded.
Her absolute trust left him shaken. No matter how hot her passion, she was innocent. Her body might be that of a woman, but she was still as untouched as the girl he had once loved and lost. He wouldn’t forget it. As the need flamed inside him, he banked it. This time it would be for her. All for her.
Compassion and tenderness were as much a part of his nature as his recklessness. He showed her only the gentle side now, as he eased the snug top down to her hips. He kissed her, soothing her with murmurs even as his hands set off millions of tiny explosions as they tugged her dress to the floor.
She wore a swatch of white lace that seemed to froth over the swell of her breasts before skimming down to nip at her waist. For his own pleasure, he held her at arm’s length and just looked.
“You stop my heart,” he told her.
With unsteady hands, she reached out to unbutton his shirt. Though her breath was already ragged, she kept her eyes on his as she slid the shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to join her dress on the floor. With her heart pounding wildly in her ears, she linked her arms around his neck.
“Touch me.” She tilted her head back, offered her mouth. “Show me.”
Though the kiss was hard, demanding, ruthless, he forced his hands to be gentle. Her own were racing over him, bringing a desperate edge to an already driving need. When he lowered her onto the bed, he watched her eyes close on a sigh, then open again, clouded with desire.
He dipped his head to absorb her taste on his tongue as it skimmed along the verge of lace, as it slid beneath to tease her taut nipples. Her hips ached and her fingers dug into his back as the pleasure rocketed through her.
With a flick of the wrist, he unsnapped her garters, then sent her churning as he slowly peeled down her stockings, blazing the newly bared flesh with his lips. It seemed he found every inch of her, every curve, fascinating. His gentle fingers played over her, everywhere, until the music roared in her head.
As patient as he was ruthless, he drove her closer and closer to the edge she’d never seen. Her body was like a furnace, pumping out heat, pulsing with needs as sharp as his. He drove himself mad watching her, seeing the way everything she felt, each new sensation he brought to her, raced over her face, into her eyes.
Desire. Passion. Pleasure. Excitement. They flowed from him to her, then back again. Familiar. Oh, yes. They recognized each other. That brought comfort. Yet it was new, unique, gloriously fresh. That was the adventure.
He reveled in the way her skin flowed through his hands, the way her body tensed and arched at his touch. The way the lamplight slanted over her, over his hands as he peeled the last barrier of lace away.
Naked, she reached for him, tugging frantically at his slacks. Because he knew his own needs were tearing his control to shreds, he cupped her in his hand and sent her flying over the last line.
She cried out, stunned, helpless, her eyes glazing over, as her hand slipped limply from his shoulder. Even as she shuddered, he eased into her, slowly, gently, murmuring her name again and again as the blood roared in his ears and pushed him to take his pleasure quickly. Love demanded gentleness.
She lost her innocence sweetly, painlessly, and with simple joy.
She lay in Brady’s bed, tangled in Brady’s sheets. A sparrow heralded the dawn. During the night, the dog had crept in to take his rightful place at the foot of the bed. Lazily Vanessa opened her eyes.
Brady’s face was barely an inch from hers, and she had to ease back and blink to focus on him. He was deep in sleep, his arm heavy around her waist, his breathing slow and even. Now, completely relaxed and vulnerable, he looked more like the boy she remembered than the man she was beginning to know.
She loved. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved. Her heart nearly burst with it. But did she love the boy or the man?
Very gently, she brushed at the hair on his forehead. All she was really sure of was that she was happy. And, for now, it was enough.
More than enough, she thought as she slowly stretched. During the night he had shown her how beautiful making love could be when two people cared about each other. And how exciting it could be when needs were met and desires reached. Whatever happened tomorrow, or a year from tomorrow, she would never forget what they had shared.
Lightly, not wanting to wake him, she touched her lips to his. Even that quiet contact stirred her. Hesitant, curious, she trailed her fingertips over his shoulders, down the length of his back. The need grew and spread inside her.
As dreams went, Brady thought, this was one of the best. He was under a warm quilt in the first light of day. Vanessa was in bed beside him. Her body was pressed against his, shifting gently, arousing quickly. Those beautiful, talented fingers were stroking along his skin. That soft, sulky mouth was toying with his. When he reached for her, she sighed, arching under his hand.
Everywhere he touched she was warm and smooth. Her arms were around him, strong silken ropes that trapped him gloriously against her. When she said his name, once, then twice, the words slipped under the gauzy curtain of his fantasy. He opened his eyes and saw her.
This was no dream. She was smiling at him. Those misty green eyes were heavy with sleep and passion. Her body was slim and soft and curved against his.
“Good morning,” she murmured. “I wasn’t sure if you—”
He closed his mouth over hers. Dream and reality melded seductively as he slipped inside her.
The sunlight was stronger when she lay over him, her head on his heart, her body still pulsing.
“You were saying?”
“Hmm.” The effort to open her eyes seemed wasted, so she kept them closed. “Was I?”
“You weren’t sure if I what?”
She sifted through her thoughts. “Oh. I wasn’t sure if you had any morning appointments.”
He continued to comb his fingers through her hair. “It’s Sunday,” he reminded her. “Office is closed. But I have to run into the hospital and check on Mr. Benson and a couple of other patients. How about you?”
“Nothing much. Some lesson plans, now that I have ten students.”
“Ten?” There was more snicker than surprise in his voice.
She shifted then, folding her arms over his chest and resting her chin on them. “I was ambushed at the picnic yesterday.”
“Ten students.” He grinned at her. “That’s quite a commitment. Does that mean you’re planning to settle in town again?”
“At least for the summer. I haven’t decided whether I’ll agree to a fall tour.”
So he had the summer to convince her, he thought. “How about dinner?”
She narrowed her eyes. “We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
“I mean tonight. We could have our own picnic with the leftovers. Just you and me.”
Just you and me. “I’d like that.”
“Good. Now why don’t we start the day off right?”
After a chuckle, she pressed her lips to his chest. “I thought we already had.”
“I meant you could wash my back.” Grinning, he sat up and dragged her out of bed.
Vanessa discovered she didn’t mind being alone in the house. After Brady dropped her off, she changed into jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt. She wanted to spend the day at the piano, planning the lessons, practicing and, if her current mood held, composing.
There had never been enough time for composing on tour, she thought as she tied her hair back. But now she had the summer. Even if ten hours a week would be taken up by lessons, and nearly that many again by planning them, she had plenty of time to indulge in her first love.
Her first love, she repeated with a smile. No, that wasn’t composing. That was Brady. He had been her first love. Her first lover. And it was more than probable he would be her last.
He loved her. Or believed he did. He would never have used the words unless he believed it. Nor could she, Vanessa reflected. She had to be sure of what was best for herself, for him, for everyone, before she risked her heart with those three words.
Once she said them, he wouldn’t let go again. However much he had mellowed over the years, however responsible he had become, there was still enough of that wild and willful boy in him to have him tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her off. While that fantasy might have its appeal, a daydream appeal, she was too sensible a woman to tolerate it in reality.
The past was done, she thought. Mistakes had been made. She wouldn’t risk the future.
She didn’t want to think about tomorrow. Not yet. She wanted only to think of, and enjoy, today.
As she started toward the music room, the phone rang. She debated just letting it ring—a habit she’d developed in hotel rooms when she hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. On the fifth ring, she gave in and answered.
“Hello.”
“Vanessa? Is that you?”
“Yes. Frank?” She recognized the voice of her father’s nervous and devoted assistant.
“Yes. It’s me—I,” he corrected.
Vanessa could all but see him running a soothing hand over the wide bald spot on top of his head. “How are you, Frank?”
“Fine. Fine. Oh—how are you?”
“I’m fine, too.” She had to smile. Though she knew her father had tolerated Frank Margoni only because the man would work an eighty-hour week without complaint, Vanessa was fond of him. “How’s the new protégé?”
“Protégé—? Oh, you mean Francesco. He’s brilliant, really brilliant. Temperamental, of course. Throws things. But then, he’s an artist. He’s going to be playing at the benefit in Cordina.”
“Princess Gabriella’s benefit? The Aid to Handicapped Children?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure he’ll be wonderful.”
“Oh, of course. No doubt. Certainly. But, you see, the princess…she’s terribly disappointed that you won’t perform. She asked me—” there was an audible gulp “—personally, if I would persuade you to reconsider.”
“Frank—”
“You’d stay at the palace, of course. Incredible place.”
“Yes, I know. Frank, I haven’t decided if I’m going to perform again.”
“You know you don’t mean that, Vanessa. With your gift—”
“Yes, my gift,” she said impatiently. “Isn’t it about time I realized it is mine?”
He was silent a moment. “I know your father was often insensitive to your personal needs, but that was only because he was so aware of the depth of your talent.”
“You don’t have to explain him to me, Frank.”
“No…no, of course I don’t.”
She let out a long sigh. It wasn’t fair to take out her frustrations on the hapless Frank Margoni, as her father always had. “I understand the position you’re in, Frank, but I’ve already sent my regrets, and a donation, to Princess Gabriella.”
“I know. That’s why she contacted me. She couldn’t get ahold of you. Of course, I’m not officially your manager, but the princess knew our connection, so…”
“If I decide to tour again, Frank, I’ll depend on you to manage me.”
“I appreciate that, Vanessa.” His glum voice brightened perceptibly. “And I realize that you’ve needed some time for yourself. The last few years—grueling, I know. But this benefit is important.” He cleared his throat with three distinct clicks. “And the princess is very stubborn.”
Reluctantly Vanessa smiled. “Yes, I know.”
“It’s only one performance,” he continued, sensing a weak spot. “Not even a full concert. You’ll have carte blanche on the material. They’d like you to play two pieces, but even one would make such a tremendous difference. Your name on the program would add so much.” He paused only long enough to suck in a breath. “It’s a very worthy cause.”
“When is the benefit?”
“Next month.”
She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Next month. It’s practically next month already, Frank.”
“The third Saturday in June.”
“Three weeks.” She let out a long breath. “All right, I’ll do it. For you, and for Princess Gabriella.”
“Vanessa, I can’t tell you how much I—”
“Please don’t.” She softened the order with a laugh. “It’s only one night.”
“You can stay in Cordina as long as you like.”
“One night,” she repeated. “Send me the particulars here. And give my best to Her Highness.”
“I will, of course. She’ll be thrilled. Everyone will be thrilled. Thank you, Vanessa.”
“It’s all right, Frank. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
She hung up and stood silent and still. Odd, but she didn’t feel tensed and keyed up at the thought of a performance. And a huge one, she considered. The theater complex in Cordina was exquisite and enormous.
What would happen if she clutched in the wings this time? She would get through it somehow. She always had. Perhaps it was fate that she had been called now, when she was teetering on some invisible line. To go forward, or backward, or to stay.
She would have to make a decision soon, she thought as she walked to the piano. She prayed it would be the right one.
She was playing when Brady returned. He could hear the music, romantic and unfamiliar, flowing through the open windows. There was the hum of bees in the flowers, the purr of a lawn mower, and the music. The magic of it. He saw a woman and a young child standing on the sidewalk, listening.
She had left the door open for him. He had only to push the screen to be inside. He moved quietly. It seemed he was stepping through the liquid notes.
She didn’t see him. Her eyes were half-closed. There was a smile on her face, a secret smile. As if whatever images she held in her mind were pouring out through her fingers and onto the keys.
The music was slow, dreamy, enriched by an underlying passion. He felt his throat tighten.
When she finished, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Somehow she had known he would be there when the last note died away.
“Hello.”
He wasn’t sure he could speak. He crossed to her and lifted her hands. “There’s magic here. It astonishes me.”
“Musician’s hands,” she said. “Yours are magic. They heal.”
“There was a woman standing on the sidewalk with her little boy. I saw them when I drove up. She was listening to you play, and there were tears on her cheeks.”
“There’s no higher compliment. Did you like it?”
“Very much. What was it called?”
“I don’t know. It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. It never seemed right until today.”
“You wrote it?” He looked at the music on the piano and saw the neatly written notes on the staff paper. “I didn’t know you composed.”
“I’m hoping to do more of it.” She drew him down to sit beside her. “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?”
“At least.” His lips were warm and firm on hers. “How long have you been writing?”
“For several years—when I’ve managed to sneak the time. Between traveling, rehearsals, practice and performances, it hasn’t been much.”
“But you’ve never recorded anything of your own.”
“None of it’s really finished. I—” She stopped, tilted her head. “How do you know?”
“I have everything you’ve ever recorded.” At her smug smile, he continued. “Not that I actually play any of them.” He gave an exaggerated yelp when her elbow connected with his ribs. “I suppose that’s the sign of a temperamental artist.”
“That’s artiste to you, philistine.”
“Why don’t you tell this philistine about your composing?”
“What’s to tell?”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it. It’s what I like best.”
He was playing with her fingers. “Then why haven’t you finished anything?” He felt the tension the moment it entered her.
“I told you. There hasn’t been time. Touring isn’t all champagne and caviar, you know.”
“Come on.” Keeping her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet.
“Where are we going?”
“In here, where there’s a comfortable couch. Sit.” He eased her down, then put his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were dark and searching on her face. “Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“I wanted to wait until you were recovered.” He felt her stiffen, and shook his head. “Don’t do that. As your friend, as a doctor, and as the man who loves you, I want to know what made you ill. I want to make sure it never happens again.”
“You’ve already said I’ve recovered.”
“Ulcers can reoccur.”
“I didn’t have an ulcer.”
“Can it. You can deny it all you want—it won’t change the facts. I want you to tell me what’s been going on the last few years.”
“I’ve been touring. Performing.” Flustered, she shook her head. “How did we move from composing to all this?”
“Because one leads to the other, Van. Ulcers are often caused by emotion. By frustrations, angers, resentments that are bottled up to fester instead of being aired out.”
“I’m not frustrated.” She set her chin. “And you, of all people, should know I don’t bottle things up. Ask around, Brady. My temper is renowned on three continents.”
He nodded, slowly. “I don’t doubt it. But I never once remember you arguing with your father.”
She fell silent at that. It was nothing more than the truth.
“Did you want to compose, or did you want to perform?”
“It’s possible to do both. It’s simply a matter of discipline and priorities.”
“And what was your priority?”
Uncomfortable, she shifted. “I think it’s obvious it was performing.”
“You said something to me before. You said you hated it.”
“Hated what?”
“You tell me.”
She pulled away to rise and pace the room. It hardly mattered now, she told herself. But he was sitting here, watching her, waiting. Past experience told her he would dig and dig until he uncovered whatever feelings she wanted to hide.
“All right. I was never happy performing.”
“You didn’t want to play?”
“No,” she corrected. “I didn’t want to perform. I have to play, just as I have to breathe, but…” She let her words trail off, feeling like an imbecile. “It’s stage fright,” she snapped. “It’s stupid, it’s childish, but I’ve never been able to overcome it.”
“It’s not stupid or childish.” He rose, and would have gone to her, but she was already backing away. “If you hated performing, why did you keep going on? Of course,” he said, before she could answer.
“It was important to him.” She sat on the arm of a chair, then stood again, unable to settle. “He didn’t understand. He’d put his whole life into my career. The idea that I couldn’t perform, that it frightened me—”
“That it made you ill.”
“I was never ill. I never missed one performance because of health.”
“No, you performed despite your health. Damn it, Van, he had no right.”
“He was my father. I know he was a difficult man, but I owed him something.”
He was a selfish son of a bitch, Brady thought. But he kept his silence. “Did you ever consider therapy?”
Vanessa lifted her hands. “He opposed it. He was very intolerant of weakness. I suppose that was his weakness.” She closed her eyes a moment. “You have to understand him, Brady. He was the kind of man who would refuse to believe what was inconvenient for him. And, as far as he was concerned, it just ceased to exist.” Like my mother, she thought with a weary sigh. “I could never find the way to make him accept or even understand the degree of the phobia.”
“I’d like to understand.”
She cupped her hands over her mouth a moment, then let them fall. “Every time I would go to the theater, I would tell myself that this time, this time, it wouldn’t happen. This time I wouldn’t be afraid. Then I would stand in the wings, shaking and sick and miserable. My skin would be clammy, and the nausea would make me dizzy. Once I started playing, it would ease off. By the end I’d be fine, so I would tell myself that the next time…” She shrugged.
He understood, too well. And he hated the idea of her, of anyone, suffering time after time, year after year. “Did you ever stop to think that he was living his life through you?”
“Yes.” Her voice was dull. “He was all I had left. And, right or wrong, I was all he had. The last year, he was so ill, but he never let me stop, never let me care for him. In the end, because he had refused to listen, refused the treatments, he was in monstrous pain. You’re a doctor—you know how horrible terminal cancer is. Those last weeks in the hospital were the worst. There was nothing they could do for him that time. So he died a little every day. I went on performing, because he insisted, then flying back to the hospital in Geneva every chance I had. I wasn’t there when he died. I was in Madrid. I got a standing ovation.”
“Can you blame yourself for that?”
“No. But I can regret.” Her eyes were awash with it.
“What do you intend to do now?”
She looked down at her hands, spread her fingers, curled them into her palms. “When I came back here, I was tired. Just worn out, Brady. I needed time—I still do—to understand what I feel, what I want, where I’m going.” She stepped toward him and lifted her hands to his face. “I didn’t want to become involved with you, because I knew you’d be one more huge complication.” Her lip curved a little. “And I was right. But when I woke up this morning in your bed, I was happy. I don’t want to lose that.”
He took her wrists. “I love you, Vanessa.”
“Then let me work through this.” She went easily into his arms. “And just be with me.”
He pressed a kiss to her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”