Killing Me Softly (7 page)

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. You seem to be able to get at the heart of the music. Your take is unique, compelling. What you produce speaks to people on another level and touches them here.’ He touched his hand to his chest. ‘My da calls that “sounding the heart” – what our hearts would say with music if they could. You have that. What you do is a kind of magic. You have a unique talent. I want to work with you.’

For a long moment, she stared at him, searching his face for something. The light of passion sparking in her eyes as she spoke about the music had died. It was almost as if his compliments had made her nervous.

But before he could wonder why, she stood, hand out. ‘I think we can work together.’

He nodded. ‘Same here,’ and took her hand in his, thumb brushing against the back of her hand as they clasped, skin against skin.

Soft, cool, delicate.

She was all those things.

Their eyes met, held.

She eased her hand out of his and turned away.

Why was she so nervous around him? He knew why he felt unsettled. So much rested on this meeting. Despite his reservations about how little he knew about her and her past, the more he saw, the more they talked, the more certain he was that he wanted to work with her.

So, because he’d made her nervous, and because getting this right was so important, he stepped back.

She seemed to relax a little, smiling at him, but he noticed she clenched her hands together, rubbing the skin where they’d touched.

‘Why don’t I show you around my facilities before you make your final decision? You may not like staying out here for months. Some people don’t.’

He shook his head and looked out the window beyond her shoulder. ‘I think I’m going to like living here just fine. I can’t wait to get away from all the shite.’

She nodded. ‘As long as that “shite” doesn’t follow you here and interfere with our work or the farm, then I’ll be happy.’

He focused back on her. ‘Me too.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Well . . . let’s get going. We’ll catch Craig down at the pool and then I’ll show you both around.’

She walked out of the study and he fell in beside her. ‘If you’re happy with the set-up then tell your manager to get into contact with mine. Emma will let you know all my requirements and will be happy to try and accommodate yours. If you decide against working with me, I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention this meeting. I prefer to keep out of the public eye.’

‘I envy your ability to do that.’

She coughed. ‘Yes, well, it’s been out of necessity.’

He didn’t have time to question what she meant by that when she announced, ‘Here we are.’ She pushed open the door to the pool and gym area and he followed her in.

It was like walking into a greenhouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded them on three sides, making it feel like he was standing by a tranquil green pool in the middle of a ferny glade. Beautiful dark slate tiles, streaked in shades of deepest red through to burnt orange, skirted the pool. Through the peaked glass ceiling he could see the vastness of the blue sky. He could imagine floating in the water, looking out at the velvet night, overwhelmed by the millions of stars you could always see so clearly when you were in the country. He wondered what it would be like in winter, with all that glass covered in the snow that drifted across the fells.

Craig stood at the other end of the room talking to Billy who was in the pool, doing physical therapy with a woman who had to be Cat. Her head lay on his shoulder and he moved her arms against the pressure of water shooting out of jets from the walls of the pool.

Craig called something out to Alexia as they started to walk toward them, but Daemon didn’t hear what he said, his attention diverted by the woman in the water.

What he saw made his heart stutter in his chest.

He could see that Cat had once been Alexia’s identical twin. The similarities were unsettling: the shape of the face, the tilt of the eyes, the high brow, all shadowy suggestions of the woman at his side and yet there was a terrible, horrifying difference. A difference created by trauma and the surgery made necessary to fix the damage. A fine scar ran from just below her nose to mar her otherwise perfectly shaped lips. Another, longer scar ran from brow to cheekbone. With a shock he realised one of her earlobes was missing.

But it wasn’t how she looked that he found the most unnerving. She stared up at the skylights, her eyes focused on something he couldn’t see, as if she wasn’t truly there – the blank stare of someone so traumatised, they’d hidden themselves away so deep they couldn’t get back out.

What had caused such damage? And how had it affected Alexia? Because he knew, from what little Craig and Billy had said, that Alexia was incredibly close to her sister, and dealing with what had happened to Cat must have taken its toll.

He knew from bitter experience that the shite that infested a person’s past always managed to resurface, and right when you least expected it.

It was more important than ever he find out what had happened. He desperately wanted to work with Alexia, but not at the cost of his music. Not at the cost of his soul. Not again.

Despite Craig’s reassurances that Alexia’s past wouldn’t affect their work, Daemon couldn’t go in blind. He needed to know. He needed to be able to relax and let go of his worries. He couldn’t do that if he couldn’t trust her. He needed to know for certain that whatever tragedy had touched the sisters wouldn’t also touch his music. Not when he’d only just started to pull himself out of the mire.

He had to arm himself with the truth.

Trying to cover his shock, he walked over to the window, looking out on the wildness of the land that already called to his heart, making his fingers twitch to write.

He needed to stay here. It was the first time in ages he’d felt inspired. And he knew the songs he wrote here would be the best he had ever written. He couldn’t give up on this, on staying here, on working with Alexia. He would just have to tread water until he knew it was safe; hold back the songs dearest to his heart. They would work on some of the stuff he’d written last year before the shit of his past had hit the fan, see what she could do. And when he knew he could trust her, they would create something truly special.

The voices behind him filtered through his thoughts and he realised someone had spoken to him.

‘What?’

‘I said, we’re finished here. How about that tour?’

He nodded and followed Alexia and Craig out the door.

‘What’s up with you?’ Craig asked in a whisper as they walked down a path toward the Dower House.

‘Nothing. Just cold. I should have brought a warmer jacket.’

Craig rolled his eyes. ‘You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, mate.’

Daemon’s lips thinned. ‘It’s fine. It’ll be fine once we get started.’

Craig nodded, understanding lighting his eyes. He clapped Daemon on the shoulder. ‘Just relax. She wants to work with you, I can tell. It’ll happen.’

Daemon nodded. Just relax. He took a deep breath and looked around him. As he took in their surrounds, he felt some of the weight of his worries slipping away.

Alexia showed them to the guest accommodation in the estate’s refurbished Dower House. It had eight large bedrooms upstairs, each with their own ensuite and all the modern amenities you could want. Downstairs was a small soundproof music room and practice studio, a library, a fully operational kitchen and a large open-plan living and dining area with a huge bank of windows that bracketed a dramatic view of craggy windswept hills, a dense wooded copse and the mist above the fells in the distance.

It was modern, sleek and stylish yet warm and homely at the same time.

Daemon knew he could definitely work here.

‘Impressive,’ he said as she led them back outside.

Alexia’s eyes lit up with pride as she looked around. ‘Wait until you see the studio.’

She led them to a two-storey wood and stone barn, talking as she went.

‘Ladies from the local town will take care of the cleaning and washing, but you’re responsible for your own meals. Although, there are local ladies who can take care of that too if you wish. I would prefer your personal assistants stay away. You can take care of business via phone and internet. Wives or partners and children can stay, but I discourage other visitors and absolutely forbid entourages and the press.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

She glanced askance at Daemon. ‘Really? I always got the impression you were into all that stuff.’

Daemon had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. ‘My ex-wife was into all that stuff. I’m not. It takes me away from what I really want to be doing.’

‘And that would be?’

‘Music. Writing, playing, recording, jamming, listening. Any way I can get it is all right by me.’

She nodded, studying his profile. ‘I know what you mean.’

Daemon turned, their gazes met, unspoken words shifting between them. A simple understanding. A touching of souls. A love of music. He felt shattered by the strength of the connection. He couldn’t look away. Their eyes clung to each other. This was what he’d been hoping for and yet . . .

Craig’s chuckle broke the connection. ‘I didn’t think I’d find anyone as obsessive as Dae is about music, but I think I was wrong. It’s like you guys are soulmates or something.’

Alexia shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t believe in stuff like that.’ She turned and marched ahead of them.

Daemon dug an elbow in Craig’s ribs. ‘Good going, mate. I’d just got her to relax again.’

‘Hey!’ Craig protested, rubbing his side. ‘I was only joking.’

‘It wasn’t funny.’

They came to the door of the barn. Alexia punched in a code on the security panel, swung the door open and gestured them forward. ‘You’ll be given security codes for your accommodation and the studio when you move in, but for now, come in and have a look around.’

The studio was fully equipped. Rehearsal rooms, a lounge area and kitchen for breaks, and a smaller studio for specialised vocal and acoustic work were downstairs. Upstairs belonged to the main studio, large enough to fit an orchestra but with partitions that could turn it into a smaller, more comfortable space if required. She had state-of-the-art equipment using a mix of specialised computer software for editing and remixing as well as the large, complicated sound desks.

The whole place was a musician’s wet dream.

‘You didn’t go for the newer model of this?’ he asked as they walked back into the smaller acoustic studio downstairs.

Alexia shook her head, fingers nimbly working along the sound desk, stopping to press a couple of the pots and set the foldback knobs to neutral. The gestures were affectionate, almost intimate. A smile played at the edge of her mouth as she looked down at the desk. ‘No, I didn’t. This was the first desk I bought. I know it looks a bit banged up but I have to say, I haven’t come across anything I like better. The mids and highs I can get out of this baby are sweet and clear and perfect for the more intimate work. I love my desks upstairs, but the polished finish the computer software can give just doesn’t suit every piece.’

‘So, what do you think?’ She crossed her arms and leaned back on the desk, waiting for a response.

‘This is impressive,’ Craig said. ‘I had no idea you were this big.’

‘Why would you? I’ve never advertised what I do. The proof is in the music. How I do it is frankly irrelevant to anyone but those I work with.’

‘Good point.’

‘So, the question remains. Are you happy to come out here to work?’

Daemon continued to look around. After a long silence he smiled. This was all better than he’d imagined. Except for what had happened to the sister. But for now, he would trust Craig’s word. Soon enough Nigel would come through with the goods and if Craig was right, he would have nothing to worry about. Maybe it was unwise to give in to this all-consuming need to work here with Alexia when he had such reservations, but the Lord only knew, after the year he’d had, he needed something good in his life.

Smile widening, he stuck his hand out. ‘I think we have a deal.’

She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to touch him again. He met her gaze. A dare. If he was going to take a chance, then so could she.

As her hand slid into his, he purposefully rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. Melting warmth curled inside him as her hand jerked. Her eyes narrowed. He could see pride stopped her from pulling away as she had before. Instead, she grasped his hand more firmly, matching his smile.

‘I think we do.’

Oh, this was going to be good.

The dream caught her the way it always did, in the deepest dark of the night. Apparitions appeared and vanished in a swirling noisy void. Cries of anguish and despair mixed with whispers in the dark; unintelligible garbled words.

In her sleep, Lexi trembled. A nameless face drifted close, mouth like a black maw swallowing her whole.

She screamed . . .

And awoke with a start, the empty echo of her scream ringing in her ears. Her eyes darted nervously around the darkened room looking for the intruder.

There was no-one.

Oh God! A nightmare. Just a stupid nightmare. The worst one yet.

Probably caused by that stupid letter.

Taking in deep, gulping breaths, she thought about the letter that had arrived today, the second in the last few weeks. She should have known better than to read the filth spewing from the page. Should have known it would seep into her subconscious; poisonous images forcing themselves into her dreams.

Stupid! So stupid!

Hand shaking, she turned the light on. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Her pyjama top was damp. Shuddering, she climbed out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.

Tossing her damp pyjamas into the hamper, she turned on the shower. The hot spray rinsed away the perspiration but not the images still playing in her mind.

She rubbed hard at her skin with the loofah as if to scrub away the crawling sensation her nightmares engendered. One thing was certain – there would be no more sleep tonight.

Turning off the shower, she grabbed a towel and rubbed her wet hair vigorously, but still she couldn’t rid her mind of the nasty images and the feeling of being touched by filth.

Work. Only work would help.

Five minutes later, dressed in her favourite velour tracksuit, she tip-toed downstairs, let herself outside, and ran down the path to the studio. The night air, damp but crisp, clung to her skin. Frost crunched under her boots. A blackbird called in the distance, the lonely sound echoing in the dark. A horse snorted gently in a nearby meadow.

To the left of the studio, a light shone from a single window in the guest-house. The band had moved in that day. The two weeks since they signed the agreement had seemed to pass by at a snail’s pace. She’d filled her days looking after Cat and learning more about running the farm and had enjoyed most of it, yet she longed for music.

Shivering as the cool night air seeped under her tracksuit, she worked her way past the cars parked in front of the Dower House. The phalanxes of trucks she’d expected had never materialised. The band had arrived in their own cars with one van to carry their instruments and equipment. There had been no entourage – just Phil’s pregnant wife, Melissa.

Lexi felt a little guilty about not sticking around to welcome them, but meeting a bunch of strangers and playing the fabulous host wasn’t really up her alley. Bev and Billy were much better at that sort of thing. Instead, she’d set off with Karl to ride the fences.

She’d hoped working with Karl would exhaust her enough to sleep without nightmares.

If only she hadn’t checked the mail before going to bed!

Reaching the studio, she punched in the access code and let herself in. She switched on the light, glad to get out of the lonely dark, and headed to the small studio to turn on the equipment. Once the old desk was buzzing, she returned to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

As she waited for the water to boil, she walked through the studio. The band had been busy setting up their gear yesterday. They didn’t waste time. Good. Lexi hated working with time wasters. After making her tea, she grabbed a jar of her favourite lemon biscuits and headed back to the small studio, turning her mind to work. In minutes she was wrapped up in music, completely oblivious to everything but her composition.

She was coming to the finale of a larger work she’d been writing for years; something that had unintentionally turned into an orchestral piece telling the story of her life. She’d begun the opus the summer before her life had crashed around her. Listening to the opening movement, she heard happiness and hope. A tear tumbled from her eye as she mourned the loss. She would give anything to feel that kind of wonder at the world again.

The music made her smile now at the ambitious use of strings and boasting drums, a perfect representation of that girl on the verge of womanhood, the part of her she’d lost not long after she’d written it. But she wouldn’t change a thing. Wouldn’t deny herself memories of a better time; memories of a better self.

The music changed. Dark and despairing, the second movement lacked the full orchestral power of the first. Piano, cello and bass cello, with the occasional hint of some haunting refrain from the clarinet, harked back to the innocence now lost. The bass and piano dropped out, leaving the clarinet and cello, a duet for her parents, signifying the joy of their life, their love for each other and their daughters. A piano solo brought the movement to an end; Lexi’s mourning of their deaths, with no comfort to be found.

A clash of angry guitar and drums brought in the third movement; the agony of having to institutionalise Cat. A clarinet entered; a lost, flighty sound picked up in echoing refrain by other woodwind instruments, the flute flying in relief above, her sister finding refuge in a world other than this one.

The music changed once more, a reflection of her struggles as she made her way in the industry she had a passion for. Disappointments and times of despair mingled with the joys of working at what she so loved. The fourth movement was full of a maturity that had been lacking in the earlier ones; an onset of hope in buying the rundown estate and bringing Cat home. Yet sadness still prevailed. She hadn’t noticed that sadness in this movement before, reflected in the voice of the piano – her voice – undermining the happy tone.

Lexi frowned as the piece came to an end. Where had that sadness come from? She had everything she’d always wanted, so what was wrong with her? She shook her head. Nothing was wrong except sleep deprivation. She’d rearrange the last section later to echo how she felt. Happy. She was supposed to be happy.

Why wasn’t she happy?

Shaking off the annoying thought, she stood up and walked to the desk beside the piano, the tune she wanted in her head; the melody line clear and full. She took up a pencil and paper and began to write. Her hand flew along the lines. Before long, pages of musical notation took form. She stopped, hands trembling. Her fingers tingled to touch the black and white keys beside her, to hear the music not just feel it inside her.

Placing the sheet music on the piano, she took a seat and began to play.

As she played she found a lead refrain creeping in from the last movement. Haunting and solemn, speaking of something missing, something lost. She frowned, tried to change the music, but it wouldn’t budge. This thing deep inside her was coming out unbidden, undermining the happiness. Frustrated, she banged her hands down on the keys.

‘That was bloody marvellous. Why’d you stop?’

Lexi jumped, her hand flying up to stifle a scream. Eyes wide, she turned. Daemon leaned casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, black hair ruffled, his jaw darkened by stubble. He pushed away from the doorframe and sauntered into the room towards her.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Lexi grasped her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking and endeavoured to sound natural. ‘No, it’s okay. You just startled me. I didn’t hear you come in.’

The amusement on his face was disarming. ‘You wouldn’t have noticed if the ceiling fell around you.’ He sat beside her at the piano and ran his hands along the keys. ‘I know that feeling myself.’

She coughed, edged away from him. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to be up this late.’

‘No-one else is. Just me.’

His eyes were vibrant blue in the semi-dark room. She could feel his gaze like a touch as it skimmed over her face, came back to her eyes, remained there. How could it feel as if he were drinking her in? She cleared her throat, shifted, tore her gaze away. ‘I like to come down here at this time of the night. I like the quiet. I can work without being disturbed.’

He laughed at her gentle barb, the sound sliding up and down her spine. She stood up abruptly. ‘How come you’re up at this hour?’ She sounded defiant, almost annoyed, but she couldn’t help it. He’d thrown her with his presence.

‘Same as you. I often work at this time of night. Can’t sleep, so I might as well do something productive. If I stay in bed I get angry with myself and start to worry about all sorts of things.’

He looked up at her with those searching eyes. Crossing her arms, she stepped back, chin rising. But before she could think of something to say, he turned to the piano, his long fingers picking out a tune.

No, not
a
tune - the basic melody of what she’d just written!

He turned to the music in front of him and began to play in earnest. The music soared around her, filling up the small studio with the resounding tones of the piano.

She wanted him to stop. Listening to him play her music created an intimacy she wasn’t ready for. She was reminded of that old song, ‘Killing me Softly’. He played her deepest thoughts and feelings, everything laid bare. She should stop him. He already looked at her with a gaze that pierced too deep. And yet, she couldn’t stop him. Under his fingers, her music sang to her in a way it never had before. The feelings of loss and loneliness were there, but they didn’t overwhelm. Within the refrain, she also heard a resilience and strength she’d never acknowledged. The music said, ‘keep going, show no fear’.

That was what she’d done. That was who she was. His interpretation brought out that strength.

The final notes tumbled to an end, vibrating with a deep resonance from within the polished mahogany piano case.

As she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, trying not to feel the music within her chest, around her heart, Daemon turned to her.

‘That was beautiful. What do you call it?’

Lexi pulled the sheets off the stand, thrusting them into the music folder she kept on a shelf beside the piano. The sheets rustled as her hands fumbled with the folder. She bit her lip. ‘Nothing. I might not even keep it.’

He stood up and took the folder from her trembling hands, slotting it smoothly on the shelf among the other folders and books of music. ‘You have to. That music is you. You can’t throw all that away.’

‘I’ll do what I want.’

Daemon watched as she edged away from him again. She vibrated with tension, her emotions so close to the edge. One small push and she would snap. He’d noticed it the first time they’d met. She kept herself so tightly constrained, he wondered how she could get through the day without succumbing to exhaustion. Now he knew. She poured everything into her music, and he’d unwittingly encroached on that private space.

‘You know, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. I pour myself into my music, too. The only difference between us is that the public get to hear it, so I’m kind of an open book. But I find that’s cathartic.’

‘Well, bully for you,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not the exhibitionist you are. My music is extremely private and personal. I don’t share with anyone.’

‘Thank you for sharing with me then. I’m flattered.’

‘Don’t be. It wasn’t intentional.’ She turned to walk away but he reached out and grabbed her arm. She visibly flinched. ‘Let go of me.’

He let go, surprised by her reaction. ‘I’m sorry I made you angry. I just wanted you to know how much your music touched me. I knew you were a talented producer, but I had no idea you were such a talented composer.’

She looked up into his eyes, a puzzled frown on her brow. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘“Thank you” is the usual response.’

She blushed. ‘Thank you.’

His smile echoed back at him in the slight upward twitch of her lips. He got the feeling she didn’t smile or laugh very much. He would bet it had something to do with whatever had happened to her sister.

‘Look, Alexia, I think we got off on the wrong foot. We’re going to be working together and I’d prefer for us to get along. Can we start over?’

She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze piercing, as if searching for a hidden agenda. He kept his expression even and friendly.

After a long, tense moment, she nodded. ‘Agreed.’

‘Great. Why don’t we have a coffee and talk about our plans for the album?’

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to wait until Craig and Phil are here too?’

‘They always leave the details to Nigel and me,’ he answered, walking out of the studio, knowing she’d have to follow.

As she entered the kitchen behind him, he turned. ‘Tea or coffee?’ He walked over, put on the kettle and started searching through the cupboards but didn’t miss her surprised expression. He knew she probably thought he was incapable of getting anything for himself, let alone for someone else – musicians often behaved like unyielding egotists. He’d have to disabuse her of that notion. He opened the pantry and grabbed a jar of biscuits labelled ‘Bev’s Favourites’. ‘Would you like some biscuits to go with your . . .?’

The pause lasted for a long four seconds before she snapped out of her confusion and said, ‘Tea. And yes please.’

Behind them the kettle started whistling. He set out the cups while she got the milk. A few moments later they were sitting on the sofas with their drinks. He took a biscuit off the plate and bit, mumbling in pleasure at the burst of flavour. ‘Bev should sell these.’

‘She does.’

He looked at her in surprise.

‘She sells them at the local market and craft fair every second Sunday. People come from miles away to buy them. The grocer in Fellhaven – the local village – also sells them when Bev has time to make a large batch.’

‘I’m surprised she hasn’t gone into business.’

‘She doesn’t want to. It’s just a hobby.’

‘Well I’m happy to help her indulge her hobby.’

‘As are we all.’ She sipped her tea, hands wrapped around the hot mug, watching him as if he were some curious animal she’d never seen before.

He sat back, ankle over knee, arm lying casually along the back of the sofa, and had to suppress a smile as her gaze darted down to his chest, flitted across his arm to pause on the hand holding his mug. Even though this was her studio, he felt more at home than she looked. She fidgeted, leaning back into the soft cushions of the sofa, as if trying out his pose, and crossed then uncrossed her legs before completely rearranging herself by tucking her feet under her.