me. They’re about the people who patronize them.”
“True.” She knew all about that. When she composed music she had to keep in mind what people would want to hear, and yet … pieces of her soul were always there.
She wished that her gift hadn’t gone. That aspect of music … it had been so much in her. Woven through her being. To look at the scenery, this gorgeous hotel, and not hear a soundtrack to it was still painful. She didn’t know if she’d ever get used to that resounding silence always filling her head now.
It made her body feel foreign to her. Wrong. All of her, every bit, felt wrong. Like being caught off guard by a change in tempo and not quite being able to find the rhythm again, stumbling over notes, breaking the melody so that it was an unrecognizable jumble. It was such a hellish nothing.
She meandered across the plush living area, her fingers drifting over the keys of the piano reflexively as she passed it by on her way to the exterior balcony. She needed air. Space. If only she could escape from herself. Just for a moment.
She opened the sliding door and stepped outside, the cool air from the ocean raising goosebumps on her arms. At least out here she could breathe better. She hadn’t gone out on the balcony the previous times she’d stayed here. She’d looked out the windows at the view, had thought about stepping out, but there hadn’t been time.
She frowned. Why? It would only have taken a moment. What else had she missed? Small things. Simple things. An ocean breeze. Having friends. Being kissed.
She closed her eyes and relished the feel of the damp wind on her cheeks.
As much as she wanted to blame everything on her mother, she’d been guilty of having tunnel vision. Her mother had pushed it, supported it, but it had been in her. That drive. That obsession. The need to be better, the best. To push a bit harder each and every day.
Was it any wonder it had all deserted her?
She opened her eyes, watched the waves, the whitecaps glowing in the moonlight as they crashed over the shore. Ebbing and surging, soft and hard, fast and slow. Like music. Something she’d never stopped to look at before, not really. She felt a low hum vibrate in her throat and a couple of notes spilled out. A piece of music. Not one she’d heard before. Her heart thundered hard, adrenaline surging through her. It was the first time in a couple of years there had been something, a sound, a note. Anything.
“Thought the night called for champagne. Alcohol of any kind, really.”
She turned at the sound of Ethan’s voice and saw him standing in the doorway, two flutes of bubbly in hand, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, his feet bare, dark hair tousled like a woman had just run her fingers through it.
Now, this was very, very different than her stay last time. She swallowed, but despite the moisture in the air, her throat felt dry.
“I won’t say no to that.”
He walked to where she was standing, looking like every woman’s secret fantasy, his dark eyes locked with hers. He handed her a glass and leaned over the railing, touching the edge of his flute to hers. “Cheers.”
She lifted hers in mock salute. “Cheers indeed.” She took small sip of the bubbly liquid, then cursed it, because champagne wasn’t going to help her dry throat. She turned her focus back on the waves. “It must be nice. Having your own success. Having all of this.” She gestured to the view.
He shrugged and leaned against the railing. “I don’t mind it.”
“You still want more, though? Enough to lie to your grandparents?” He shot her warning look. “I’m not judging. I’m involved in this too, aren’t I? I’m just asking.”
A muscle in his cheek ticked. “It’s not about having more. It’s about keeping my father from getting it.”
“I don’t understand why your grandfather would pass it on to him if he was that incompetent.”
“It’s not about his incompetence, though I guarantee you I’m twice the businessman he is. It’s about principles. You can’t just treat people like they’re there to serve you, with no regard for how they feel, and then get rewarded for it. I won’t see it happen.”
“Ethan …”
“I won’t watch him win, Noelle. Not after the way he treated my mother. It goes beyond the fact that he was unfaithful to her. He took her money, you know. Like your mother did to you. When his father wouldn’t give him what he thought he needed to expand his business interests, he siphoned it off of my mother while he was screwing other women behind her back. Or worse, in plain view. Everyone knew how little he respected her.” He took a drink of his champagne. “My mother’s not perfect, but she didn’t deserve that.”
Noelle’s throat felt tight. “No one does. I … I’m sorry.”
He laughed. Cold. Humorless. “Now isn’t that ironic? You, apologizing. I thought I told you not to do that.”
“Fine. Then I won’t. But I am sorry your mother was hurt. But will this … I mean … will it fix anything?”
He knocked back the rest of the champagne and backed away from the railing. “I’m going to bed.”
“Instead of talking to me?”
“I didn’t ask you to marry me for psychotherapy or companionship, Noelle. I won’t start pretending now.”
He turned and left the balcony, left her standing there with her heart pounding in her chest, a sick feeling rolling in her stomach. This was pretend, he was right. And it wasn’t about getting to know each other, or caring, or anything real.
So why had it started to feel like it was?
IT was sort of nice to have a reprieve from Ethan’s presence. Noelle spent the day in and around the hotel, trawling the little shops and indulging in a Vienna coffee at a café near the beach. It was decadent in so many ways. No one telling her what to do, and no pressing, horrible worries.
The bubble bath afterwards had been a major highlight too. Relaxing, which was nothing like being with Ethan. Warm and sensual too, which was a bit like being with Ethan.
She swore out loud in the empty hotel suite and embraced the rush of satisfaction it gave her. Her mother had used whatever language she wanted, whenever she felt like it, but Noelle had always been bound to protect her image of being a sweet, eternal child. Nothing even remotely adult or scandalous could be associated with her.
In the end, it hadn’t helped. She’d grown up. She’d gotten uninteresting.
She flopped onto the couch and put her feet on the coffee table. This was familiar. Nights spent alone in a hotel room. She’d always cherished the time. Time simply to be herself. To eat a chocolate bar and watch a movie showing her what she was missing, locked up in her ivory tower while the rest of the world lived.
She took a bite of her chocolate bar. She was reliving old times in a way. But there would be no sexy movies. Being around
