ever force himself on a woman, but he wasn’t about to turn down any opportunities this beauty—Emma—was willing to offer.
“I think I do.”
He had a condom in his wallet. She’d recently had a ring on her finger. Safe enough for him.
“Good,” he said, and lowering the lid to protect the piano keys, he rose, took her hand and led them out the back door.
* * *
EMMA WASN’T STUPID. She knew what she was agreeing to by leaving the bar with Chris. She just couldn’t seem to make herself care.
Because she was numb? Hurt beyond good judgment?
Because she was drunk?
Or because the piano man made her body sing in places a tune had never played?
The warm night air didn’t sober her. Or instill her with any better sense. It caressed her skin, heightening the surreal sense of vibrancy she felt as they walked hand in hand across a quiet street lit with old-fashioned gas lamps.
They reached the other side.
“I don’t…”
“Don’t what?” They were the first words he’d said since he’d locked the door of Citadel’s behind them.
Who was she kidding? This was no love tryst. She didn’t know anything about the man, except that he’d been endowed with a magnificent talent.
“I reserve the right to change my mind.” Emma strove to save herself from the unleashed woman inside of her.
“Of course.”
They stopped on the curb in front of one of the more expensive hotels in the tourist district. The doorman stood alert, in spite of the very early morning hour, appearing eager to be of service to them.
Chris’s eyes were blue. A vivid, bright blue—not the darker hue they’d appeared to be in the shadows of the restaurant. His hair, falling across his forehead, was dark enough to be almost black.
“You want me to walk you to your car?” he asked. His eyes belied the indifference in his voice.
“No!” She was surprised by the vehemence with which she said it. “I just want… I’ve heard stories….”
Words escaped her and she waited for him to get her drift.
He was silent.
“It’s only fair that you know, going in, that I might change my mind. At an inopportune moment.”
He raised one of his strong, gifted hands to her face and ran his fingers through her hair.
“I will stop,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “If at any time, any time, you change your mind, I will stop.”
She believed him. And hoped, God help her, that she wouldn’t want him to.
* * *
EMMA ALMOST GIGGLED as the elevator opened for them upon approach, as though it had been commanded to do so. Surely Chris didn’t have that much power.
Though, judging by the way he made her feel, she couldn’t be sure.
“Not many people going up and down at this late hour,” he said, stepping inside the car.
“I think I’ve had a lot to drink,” she said, grinning at him.
“Four glasses of wine by my count.”
He was counting? She stared at him. He’d been watching her that closely?
“From the moment you walked in tonight, I didn’t notice anything else.”
It was a good line and she was inebriated enough to like it.
“I’m not kidding,” Chris said, his voice deep, a bit husky, reminding her of a well-aged wine. One out of her price league. “I don’t play games with women.”
“I don’t play at all,” Emma said, her voice sounding tiny in the confines of the elevator. “This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”
A mood-killer if ever there was one. Yes, she’d discovered new things about herself tonight. But she was still Emma and now she was going to blow this whole thing.
If she did, chances were old Emma would win and she’d have to resign herself to a life of safety and security and settling for Robs.
She nearly laughed out loud at that last thought. Robs. Funny word.
But if she succeeded—if she made love with her piano man—she’d be forever changed. She’d no longer be the woman who’d never taken a chance, never faced danger, never had the nerve to do exactly what she felt like doing.
The elevator door slid open and Emma half expected Chris to gracefully bow out of his invitation.
Holding the door open with his body, he lifted her hand until her gaze followed.
“I’m glad you don’t make a habit of this,” he said, the smile in his eyes sending her spiraling as though he’d tipped her over the edge of a cliff. “You want to continue?”
“Yes.”
He guided her through the door, following closely, and when he came up beside her, he wrapped his arm around her waist.
They faced the elegantly appointed room together. And she tingled with anticipation. Not fear.
In that moment, Emma knew that if the night killed her, she’d die having lived.
And she’d prefer that to living her whole life as if she were already dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WASN’T SUPPOSED to happen this way.
The words repeated themselves in his mind. He wasn’t sure what they meant. But he heard them.
He probably even believed them. There just wasn’t a damn thing he could—or wanted to—do about them.
“I have a dry white or merlot,” he said as he peered into the stocked refrigerator in the living-room section of his hotel room.
The king-size bed was there, too, in plain view, about ten feet of plush beige carpet away.
Emma sat—still fully dressed down to the low-heeled shoes she wore—on the couch, but based on the stiffness of her posture and the way her gaze kept darting to the oversize armchair next to the couch he had the distinct impression that she’d have been more comfortable in the seat made for one.
He quirked his brow at her. “You ready to say stop?”
“Dry white, please.” Her brown gaze swung to him, and stayed there. Steady and strong.
