was right. The VSO wasn’t a top, or even second-rank, orchestra. Maybe she did have the talent to play in one of the best. But she’d have to move again. Leave Vancouver…
“It’s not just a house,” she said softly, “it’s my home. For now, that matters a lot. Once I make it to the VSO, I’ll see if I’m happy there. For the rest of my musical career.”
He squinted at her. “The opportunity to play with the best in the world versus a home?” She could tell from his expression that he didn’t get it. All the same he nodded slowly and said, “I can see how, for you, that’d be a tough decision.”
For her. Not for him. It seemed pretty clear he’d always put career ahead of home. And yet, this music video thing of his was so different from the career he’d once dreamed of.
She tilted her head. “How about you, Giancarlo? You were going to be a concert pianist. You wanted Juilliard, too, then to perform all over the world.”
Was it the restaurant lighting or did a shadow cloud his eyes for a moment? He waved a hand dismissively. “A child’s dream. Even more, it was my parents’ dream. The truth is, I didn’t have the talent.”
“You did! You were brilliant.”
He shot her an amused look. “Ah, and you were qualified to judge, at all of seventeen?”
Maybe he was right. She’d seen him through the admiring, biased eyes of a friend and lover. “Well, I thought you were brilliant.” How sad for him to lose his dream because of lack of talent. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”
“No, no. It was partly, too, that I didn’t want to work that hard. You, now, I remember how hard you practiced. But me, I was always ready to desert the piano and go play.”
Or play—that is, have sex—on the piano. She tried not to blush.
“Do you play at all now?” she asked.
His mouth tightened. “There’s no time.”
“But you enjoy what you’re doing? Directing music videos?” She tried to keep her tone neutral and not sound like she was criticizing him for having turned commercial.
“I love it.” His face lit. “It’s creative, exciting, challenging, fun. On a good day, it feels more like a party than a real job.”
Yes, she did remember his irresponsible, carefree side. She shook her head affectionately. “You haven’t changed.” Then she quickly added, “Well, of course you have, especially physically, but that boy is still inside.”
“Of course he is. And he’s very happy to be sitting here with you, Rina.”
Giancarlo’s voice had always been appealing, and now it had deepened to a resonance that sent shivers of awareness through her. Especially when he was saying nice things and gazing at her with soulful chocolate eyes.
3
Rina straightened her spine and pulled the scarf tighter around her neck. No doubt he’d patented this routine, and used it to get into the panties—no, make that thongs—of countless stars and star wannabes.
But why would he be wasting it on her? No matter how close and sexy their relationship once might have been, no way could she still be his type.
“Rina? What’s wrong? You’re scowling at me.”
Although she hated confrontation, she’d long ago learned—partly by watching her mom with her dad—that things left unsaid could fester dangerously. “I asked you earlier what you wanted from tonight, and you said to catch up, which is great. But you…God, I’m hopelessly naïve, but I’m not used to men like you. The way you look at me, the inflection in your voice…Oh, this is crazy.” How pitiful, to read a come-on into an old friend’s attempts to be nice. Why on earth should she think he—
“I want far more than just to catch up.”
Wait a minute. Had she thought those words or had he actually said them? “Giancarlo?”
His gaze darkened, heated, and he leaned toward her, that thin sweater stretching across firm pecs and revealing bronzed skin and a few curls of black hair. Under it, he was naked. She imagined warm skin over firm muscle, enough hair to tangle her fingers in—all new since she’d known him. One thing wouldn’t have changed though: the milk chocolate nipples that had hardened so readily under her exploring fingers.
She sucked in a breath, feeling her own nipples tighten.
Again Giancarlo captured her hand. His touch robbed her of any hope of thinking straight. His fingers were long and graceful, yet firm and masterful as he stroked her hand then gripped it in his. Her skin grew warm and tingly, heat darted through her veins, her breath quickened. Between her legs, her sex throbbed and tightened.
“I don’t want to rush you, mia carissima, but the moment I saw you tonight, I felt the same as all those years ago.” His hand squeezed hers, his gaze was intense and—oh my God—passionate.
No, what was she thinking? Things like this never happened to Rina Goldberg. The man was just horny and looking for an easy lay. She jerked her hand free. “Giancarlo, you may think you’re flattering me, but what I’d appreciate most is honesty.”
His mouth fell open, then he shook his head vigorously, all those shoulder-length dark curls tumbling wildly. “No,” he said, a little too loudly. Then, more softly, “I’m telling the truth. Why don’t you believe me?” He leaned forward, his gaze hooking her and not letting go. “Tell me you looked at me and felt nothing.”
“I—” Even before she’d recognized him, when he’d been a stranger across the room, she’d felt attracted. Then, when she’d looked into those familiar eyes…Yes, she’d felt, for a moment, like everything was the same as it used to be. Before she came to her senses and took another look at the handsome, successful man he’d turned into. “All right, maybe I felt like I’d gone back in time. But we can’t just…pick up where we left off.”
That couldn’t be what he was suggesting. And yet, her needy body tingled with hope.
He reached out and with his index finger stroked the back of her hand, from the tip of her middle finger down to her wrist and up again, barely skimming the surface yet creating havoc with her senses. Oh yes, he still had that magic touch.
“Why not?” he asked. Now he danced all five fingers across her skin and she knew what he was doing. The piano man was playing music.
Could she recognize it?
Of course. It was “Für Elise.” When she’d been seventeen she thought the piece was hopelessly romantic, this music Beethoven had supposedly composed for the woman he hoped to marry.
Rina remembered all the other pieces Giancarlo had played for her, and the parts of her body he’d played them on. Running scales up and down her back, pounding chords with both hands on her buttocks, tinkling delicate melodies across her breasts.
And, between her legs, composing songs just for her, to make her body sing for him.
A wave of lust poured through her and she gave a wrenching shudder. Her scarf
