The Magic's in the Music (Magic Series Book 5) (11 page)

“That went well,”
Tris said to Kemble as Lanyon disappeared into his room.

Kemble ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I know. He just makes me crazy. Bringing a girl here who could be a plant for the Clan? Or, at the least, putting us in danger of having photographers trying to break our security…”

“Hey, at least he wasn’t dead drunk.” Tris snapped his fingers. “Uh, maybe he wasn’t just bringing—”

His thought was interrupted as Jane came down the stairs. After living through the arrival of two children, he was pretty familiar with the pregnant female form. Jane actually carried her baby bump well. He wondered if his brother knew how lucky he was to have a woman like Jane turn out to be his soul mate. Almost as lucky as Tris finding Maggie.

“Did you get her to bed?” Kemble asked.

“Poor thing. She was pretty shaken up.” Jane paused. “For one reason or another.” She took a breath and seemed to come to herself. “I got her some disinfectant for her knees, and one of my robes but it will probably hit her mid-calf. She’s more Drew’s height. Maybe Drew can find her something to wear tomorrow.”

“That would be today,” Tris mumbled. Should he say anything? But, looking at Jane, she might already know. And frankly, if Kemble hadn’t realized he should have. Kemble was the leader of the family and a good man in a pinch, in spite of being at his wits’ end over Lan.

“Well, she’s leaving in the morning. We can’t have her here for about a hundred reasons.” Kemble ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. “What the hell was Lanyon thinking?”

Tris shoved his hands in his jeans’ pockets and cleared his throat. “Maybe he wasn’t thinking real clear. You remember the last one of us who brought someone home?”

“Yeah,” Kemble said. “You.” His eyes widened. “You don’t think…?”

“Well, when has our little brother, Mr. Extremely-Anti-Social-of-Late, ever gone out of his way to play Sir Galahad?” Tris shot a look to Jane. “He usually makes them drop him off at the gate, if he lets them get within ten miles of here.”

“Jane?” Kemble asked. The whole family trusted Jane’s instincts on things like this.

Jane sighed. “It could very well be.” She shot her husband a penetrating look. “Which is why we are going to let her stay as long as she wants.” She held up a hand to stave off Kemble’s protest. “Correction. As long as we can convince her to stay. The way she was apologizing for intruding she’ll want to be off before the rest of us are even up.”

“Or not,” Kemble said through gritted teeth. “She could be a fortune hunter. Get her talons into a Tremaine kid who’ll inherit the farm, so to speak.”

“Well, then,” Jane said mildly. “We should try to get to know her, shouldn’t we? So we can reveal her true intentions to Lanyon.”

Tris couldn’t help the half-grin that twisted his lips. “Think what she’s trying to say, big brother, is that you and I should maybe try to not scare her away.”

“Oh, very well,” Kemble said, conceding with bad grace. A purposeful look brightened his eyes. “What did she say her name was?”

Jane took his arm and led him to the stairs. “Gretchen Falk. And you will not stay up all night researching every detail of her life. You’re coming to bed with me.”

Tris let his grin out as his brother was led away. It was tough loving a woman with as much spirit as the Tremaine women had, whether they were born or married into the family.

“And yes, I know you’ll sneak a look while I’m in the bathroom,” Jane added as they disappeared up the stairs.

Whoa. Jane was a tough one. Tris hadn’t always realized that about her. He watched his brother put his arm around her. It slid down to her derriere. “You’ll have to distract me.”

Tris bet she would, too. Strong women were a handful. He knew Kemble wouldn’t have it any other way. Tris wouldn’t either. Which meant he better get his butt back up to the apartment over the garages to his own delightful handful.

*

Greta showered quickly,
though the soap and water were painful on her scraped knees, and put on the loaned robe. When she’d finished rinsing out her panties and hanging them to dry, she slipped into the big bedroom and pulled back the coverlet on the four-poster bed. It was an antique of some kind, with giant carved wooden posts in a dark wood. The coverlet was blue and gold brocade. Sheesh. She could be in some castle in Europe. But no, the room was way more comfortable than the castles she’d toured. Thick rugs covered the dark wood floors. The lamps glowed warmly. Heavy brocade draperies covered the windows. The dressing table and the chests were all equally heavy antiques in dark wood. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on the dresser. Roses. Who kept fresh flowers in an unused guest room? The Ghost hadn’t been kidding when he’d said they had so many bedrooms no one would notice her. The place was huge, and yet from what she’d seen of it, it looked lived in, comfortable.

At least there had been a family at the end of the line rather than some dingy hotel room where he tied her up and raped her. It spoke volumes about her night that she considered that a plus. She had to boost herself up into the bed, it was so high.

Jane had been so nice to her, trying to make her feel like she wasn’t a total intruder. Even promised her a nice breakfast in the morning. Greta turned out the light before she slipped off the robe and slid into bed, naked. She wouldn’t intrude for long. She’d call Bernie in the morning, and he’d think of something to keep the paparazzi away. She hated to admit how scared she’d been tonight. Between the drunk guys wanting to touch, and the paparazzi crowding around…

She wouldn’t think about that or she’d never get to sleep. She pulled the six-hundred count sheets up around her naked body.

Why the hell did this guy affect her that way? It was like there was a car battery hooked up between them. She’d seen a movie just the other day where they tortured the hero with a car battery. Well, tonight had been torture for sure. Her response to him was way out of control. And that was something Gretchen Falk never was—out of control. Was this what directors meant when they said that some stars had ‘chemistry’? She couldn’t imagine it was. This thing she had with the Ghost would be made of chemicals that were combustible. And she had to stop this reaction before her life exploded.

So she’d be gone tomorrow. End of story.

The sheets against her nipples were not helping. She turned onto her side. Even under the leather, she’d been able to tell he was muscled, with broad shoulders and a lean waist. Her brain started flashing images of bare torsos and rounded biceps.
Not going there.
She turned over onto her other side. Her groin had pushed up against his butt as she’d sat behind him. He didn’t wear his jeans skintight. He wasn’t looking to show off. It hadn’t mattered. She started imagining what his bare buttocks would look like; firm, round, flexing as he…

She threw herself onto her back. She was not going to think about some guy whose name she didn’t even know. Well, his last name was Tremaine. Jane’s husband had definitely been his brother. You couldn’t miss the resemblance. Dark hair, fair skin, blue, blue eyes. The light in the foyer had revealed their true color for the first time. His brother’s hair was short, while her guy had wild, dark waves to his shoulder.

Her guy?
He was not her guy. He was some crazy who got off by faking everybody out about who he was. Why all the mystery? It wasn’t like he couldn’t get a regular gig. Any club would kill to have him. In fact, she was pretty sure he’d turned down a recording contract tonight. She felt his music rippling around her like an echo from earlier tonight. The pain, the emotion, the sheer virtuosity had been astounding.

He shunned publicity, so the whole thing wasn’t a stunt. She was pretty sure Mr. Tremaine played because he had no choice. And he worked at being a mystery because he didn’t want eyes prying into that pain.

That was intriguing.

But if she didn’t stop thinking about him, she was never going to get to sleep, and she wanted to be up and ready to leave as soon as she could after she called Bernie at his office.

The image of the Ghost’s hands on the keyboards, the wide-legged stance of his body as he thrust his hips into the chords, washed over her again. Great, she was going to leave a wet spot on the sheets of the nice people who had taken her in because she was lusting after a member of the family. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. It was going to be a long night.

*

Lan pulled off
his boots and tossed them into a corner of his room. He stripped off his clothes and added them to the pile. Standing naked in the middle of his darkened room, he realized he was trembling, sweat pouring off his body. The music in his head was the thunder of the finale in a symphony. He also had a raging hard-on.
Shit.
His dick was acting like he was a teenager again. What was wrong with him?

He knew exactly what was wrong with him. She was upstairs.

He wouldn’t think about that. He strode to the window, trying to shove down the demons circling in his brain. He needed to play. But the last thing he wanted was to wake the family and get more third degree on who the girl was and why he’d brought her to the house. The keyboards with the headphones would be quiet. But they were upstairs in the music room, next to the blue guestroom. No way was he getting that close to her. He threw open the draperies and looked out over the garden, awash with moonlight.

Complex emotions rolled over him like waves battering a sea wall in a storm. Longing and a sense of incompleteness made him want to rip open the door to his room and stalk up the stairs to claim her, ram his aching cock into her velvet heat and know he was home. At what cost? Rebellion flooded him.
Fuck it.
He was his own man. He didn’t belong to anyone or anything. There was no such thing as inevitable. Destiny didn’t exist. A man didn’t have to be what everyone expected of him. He could chart his own course. The last thing Lan was going to give in to was some genetic pre-destination with some girl he didn’t even know.

But the rebellion churning in him only seemed to fuel the pull toward the girl. He was stuck in a maelstrom that was tearing at his gut. The music in his mind was vicious.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, but finally he felt like something was going to rip inside him if he didn’t get relief. He looked around wildly, thinking maybe the Scotch in the liquor cabinet in the living room would dull his mind and his body.

Finally, he registered what his eyes were seeing out the window. Cool flagstones, wet grass, the sea. Moonlight drained all color from the landscape and bathed it in soothing silver.

He had to be out under the stars. He had this crazy idea that starlight or moonlight would wash away his turmoil.

He didn’t bother to dress. In fact, he didn’t want any clothes between him and that cleansing light. He jerked open his bedroom door and headed to the French doors a few steps away, at the end of the corridor. He threw open those doors and stumbled out onto the path. The cool air felt good on his heated body. The crashing of the waves at the base of the cliffs was relentless. He lurched toward the rear of the house, across the flagstones of the terrace, his bare feet gripping the rough stone. Then he stepped onto the wet grass of the lawn, which stretched down to the pergola overlooking the Pacific. He came to a jerky halt in the middle of the open space. The moon was almost full, waning or waxing, he couldn’t tell which.

Heal me
, he begged silently.
The way my mother can’t anymore.
Not that anyone could heal what was inside him now. He stretched up his arms, fingers splayed, as if to make himself vulnerable to the light.
Strip me bare.
And he didn’t mean of clothes. He was still naked, his cock unperturbed by the night air. It rose almost against his belly, aching with need. His mind reeled.

Make me numb. Strip me of need. Strip me of desire and compulsion. Strip me of music.

He sucked in a horrified breath at that thought. Would he give up even his music to avoid his fate? Music had been his life, solace, his nurturing influence ever since he could remember. If that was the price to escape the maelstrom inside, would he give up part of his soul?