Once More With Feeling (14 page)

Quick and urgent, their lips came together. They clung still when he swept her up in his arms. “You'll have to do without your coffee for a while,” he told her as she pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck. She only murmured an assent as he began to carry her down the hall.

“Too far,” she whispered.

“Mmm?”

“The bedroom's much too far away.”

Brand turned his head to grin at her. “Too far,” he agreed, taking a sharp right into the music room. “Entirely too far.” They sank together on a sofa. “How's this?” He slipped his hands beneath the robe to feel her skin.

“We've always worked well together here.” Raven laughed into his eyes, running her fingers along the muscles of his shoulders. It was real, she thought triumphantly, kissing him again.

“The secret,” Brand decided, then dug his teeth playfully into her neck, “is a strong melody.”

“It's nothing without the proper lyric.”

“Music doesn't always need words.” He switched to the other side of her neck as his hand roamed to her breast.

“No,” she agreed, finding that her own hands refused to be still. They journeyed down his back and up again. “But harmony—two strong notes coming together and giving a bit to each other.”

“Melding,” he murmured. “I'm big on melding.” He loosened the belt of her robe.

“Oh, Brandon!” she exclaimed suddenly, remembering. “Mrs. Pengalley . . . she'll be here soon.”

“This should certainly clinch her opinion of show people,” he decided as his mouth found her breast.

“Oh, no, Brandon, stop!” She laughed and moaned and struggled.

“Can't,” he said reasonably, trailing his lips back up to her throat. “Savage lust,” he explained and bit her ear. “Uncontrollable. Besides,” he said as he kissed her, then moved to her other ear, “it's Sunday, her day off.”

“It is?” Raven's mind was too clouded to recall trivial things like days of the week. “Savage lust?” she repeated as he pushed the robe from her shoulders. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Shall I show you?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered and brought his mouth back to hers. “Please do.”

A long time later Raven sat on the hearth rug and watched Brand stir up the fire. She had reheated the coffee and brought it in along with the sausages. Brand had pulled a sweater on with his jeans, but she still wore the short, terry robe. Holding a coffee cup in both hands, she yawned and thought that she had never felt so relaxed. She felt like a cat sitting in her square of sunlight, watching Brand fix a log onto snapping flames. He turned to find her smiling at him.

“What are you thinking?” He stretched out on the floor beside her.

“How happy I am.” She handed him his coffee, leaning over to kiss him as he took it. It all seemed so simple, so right.

“How happy?” he demanded. He smiled at her over the rim of the cup.

“Oh, somewhere between ecstatic and delirious, I think.” She sought his hand with hers. Their fingers linked. “Bordering on rapturous.”

“Just bordering on?” Brand asked with a sigh. “Well, we'll work on it.” He shook his head, then kissed her hand. “Do you know you nearly drove me mad in this room yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” Raven tossed her hair back over her shoulder with a jerk of her head. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't suppose you'll ever realize just how arousing your voice is,” he mused as he sipped his coffee and studied her face. “That might be part of the reason—that touch of innocence with a hell-smoked voice.”

“I like that.” Raven reached behind her to set down her empty cup. The movement loosened the tie of her robe, leaving it open to brush the curve of her breasts. “Do you want one of these sausages? They're probably awful.”

Brand lifted his eyes from the smooth expanse of flesh that the shift of material had revealed. He shook his head again and laughed. “You make them sound irresistible.”

“A starving man can't be picky,” she pointed out. Raven plucked one with her fingers and handed it over. “They're probably greasy.”

He lifted a brow at this but took a bite. “Aren't you going to have one?”

“No. I know better than to eat my own cooking.” She handed him a napkin.

“We could go out to eat.”

“Use your imagination,” she suggested, resting her hands on her knees. “Pretend you've already eaten. It always works for me.

“My imagination isn't as good as yours.” Brand finished off the sausage. “Maybe if you tell me what I've had.”

“An enormous heap of scrambled eggs,” she decided, narrowing her eyes. “Five or six, at least. You really should watch your cholesterol. And three pieces of toast with that dreadful marmalade you pile on.”

“You haven't tried it,” he reminded her.

“I imagined I did,” she explained patiently. “You also had five slices of bacon.” She put a bit of censure in her voice, and he grinned.

“I've a healthy morning appetite.”

“I don't see how you could eat another bite after all that. Coffee?” Raven reached for the pot.

“No, I imagine I've had enough.”

She laughed and leaning over, linked her arms around his neck. “Did I really drive you mad, Brandon?” She found the taste of her own power delicious and sweet.

“Yes.” He rubbed her nose with his. “First it was all but impossible to simply be in the same room with you, wanting you as I did. Then that song.” He gave a quiet laugh, then drew back to look at her. “Music doesn't always soothe the savage beast. And then that damn album jacket. I had to be furious, or I'd have thrown you down on the rug then and there.”

He saw puzzlement, then comprehension, dawn in her eyes. “Is that why you . . .” She stopped, and the smile grew slowly. Raven tilted her head and ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth. “I suppose that now that you've had your way with me, I won't drive you mad anymore.”

“That's right.” He kissed her lightly. “I can take you or leave you.” Brand set down his empty cup, then ruffled her hair, amused by her wry expression. “It's noon,” he said with a glance at the clock. “We'd best get to it if we're going to get any work done today. That novelty number we were toying with, the one for the second female lead—I'd an idea for that.”

“Really?” Raven unhooked her hands from behind his neck. “What sort of idea?”

“We might bounce up the beat, a bit of early forties jive tempo, you know. It'd be a good contrast to the rest of the score.”

“Hmmm,
could be a good dance number.” Raven slipped her hands under his sweater and ran them up his naked chest. She smiled gently at the look of surprise that flickered in his eyes. “We need a good dance number there.”

“That's what I was thinking,” Brand murmured. The move had surprised him, and the light touch of her fingers sent a dull thud of desire hammering in his stomach. He reached for her, but she rose and moved to the piano.

“Like this, then?” Raven played a few bars of the melody they had worked with, using the tempo he had suggested. “A little boogie-woogie?”

“Yes.” He forced his attention to the bouncing, repetitive beat but found his blood beating with it. “That's the idea.”

She looked back over her shoulder and smiled at him. “Then all we need are the lyrics.” She experimented a moment longer, then went to the coffeepot. “Cute and catchy.” Raven drank, smiling down at Brand. “With a chorus.”

“Any ideas?”

“Yes.” She set down the cup. “I have some ideas.” Raven sat down beside him, facing him, and thoughtfully brushed the hair back from his forehead. “If they're going to cast Carly, as it appears they're going to do, we need something to suit that baby-doll voice of hers. Her songs should be a direct foil for Lauren's.” She pressed her lips lightly to his ear. “Of course, the chorus could carry the meat of it.” Again she slipped a hand under his sweater, letting her fingertips toy with the soft mat of hair on his chest. She slid her eyes up to his. “What do you think?”

Brand took her arm and pulled her against him, but she turned her head so that the kiss only brushed her cheek. “Raven,” he said after a laughing moan. But when she trailed her finger down to his stomach, she felt him suck in air. Again he moaned her name and crushed her against him.

Raven tilted her head back for the kiss. It was deep and desperate, but when he would have urged her down, she shifted so that her body covered his. She buried her mouth at his neck and felt the pulse hammering against her lips. Her hands were still under his sweater so that she was aware of the heating of his skin. He tugged at her robe, but she only pressed harder against him, lodging the fabric between them. She nipped at the cord of his neck.

“Raven.” His voice was low and husky. “For God's sake, let me touch you.”

“Am I driving you mad, Brandon?” she murmured, nearly delirious with her own power. Before he could answer, she brought her lips to his and took her tongue deep into his mouth. Slowly she hiked up his sweater, feeling the shudders of his skin as she worked it over his chest and shoulders. Even as she tossed it aside, Raven began journeying down his chest, using her lips and tongue to taste him.

It was a new sensation for her: the knowledge that he was as vulnerable to her as she was to him. There was harmony between them and the mutual need to make the music real and full. Before, he had guided her, but now she was ready to experiment with her own skill. She wanted to toy with tempos, to take the lead. She wanted to flow
pianissimo,
savoring each touch, each taste. Now it was her turn to teach him as he had taught her.

His skin was hot under her tongue. He was moving beneath her, but the first wave of desperation had passed into a drugged pleasure. Her fingers weren't shy but rather sought curiously, stroking over him to find what excited, what pleased. His taste was something she knew now she would starve without. She could feel his fingers in her hair tightening as his passion built. As she had the night before, she sensed his control, but now the challenge of breaking it excited her.

His stomach was taut and tightened further when she glided over it. She heard his breathing catch. Finding the snap to his jeans, she undid it, then began to tug them down over his hips. The rhythm was gathering speed.

Then her mouth was on his, ripping them both far beyond the gentle pace she had initiated. She was suddenly starving, trembling with the need. Pushing herself up, Raven let the robe fall from her shoulders. Her hair tumbled forward to drape her breasts.

“Touch me.” Her eyes were heavy but locked in his. “Touch me now.”

Brands fingers tangled in her hair as they sought her flesh. When she would have swayed back down to him, he held her upright, wanting to watch the pleasure and passion on her face. Her eyes were blurred with it. The need built fast and was soon too great.

“Raven.” There was desperate demand in his voice as he took her hips.

She let him guide her, then gave a sharp gasp of pleasure. Their bodies fused in a soaring rhythm, completely tuned to each other. Raven shuddered from the impact. Then, drained, she lowered herself until she lay prone on him. He brought his arms around her to hold her close as the two of them flowed from passion to contentment.

Tangled with him, fresh from loving in a room quiet and warm, Raven gave a long, contented sigh. “Brandon,” she murmured, just wanting to hear the sound of his name.

“Hmm?”
He stroked her hair, seemingly lost somewhere in a world between sleep and wakefulness.

“I never knew it could be like this.”

“Neither did I.”

Raven shifted until she could look at his face. “But you've been with so many women.” She curled up at his side, preparing to rest her head in the curve of his shoulder.

Brand rose on his elbow, then tilted her face up to his. He studied her softly flushed cheeks, the swollen mouth and drowsy eyes. “I've never been in love with my lover before,” he told her quietly.

For a moment there was silence. Then she smiled. “I'm glad. I suppose I've never been sure of that until now.”

“Be sure of it.” He kissed her, hard and quick and possessively.

She settled against him again but shivered, then laughed. “A few moments ago I'd have sworn I'd never be cold again.”

Grinning, Brand reached for her robe. “I seriously doubt we'll get any work done unless you get dressed. In fact, I'd suggest unattractive clothes.”

After tugging her arms through the sleeves, Raven put her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were light and full of mischief. “Do I distract you, Brandon?”

“You might put it that way.”

“I'll probably be tempted to try all the time, now that I know I can.” Raven kissed him, then gave a quick shrug. “I won't be able to help myself.”

“I'll hold you to that.” Brand lifted a brow. “Would you like to start now?”

She gave his hair a sharp tug. “I don't think that's very flattering. I'm going to go see about those unattractive clothes.”

“Later,” he said, pulling her back when she started to rise.

Raven laughed again, amazed with what she saw in his eyes. “Brandon, really!”

“Later,” he said again and pressed her back gently to the floor.

Chapter 12

S
ummer came to Cornwall in stages. Cool mornings turned to warm afternoons that had bees humming outside the front windows. The stinging chill of the nights mellowed. The first scent of honeysuckle teased the air. Then the roses, lush wild roses, began to bloom. And all through the weeks the countryside blossomed, Raven felt that she, too, was blooming. She was loved.

Throughout her life, if anyone had asked her what one thing she wanted most, Raven would have answered, “To be loved.” She had starved for it as a child, had hungered as an adolescent when she had been shuffled from town to town, never given the opportunity to form lasting friendships and affections. It was this need, in part, that had made her so successful as a performer. Raven was willing to let the audience love her. She never felt herself beyond their reach when she stood in the spotlight. And they knew it. The love she had gained from her audiences had filled an enormous need. It had filled her but had not satisfied her as much, she discovered, as Brand's love.

As the weeks passed, she forgot the demands and responsibilities of the performer and became more and more in tune with the woman. She had always known herself; it had been important early that she grasp an identity. But for the first time in her life Raven focused on her womanhood. She explored it, discovered it, enjoyed it.

Brand was demanding as a lover, not only in the physical sense but in an emotional one as well. He wanted her body, her heart, her thoughts, with no reservations: His need for an absolute commitment was the only shadow in the summery passing of days. Raven found it impossible not to hold parts of herself in reserve. She'd been hurt and knew how devastating pain could be when you loved without guard. Her mother had broken her heart too many times to count, with always a promise of happiness after the severest blow. Raven had learned to cope with that, to guard against it to some extent.

She had loved Brand before, naively perhaps, but totally. When he had walked out of her life, Raven had thought she would never be whole again. For five years she had insulated herself against the men who had touched her life. They could be friends—loving friends—but never lovers. The wounds had healed, but the scar had been a constant reminder to be careful. She had promised herself that no man would ever hurt her as Brand Carstairs had. And Raven discovered the vow she had made still held true. He was the only man who would ever have the power to hurt her. That realization was enough to both exhilarate and frighten.

There was no doubt that he had awakened her physically. Her fears had been swept away by the tides of love. Raven found that in this aspect of their relationship she could indeed give herself to Brand unreservedly. Knowing she could arouse him strengthened her growing confidence as a woman. She learned her passions were as strong and sensitive as his. She had kept them restricted far too long. If Brand could heat her blood with a look, Raven was aware he was just as susceptible to her. There was nothing of the cool, British reserve in his lovemaking; she thought of him as all Irish then, stormy and passionate.

One morning he woke her at dawn by strewing the bed with wild rosebuds. The following evening he surprised her with iced champagne while she bathed in the ancient footed tub. At night he could be brutally passionate, waking and taking her with a desperate urgency that allowed no time for surprise, protest or response. At times he appeared deliriously happy; at others she would catch him studying her with an odd, searching expression.

Raven loved him, but she could not yet bring herself to trust him completely. They both knew it, and they both avoided speaking of it.

***

Seated next to Brand at the piano, Raven experimented with chords for the opening bars of a duet. “I really think a minor mode with a raised seventh.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I imagine a lot of strings here, a big orchestration of violins and cellos.” She played more, hearing the imagined arrangement rather than the solitary piano. “What do you think?” Raven turned her head to find Brand looking down at her.

“Go ahead,” he suggested, drawing on a cigarette. “Play the lot.”

She began, only to have him interrupt during a bridge. “No.” He shook his head. “That part doesn't fit.”

“That was your part,” she reminded him with a grin.

“Genius is obliged to correct itself,” he returned, and Raven gave an unladylike snort. He looked down his very straight British nose. “Had you a comment, then?”

“Who, me? I never interrupt genius.”

“Wise,” he said and turned back to spread his own fingers over the keys. “Like this.” Brand played the same melody from the beginning, only altering a few notes on the bridge section.

“Did you change something?”

“I realize your inferior ear might not detect the subtlety,” he began. She jammed her elbow into his ribs. “Well said,” he murmured, rubbing the spot. “Shall we try again?”

“I love it when you're dignified, Brandon.”

“Really?” He lifted an inquiring brow. “Now, where was I?”

“You were about to demonstrate the first movement from Tchaikovsky's Second Symphony.”

“Ah.” Nodding, Brand turned back to the keys. He ran through the difficult movement with a fluid skill that had Raven shaking her head.

“Show-off,” she accused when he finished with a flourish.

“You're just jealous.”

With a sigh she lifted her shoulders. “Unfortunately, you're right.”

Brand laughed and put his hand palm to palm with hers. “I have the advantage in spread.”

Raven studied her small, narrow-boned hand. “It's a good thing I didn't want to be a concert pianist.”

“Beautiful hands,” Brand told her, making one of his sudden and completely natural romantic gestures by lifting her fingers to his lips. “I'm quite helplessly in love with them.”

“Brandon.” Disarmed, Raven could only look at him. A tremble of warmth shot up her spine.

“They always smell of that lotion you have in the little white pot on the dresser.”

“I didn't think you'd notice something like that.” She shivered in response when his lips brushed the inside of her wrist.

“There's nothing about you I don't notice.” He kissed her other wrist. “You like your bath too hot, and you leave your shoes in the most unexpected places. And you always keep time with your left foot.” Brand looked back up at her, keeping one hand entwined with hers while he reached up with the other to brush the hair from her shoulder. “And when I touch you like this, your eyes go to smoke.” He ran a fingertip gently over the point of her breast and watched her irises darken and cloud. Very slowly he leaned over and touched his lips to hers. Lazily he ran his finger back and forth until her nipple was taut and straining against the fabric of her blouse.

Her mouth was soft and opened willingly. Raven tilted her head back, inviting him to take more. Currents of pleasure were already racing along her skin. Brand drew her closer, one hand lingering at her breast.

“I can feel your bones melt,” he murmured. His mouth grew hungrier, his hand more insistent. “It drives me crazy.” His fingers drifted from her breast to the top button of her blouse. Even as he loosened it, the phone shrilled from the table across the room. He swore, and Raven gave a laugh and hugged him.

“Never mind, love,” she said on a deep breath. “I'll remind you where you left off this time, too.” Slipping out of his arms, she crossed the room to answer. “Hello.”

“Hello, I'd like to speak with Brandon Carstairs, please,” a voice said.

Raven smiled at the musical lilt in the voice and wondered vaguely how one of Brand's fans had gotten access to his number. “Mr. Carstairs is quite busy at the moment.” She grinned over at him and got both a grin and a nod of approval before he crossed to her. He began to distract her by kissing her neck.

“Would you ask him to call his mother when he's free?”

“I beg your pardon?” Raven stifled a giggle and tried to struggle out of Brand's arms.

“His mother, dear,” the voice repeated. “Ask him to call his mother when he has a minute, won't you? He has the number.”

“Oh, please, Mrs. Carstairs, wait! I'm sorry.” Wide-eyed, she looked up at Brand. “Brandon's right here. Your mother,” Raven said in a horrified whisper that had him grinning again. Still holding her firmly to his side, he accepted the receiver.

“Hullo, Mum.” Brand kissed the top of Raven's head, then chuckled. “Yes, I was busy. I was kissing a beautiful woman I'm madly in love with.” The color rising in Raven's cheeks had him laughing. “No, no, it's all right, love, I intend to get back to it. How are you? And the rest?”

Raven nudged herself free of Brand's arm. “I'll make some tea,” she said quietly, then slipped from the room.

Mrs. Pengalley had left the kitchen spotlessly clean, and Raven spent some time puttering around it aimlessly while the kettle heated on the stove. She found herself suddenly hungry, then remembered that she and Brand had worked straight through lunch. She got out the bread, deciding to make buttered toast fingers to serve with the tea.

Afternoon tea was one of Brand's rituals, and Raven had grown fond of it. She enjoyed the late afternoon breaks in front of the fireplace with tea and biscuits or scones or buttered toast. They could be any two people then, Raven mused, two people sitting in front of a fireplace having unimportant conversations. The kettle sang out, and she moved to switch off the flame.

Raven went about the mechanical domestic tasks of brewing tea and buttering toast, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Brand. There had been such effortless affection in his voice when he had spoken to his mother, such relaxed love. And Raven had felt a swift flash of envy. It was something she had experienced throughout childhood and adolescence, but she hadn't expected to feel it again. Raven reminded herself she was twenty-five and no longer a child.

The chores soothed her. She loaded the tray and started back down the hall with her feelings more settled. When she heard Brand's voice, she hesitated, not wanting to interrupt his conversation. But the weight of the tray outbalanced her sense of propriety.

He was sunk into one of the chairs by the fire when Raven entered. With a smile he gestured her over so that she crossed the room and set the tray on the table beside him. “I will, Mum, perhaps next month. Give everyone my love.” He paused and smiled again, taking Raven's hand. “She's got big gray eyes, the same color as the dove Shawn kept in the coop on the roof. Yes, I'll tell her. Bye, Mum. I love you.”

Hanging up, Brand glanced at the ladened tea tray, then up at Raven. “You've been busy.”

She crouched down and began pouring. “I discovered I was starving.” She watched with the usual shake of her head as he added milk to his tea. That was one English habit Raven knew she would never comprehend. She took her own plain.

“My mother says to tell you you've a lovely voice over the phone.” Brand picked up a toast finger and bit into it.

“You didn't have to tell her you'd been kissing me,” Raven mumbled, faintly embarrassed. Brand laughed, and she glared at him.

“Mum knows I have a habit of kissing women,” he explained gravely. “She probably knows I've occasionally done a bit more than that, but we haven't discussed that particular aspect of my life for some time.” He took another bite of toast, studying Raven's face. “She wants to meet you. If the score keeps going along at this pace, I thought we might drive up to London next month.”

“I'm not used to families, Brandon,” she said. Raven reached for her cup, but he placed his hand over hers, waiting until she looked back up at him.

“They're easy people, Raven. They're important to me. You're important to me. I want them to know you.”

She felt her stomach tighten, and lowered her eyes.

“Raven.” Brand gave a short, exasperated sigh. “When are you going to talk to me?”

She couldn't pretend not to understand him. She could only shake her head and avoid the subject a little while longer. The time when they would have to return to California and face reality would come soon enough. “Please, tell me about your family. It might help me get used to being confronted with all of them if I know a bit more than I've read in the gossip columns.” Raven smiled. Her eyes asked him to smile back and not to probe. Not yet.

Brand struggled with a sense of frustration but gave in. He could give her a little more time. “I'm the oldest of five.” He gestured toward the mantel. “Michael's the distinguished-looking one with the pretty blond wife. He's a solicitor.” Brand smiled, remembering the pleasure it had given him to send his brother to a good university. He'd been the first Carstairs to receive that sort of education. “There was nothing distinguished about him at all as a boy,” Brand remarked. “He liked to give anyone within reach a bloody nose.”

“Sounds like a good lawyer,” Raven observed dryly. “Please go on.”

“Alison's next. She graduated from Oxford at the top of her class.” He watched Raven glance up at the photo of the fragile, lovely blonde. “An amazing brain,” Brand continued, smiling. “She does something incomprehensible with computers and has a particular fondness for rowdy rugby matches. That's where she met her husband.”

Raven shook her head, trying to imagine the delicate-looking woman shouting at rugby games or programming sophisticated computers. “I suppose your other brother's a physicist.”

“No, Shawn's a veterinarian.” Affection slipped into Brand's voice.

“Your favorite?”

He tilted his head as he reached for more tea. “If one has a favorite among brothers and sisters, I suppose so. He's simply one of the nicest people I know. He's incapable of hurting anyone. As a boy he was the one who always found the bird with the broken wing or the dog with a sore paw. You know the type.”