Page 89

“I saw the recorder sitting there, and …”

“It’s a Tascam,” he says, examining the equipment.

“A what?”

“A Tascam. Used to record tracks.”

“It’s your music, then?” I can’t help the wonder in my voice, imagining such a beautiful piece originating inside his head. “I swear I only listened to it.”

Shoulders sagging, he tips his head back, eyes screwed shut, as he presses the play button.

“Tell me you didn’t mess anything up.”

“I … I didn’t. I saw the recorder sitting there, and …”

“It’s a Tascam.”

The playback is our conversation. I must’ve accidentally recorded over the music.

I slap a hand to my face, the needling pangs of shock stabbing my gut. “Oh, no.”

“Hours, I tried to get that piece right. Now, it’s gone.” He waves his notebook in the air. “Ran to get something to jot down the notes.” Jaw hard, he chucks the book across the piano strings beneath the lid.

“Lucian, I’m so sorry.” Remorse hammers through me, crushing my chest like a heavy fist. “I didn’t mean to touch it.”

“You just can’t keep your hands off anything, can you?” The growl in his tone likely only represents a fraction of his anger. He tosses the Tascam onto the music stand, and when it falls to the keys, slamming out a hard note, I flinch. “I’ll never remember it.”

Lowering my gaze, I stare down at the keys, and while echoes of the song linger in my head, my eyes scan over every placement of my fingers. I see them. I know them. “I can.”

Still turned away from me, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge my response.

Exhaling a shaky breath, I set my fingers to the keys and close my eyes. At the first note, I feel the black ribbons dance around me as I play the song from memory. The soft caress of his hands on my skin. The warmth of his breath at my neck. Every moment of the song permanently seared by his imagined seduction that winds around each keystroke. The dream plays exactly as before, every look, every touch. Up until the point when it ends, and I open my eyes to Lucian’s incredulous stare.

“How did you do that?” Disbelief blazes in his eyes while riding the tone of his voice.

“I played it from memory.”

“I literally wrote that minutes before. How could you possibly know the notes?”

“I didn’t know the notes. I can’t read music.”

Frown deepening, he crosses his arms. “How? I’ve heard you play Chopin. Liszt. Bach.”

“All from memory. But I’ve never learned notes.” The awe in his stare is too much, and I shift on the bench. “So … are you going to stand there? Or are we going to figure out these notes?”

He reaches beneath the piano lid for his notebook, and I set my hands to the keys once more. For the next hour, he has me play small segments of the song, while he furiously jots down the notes, capturing every single one. Each time I play, the same images come to mind, making it almost impossible to look at him, for fear he’ll see the desire burning in my eyes. By the time we’re finished, I’ve mentally made love to Lucian over and over again.

He sits beside me on the bench, a partial smile playing on his lips as he stares down at the last page of music. For a man so serious, so focused on business and his work, there is a vulnerability to him in the pride he exudes right now. This is it. His soft spot, where the steel bends around the notes, and the shadows that always seem to follow him dance across the walls. Beneath the leathery skin and hardened bones, this is where his happiness hides.

I finally found it.

“Thank you for this.”

Tucking my hands into my lap, I nod. “It’s a beautiful piece. Would’ve been a shame to lose it.”

“It would’ve.”

“What will you do with it?” I try not to stare at his magnificent hands, the long fingers and perfectly trimmed nails, his skin slightly weathered with age.