Crime & Counterpoint (30 page)

Minutes passed.

The timer went off, and she returned, in control and poised again. She grabbed an oven mitt and withdrew the tray she’d slid in earlier. The discs of dough had risen to fluffy, buttery scones with wisps of steam rising into the fragrant air. A delicious counterpoint to the rain. She almost smiled.

Setting the tray down to cool, she filled a tall glass with filtered water and ice, squeezing half a lemon into it. She carried it to him and placed the water on the marked table within his reach. But upon finding a beer bottle in his hand, she nearly had a heart attack.

“Zach!” she exploded, jolting him half to death. “You can’t have that!” She yanked the bottle from him sloshing some of the liquid on the table.

“Says who?” he demanded.

“Jared.” She stormed over to the sink, drained the contents, and then dumped the bottle in the recycling bin.

As she came back to clean off the spill, Zach grabbed her wrist, pulling her down onto the chair next to him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he rumbled.

Her desperation boiled over. “What? Keep you from killing yourself?!” She didn’t look away but met his gaze stolidly.

He kept her chained to the chair. To him. But then he remembered, albeit vaguely, that he’d pointed a gun at her. And he couldn’t blame her for being high-handed with him. Actually, he didn’t deserve her care at all. The vehemence cleared from his eyes; the heat radiating from him dropped a few degrees. His grip loosened.

Flustered at the desire beating within her, she squirmed imperceptibly. But when he let go of her arm and she put several feet between them, she began to breathe at least. Miserably, she observed him as he ate. He seemed strangely at ease with the quietude. With his profile averted, she felt it safe to study him and noted again that he was left-handed. Black hair still damp, he looked approachable to her, and she had to stamp down the urge to comb her fingers through and straighten the slightly wayward ends. But that giant bump on his head didn’t look good.

She grabbed an icepack from the freezer and brought it to him and placed it against his left temple. “How does your neck feel?”

“Sore.” The ice cooled his temper, and he could taste the meal she’d prepared. “This is really good by the way.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she replied, trying not to show how pleased she was over his obvious enjoyment.

“Carter’s a lucky guy.” Taking the ice pack, he cranked his head up to look at her – to catch her reaction. “He’ll get to come home to this every day.”

She tensed, playing with her ring. “I doubt he’ll even need me to cook for him. He’s always been very…”

“Self-sufficient?”

Mildly astonished, she regarded him, wondering how he could have put it so aptly.

He swallowed his bite and answered her unasked question. “I guess I
should
have him down by now.” He smirked. “But somehow I missed the fact he was in a serious relationship with James’ sister.”

“He never talked about me?”

He averted his gaze and scoffed. “Knowing me, I just wasn’t listening.” A dark shadow passed over his features. Shaking it off, he forked off another piece of the tender, well-cooked fish and stuck it in his mouth.

Silence.

His fork scraped on the plate as he finished up, and she was content to just let him eat. Her thoughts were far too muddled and dangerous, carrying her down a river rapid that took her away from the path of least resistance. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself happily spending all her days with Zach. But considering the danger he was always in, those days might not be long.

Finally, when he was done, she reached out to get the plate.

“I’ll do it,” he protested, wondering why she always had to clean everything right away.

“No, it’s fine.” She took it before he could stop her, bare feet stepping lightly across the marble.

He picked up the water glass and chugged the whole thing, watching her receding figure. She was beautiful from every angle. The irritation returned, unfairly directed at her.

Against his better judgment, he got up and took his glass to her. She was at the sink, faucet on, washing his plate and the dishes she’d used for cooking. He set the glass near her, and automatically she took and rinsed it out too.

“Would you like dessert?”

His gut clenched, flames budding. “You really have to stop asking me.”

She tilted her head and peered at him with indefinable sadness. “The scones, Zach. Would you like coffee, too?”

He scoffed and looked away. “I’m allowed caffeine?”

“Just a yes or no will do.” She shut off the water and dipped her hands into the sudsy-filled sink, scrubbing at a metal spatula.

He didn’t bother giving her an answer. Leaning his hip against the counter, he let his gaze roam over her appreciatively. But there was this… tension. A thick slab of it, forming a fragile wall between them. The lingering effects of the drug worked against him. All he had to do was reach out and touch her.

“Tell me about Jared,” he finally said, as much to distract himself as the need to know about her history. “How long were you engaged?”

She frowned. “Officially? About a year. Unofficially, since I was old enough to write my name in cursive. Our parents had been pretty much discussing it since I was like five. So I just” – she sighed jadedly – “never thought to protest when the time came.”

Her sultry voice trailed away like gunsmoke, rising through the misty air, seeping into the drowsy walls. “What happened?”

She rinsed off the spatula and put it in the drying rack. “I was doing my doctorate at Julliard, fully intending to teach… at least.”

He arched his brow and dipped his chin. “Your doctorate?”

She glanced sideways at him with a hint of that playful sprite she’d been the last time he was here. “Don’t you remember? I was a
prodigy
,” she joked, smiling secretly. “That’s why I never went to school with your sister. Daddy hired tutors and I stayed at home while my brothers all went through the public school system. I finished when I was twelve.”

His brows vaulted. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head and then blew a strand of hair out of her face as she rinsed off the skillet. “James and Jared went to Harvard. Carter went to Columbia, and you, I don’t even remember what happened to you because you’d stopped coming over.”

He offered her no explanation. “So then what? Where did you go?”

“I attended Manhattan School of Music on a free ride for my undergrad which I completed in three years. And then I started a dual master’s in composition and performance at Berkeley in Boston. That’s when I qualified for the Van Cliburn piano competition. After that… complete fiasco, my Dad encouraged me to go to Julliard for my doctorate. They accepted me despite what happened.” She grimaced. “They said ‘you’re young, you just weren’t ready’. So I went.”

“Did you finish?”

Her lack of reply was answer enough.

“And Jared had something to do with that?”

“It’s really not his fault,” she demurred. “It was completely my choice to stop and run away because that’s just what I do. Carter can tell you.” Her tone turned bitter and self-deprecating. With a wet hand, she flicked long hair over her left shoulder, causing a few drops of water to land on her sensual, tan skin. She went to the oven to set the now-clean pan down and grabbed the cutting board for washing as well.

He watched her body the whole time and the way her cascading curls moved fluidly with her.

The faucet came on again, gushing hot, steamy water.

Her locks slipped in front of her once more, and she tried to toss it back without use of her hands. Her success was minimal.

Before he knew what he was doing, Zach stepped right behind her. He drew her hair back, gathering the mahogany mass into his hands. Like clutching silk. She stiffened, but he’d expected as much.

“Thank you,” she said as she shut off the water and set the board aside to dry. “I’m not a fan of dishwashers. I always feel like I have to rewash everything afterwards.”

“Why?”

She thought about it. “I don’t know. I just do.” Hands dripping, she expected Zach to release her. But he didn’t.

He pushed her mane over her right shoulder, exposing the left side of her neck and the scar just above her shoulder blade. “I see you’re better.” He traced a finger over the fading blemish, which he imagined would be gone in another few weeks. It wasn’t rough but not yet as smooth as the surrounding area, which he touched as well. For comparison.

A frisson rippled across her skin. “Zach please,” she implored, a slight tremble in her voice.

But he didn’t relinquish her, whether from the remnants of drugs or pure cussed obstinacy, he didn’t know. His right hand braced the curve of her waist to keep her from bolting. His head dipped and pressed a kiss to her cool, soft hair, just lingering in the soothing cloud of her scent.

Her scalp tingled. “You have to stop,” she said again, her chest rising with a mixture of love and desire.

“Just… give me a moment.” His practiced index finger began at the top of her neck’s column just behind her ear and drew a deliberate line of fire down her warm, creamy skin, resting at the sloping nape.

His intimate timbre sent pleasurable shivers down her body.

He spread his entire hand over the area, his scars covering her satin, and squeezed gently.

She exploded. “Stop it!” Whipping around, she glared and gave him a strong shove, which barely budged his immovable form.

He felt the force of her recoil, but he grabbed her, locking her against him. He wanted her like breath, like water. Aggression came over him full-strength, causing her to shrink in his arms.

Her contrapuntal tension and mounting emotions grated together as sandpaper on an open wound. Passion pounded in her breast and her weakness made her want to weep. “Please. You’re torturing me!” she cried, tears in her voice.

He drilled her with an intense, damaged gaze. “I’m trying to save you.”

His mouth came near enough for her to taste his breath. Before she knew what she was doing, she cupped the back of his head with her wet hands and kissed him fiercely, passionately. She gave him her all, diamond tears flavoring her lips in a priceless symphony.

Drowning, he kissed her back like the river was pushing him under and she was his only lifeline. His arms came around her, pressing into her back, drawing her into him until neither of them could breathe.

His heat pervaded her, making her feel like life was worth living. But this was wrong. A sob escaped, and she couldn’t look at him as she pulled away from the safety and danger of his embrace.

Crying, she fled, wondering how she would ever survive without him.

He heard the storm outside before even waking. And then he felt the sweat, remembering his nightmare. For a heart-vaulting second, he thought it was real.

Shelley had become part of his night carousel in the worst way. She died. Because of him. He couldn’t remember exactly what happened, but he readily saw her lying on asphalt bleeding from her stomach with the rain drowning her, turning the streams to red.

Groaning, he pushed himself up to sitting on the unfamiliar bed. The alarm clock said 1:37 a.m. He looked down and touched his chest. Drenched. Shouldn’t have kept the shirt on. A curse spewed groggily from his mouth.

His neck hurt like something sharp was pushing out from inside, and his head pounded, threatening to split wide.

Soul weary, he hunched over, rubbing his eyes with his palms as if doing so would make that dark scene in his mind go away. Disturbed in his spirit, he peeled off the T-shirt and tossed it heedlessly on the floor. It made a slight thwack like paint splatters flung by a brush onto canvas.

As he breathed, the hellish dream lost its tangibility though he still felt its scorch. Sighing, he raked his hands through his damp hair and was about to lay back down when he thought he heard music. Specifically, piano music.

He frowned, unable to help his alarm.
She
was still up?

Urging his tired, sore frame to standing, he pulled on the track pants and shuffled out of the room, coming out onto the curved hall. There were all kinds of drafts as he descended the staircase on the left, but the cold felt good against his aching muscles and swiftly dried off his perspiration.

Following the eerie drifts of music, he trekked across the cold marble, encountering moving shadows, wading through the crosscurrents. He could almost remember sneaking around in the middle of the night with James, Jared, and Carter during a sleepover. Trying to outsmart Erik.

Never really worked.

Arriving at the double doors of the library, the source of the mellifluous strains, Zach took a deep, calming breath before turning the handle as quietly as possible and stepping inside.

The music was much louder in here; expanding throughout the room. She was really going at it, fingers flying over the keys of the Yamaha grand piano. He closed the door noiselessly and scanned the large, decadent space. Finally, his gaze came to rest on Shelley. She was dressed for bed – silk, pale pink tank and shorts. He couldn’t imagine she wasn’t completely freezing.

He drank in the sight of her, even though it was just her back. The tall, arch-top windows cried as they listened to her haunting cascades of sound. Soft light from the coffered ceilings shone down on her almost waist-length hair, which hung loose down her back and around her shoulders.

Not wanting to disturb her, he found a wing-backed leather chair and sank into it. He watched and listened, captivated completely. He didn’t know she was capable of playing like this. She attacked the keys with tireless vigor, and the level of expression she injected into every note was palpable. Her curls jostled with her as her hands exceeded his expectations. He could just barely see her profile from his angle. Her parted lips, her closed eyes, her elegant poise. She was a masterpiece.

He spied her engagement ring on the piano stand. The diamond glinted against the ebony like a star in the black sky. Its presence angered him, ruined his enjoyment. And so, closed his eyes. He let her music soothe him, dissipate the nightmares and tangible memories. The piece she played might have been depressing but it resonated in his marrow.

The piece ended some minutes later on a surprisingly happy note despite the dark, melancholy tones that had been liberally pervasive throughout. He sighed feeling strangely satisfied and opened his eyes.

She took her hands off the keys and turned, gaze settling on his bare-chested presence. Her chocolate orbs were feverish and bright. “You’re sitting in Daddy’s chair,” she said with accusation.

Absurdly, he felt immediate guilt and rose. “I didn’t know.” He started to walk out, but then she jumped to her feet, out of anger, he assumed, and then tripped over the leg of the bench in her haste to get to him.

Swift to react, he lunged to catch her as she fell. Which is precisely how he discovered she’d been drinking. Her breath had a faint bouquet of whiskey; it spiced her usual floral innocence. Plus, she dissolved easily in his arms. Too easily. Her lithe, warm body molded to him like she was made for his muscled contours. Flesh of his flesh.

She looked at him blearily, head lolling back like she was a rag doll. “The rain,” she slurred softly. “Sounds like tympani, doesn’t it?”

He frowned. Her hands slipped around his neck and held on. It hurt, but he didn’t protest. He could feel exactly how far gone she was. Then, he spotted the culprit: a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the cabinet against the wall. A used shot glass next to it.

“How much did you have?” he asked as the rain strengthened.

She arched her back and looked up at the ceiling, letting her hair become a waterfall through which he could run his fingers. “Enough to forget. I think. But if I remember that, then I haven’t really forgotten.” She snapped her head forward and found herself staring at his Adam’s apple. “Right?”

“Maybe.” He grappled with his desires and clutched her tighter, the silk camisole felt cool and intoxicating to the touch. Thinking this was only going to end badly, he bent down and hooked his arm around the back of her legs and carried her, fully intending on putting her back in bed.

“No please. Don’t take me up.”

“You need to sleep this off.”

She pouted childishly. But then her eyes suddenly brightened. “I can teach you to play the piano. Do you want to learn?”

He couldn’t gauge if she was serious or not. “I’m all out of cash. Used it on the cab,” he teased solemnly.

The mark on his neck caught her attention. Her joy faded. “I don’t want your money, Zach.” She took a breath and then smiled like she’d flipped a switch. “So. Shall we begin?”

He sat next to her on the bench, her hips and thighs flush with his. She laughingly showed him how to place his giant paw on the keys. His knuckles were a wreck, but they got them to work. Sort of. She checked the span of his fingers from his thumb to his pinky and gasped.

“You can reach a twelfth! I’m so jealous!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how many times I willed my fingers to be longer so that I could play Liszt like a man?”

He smirked. “Your fingers look plenty long to me.”

“I know! But they’re not long enough.” Dramatically, she leaned forward until she nearly hit her head on the raised lid. Then, lifting a hand to sweep aside her curtain of hair, she peeked at him with an impish smile.

His heart crumbled.

She sat erect and took his hand. “Okay. From the top,” she declared and placed her fingers in the typical five-note position an octave above.

Awkwardly, Zach did as she commanded, trying to cram his gnarled, bruised hands onto the pristine ivory. He eked out only the first note, which she’d said was ‘C’, before she stopped him with a shrill, “Wrists!”

He looked at her. “What?”

“Do not let your wrists sag just because your enthusiasm is flagging,” she said as if quoting a revered forefather.

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s two o’clock in the morning, your highness.”

She giggled, biting her lower lip. “Maybe we should try your left hand.” She got off the bench, brushing against his bare back briefly as she came to sit next to him on the other side. Her fragrance moved accordingly.

He scooted over to give her room.

She settled her left hand over his and positioned his fingers. “There. Now let’s play the five-note scale we did with your right hand. Ready?”

She started an octave lower, and he followed her lead. He was mindful of his “wrists”, and she didn’t stop him this time. He actually got through the whole thing, up and down, without any major hiccups.

Excited to bursting, she clapped for him and then hugged his bicep. “I’m so proud of you,” she said and the words warmed his depths more than he cared to let on.

He allowed himself a small smile, feeling vaguely accomplished. Different. And he found that he wanted to try again. So he did.

She held her breath, pleased that he was taking it seriously. He did even better the second time, and her enthusiasm was no less palpable.

“Amazing,” she declared. “
Vous êtes un très bon étudiante
.”

“You speak French?”

“Oh,
oui monsieur. Mais je dois rarement l’occasion de l’utiliser. Sauf avcec mon père
.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

She beamed and leaned against his shoulder, reminding him she was inebriated. He’d forgotten.

“Thanks for the lesson,” he spoke softly.

She turned her focus to him.

He stared directly at her with an indefinable expression in those deep blue eyes of his that made her want to cry. Her mood shifted drastically yet again.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” she blubbered. “I didn’t mean to, that is, I wanted to make sure you didn’t come down to have any alcohol. And then I just couldn’t sleep after that. So I thought if I drank the whiskey” – she hiccupped – “you wouldn’t. And I also thought that maybe I’d drink until I fell asleep. And I’d never wake up.” Her lower lip quivered. “That’s terrible of me, isn’t it.”

Her face contorted, and her fingers covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, Zach. I’m so sorry.” Huge tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I did!” she moaned piteously. “I led you on, I didn’t mean to, but I did. And I deserve to feel like this. I finally know what I want after all these years, and I can’t have you.”

She broke down then, burying her face as she cried, so utterly torn and depressed. Her shoulders shook with the force of her anguish. His heart broke for her, and heedless to the warning bells in his mind, he took her in his pillar-strong arms. She turned into his chest.

He stroked her hair and she clung to him as if for dear life.

He understood what she was saying even if her words weren’t really clear. “You
could
have me,” he replied, voice deep and even. “But that would be going against your father.”

“I would do it for you,” she sobbed.

He shook his head; she was a lost cause. The seat grew uncomfortable as his fatigue strengthened as well. “You need to get to bed.” Keeping her stable with one hand, he got up and pulled her to her feet. She was practically dead weight. Spying Carter’s ring, he swiped it up and pocketed it. “Do you want me to carry you?”

She frowned at the air in front of her face, which more or less contained him. “I can walk,” she said with regal indignation.

He put his hands up in surrender and backed off. “Okay, then.”

She took a few jelly steps without trouble and smiled at him like ‘see? I told you’. But her graceful stride caught a hitch in its get-a-long and she nearly planted her face in the floor.

His arm stabilized her. Again. She embraced his limb like the ground had become water and it would take faith to cross this turbulent sea. “I
can
walk, you know.”

Patronizingly, he nodded, leading her out of the library. “Of course you can.”

“I don’t need you,” she continued as he hit the lights and left the unchanging piano room shrouded in raindrop-shadow blackness.

He coaxed her into her bed with the soft light of the piano-themed lamp glowing. And pulled the covers over her.

“I feel sick,” she garbled, eyes already closing.

He smirked despite her seriousness. “You should.” He lowered his chin to her mahogany crown and kissed her forehead. She reached for his neck.

“We could run away.”

Again, she sounded grave, but he couldn’t help but find her subject-jumping amusing. “Good night, Shelley.”

“Don’t leave me.”

He was about to do just that, but the pleading in her voice made him change course of action. Not that it took much. Bone weary, he sat down with his back against the headboard. She laid her head in his lap, her hand resting on his thigh. Overcoming his surprise, he stroked her hair, staring at the painting of the little girl in a yellow dress playing the piano.

“What did you feel when they had that gun to your head?” she asked with amazing coherence. “Were you afraid of dying?”

He kept staring at the painting. “I was only afraid of you getting hurt.”

She raised her head and looked into his back-lit blue eyes. “Do you mean that?”

His hand smoothed the hair away from her face, unafraid of her reading into his gesture. She’d be lucky to remember any of this come morning.

She closed her eyes, relishing the rough warmth of his palm against her cheek. Her reaction aroused him, and he took a deep breath. But it was all her.

Her lips beckoned, and his gut dipped into a burning pool of deep desire, but he reined in the powerful tide. “I should go.”