Morning Song Page 11

  Her heart began to pound as she looked at him; she tried to subdue it. ‘You’ve been busy,’ she returned casually, moving a step away from him to trail her hand lightly over the casing of one of the keyboards.

  ‘So have you,’ he responded, watching her with a new note of reserve in his voice.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but it was fun, wasn’t it?’ She tried to keep the conversation bright and neutral, wondering why he had followed her here, wondering if he had meant to provoke a reaction in her by reminding her of the last time they had been alone. If so, he had succeeded, because the warm memories flooded her, and with them, confusion and uncertainty. When she felt him touch her arm lightly, she jumped as though shocked, and then said quickly, to cover, ‘What’s this?’

  For a moment he hesitated, and she tensed herself for a confrontation. But then, to her great relief, he apparently decided to follow her lead, and he stepped around her to switch on the synthesiser. ‘One of the greatest contributions to twentieth-century music,’ he replied. ‘The only thing this particular little jewel doesn’t do is sing, and I understand they have models now that do even that.’

  She watched his long fingers deftly moving switches, one hand on the keyboard and another on the console, and the strains of a fugue filled the air like magic. ‘A little Bach,’ he said as she drew in her breath in delight. ‘How about some parlour music?’ he suggested, and the instrument quickly became a clavichord beneath the competent ministrations of his fingers. ‘Oh, hell, why go half way? Behold, Beethoven!’ She covered her ears and gave a squeal of delighted amazement as the instrument, amplified to the maximum, grew into a full orchestra in the opening strains of the Ninth Symphony. The room throbbed and pulsed with it, she thrilled with it in every nerve of her body, and Shane, the musician, controlled it all with the fingers of two hands.

  She filled with love and awe, watching him in such complete mastery of his art. It was where he belonged, where she had always imagined him to be, she felt almost reverent before him. And then he looked up, his easy grin breaking the spell as he left off the theme in the middle of a bar. ‘It’s a power machine,’ he admitted, turning down the throbbing hum of the amplifiers. ‘It can turn even a six-string guitar picker into a god.’

  Lauren shook her head, still beaming with pleasure. ‘You’re not a six-string guitar picker.’ Instead of being disappointed by his casual treatment of his talent, she was only impressed. This was his life, genius was only second nature to him, and she was honoured only to be able to witness it.

  He shrugged it off and drew her forward with a hand lightly on her back. ‘Come on, give it a try. You can get anything from a freight train to a pack of wolves out of this thing; it’s fun to play with.’

  ‘I’d rather have music,’ she told him, relaxing in the fact that they were sharing easily and without constraint. ‘Do some more.’

  There was a relaxed twinkle in his eye as he enquired, ‘What do I have to do to get a kiss from you?’

  A half-breath caught in her throat, an unexpected colour pinkened her cheeks. Was he teasing her again? She decided she did not want to find out, not when so much about him was still in a turmoil in her mind, and she dropped her eyes demurely. ‘Play,’ she responded.

  Shane bent his head to catch her expression, the spark in his eye now mischievous. ‘That’s not why I followed you in here,’ he told her.

  ‘Play,’ she repeated sternly, her pulse racing.

  ‘And when I do?’

  ‘Then,’ she told him, fighting back a smile, ‘we’ll talk about it.’

  He laughed and turned back to the instrument. ‘All right, what’ll it be? Stravinsky? Sousa? How about a little McCartney, just to set the mood?’

  His fingers were working the switches, touching the keys, filling the room with a familiar ballad. Watching it, loving the movements of his strong, slender fingers and the smoothness of his features as he concentrated on the music, the ease of mastery, she was moved beyond herself and into a part of him. She forgot for a moment all their differences and the strain of their relationship and remembered only that this was the man she had loved for ten years, who had filled her life with song and hope, and happiness flooded her just to be near him.

  She rested her hand lightly upon the back of his neck. ‘How about,’ she suggested softly, ‘a little Shane Holt?’

  He stopped. She felt his muscles tense beneath her hand, and the room throbbed with silence. She stiffened and let her hand drop, horrified at her stupidity, for if he would not even discuss his music, why had she thought he might play it? She hadn’t. She hadn’t thought at all, she had simply let herself be carried away ... she had ruined it all.

  And then, saving the moment, a high, sweet voice from the corridor, picking up the melody where Shane had left off. He relaxed, turning back to the instrument and resuming the song as though nothing had interrupted it as Angel came into the room.

  One by one, they floated into the room under the Pied Piper’s spell of Shane’s instrumentalisation—the drummer, picking up the soft tempo, the lead guitarist adding rhythm, Van fleshing it out with bass, Marie joining her voice in pretty harmony to Angel’s. And Lauren slipped out unnoticed.

  She made her way slowly upstairs, the music haunting her steps, reminding her with a vague aching in the centre of her chest that she did not belong there. With the musicians, Shane was relaxed and in his element, with her he was always holding back. She sighed as she pulled open the door of her closet and took out her nightclothes. What did she expect? It was her own clumsiness which kept pushing him away, causing him to constantly be on his guard against her. She knew the rules, and she seemed to be unable to avoid stumbling over them. But, she thought defensively, it was he who said we should get to know each other better, and even mentioned friendship ... it was a careless statement, perhaps, obviously devoid of meaning, but it wasn’t fair that he should lead her on and then keep turning her away.

  Now, while everyone was involved downstairs, would have been the perfect time to monopolise one of the three upstairs bathrooms for a long, relaxing bubble bath. But Lauren was still too keyed up for it, and she stepped out of her clothes, wrapping her hair in a towel, and into a quick, brisk shower.

  The hot water left her skin flushed and pleasantly tingling, and she observed herself in the foggy mirrored tiles with some small satisfaction as she smoothed on a lightly scented lotion. She had gained a little weight—not much, but at least she did not look quite so emaciated any more. Her small breasts were more clearly defined now, her face looked fuller. Softness and symmetry was still marred by the sharp protrusion of collarbone and hipbones, and the scar of her knee was hideous, but she was improving, the past week of daily, arduous walking had completely eradicated the limp, except when she was very tired—or very nervous. For the first time, she was beginning to believe the doctor’s forecast—that she would be able to live a perfectly normal life ... or almost normal.

  Don’t be an idiot, she told herself sternly as the familiar self-pity began to creep over her. You’re alive, aren’t you? You can walk, and see and hear and think ... so many worse things can have happened to you. Unconsciously, she was reflecting Van’s words from his first visit in the hospital, and somehow, something of what Shane had said to her on the hilltop became intermingled with her own newly positive feelings about herself. Your body was made for more than dancing, she realised slowly, brushing her hair with long, firm strokes until it fell like silken honey across her bare shoulders. You should be proud it’s healthy and relatively unscarred instead of burying yourself in sorrow over something that can’t be changed.

  She dressed, gave herself a brief, secretly encouraging smile in the mirror, scooped up her discarded clothes and left the bathroom feeling much better about everything than when she had entered.

  The music was still going strong, and she hated to close her door to block it out. She liked to think of Shane as he had been in that moment before she had ruined it all,
his beautiful fingers working magic upon the impersonal electronic box and his face softened with the beauty of the music he created. But, almost symbolically, she closed the door on the part of his world in which she did not belong, and gave a little gasp as she turned and saw Shane lounging on her bed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she exclaimed, startled. In confusion she glanced towards the door, still half believing that he was downstairs where she had last seen him, for the music had been perfectly audible through the noise of the shower and there had been no break. ‘Who’s playing the synthesiser? I thought—’

  ‘The old quick change-over,’ he answered with a shrug, rising. ‘It’s one of the first tricks you learn on stage, in case one of the performers is suddenly stricken with cramp or stage fright or a heart attack—the show must go on.’ He came towards her slowly, a lazy light in his eye sweeping her from head to foot. ‘God, you look beautiful!’

  Lauren swallowed hard and turned quickly away to put the bundle of clothes she carried on a chair. She had a passion for sensuous nightclothes and satiny underthings, and while her daytime wear was strictly casual and practicable, she indulged her most frivolous whims on personal clothing. One of her room-mates had once exclaimed that half of Lauren’s earnings must go towards lingerie, and she was not far from wrong. She was grateful that tonight’s selection was not particularly revealing—the chill of the house prevented it—but she was aware that the coral and ivory lace-trimmed peignoir she wore was one of her most flattering garments, and she wondered what instinct had prompted her to wear it tonight. The nightgown was of a shimmery, satiny-feeling synthetic, full and flowing from a sheer lace bodice which began just above her nipples and gathered into a ruffle at the throat. The matching robe was cut low to reveal the lace nothingness of the bodice and fell in smooth, straight lines to the point just above her ankles where a deep ruffle of lace joined the nightgown. The material was some sort of brushed fleece, so light it gave the illusion of sheerness and outlined her body when she moved, so soft it was like cashmere beneath the fingers, inviting touching. And that, as Lauren straightened up, was exactly what Shane did.

  His arms slipped about her from the back, his hands splayed across her abdomen, drawing her against his firm length and into the circle of his muscled arms. Automatically, as though he had pressed a button commanding adrenalin to flow and heart to pound, her blood began to course a fine flush over her body, her breathing became shallow, every nerve ending quickened in response to his touch. She tried to subdue the quivering which began with the sensuous motions of his fingers upon the material that covered her ‘abdomen, and said, struggling for a normal tone, ‘You never did tell me what you were doing here.’

  He smiled, and turned her within the circle of his arms to face him. ‘We had some unfinished business, I believe,’ he responded, and lowered his face to hers.

  His kiss was sure and soft, gentle but possessive, allowing no room for resistance on her part, or even the thought of it. And, as her arms curved automatically about his neck and her body swayed into the curve of his, resistance or protest was the last thing on Lauren’s mind. Something quickened within him at her easy response—delight, or surprise, or simply instinct, she could not be sure—and his hands tightened upon her back, pressing her closer, molding her into his shape. His mouth explored her parted lips, teasing them in a slow, deliberate, maddeningly provocative dance of the senses. Her fingertips were hot as they brushed the back of his neck, tingling with the feather-softness of his hair, drifting down to tighten on his broad shoulders for support. His hands wandered downwards, feathering against the backs of her thighs, caressing her buttocks, slowly massaging the satiny material of her nightgown into her tingling skin. Her body grew weak and pliable as his grew only stronger, more tense, yet with a deliberately maintained restraint as he moved his hands and his lips in an expert pattern of sensuality against her body, exploring and savouring each sensation to the fullest before moving on ... moulding her, weakening her, leading, not pushing, her to the point of vulnerability where she would no longer be able to refuse him anything.

  His lips left hers tingling and throbbing for more as his hand lightly pushed back her hair, baring her ear to the warm, moist explorations of his tongue. She shivered and clung to him, bending her head backwards with the course his lips traced upon the length of her throat, soft kisses, the gentle pressure of teeth, the delicate darting of a moist tongue ... The fleece robe was suddenly too hot, she was burning with a flush and perspiration filmed her skin; she wished he would take it off. If her hands had not been so heavy she would have done it herself, removing at least one of the barriers which lay between them ... and, with that, a small amount of reason filtered through.

  Shane was a man of unquestioned experience and innate sensuality; he most likely knew that no woman could hold out against him for long. It was a game he liked to play, nothing more, and if it ended the way he wanted—the way he was making her want—he would have forgotten about it as soon as he left her.

  She turned her head away from the throbbing pressure of his lips against her neck; she opened her eyes and looked at him, placing unsteady hands flatly against his chest, wedging distance between them. She said deliberately, though in hardly more than a whisper, ‘You’re a very skilled lover, aren’t you?’

  He surprised her by accepting her signal to stop, straightening up and moving his hands to rest lightly on her waist, the smile in his eyes was gentle, though still muted by the residue of smoky passion. ‘Why do I get the impression that was not a compliment?’ he responded softly.

  ‘Because ...’ She tightened her hands against his chest, tried to stiffen her body, but she was still too much a part of him to move away. Still her pulses raced and her skin was flushed and her limbs heavy, she wanted only to sink mindlessly into his embrace again. But she steeled herself. ‘Because,’ she told him steadily, ‘there’s more to making love than just technical skill ... just like there’s more to producing records than just knowing how.’

  She tensed herself for the coldness, for the anger, for the painful withdrawal. But the gentle light in his eyes did not fade, he registered no surprise. The corners of his lips deepened with a small, slightly mocking smile as he returned lightly, ‘Insults, from my one and only remaining loyal fan? I’m hurt!’ But he did not look hurt. He looked patient, vaguely amused, tender. He reached up gently to stroke her hair, adding, ‘Sounds as though you’ve been talking to Marie ... about record producing, I hope, and not about lovemaking techniques!’

  Lauren nodded, surprised by his casual acceptance of the fact. But hadn’t Marie told her he held no illusions about himself as a producer? She was glad, because she really had not wanted to insult him ... or hurt him. She had only wanted to break the mood.

  But in that she had not quite succeeded. She dropped her hands from his chest, feeling foolish for letting him hold her so intimately when she was desperately trying to avoid intimacy with banal conversation. But in this he refused to take the hint. His hands remained steady on her waist, the strength of his thighs hard against hers, the lazy light of lingering sensuality still in his eyes. ‘Are you trying to tell me,’ he asked softly, winding a strand of her hair about his finger, ‘that sex without love is meaningless? Or are you saying that you don’t find me quite as desirable as you thought you would?’

  She took a step backwards. Deliberately, she closed her hands about his wrists and released their hold on her waist. She said, quite evenly, ‘I’m trying to tell you that I’m not a big enough fan to go to bed with you. So if that’s what you’re looking for, go search out one of your old groupies. I told you before, I’m not one of them.’

  And it was those words, unplanned and unrehearsed, which had the effect of abruptly breaking the spell. Shane stiffened, he dropped his eyes briefly. When he looked at her again his expression was completely unreadable ... was it shock, disappointment, a mortally wounded ego? He must have thought it would be so easy, she thought in
rising anger, to seduce the child who had been following him around like a desperate puppy, hanging on his every word, exhibiting in her every action unmitigated adoration ... he would satisfy an appetite while subtly mocking her, and how disappointed he must be to be discovered! And just as it was all beginning to make horrible, twisted sense, his words shattered her rationale, leaving her both relieved and confused.

  ‘If and when you do go to bed with me,’ he said in a low voice, ‘it will not be for that reason. I’ll make damn sure of it.’ There was a quiet sort of fury in his eyes, now stripped completely of the bright gleam of passion, and a bitter disappointment. ‘And if you think I’m any more interested in casual sex than you are, you’re wrong. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime, and I thought it might be different with us ... I guess I was wrong.’

  He turned and started towards the door, and Lauren watched him in shock and confusion, hugging her arms against a sudden chill the absence of him had left. Why was she always misjudging him? Why did she always manage to say just the right thing to hurt and anger him ... when the last thing in the world she wanted to do was hurt him? He opened the door, and she wanted to call him back, to apologise and to comfort him, and to try to make things right between them again.

  And then, just when she thought it was too late, he closed the door, turning slowly and leaning against it. ‘Ah, hell,’ he muttered softly, ‘what am I doing?’ The expression on his face was contrite, behind the tight, self-mocking smile there was gentle pleading in his eyes. ‘I can’t go back down there,’ he admitted simply. ‘If I promise not to throw you on the bed and rip off all your clothes, can I stay?’

  She caught her breath in pure astonishment. ‘But—why?’

  ‘For the same reason I came up here in the first place,’ he answered. ‘To get away from all that noise and just be alone with you in a quiet place for a while.’ He came across the room towards her, seeking her permission to stay. ‘We could talk,’ he suggested. ‘Or if you don’t want to, just sit here and enjoy the solitude for a while. I promise I won’t touch you.’