Unfinished Business (15 page)

“It's coming along.” But he made no move toward it. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, just a couple of hours.” Five, to be exact. “You had some books, so I've been reading.”

“Why?”

“Well, to pass the time.”

“Why are you here, Van?”

She bent to stroke the dog. “That unfinished business you mentioned. It's been a long day, and I've had plenty of time to think.”

“And?”

Why didn't he just sweep her away, carry her upstairs? And shut her up. “And I… About what you said this afternoon.”

“That I'm in love with you.”

She cleared her throat as she straightened. “Yes, that. I'm not sure what I feel—how I feel. I'm not sure how you feel, either.”

“I told you how I feel.”

“Yes, but it's very possible that you think you feel that way because you used to—and because falling back into the same routine, the same relationship—with me—is familiar, and comfortable.”

“The hell it is. I haven't had a comfortable moment since I saw you sitting at the piano.”

“Familiar, then.” She began to twist the necklace at her throat. “But I've changed, Brady. I'm not the same person I was when I left here. We'll never be able to pretend those years away. So, no matter how attracted we are to each other, it could be a mistake to take it any further.”

He crossed to her, slowly, until they were eye-to-eye. He was ready to make a mistake. More than ready. “Is that what you were waiting here to tell me?”

She moistened his lips. “Partly.”

“Then I'll have my say.”

“I'd like to finish first.” She kept her eyes level. “I came here tonight because I've never been able to get you completely out of my mind. Or my…” Heart. She wanted to say it, but couldn't. “My system,” she finished. “I've never stopped caring about you, or wondering. Because of something we had no control over, we were cheated out of growing up enough to make the decision to move apart or to become lovers.” She paused, but only for a moment. “I came here tonight because I realized I want what was taken away from us. I want you.” She stepped closer and put her arms around him. “Is that clear enough?”

“Yeah.” He kissed her gently. “That's clear enough.”

She smiled at him. “Make love with me, Brady. I've always wanted you to.”

With their hands joined, they walked upstairs together.

S
he had already been upstairs while she had waited for him to come home—smoothing and straightening the covers on the bed, fluffing the pillows, standing and looking at the room and wondering what it would be like to walk into it with him.

He turned on the lamp beside the bed. It was a beautiful old rose-tinted globe that sat on a packing crate. The floors were unfinished, the walls spackled with drywall mud. The bed was only a mattress on the floor beneath the windows. It was the most beautiful room she'd ever seen.

He wished he could have given her candles and roses, a huge four-poster with satin sheets. All he could give her was himself.

And suddenly he was as nervous as a boy on his first date.

“The atmosphere's a little thin in here.”

“It's perfect,” she told him.

He took her hands and raised them to his lips. “I won't hurt you, Van.”

“I know.” She kissed his hands in turn. “This is going to sound stupid, but I don't know what to do.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, testing, tempting. “You'll catch on.”

Her lips curved as her hands slid up his back. “I think you're right.” With an instinct that was every bit as potent as experience, she let her head fall back, let her hands glide and press and wander.

Her lips parted for his, and she tasted his little groan of pleasure. Then she shivered with pleasure of her own as his strong, clever hands skimmed down her body, his thumb brushing down the side of her breast, his fingers kneading at her waist, his palm cupping her hip, sliding down her thigh, before its upward journey.

She pressed against him, delighting in the shower of sensations. When his teeth scraped lightly down her throat, over her bare shoulder, she murmured his name. Like the wind through the trees, she sighed for him, and swayed. Pliant and willing, she waited to be molded.

Her absolute trust left him shaken. No matter how hot her passion, she was innocent. Her body might be that of a woman, but she was still as untouched as the girl he had once loved and lost. He wouldn't forget it. As the need flamed inside him, he banked it. This time it would be for her. All for her.

Compassion and tenderness were as much a part of his nature as his recklessness. He showed her only the gentle side now, as he eased the snug top down to her hips. He kissed her, soothing her with murmurs even as his hands set off millions of tiny explosions as they tugged her dress to the floor.

She wore a swatch of white lace that seemed to froth over the swell of her breasts before skimming down to nip at her waist. For his own pleasure, he held her at arm's length and just looked.

“You stop my heart,” he told her.

With unsteady hands, she reached out to unbutton his shirt. Though her breath was already ragged, she kept her eyes on his as she slid the shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to join her dress on the floor. With her heart pounding wildly in her ears, she linked her arms around his neck.

“Touch me.” She tilted her head back, offered her mouth. “Show me.”

Though the kiss was hard, demanding, ruthless, he forced his hands to be gentle. Her own were racing over him, bringing a desperate edge to an already driving need. When he lowered her onto the bed, he watched her eyes close on a sigh, then open again, clouded with desire.

He dipped his head to absorb her taste on his tongue as it skimmed along the verge of lace, as it slid beneath to tease her taut nipples. Her hips ached and her fingers dug into his back as the pleasure rocketed through her.

With a flick of the wrist, he unsnapped her garters, then sent her churning as he slowly peeled down her stockings, blazing the newly bared flesh with his lips. It seemed he found every inch of her, every curve, fascinating. His gentle fingers played over her, everywhere, until the music roared in her head.

As patient as he was ruthless, he drove her closer and closer to the edge she'd never seen. Her body was like a furnace, pumping out heat, pulsing with needs as sharp as his. He drove himself mad watching her, seeing the way everything she felt, each new sensation he brought to her, raced over her face, into her eyes.

Desire. Passion. Pleasure. Excitement. They flowed from him to her, then back again. Familiar. Oh, yes. They recognized each other. That brought comfort. Yet it was new, unique, gloriously fresh. That was the adventure.

He reveled in the way her skin flowed through his hands, the way her body tensed and arched at his touch. The way the lamplight slanted over her, over his hands as he peeled the last barrier of lace away.

Naked, she reached for him, tugging frantically at his slacks. Because he knew his own needs were tearing his control to shreds, he cupped her in his hand and sent her flying over the last line.

She cried out, stunned, helpless, her eyes glazing over, as her hand slipped limply from his shoulder. Even as she shuddered, he eased into her, slowly, gently, murmuring her name again and again as the blood roared in his ears and pushed him to take his pleasure quickly. Love demanded gentleness.

She lost her innocence sweetly, painlessly, and with simple joy.

 

She lay in Brady's bed, tangled in Brady's sheets. A sparrow heralded the dawn. During the night, the dog had crept in to take his rightful place at the foot of the bed. Lazily Vanessa opened her eyes.

Brady's face was barely an inch from hers, and she had to ease back and blink to focus on him. He was deep in sleep, his arm heavy around her waist, his breathing slow and even. Now, completely relaxed and vulnerable, he looked more like the boy she remembered than the man she was beginning to know.

She loved. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved. Her heart nearly burst with it. But did she love the boy or the man?

Very gently, she brushed at the hair on his forehead. All she was really sure of was that she was happy. And, for now, it was enough.

More than enough, she thought as she slowly stretched. During the night he had shown her how beautiful making love could be when two people cared about each other. And how exciting it could be when needs were met and desires reached. Whatever happened tomorrow, or a year from tomorrow, she would never forget what they had shared.

Lightly, not wanting to wake him, she touched her lips to his. Even that quiet contact stirred her. Hesitant, curious, she trailed her fingertips over his shoulders, down the length of his back. The need grew and spread inside her.

As dreams went, Brady thought, this was one of the best. He was under a warm quilt in the first light of day. Vanessa was in bed beside him. Her body was pressed against his, shifting gently, arousing quickly. Those beautiful, talented fingers were stroking along his skin. That soft, sulky mouth was toying with his. When he reached for her, she sighed, arching under his hand.

Everywhere he touched she was warm and smooth. Her arms were around him, strong silken ropes that trapped him gloriously against her. When she said his name, once, then twice, the words slipped under the gauzy curtain of his fantasy. He opened his eyes and saw her.

This was no dream. She was smiling at him. Those misty green eyes were heavy with sleep and passion. Her body was slim and soft and curved against his.

“Good morning,” she murmured. “I wasn't sure if you—”

He closed his mouth over hers. Dream and reality melded seductively as he slipped inside her.

 

The sunlight was stronger when she lay over him, her head on his heart, her body still pulsing.

“You were saying?”

“Hmm.” The effort to open her eyes seemed wasted, so she kept them closed. “Was I?”

“You weren't sure if I what?”

She sifted through her thoughts. “Oh. I wasn't sure if you had any morning appointments.”

He continued to comb his fingers through her hair. “It's Sunday,” he reminded her. “Office is closed. But I have to run into the hospital and check on Mr. Benson and a couple of other patients. How about you?”

“Nothing much. Some lesson plans, now that I have ten students.”

“Ten?” There was more snicker than surprise in his voice.

She shifted then, folding her arms over his chest and resting her chin on them. “I was ambushed at the picnic yesterday.”

“Ten students.” He grinned at her. “That's quite a commitment. Does that mean you're planning to settle in town again?”

“At least for the summer. I haven't decided whether I'll agree to a fall tour.”

So he had the summer to convince her, he thought. “How about dinner?”

She narrowed her eyes. “We haven't even had breakfast yet.”

“I mean tonight. We could have our own picnic with the leftovers. Just you and me.”

Just you and me. “I'd like that.”

“Good. Now why don't we start the day off right?”

After a chuckle, she pressed her lips to his chest. “I thought we already had.”

“I meant you could wash my back.” Grinning, he sat up and dragged her out of bed.

 

Vanessa discovered she didn't mind being alone in the house. After Brady dropped her off, she changed into jeans
and a short-sleeved sweatshirt. She wanted to spend the day at the piano, planning the lessons, practicing and, if her current mood held, composing.

There had never been enough time for composing on tour, she thought as she tied her hair back. But now she had the summer. Even if ten hours a week would be taken up by lessons, and nearly that many again by planning them, she had plenty of time to indulge in her first love.

Her first love, she repeated with a smile. No, that wasn't composing. That was Brady. He had been her first love. Her first lover. And it was more than probable he would be her last.

He loved her. Or believed he did. He would never have used the words unless he believed it. Nor could she, Vanessa reflected. She had to be sure of what was best for herself, for him, for everyone, before she risked her heart with those three words.

Once she said them, he wouldn't let go again. However much he had mellowed over the years, however responsible he had become, there was still enough of that wild and willful boy in him to have him tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her off. While that fantasy might have its appeal, a daydream appeal, she was too sensible a woman to tolerate it in reality.

The past was done, she thought. Mistakes had been made. She wouldn't risk the future.

She didn't want to think about tomorrow. Not yet. She wanted only to think of, and enjoy, today.

As she started toward the music room, the phone rang. She debated just letting it ring—a habit she'd developed in hotel rooms when she hadn't wanted to be disturbed. On the fifth ring, she gave in and answered.

“Hello.”

“Vanessa? Is that you?”

“Yes. Frank?” She recognized the voice of her father's nervous and devoted assistant.

“Yes. It's me—I,” he corrected.

Vanessa could all but see him running a soothing hand over the wide bald spot on top of his head. “How are you, Frank?”

“Fine. Fine. Oh—how are you?”

“I'm fine, too.” She had to smile. Though she knew her father had tolerated Frank Margoni only because the man would work an eighty-hour week without complaint, Vanessa was fond of him. “How's the new protégé?”

“Protégé—? Oh, you mean Francesco. He's brilliant, really brilliant. Temperamental, of course. Throws things. But then, he's an artist. He's going to be playing at the benefit in Cordina.”

“Princess Gabriella's benefit? The Aid to Handicapped Children?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sure he'll be wonderful.”

“Oh, of course. No doubt. Certainly. But, you see, the princess…she's terribly disappointed that you won't perform. She asked me—” there was an audible gulp “—personally, if I would persuade you to reconsider.”

“Frank—”

“You'd stay at the palace, of course. Incredible place.”

“Yes, I know. Frank, I haven't decided if I'm going to perform again.”

“You know you don't mean that, Vanessa. With your gift—”

“Yes,
my
gift,” she said impatiently. “Isn't it about time I realized it is mine?”

He was silent a moment. “I know your father was often in
sensitive to your personal needs, but that was only because he was so aware of the depth of your talent.”

“You don't have to explain him to me, Frank.”

“No…no, of course I don't.”

She let out a long sigh. It wasn't fair to take out her frustrations on the hapless Frank Margoni, as her father always had. “I understand the position you're in, Frank, but I've already sent my regrets, and a donation, to Princess Gabriella.”

“I know. That's why she contacted me. She couldn't get ahold of you. Of course, I'm not officially your manager, but the princess knew our connection, so…”

“If I decide to tour again, Frank, I'll depend on you to manage me.”

“I appreciate that, Vanessa.” His glum voice brightened perceptibly. “And I realize that you've needed some time for yourself. The last few years—grueling, I know. But this benefit is important.” He cleared his throat with three distinct clicks. “And the princess is very stubborn.”

Reluctantly Vanessa smiled. “Yes, I know.”

“It's only one performance,” he continued, sensing a weak spot. “Not even a full concert. You'll have carte blanche on the material. They'd like you to play two pieces, but even one would make such a tremendous difference. Your name on the program would add so much.” He paused only long enough to suck in a breath. “It's a very worthy cause.”

“When is the benefit?”

“Next month.”

She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Next month. It's practically next month already, Frank.”

“The third Saturday in June.”

“Three weeks.” She let out a long breath. “All right, I'll do it. For you, and for Princess Gabriella.”