FascinatingRhythm

Lynne
Connolly

Nightstar, Book 4

Hunter wants Sabina as much as
ever. One night together six years ago made him want more but he walked away
and she couldn’t come with him. Hot, sweaty sex to gentle, intense lovemaking,
it’s all fantastic with her. Watching her as she moves against him only makes
him hotter.

Sabina tried to forget Hunter and
that magical, sex-soaked night when he’d spoiled her for other men. When she’s
offered an experimental operation to restore her hearing, Sabina might lose
everything else—her job, friends and lifestyle—but she can’t live without the
chance to hear what took Hunter away from her. Murder City Ravens, the band he
loves so much. Wanting to get him out of her system, she sleeps with him again,
but it only makes her want him more.

A
Romantica®
contemporary erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Strange to be home. As Hunter stepped out of his rented car
onto the gravel of the drive outside his mother’s home, he paused and breathed
in. Stockholm smelled like nowhere else. For him it had the aroma of happiness
and grief, of uncertainty and confidence. If anyone wanted to know what that
smelled like, he’d tell them crisp, clean, with an overtone of tar and for some
reason, the tang of fish.

Apprehension rose up and clutched his throat. He tipped back
his head and breathed in deep. He needed to project contentment, confidence and
power. In any case, he was only visiting for a few days. Not enough time for
this place to get to him. He had to be in Malmö soon, so he could just say hello
and leave.

Reassured, he strode into the entrance hall, the
black-and-white tiles a reminder of the many times he’d crossed them at various
stages in his life. He’d thought of the place as timeless, but the comfortably
sized house had seen some changes since he was last here. He’d noticed a new
conservatory at the side when he’d driven up. Presumably the old one had
finally fallen apart, or his mother had wanted a change.

In the hall, someone had replaced the oak furniture with
lighter wood pieces, probably beech. A low chest stood at the end with a
full-length mirror to one side and a chair to the other. The stairs arched up,
their graceful curve enhanced by the skylight above.

He wasn’t alone.

A woman stood with her back to him, black hair swinging down
to her shoulders in a silky wave, light bouncing off the surface. She was about
five feet seven, with a slender figure currently clad in a neat black dress.
Legs apart, she bent over a table, intent on a book that lay open there. Very
inviting.

She hadn’t heard his approach. Not surprising in this house,
but she might have felt the vibrations as he entered and decided to ignore him.

Hunter waited, remembering the etiquette from his youth to
give the other person a minute and not approach too close. His old self slid
back so easily it almost frightened him. He stayed, enjoying the enticing
sight.

She stretched, reached above her head and that movement
confirmed the sneaking suspicion in his mind that he knew her identity. What
was she doing here? The last he heard, she’d been heading home to Iceland. He’d
never expected to see her again, but he felt the familiar jolt in the region of
his heart that said it was her. Or was that his groin? Fuck, everywhere.

It couldn’t be her.

She turned around.

It
was
her.

Her dark eyes widened in shock, giving Hunter a chance to
pull himself together. He greeted her with an easy smile. “Sabina. Good to see
you. Did my mother tell you I was coming?”

She shook her head, her hair rippling around her face. One
night he’d touched it, held it in his hand and dragged her to him for kisses. A
suspicion crossed his mind, one that sent Mr. Happy into overdrive. Would she
like to have an affair for a few days? Impossible to say. They hadn’t kept in
touch and his exit from this house had hardly been dignified.

She lifted her hands, her movements elegant and rapid. “It
isn’t in her diary,” she signed.

He spoke aloud. “She isn’t expecting me?” Sabina could
lip-read, and she used to prefer it.

She frowned. “You should sign.” She spoke with her hands and
expressions, using Swedish Sign Language. She could use American Sign Language,
French, Spanish, Italian and SEE, the simplified language many mixed families
used. It was her particular skill. Interpreter.

He sighed, not yet giving in. Still speaking aloud. “Why?”

“You know why. Your mother prefers it.” She could speak too,
but few people verbalized in this house. He wanted to hear her voice again.

He’d renewed his acquaintance with ASL and SSL before he’d
driven up here. The guys in the band thought he was mad until he told them what
he was doing, then they’d asked him to teach them. Riku and Zazz in particular
had watched him with fascination. Pity they weren’t here now to see how an
expert did it, and he didn’t mean himself. He gave in, lifting his hands to
communicate in the way of the house. “I’ll do it out of courtesy to her. Do you
speak verbally still?”

She shook her head again, her hair flying then settling back
into place like magic. “Not in this house.”

“Anywhere?”

She bit her lip. “Sometimes.”

He took a step toward her. She flinched back but regained
her poise almost at once so he stayed where he was to sign. He detested that
flinch. “I’d like to take you somewhere you can talk. I like your voice.” He
paused, not sure what to sign next. Should he admit that he wanted her, that
the sight of her small, exquisite breasts pushing under the fabric of her dress
made him long to touch and taste? Probably not. But his cock stirred at the
sight of her, and he was too honest with himself to refuse to admit it.

This close he could see the glimmer in her eyes, their true
color obscured by the shadow of the stairs. She raised her hand and shoved back
her hair, lifting her chin to meet his gaze directly.

Dark brown, sparks of gold lighting them, eyes like he’d
never seen before on anyone else. “I will take you to her.”

He refused to hide his renewed feelings for her any longer.
“I missed you, Sabina. You were the only regret I had when I left.” He was
signing faster now as the skill returned. Signing with someone was a different
experience from doing it alone.

The corner of her mouth flickered. A smile, he’d nearly made
her smile. She appeared so taut, under a tension he didn’t understand. “I
missed you too. Someone to talk to.” She lost the smile. “But you didn’t
write.”

“I thought you deserved a fresh start.”

“You mean you did,” she shot back, fingers flying.

His turn to shake his head. “No, I swear it. I—” He dropped
his hands. How did he tell her how he’d felt when he fled this house? He
couldn’t because he’d never worked it out properly himself. He’d run from it
for years.

Maybe this time he’d face his own fears. Or perhaps it
didn’t matter anymore. He tried again. “I wanted to do something for myself.
I’m sorry, I can’t explain it more. Not now.”

She tilted her head to one side speculatively. “Perhaps
being the only hearing person in the community made you feel bad.”

She’d understood that part then. “That was part of it,” he
signed back. He’d always had that sense of guilt, the only person who could hear
the traffic or the sound of the sea. Until Sabina arrived. She could hear a
little but her range was extremely limited and she was classified as deaf.

He didn’t want to talk about why he left. “Is my mother at
home?”

“Did you tell her when you were coming?” Her hands slapped
as she signed.

“I couldn’t tell her the precise time. We flew in to Malmö
and I have to go back there in a day or two. We’re doing a concert. The band.
Murder City Ravens.”

“I know.” Now she smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile. “You made
it. You’re a success.”

Her smile touched him deep inside, in a place he usually
kept clear of emotion. “I am. Thank you.”

“And you have friends?” That query, with the raised brows.
He remembered her expression so well.

Few people would ask him that, or understand what it meant
to him to have friends he didn’t have to explain anything to. They just
accepted him as he was. “Yes I do. Good friends.” He’d started to make them
when he’d arrived in London. Friends who understood and encouraged his passion
for percussion. Unlike his family.

She lost the smile. “Come to the office. I’ll see if she is
there.”

“Thank you.”

The notion of meeting his mother made Hunter nervous. She’d
always had that effect, but he thought he’d grown out of it long ago. It
appeared not. He’d written from time to time, got letters and then emails back
from her, but they’d kept it distant, hadn’t exchanged feelings and emotions,
just dry records of events. Duty on both sides.

He followed Sabina through a door on the right, to the wing
that served as his mother’s offices and administration center. The sound of
machinery greeted him, the hum of computers, the tapping of fingers on
keyboards, the occasional ring of a telephone. The telephone was accompanied by
a flashing light. No spoken conversation broke the hushed atmosphere. Nobody
used their vocal cords here, even if they could. Respect, his mother called it.

At one time he’d called it oppression, but he’d come to
think differently. Making everyone sign meant everyone was on the same level,
the hard of hearing, the stone deaf and the partially hearing. But not the
hearing. Signing excluded most of them, like speaking Swedish in America.

The three people in the outer office glanced up and then
returned to their work. They didn’t know him, and why should they? They hadn’t
been here when he left home six years ago, and he belonged to a world they
could never inhabit. A world where sound came first.

He wondered what would happen if he shouted something and
splintered the silence. A childish impulse, and not one he was likely to
indulge. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that. Wouldn’t be the first time
he’d done it either. He’d grown up in this house an only child, and sometimes
wanted to hear himself, for want of anyone else.

The room had several gleaming laptops and a PC tower in one
corner. Modern computers had revolutionized the lives of the deaf.

Hunter straightened his shoulders as Sabina led him to the
inner sanctum, through another office that had an empty desk and a closed
laptop reposing on it. He caught Sabina’s attention by waving. She turned
around. “Yours?” he asked.

She nodded and turned back. He should have known. The minute
he’d entered the small but efficient office he’d sensed her perfume. She still
used the same scent, light and slightly flowery, sweet without being cloying.
He’d come across it in a few places, department stores and on other women, but
Sabina made it her own. Her own feminine perfume made it intoxicating and
endlessly seductive.

He savored the gentle sway of her hips as she crossed to the
door at the other end of the room. Standing back, he waited until she’d pressed
the button that he knew operated a light next door.

A white light flashed on the desk once, twice. Sabina
glanced back and raised her hands. “Wait here.” She went in.

After a minute, maybe two, she returned and left the door
open. She beckoned to him. “She will see you now.”

He held the door open for Sabina, inviting her in with him.
He didn’t want to face his formidable mother alone.

She was waiting, all five foot three of her, in front of her
desk. Without hesitating, Hunter stepped forward and embraced her, planting a
kiss on her powdered cheek. That scent took him right back to his childhood,
when she’d come in to see him in her evening finery before going to some
function or other. He seemed particularly fixated on scents today, or maybe two
reminiscent ones had sharpened his faculties.

He stepped back to give them both room to sign and addressed
her in SSL. “It’s good to see you looking well, Mother.”

She replied in her firm, no-nonsense style, her fingers
moving only the necessary amount, her facial expressions slight but noticeable.
“It is good to see you too, my son. How long are you staying?”

“Two days, maybe less. I have to be in Malmö for a concert.”

“Ah yes, your group. It is doing well?”

“Very well.” He debated whether to tell her exactly how well
and decided on it. She’d probably looked him up anyway. He didn’t tell her in
his letters—it felt too much like boasting. He didn’t want to get into stupid
competition with her, to see who was the best at something. “Murder City Ravens
is one of the biggest bands in the world right now. We’re playing the largest
stadiums on this world tour and filling them to capacity.” Not boasting. Fact.

She frowned. “But how is your music going?” She’d never
asked him that before, and he didn’t believe she really cared.

“Well. Our new members have brought something different to
our music. It’s very exciting. My trap is getting more elaborate.”

“Trap?” She frowned as if he’d used the wrong sign for the
word. Did she think he’d forgotten that quickly? After spending most of his
life communicating that way, not a chance.

“Drum kit. Only mine includes gongs, electronic equipment,
maracas and other percussive instruments.”

She gave a brief smile. “Well done.” That was it, dismissal.
“I might come to see you this time.”

He didn’t believe her now any more than he had in the past.
Something more important always turned up. “I thought you didn’t want anything
to do with the hearing.”

“It’s different. You will have a press conference, yes? It
would be good for us to be seen together. I need more funding and I need to get
people to understand that we are here and we’re not going away.” “We” being the
deaf and hard of hearing.

Campaigning already. It hadn’t taken long. Hunter felt mean
for thinking that, but his mother effortlessly brought back the anger and the
subsequent wave of guilt she always invoked in him. A complex circle, starting
with her emphasis on her cause and her campaigns, going to anger that she
wasn’t more attentive to him, followed by anger with himself for feeling it.
And of course guilt. Guilt that he wasn’t deaf, guilt that he was taking his
mother away from valuable work, guilt that he ever considered his own needs
over that of others.

He’d imagined the circle would go away once he’d grown up,
but here he was, twenty-eight years old and feeling just the same. Like a child
dragged in to explain his latest bout of bad behavior. “So you know how well
the band is doing?” She must, to make that remark. Murder City Ravens had gone
from moderately famous with a solid career in theaters and clubs to an arena
band, top of the tree, world famous. Not all of that was welcomed by the
members of the band but it did give them absolute freedom in what they chose to
write and play and they were currently experimenting, preparing for their fifth
album.