MustLoveMusic (8 page)

“No, it’s a recent hobby. I used to have the typical
bachelor diet of takeout food and pizza. But I spent far too long drinking all my
meals from a straw, and began to obsess about all the foods I couldn’t have. I
vowed that once I could eat solid food again, I would make all my future meals
memorable ones.”

“I’m sorry you had to suffer, but I appreciate the result.”

“I think you’ll appreciate the rest of what I have planned
for you, too. Finish your wine, and we’ll go upstairs.”

Her heart and lungs picked up a rapid rhythm, and her
panties grew damp. “To the playroom?”

“Yes.”

She tossed back her wine, then shoved her chair away from the
table and jumped to her feet. “I’m ready.”

Rikard’s gaze slid down to her breasts, and her pebbled
nipples, before skimming down to her pussy. “I bet you are.”

Heat flamed her cheeks, but she couldn’t protest, because he
was right. She was ready for him to take her right here and now. Waiting was
going to be an exquisite torture.

Placing her hand in his gloved grasp, she allowed him to
lead her upstairs. The first thing she saw upon entering the playroom was a
scarlet fandango dress draped across one of the tables.

“Put on the dress.”

Gayle obediently stripped down to her underwear, then
hesitated, looking a question at Master Rikard.

“Only the dress,” he clarified.

She pulled off the bra and panties, as well, then lifted the
layers of satin ruffles over her head and slithered into the dress. It clung to
her chest, then flared out over her hips to cascade in a ruffled fall down past
her knees.

Rikard picked up a black cloak that had been laid out beside
the dress, and swirled it around his shoulders.

“I am Zorro, the masked avenger of the oppressed people of
Los Angeles. You are the lovely and spirited Consuela, owner of the taverna.
You are cooperating with the evil Don Rafael, to try and trap Zorro, and now
Zorro has trapped you.”

“But I’m not evil, right? Don Rafael has something on me to
force me to cooperate with him.”

Rikard’s slow smile promised a wealth of torturous delights.
“That is what Zorro needs to determine, using all the skills at his disposal.”

He uncoiled a huge bullwhip, and cracked it three
times—tracing two horizontal slashes and a diagonal slash connecting them in
the air. Gayle shivered, picturing the whip connecting with her flesh and
carving the trademark Z into her skin. Or perhaps he’d take a page from Antonio
Banderas’ Zorro and use the whip to strip away her gown, leaving her bare
before him.

Instead, he lunged forward, grabbing her wrists. He cracked
the whip, coiling the tail of it around the wooden frame that had been mounted
to the wall since her last visit, then used the remaining length to lash her
wrists together, binding her to the frame. Gayle gave a halfhearted tug against
the restraint, not at all eager to escape. Her rapid breathing threatened to
spill her breasts out of the low-cut dress, and she felt the first beads of moisture
pooling between her legs.

Rikard crushed his body against hers, his hard thighs
forcing her legs apart, while his gloved hands skimmed from her bound wrists
down her arms to her flattened breasts.

“I’ll scream,” she whispered. “Don Rafael’s men will come
running to investigate.”

“Not if I silence you first.”

His mouth captured hers, his kiss hard and merciless. But
she didn’t scream. She could barely breathe.

She returned his kiss, opening her mouth to draw his tongue
inside as she tipped her hips, straining to press her throbbing pussy against
the solid bulge in his leather pants.

Rikard’s kiss softened, his lips nibbling hers instead of
grinding against them. One of his hands glided up to cradle the back of her
neck, supporting her head as he tilted it to deepen his kiss. His other hand
drifted down to her hip. Tugging on her thigh, he lifted her leg up to his
waist.

He reached beneath her billowing skirt and cupped her ass.
The smooth leather of his glove caressed her skin, and she moaned into his
mouth. Hot fluid dripped down her standing leg. She rolled her hips, wide open
and pressed against him.

It wasn’t enough. She wanted him out of those pants and
inside her. Whimpering a protest, she struggled against the whip restraining
her hands, writhing against him.

Rikard broke the kiss and lifted his head, even as he
dropped his other hand to her thigh and lifted her remaining leg to his waist,
pinning her to the wooden frame with his hips. “Trying to escape, Consuela? Do
you plan to run to Don Rafael as soon as I give you a chance?”

“No, Zorro. I have no love for Don Rafael. He forced me to
help him. If I did not cooperate, he would destroy my tavern. I would lose
everything.”

He kneaded her ass with both hands, rolling his hips to
stroke his cock against her throbbing clit. “If he catches me, I will lose my
head.”

“But he won’t catch you. You are too clever to fall into his
traps.”

“Then he will destroy your tavern.”

“Not if I can convince him I did as he asked. It won’t be my
fault if his guards fail to catch you.”

“And what did Don Rafael ask you to do?”

“Lure you here. Signal the soldiers. And then distract you
with my feminine wiles until they could respond.”

“What is the signal?”

“I was to blow out the candle in the window.”

“Then I shall have to keep you away from the window.”

He unwrapped the whip from around her wrists, and she
immediately put her arms around his neck. Easily bearing her weight, he carried
her across the room to one of the padded tables. He set her down, then
untangled himself from her grasp and stepped back to study her.

Her skirt was rucked up, exposing her legs to the thighs,
and her bodice had twisted to one side, one shoulder strap slipping down her
arm while the other dug into her neck. One nipple peeked out over the skewed
neckline. She sat without moving, enduring his scrutiny.

“What can I do to prove I’m telling you the truth? I will
not betray you to Don Rafael.”

Rikard reached beneath the table and withdrew a wicked
curved knife with a forked tip, like the kind that would be used for gutting
hunted animals. Gayle sucked in a sharp breath, and cringed away from it, even
as the fear flooded between her legs with wet desire.

“I could mark you with my Z. Carve my symbol into your soft
flesh. Here.” His gloved fingertips traced the letter on the rapidly rising and
falling curve of her breast. Then he pushed her skirt aside and traced a Z on
her damp inner thigh. “Or here.”

“No. Please,” she whispered. “Don’t cut me.”

He rested the flat of the blade against her exposed nipple. The
cold shock stabbed straight to her groin, making her gasp from the pleasure,
even as she froze and stared in terror at the deadly blade pressed against her
vulnerable breast.

He twisted the knife, sliding the blade beneath her bodice
strap. Gayle didn’t dare to breathe as the knife stroked upward, over the curve
of her breast and up to her shoulder. With a savage wrench, Rikard sliced
through the strap. It fluttered down against her breast and folded down her
back.

Her breath gusted out, and she sobbed in relief. She barely
noticed when he lifted the other strap away from her skin and sliced through
that one as well.

Rikard put down the knife and cupped both of her exposed
breasts in his gloved hands, his thumbs flicking back and forth across her
pebbled nipples.

“I had to be sure of you,” he whispered huskily. “You could
have screamed.”

“I will never betray you,” she choked out through her tears.

He grabbed her savaged dress and pulled it over her head,
tossing it aside as soon as the heavy skirt cleared her face. Her legs were
spread, exposing her pulsing need for him. He cupped her pussy, and she groaned
in agonized pleasure. Her entire body throbbed in time to her heartbeat, from
her tingling breasts all the way down to her toes. He slipped two fingers
inside her soaking wet channel.

“Please,” she sobbed. “Please. I need you inside me.”

“Enough games,” he growled. “Let Zorro have Consuela. Master
Rikard wants to make love to Gayle.”

“Yes! Please.”

“And I want to do it in a comfortable bed.”

Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her into the guest
room. A moment later, his pants were down, a condom sheathed his cock, and he
was kneeling between her widespread legs.

“Please, Rikard. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

He thrust, hard and sure, filling her with one strong
stroke. Gayle arched up off the bed, screaming her fulfillment as the orgasm
ripped through her. Rikard just held her, letting her shake and shudder with
his cock buried deep inside her. When she finally began to breathe normally, he
started to move slowly in and out, quickly whipping her into another frenzy.
His pace accelerated, faster and harder, until they were slamming together in
mindless need, both straining desperately toward release.

Rikard stiffened, his arms locking and his spine bowing as
he trembled, then came in a powerful explosion. Gayle writhed against him, then
arched upward, coming in a shuddering rush. They collapsed onto the bed, hot,
sweaty and tangled in each other, but neither willing to move.

“God,” she breathed. “I had no idea being scared out of my
mind was such a turn-on.”

“As was scaring you. I think we’d better back off on that
scenario for a while.”

“Why? It was great!”

“Because I need to be able to remain in control during a
scene. And now that I know what fear of knives does to you, I don’t think I
could. That makes it too dangerous. I won’t risk you getting hurt, no matter
how great the sex is.”

Gayle smiled, a warm glow of contentment settling deep
within her chest. He might not know what he was saying, but she did. He wasn’t
just interested in sex. He wanted a real relationship.

Gayle woke disoriented and alone. Amazingly soft sheets
scented lightly with citrus caressed her naked body, and a pillow so fluffy it
had to be one-hundred percent goose down cradled her head. Light streamed into
the room from the wrong direction, allowing her to recognize the furniture in
Rikard’s guest room. She stretched, feeling the stiffness of last night’s
vigorous lovemaking in her hips and thighs. No jogging this morning for her.

She glanced around the room, until she located a small clock
on the dresser. Quarter after six. She had plenty of time to drive back home,
shower, dress, and still get to work. But only if she got a move on.

Tossing back the covers, she encountered heavy resistance.
Rikard had left the bathrobe she’d used before draped across the bottom of the
bed. She shrugged into it, then went looking for him.

She checked the attached bathroom and studio first. Both
dark and empty, although she took the time to admire the décor of the bathroom.
Black and white tiles set off towels, fixtures, and shower curtain patterned
with swirls of musical notes and flowing staves, and black-framed prints of
pianists graced the walls. It was the first obvious nod to his career she’d
seen, other than the music room and studio, and those had been purely
practical. Idly, she wondered if the bathroom decorations had been Rikard’s
idea, or simply a way to use up music-themed gifts he’d accumulated from
friends and family over the years.

She frowned. She assumed he had friends and family. But he’d
never spoken about them. Oh, he’d made general references, like saying his
family was from New York, which had made it easy for him to attend Columbia.
But nothing recent. She didn’t even know if his parents were still living, or
if he had any brothers or sisters.

Her next stop was the playroom. It was empty, except for her
neatly folded clothes on one of the tables. As she was getting dressed, she
heard water running on the other side of the wall in the master bathroom.

She went back out into the upstairs foyer, and politely
knocked on the doorframe before poking her head inside the open door of
Rikard’s bedroom. It shared the same oak-and-iron furniture as the guest room,
but the walls and linens were all soothing blues and greens, shading from dark
to light as they swirled upward. It felt like she was standing at the bottom of
the ocean looking up through the water toward the light of the surface.

“Rikard?”

“In here,” he called from the bathroom.

She followed his voice, and found him leaning against a
cream and white marble countertop, wearing only black silk pajama bottoms.
Droplets of water clung to his broad back, and his wet blond hair was slicked
back into a ponytail. In the mirror, she could see that shaving foam coated his
face from eyes to halfway down his neck, except for a stripe the width of his
razor on the right cheek and jaw.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’ll be another few
minutes shaving. But if you’re willing to wait, I can make you breakfast. How
do blueberry pancakes sound?”

Gayle grinned. She loved a man who was so willing to cook
for her. “It sounds heavenly. But I’m afraid I can’t wait. I’ve got to get
home, or I’ll be late for work.”

“No jogging this morning?”

“I got enough exercise last night.”

He grinned, the shaving foam puffing up on his cheeks. A
slight dimple was visible in the thin strip of shaved skin, where it would be
covered by his Master’s mask. She hadn’t noticed the dimple when they met for
coffee, and thought it was a sign that he was more relaxed around her now. His
eyelids were much more even when he smiled now, too, the faint offset no more
than most people’s side-to-side discrepancies.

He dropped his razor onto the counter and turned to face
her, leaning back against the edge of the counter and stuffing his hands into
the pockets of his pajamas.

“If you want to bring some clothes over next time, go ahead.
Then you won’t have to run away in the morning.” He tossed out the suggestion
with a studiously neutral tone that implied he didn’t care if she did or not.
Recalling his reactions the first time they’d made love, she suspected he
cared, and cared deeply, about her answer.

“I’d like that. A lot.” She shook her head. “But I don’t
know when I’ll see you again.”

“Friday?”

“Works for me. And then I can spend Saturday with you, too.”

He stiffened, his eyes widening, the right opening wider
than the left. “I won’t be available during the day. I have a previous
obligation. But I can see you Saturday night.”

“Oh.” He didn’t have to look so panicked at the thought of
spending the day with her. “Are you busy Sunday, too?”

“Afraid so.”

Gayle pursed her lips, trying to give him the benefit of the
doubt. “What are you doing?”

“I have to meet with someone about a song. It’s a four-hour
drive.”

Her eyes widened. “And you’re driving there and back in the
same day?”

“I’ve done it before. It’s no big deal.”

“Well, would you like company for the drive?”

He shook his head, bits of foam flying off to spatter on the
thick blue carpet. “No. I won’t be good company. I will, in fact, be the
stereotypical neurotic artist, obsessed with what they think of the song.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d love to.” She was going to be late for work. Maybe she
could skip the shower, and just do a quick rinse-and-go. She knew an olive
branch when she saw one, and she wasn’t about to refuse.

“Come on. It’s already cued up in the deck.”

He bounded out the door, making her run to catch up with
him. He crossed directly to his studio, bypassing the guest room and bath, and
fired up the banks of electronic equipment. After a few minor adjustments to
various switches and dials whose purpose escaped her, he punched a button and
the opening power chords of a pop ballad thundered through the room.

It started like so many other songs, extolling the virtues
of the bad boy who stole the singer’s heart. Hearing Rikard’s voice singing
lyrics obviously meant for a woman was a little strange, but his knife-like
delivery didn’t give her room to think about it, cutting straight to her heart
with his pain and anger.

“I thought it was forever. You thought it was one night.
Now I’m hotter than hot, and you’re sniffing at my heels like you never went
away. Gonna buy me a lover, make him big and strong and dumb. Gonna buy me a
lover, one who’s never gonna run. Gonna buy me a lover, and we’ll have all
kinds of fun. Gonna buy me a lover, and he’ll love me until the money’s all
gone.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks as verse after verse hammered
her with Rikard’s pain and desperation. Despite the upbeat, perky music that
practically begged her feet to dance, the lyrics spoke of a bleak, meaningless
future. She’d known he had issues. Carrie had warned her that he couldn’t
commit to a real relationship. Had losing his girlfriend in the accident really
crushed him that badly, that he couldn’t risk loving again?

Oh, God. He wanted to buy a lover because it put him in the
position of control, and that way he wouldn’t be hurt again. Was that why he
was so adamant about staying in his Master persona?

Gradually, she became aware that the room was silent, and
Rikard was watching her intently.

“You’re crying. Why are you crying?”

“It’s just so sad.”

“But sad in a good way?”

Gayle gave a strangled laugh as she wiped her cheeks. “I see
what you mean about not being a good traveling companion. It’s a powerful song.
Who’s it for?”

He hesitated, then turned away to shut down his equipment.
Talking to the bank of dials and switches, he mumbled, “Amanda Tiegg.”

“The pop princess?” Gayle squeaked.

“Yeah. She wanted something darker, to try and change her
image.”

“Well, that’s darker, all right. But still perky, if you
know what I mean.”

“That’s what I was going for. So her fans who want mindless
dance music will still be happy. But the music critics will have lyrics they
can take seriously.”

“So how does that work? Did she give you the subject for the
song?”

“Well, we talked about some general ideas. It had to be
something believable. She mentioned how annoying it was for people who had
treated her like dirt in high school to now be treating her like they’d been
best friends.”

Then maybe it didn’t reflect his attitude. After all,
mystery writers wrote believable murderers without ever killing anyone.

Gayle smiled. “I’m sure she’ll love it. You can tell me all
about it Saturday night.”

“So I’ll see you Saturday night, then? Instead of Friday?”

“You’ll need a full night’s sleep before your drive. And if
I spend the night, you’re not going to be doing a lot of sleeping. I’ll see you
Saturday. But speaking of drives, I need to start mine. Or I’ll really be late
for work.”

“Go. I’ll see you Saturday.”

She moved forward, kissing him goodbye despite the foam
covering most of his face. Laughing, she wiped her nose and cheek with her
sleeve. “Finish shaving. I’ll let myself out.”

As she drove away, she caught herself humming “Gonna Buy Me
a Lover”. Great. Another earworm.

* * * * *

The good news was, pop princess Amanda Tiegg loved “Gonna
Buy Me a Lover”, and planned to use it on her next album. And in honor of the
sale, Rikard and Gayle played a game where she was, as he put it, “a woman with
love for hire”. He ordered her to do a wide variety of sexually explicit tasks,
including pleasuring herself to orgasm while he watched and offered direction,
which she found unexpectedly liberating. But the bad news was that he stayed in
his role of Master the entire time, even the next morning as he fed her the
promised blueberry pancakes. The sex was incredible, but it did nothing to
reassure her that he was interested in having a relationship.

She continued seeing him on Wednesday and Saturday nights,
sometimes spending all day Sunday with him as well. They often played
pirate-and-lady again, each time with her getting a thorough flogging that sent
her sailing among the stars. They played Batman and Catwoman, and she finally
understood why Rikard felt so powerful behind his mask. Knowing that your face
was hidden allowed your true self to surface in a way she’d never expected. They
played Spanish Inquisition, where Rikard tortured her with fiendishly erotic
torments, making her come again and again until she finally passed out in
exhausted delight—although she successfully refrained from admitting she was a
witch.

The sex was phenomenal. All she had to do was hear his voice
saying, “I have a special treat planned for you”, or see his blue eyes
sparkling with that telltale glint in the depths of his mask, and her heart
pounded, her breath turned quick and shallow, her nipples tightened into hard
nubs, and her pussy throbbed with wet heat. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on her
for salivating on a signal. And every time, after the sex, it seemed as though
he wanted more, holding her with fierce desperation, and starting half a dozen
times to say something, only to fall silent, and, when she asked, insist it was
nothing.

But Rikard dodged her every attempt to establish a
relationship based on anything other than sex. He cooked for her, elaborate
gourmet meals that were feasts for the senses of sight, smell and touch as well
as taste. He helped her with her music for
Into the Woods
. Sometimes he
sang for her, baring his soul until she bled for his pain and ached with his
desire. But he wouldn’t come to any of her rehearsals, like other cast members’
significant others did, insisting he preferred to get the full effect on
opening night. He wasn’t interested in going out to the movies, or even renting
a DVD and watching it companionably in his home theater, saying he’d spent too
many months watching films to find them entertaining any longer. He saw no
reason to eat out when he could cook a better meal at home.

Whatever they did, he did it as Master Rikard. Aside from
that one morning she’d surprised him while he was shaving, he was never just
Rikard. She liked Master Rikard. She needed Master Rikard. But she suspected
she could love plain old Rikard, if he ever gave her the chance.

She woke up one Sunday morning, alone as usual. He’d
admitted that he didn’t sleep much since his accident, and what sleep he did
get was restless. She’d peeked into his room once while he was still in the
shower, and seen the shambles he’d made of his bed before he had a chance to
tidy it. Restless was an understatement. The covers were on the floor, the
bottom sheet torn off the mattress, and the pillows flung into the far corners
of the room. She didn’t mind not sharing a bed after sex, since unlike him, she
actually needed something approaching eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Shrugging into her robe, she belted it loosely, so that he
could reach inside it to fondle her during breakfast. She visited her bathroom,
to brush her teeth and use the toilet, and finished the roll of toilet paper.
Since the guest bathroom was a peculiar oversight of Rikard’s—he entered the guest
bedroom and studio through the hall doors, never through the connecting
bath—she knew he’d never notice the roll was gone. She had to change it.

A brief inspection of the cabinets revealed towels, drain
clearer, and more piano knickknacks, but no toilet paper. He must keep the
spares in his bathroom.

She padded across to his room, ignoring the enticing aromas
of breakfast drifting up the stairs. Something with bacon or sausage this
morning. Mouth watering, she entered the master bathroom. This wouldn’t take
long.

Rikard’s bathroom was divided into two sections by the
marble basin and counter top, which was directly opposite the door. To the
right was the toilet and a combination sit-in shower/steam bath unit. On the
left was a lower counter and padded stool, originally designed to serve as a
vanity, but which now held his whimsical collection of rubber ducks. There were
two sets of cabinets, one below the basin and one on the wall facing the
vanity. She guessed he’d keep toilet tissue in the cabinet near the vanity,
since that was likely to be drier.