(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief (4 page)

“I sat through a performance of John Cage’s piano music once,” Antonio said with a chuckle. “It mostly pushed the limits of my patience. I wanted to laugh.”

“You mean ‘Four Minutes, Thirty-Three Seconds’?” Cary snorted. “The one where the pianist just sits at a closed piano for four minutes and does nothing?”

Antonio nodded.

“But that’s the point. I mean, Cage knew what he was doing. He was trying to make people think.”

“I think I fell asleep.”

This time, Cary laughed and leaned over the table with his chin in his good hand. “Well… I probably did too. Just don’t tell anybody. But the concept—
that
was cool. Daring, really.”

“You love music, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” The question reminded Cary of his broken wrist, and his face fell. He had been enjoying Antonio’s company so much, he had nearly forgotten about his wrist.

Antonio seemed to sense Cary’s discomfort. “I love music too. But I’m a terrible musician. My mother gave me piano lessons when I was a kid. The teacher fired me.” He laughed, but Cary saw a hint of pain in Antonio’s eyes at the admission.

Apparently his mother’s cooking lessons were about as successful.

“What do you do for a living, Antonio?”

Antonio sipped his wine again, taking his time to answer, as if he were considering something. “I’m a lawyer,” he said eventually. “I advise businesses.”

Gorgeous man, boring job
, Cary concluded. “That’s interesting,” he said, trying to look as if he meant it.

“Not really. But I get to travel. That’s the only really interesting part of the work.”

Antonio picked up Cary’s glass to refill it, and his hand lightly touched Cary’s forearm. Their eyes met, and Cary wished he were drinking something stronger. A
lot
stronger. Why the hell was he hesitating at all? The worst that could happen would be for Antonio to reject his advance, right?

Antonio looked momentarily ill at ease. “Time for dessert,” he said as he stood up. He gave Cary a warm smile.

A snappy comeback—a come-on, really—crossed Cary’s mind, but he said nothing. It just didn’t seem right. Instead, he stood and picked up his plate. Pain shot up his broken wrist, and he winced.

“You sit. I’ll take it. I don’t make invalids work.”

And a gentleman too.

“Thanks. And thanks for dinner, Antonio.”

"You're welcome."

Antonio returned a few minutes later with espresso and a flaky pear tartlet cut in half. “I'm sorry we have to share. I hadn't expected company tonight.” He smiled warmly.

“Don't apologize,” Cary told him. “It looks delicious.”

“I didn’t make the pastry,” Antonio admitted when Cary rumbled his approval a moment later. “I’m a horrible baker. Consider yourself fortunate.”

“I do,” Cary answered. But he wasn’t thinking about Antonio’s baking.

Antonio shot him a strange look but said nothing, and the words hung in the air as they ate their pastries.

Chapter 4

L
ITTLE
S
TINKERS

“W
OULD
you like to take a bath before bed?” Antonio put the last of the dishes away in the kitchen as Cary leaned against the counter and watched.

They’d been discussing the soccer season and Italy’s prospects for the World Cup. It had been a comfortable, relaxed conversation, and Cary realized he’d actually been flirting with Antonio.

“Is that a hint?” Cary said with a playful grin.

“I hadn’t meant it that way. Although since you put it like that… yes. You smell bad.” Antonio’s grin belied his words, and Cary realized he too was flirting.

“I’m hurt that you’d say that.” Cary put his good hand against his chest and tried to look insulted. He knew he smelled like stale cigarettes, sweat, and worse, even.

Antonio laughed. “No, you’re not hurt. And you
do
need a bath.”

“Does that mean you’re willing to help me?” He needed the help, he reminded himself with a wry grin. The doctor told him not to get the cast wet, hadn’t he? He was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining Antonio’s interest.

Antonio smiled, closed his eyes briefly, and let out a long breath. “I suppose it does.”

Cary did his best to appear just appreciative of Antonio’s assistance, although judging by Antonio’s wary look, Cary realized he wasn’t that convincing.

When Antonio emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, Cary waited in the bedroom, naked. (Unbuttoning a shirt one-handed was far easier than buttoning it). If this surprised Antonio, he didn’t show it. Still, he kept his gaze fixed on Cary’s face with obvious effort, something Cary noticed with smug satisfaction.

Cary didn’t consider himself classically handsome, but he knew he was attractive in a comfortable guy-next-door way. Years of faithful trips to the gym had transformed his gangly body into a more muscular one. He prided himself on his flat stomach and narrow waist and on the hint of definition in his arms. He had never been shy about showing his body, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. He was having too much fun. And, he realized, he wanted Antonio.

“The bruising looks painful,” said Antonio as Cary climbed gingerly into the bathtub.

“It’s not that bad. The medicine helped.”

Antonio dipped a washcloth in the warm water and began to wash Cary with clinical detachment. “Keep your wrist on the side. You don’t want to get the plaster wet.”

“Feels good.” Cary closed his eyes and leaned back against the tub.

Antonio snorted.

“What? Can’t a guy enjoy himself?”

“You’re trying too hard.” Antonio ran the cloth down Cary’s chest.

“Does that mean you’re going to join me in here?” Well, a guy could dream, couldn’t he?

“Definitely not.”

Antonio finished up with the washcloth, then took the sprayer and proceeded to wet and wash Cary’s hair.

“Here,” Antonio said a few minutes later, handing Cary the washcloth. “
You
can get the last spot.” Cary noticed the hint of blush that stained Antonio’s pale cheeks.

“About tonight,” Cary began, determined to make the most of the situation. “We can sleep—”

“I’ll be sleeping on the couch,” Antonio interrupted with calm resolve, having clearly anticipated the question.

Cary frowned. “But it’d be a lot more comfortable if you slept with me in the bed.” He stood up and faced Antonio, knowing his arousal was as obvious as the come-on. “You could dry me off and then—”

“It’s quite comfortable,” Antonio interrupted again. “You can take my word for it.”

And with that pronouncement, he offered Cary a hand out of the tub and wrapped the towel around him as fast as he could.

“S
URE
you don’t want to join me in the bed?” Cary asked a few minutes later, as Antonio came out of the bathroom in sweatpants and a T-shirt. He carried a glass of water and more pain pills. “I could warm you up, you know.”

“That’s very kind of you, Connor, but I’ll be quite all right on the couch.”

Cary swallowed the pills in silence. He knew the pain in his wrist made sex pretty much a nonstarter anyway. Still, he had enjoyed messing with his scrupulously polite host. And when he was feeling better, who knew? What difference would another twenty-four hours make in the grand scheme of things?

Cary expected Antonio would head back to the living room, but as he picked up a pillow from the bed, he stopped. For a moment, Cary thought Antonio might touch him, but then he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Antonio asked.

“I’m fine.” Well it was true, wasn’t it?

“I….” Antonio hesitated as if he were trying to say something but thought better of it. “It’s just that it must be hard for you. The broken wrist. The bruises. It’ll make things difficult for your… work.”

Cary glanced at the cast and shrugged. “I’ll be okay. I’m sure.”

At that moment, though, Cary wasn’t so sure. A wave of fear rose within him, and he reminded himself that the doctor had said he’d be fine. He would play again. There wasn’t another option, was there? It was everything to him, his music. Without it, what was he? Cary brushed the thought away, as he had done earlier.

“If there is something I can do for you, please let me know.” Antonio looked genuinely concerned.

“I’ll be fine. Really.” Antonio squeezed his shoulder, and Cary wished he could fall into those powerful arms. He imagined what it might feel like to bury his face in Antonio’s chest, to feel that body pressed against his own….

Antonio pulled his hand away far sooner than Cary wanted, and stood up again, pillow in hand. “You need to get some rest,” he said.

“Good night, Antonio. And thanks,” Cary added in a serious tone, “for saving my ass.”

“
Sogni d’oro
, Connor.” Antonio closed the door behind him.

“
Z
UMMM, zummm, zummm….” The sound grated on Cary’s ears, and he pulled an extra pillow over his head. He had been dreaming about something really nice, and…. He felt the sharp pain in his wrist and realized he had completely forgotten about the events of two nights before.

“Zummm, zummm, zummm….”

“What the hell?” he snapped in English as he threw the pillow off the bed with his good arm.

From under heavy eyelids, he focused on a small metal airplane about three inches from his nose. The eyes that met his were a vivid blue—not Antonio’s, although the similarity in color was quite remarkable—and belonged to a child of four or five.

“Who are you?” Cary demanded in Italian. He hated kids almost as much as he hated being woken up from a good dream, and this particular dream had prominently featured a certain blond Italian.

The hand began to move again, making the toy airplane glide and bank. “Zummm, zummm, zummm….” The little boy, whose long blond curls ended at his shoulders, smiled at him.

“Who are you?” Cary repeated, long past the end of his patience.

“Who are
you
?” the boy countered. Then, as if putting the pieces of a particularly complicated puzzle together, he said, “Oh. You’re Papà’s
guest
!”

Papà?

The kid was giggling now. “Is your name Corrie? No,” he said as he chewed his bottom lip. “Papà told me, but I forgot—”

“Connor,” Cary supplied. Anything to get that high, squeaky voice out of his I’m-grumpy-don’t-mess-with-me-in-the-morning ears.

“Connore! That’s it! Connore!”

“Connor.”

“Connore,” the boy repeated, again adding the final
e
. His face was screwed up in a frown, as if he were challenging Cary to correct him one more time.

“Fine.” Who was he to argue with a bratty kid at eight in the morning?

“I’m Massimo,” he announced with his chin held high. “Massimo Bianchi. I’m five years old. Almost six.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cary answered, more out of resignation than politeness.

“Daddy said you spoke Italian.” Massimo didn’t seem convinced. “He said you were American. I don’t think they speak Italian in America.” The expression on his face was defiant.

“They don’t. I learned to speak it here, in Italy.”

This seemed to appease Massimo. He shrugged and went back to buzzing Cary’s head again with the airplane.

“Would you stop that?”

“You didn’t say ‘please’,” Massimo said with an expression of calm irritation that immediately called to mind Antonio.

“Would you
please
stop that?”
Little brat.

Massimo appeared to consider the question. Then, apparently deciding he was having too much fun to stop, he dive-bombed Cary’s face.

“Massimo?” a woman’s voice called from outside the bedroom.

“Don’t tell her I woke you up.” Massimo raised his eyebrows and bit his lip.

“You didn’t say ‘please’,” Cary said with satisfaction.
Chalk one up for the grown-up!

“
Please
, Connore, don’t tell her I woke you up.”

The door to the bedroom opened, and a woman peered inside. “Oh,” she gasped, shooting a look of reproach at the little boy, “he woke you up, didn’t he?”

“No,” Cary lied. “I was already awake when he came in.”

“Massimo,” the woman said with narrowed eyes, “go back into the living room. Let Signor Taylor sleep.” She kissed Massimo on the top of his head and sighed theatrically.

“Yes, Mamma.” Massimo flashed Cary a bright grin as though they were now best friends, then scampered off the bed and out the door.

“I am so sorry,” the woman said as she pushed her long brown hair from her face. “I was making breakfast, and I didn’t realize he had come in here. Massimo is just so curious.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cary told her. “It’s fine, really.”

“He’s a lot like his father, always curious about things.”

“So Antonio is his father?”

Great. Mr. Perfect has a kid.
Way too complicated.
His hope for a mind-blowing one-night stand was fading fast.

“Oh, yes.” She smiled and shook her head. “They’re very much alike.” Then, as if suddenly realizing something, she clapped a hand over her mouth and said, “Oh! I’m being so rude! I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Francesca Fratelli.”