Unforgettable

by Ann Christopher

  Not always, Daniel thought bitterly, drinking deep even though the beer had turned to pickle juice in his mouth.

  “You still work?” Daniel asked him as the teams lined up for kickoff. “No one cuts a suit like you.”

  Another chuckle. “I still know my way around a sewing machine. I work two-three days a week. Makes me feel useful. Zoya’s turned the shop around. Spun Gold. And she spins it, too. Got a good head for business.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Big Shel glanced his way. “You seen the shop yet?”

  Another wave of hard feelings hit Daniel. Funny how Perfect Zoya could put her heart into being a world-class cellist, daughter and small-business owner...anything and everything except being interested in having a real conversation with Daniel.

  “Nope,” he said.

  “You should stop by one day,” Big Shel said.

  Daniel, who was consumed with the effort of not snorting, said nothing.

  “Don’t mean to yammer,” Big Shel said, taking no offense. “How’re you? You start at the vineyard tomorrow?”

  Finally. Safer ground.

  “Yeah. Keep your fingers crossed my father and I don’t kill each other on the first day.”

  “Too many cooks?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hmmm,” Big Shel said thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got issues with Zoya. Issues with your father.” Big Shel tapped an index finger to his own temple in his non-reproachful way. “You ever think you might be the issue?”

  Daniel frowned. “I thought you were Switzerland.”

  “Might want to think about it.”

  “I thought we were watching the game,” Daniel said irritably.

  Big Shel’s brows rose with amusement. “There go those hackles again. You ever think of meditation?”

  “Are we watching the game, or not?”

  Big Shel hid his grin behind a sip.

  Daniel glared at the game for a good three seconds before his attention drifted back to the piano and the cello that wasn’t there.

  In a life full of irksome things, feeling weak or showing vulnerability of any kind, especially to another man, hovered near the top of his list. But Big Shel belonged to a different, nonjudgmental breed, and Daniel’s growing frustration and curiosity had him by the short hairs.

  And the cello was gone.

  “She doesn’t play anymore?” he asked, staring blindly at the TV.

  “She doesn’t play anymore.”

  “At all?”

  “At all.”

  “She said she was only with the symphony for a couple years right out of college.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought that was her dream job.”

  “So did I,” Big Shel said.

  Daniel thought back to the Zoya he’d known, the woman whose college apartment had always been filled with hours of soaring music as she practiced until the tips of the fingers on her left hand bled. He remembered all the times he’d watched her close her eyes and sway as she played, her face twisted with the same ecstatic expression she wore when he made her come. He thought about how she’d made herself laugh or cry, depending on the music, and how she’d arrive home stressed out after a bad bout of traffic, and unwind into a new person after half an hour with her precious cello. And the nights, too many to count, when he’d woken up to a cold bed and the pure melody of some classical piece whose name he didn’t know. When that music had lulled him right back to sleep with a smile on his face.

  Zoya had been all about the cello the same way Jimi Hendrix had been all about the guitar and John Coltrane had been all about the sax.

  And that was all over now?

  His body seized up, revolting against the idea.

  Her life had changed and moved in new directions during the last fourteen years. Daniel got that. He knew very little about her now. Galling as that was, he got that, too. But try though he did, scrunching up his mind’s eye to try to bring it into focus, he absolutely could not reconcile the woman she’d been, the one whose life revolved around music, with a woman who no longer played.

  “How can she still be Zoya without the cello, Shel?”

  Daniel asked the question quietly, while still facing the TV, perversely hoping that the old man didn’t hear him or that he’d think it was a rhetorical question and let it pass without answering.

  But Big Shel did hear him, and his expression, when he turned to face Daniel, was as troubled as Daniel’s heart.

  “She’s not still Zoya.” He hesitated, those owlish eyes unblinking. “I’ve been trying to get her back, but I’m not the man for the job.”

  “You ever—ah, forget it.”

  “Ever what, Danny Boy?”

  Big Shel’s infinite patience and understanding got to Daniel when he knew he should keep his stupid mouth shut. Feelings weren’t his thing, and talking about them damn near made him break out in hives.

  But with Big Shel…

  It might be okay. Just this one time.

  For the millionth time, he wondered what his life would have been like—what alternate paths he might have chosen—if he’d grown up with a father who understood him half as much as this man did, rather than one who spent all his time trying to mold Daniel into some idealized version of a son, then stared at Daniel with disappointed eyes every time he didn’t measure up.

  “You ever feel like there’s a mountain sitting in the middle of your life? Like you’re trying to move forward, and you’re looking for another trail or a tunnel or something…but all paths lead to this one mountain that won’t let you pass. I just…” Daniel shook his head, embarrassed now. “Forget it. Ignore me.”

  “You know what you need to do, Danny Boy?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Pull out your shovel. Start digging. Light a stick of dynamite. Get a rope and start climbing. Do something. Because that mountain?” Big Shel shook his head, his expression darkening. “It’s not going anywhere.”

  That was not what Daniel wanted to hear.

  Exhausted by the prospect, Daniel slumped back against the sofa.

  “Want another one, son?”

  With another kindly smile, Big Shel got up, squeezed Daniel’s shoulder and headed for the kitchen, leaving Daniel drowning in his turbulent thoughts.

  Chapter 12

  This was what her life had come to, Zoya thought dismally that night at ten thirty-eight as she loitered outside Daniel’s door. Skulking in apartment hallways and praying none of the neighbors saw her and reported her to the police for stalking. Paralyzed with ambivalence, her skin too tight and her blood flowing hot and thick for the worst possible man. Making decisions with the ruined fragments of her heart and her throbbing sex rather than with her brain.

  Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she pulled out Daniel’s key, which she’d placed on a key ring, and tried to think.

  As best she could tell, three options sat on the table in front of her. All of them ended with unhappiness. Two-thirds of them would inevitably end with despair on her part.

  Option 1: return Daniel’s key immediately and never have sex with him again. Her body would be deeply dissatisfied with this option, true, but it was best for her emotional health and was what she should have done last night. Should have just left this key on the nightstand and never looked back.

  Option 2: have sex with Daniel again tonight, and then return the key. Her body would be thrilled with this option. At least until the everlasting cravings for him began again, which would take an hour at the most. She’d feel like hell tomorrow, but her mental health stood a reasonable chance of surviving intact.

  Option 3: have sex with Daniel tonight, tomorrow and every other night she possibly could until he finally reverted to his true colors and walked out of her life again. Obviously, her body raised both hands to vote for this option.

  But her poor heart was already huddled up and preparing for the coming blow.

&nbs
p; Maybe she should just—

  Daniel’s door swung open without warning. Suddenly he loomed in front of her, as immoveable as the Catskills on the other side of the river.

  Zoya stilled, the key frozen in her palm.

  He was in a mood. She saw that right away. Though he wore his T-shirt and knit shorts like he was ready for bed, his squared shoulders, tight jaw and glinting eyes showed no signs of relaxation, much less warmth.

  At least not for her.

  “Are you coming in?” he asked coldly. “I don’t have all night for you to make up your mind. I start my new job first thing in the morning.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  Crooked grin. “You should try not thinking so hard. I can hear your thoughts clanking around in your head. Come in.”

  “No, thanks.” Geez. Her voice sounded ridiculously weak and ineffectual compared to the rush of blood in her ears. “I just wanted to return your key.”

  She stood up straight and held it out to him.

  His lips thinned. “Sure you did.”

  Grabbing a hank of her silky robe around her waist (ever since he swiped the sash last night, she’d been forced to use the tiny inside straps to tie it closed) he pulled her into his apartment, where the only light came from the muted TV and the crackling flames in the fireplace.

  “Hey!”

  Naturally, he paid her no attention. Instead, he shut the door. Locked it behind her.

  That was when she heard it.

  The rich, pure strains of Bach’s “Unaccompanied Cello Suites” filling his apartment. Yo-Yo Ma, by the sound of it.

  Her breath stuttered with shock.

  If she’d thought being in Daniel’s presence again was emotional enough, it was nothing compared to being with him while listening to the piece she’d once been able to play in her sleep. Memories rushed back to her, not caring how ruthlessly she’d worked to repress them. The polished poplar of her beloved cello, so smooth beneath her hands. The hard lines of the strings as her fingertips flew across them. The way her right arm swooped and sliced with the bow, creating rhapsodies where there’d only been silence. The frustration when she couldn’t play something right. The glorious joy when she could.

  Oh, she remembered.

  Daniel and her music. The two things she’d once lived for together again in the same room.

  “Why are you listening to this?” she asked, her broken heart wedged in her throat.

  His watchful gaze stayed on her face. “It’s beautiful. Reminds me of that day you were practicing it before a concert and you couldn’t get the one section right. You were so frustrated. I thought you were going to smash the cello. So I took you kayaking to clear your mind. Remember that? It was a perfect day on the river. Then we had ice cream. You had mint chocolate chip. Then we came back and you played it just right. Didn’t miss a note.”

  Sudden tears threatened to embarrass her before she ruthlessly blinked them back. She remembered everything about that exquisite day, including the way Daniel made love to her—gently and tenderly—after she finished practicing.

  “I’m not staying, Daniel. Here’s your key.”

  She thrust it at him again.

  Slow murder flashed in his eyes as he snatched the key and threw it aside. It hit the wall with a hard clink that made her cry out.

  “Take off your robe,” he told her.

  “I told you,” she said, but some strange combination of the music, her desire and the force of his will were already conspiring to make her blood heat and her words a lie. “I’m not staying.”

  “I see.” A muscle throbbed in his temple. “You won’t have a drink with me, stay the night with me, talk to me, watch the game at your father’s with me or smile at me, and now you think you’re also not going to fuck me? I don’t think so, Kitten. Take off your robe. So I can give you what you came for.”

  “No—”

  He reached for the two halves that crossed between her breasts, a low rumble of annoyance vibrating in his throat. One efficient tug was all it took, and the next thing she knew, the robe was open, exposing her to the cool air and his eyes. He pushed it over her shoulders and it slithered to the floor in a swish of silk.

  Not that she did anything to stop him.

  Sheer defiance made her stand tall and strong.

  As for covering her naked body to block his heated inspection? Or wasting time to feel self-conscious about her little pooch of a belly or the saddlebags that wanted to form on the outsides of her thighs? With him looking at her like that?

  Never crossed her mind.

  He looked her up and down, a hard, arousing stare that lingered on the aching tips of her nipples, the waxed cleft between her legs and—oh, God, he circled her, checking her out from all sides like some twisted master at a slave auction, trying to decide if this particular female was a worthy addition to his collection—her ass.

  By the time he got back around to her front, every nerve ending in her body sang with anticipation and the urge to rub herself to relieve some of the need bordered on overwhelming.

  Breathing became damn near impossible.

  Her only consolation?

  His serrated exhalation told her he had the same problem, as did the size of the erection tenting his shorts.

  She stared him in the face and their gazes reconnected. The force of his desire radiated around him like a white-hot aura, glittering in his eyes and throwing palpable waves of heat off his skin.

  “Returning my key, were you?” he asked in a velvety voice completely at odds with the leashed power in his body. “That seems like the kind of thing you might wear panties for.”

  Oh, how she wanted to smack him in his smug mouth.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “No, Kitten.” One corner of his mouth curled up. “I’m thinking about the best way to make you come.”

  Anticipation made her shiver. “Good.”

  He paused, eyes narrowed and thoughtful.

  “Touch yourself for me. Let’s start there.”

  Did he think he was going to shock her?

  Humiliate her?

  “Where?” she asked silkily.

  A glimmer of a smile softened his expression. “Everywhere.”

  She raised her hands—

  “Wait,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

  He pulled out a blindfold and held it out to her.

  Zoya hesitated. She’d been with her share of men and had sex in many lovely ways. She’d never let one blindfold her, and if she’d chosen the one for the job, it probably wouldn’t have been the man who ripped her heart out.

  She looked from the blindfold to his watchful eyes. Read the subtle challenge there.

  Then she put the blindfold on.

  Her immediate reward? The velvety brush of Daniel’s lips as he leaned in to speak in her ear.

  “Make yourself come.”

  Well, why not?

  Was she going to waste time feeling self-conscious about engaging in a party for one in the middle of his living room? What would be the point? They were both adults. He wanted to watch her come. She wanted to come and to drive him wild. End of story.

  Besides.

  The blindfold gave her a perverse kind of freedom. She didn’t have to watch or please him. Didn’t have to gauge his reactions or feel embarrassed about having an audience.

  All she had to do was lose herself inside the darkness, the music and her desire.

  Easy.

  Raising her hands, she sifted them through her hair as she let her head fall back. Then she trailed them down either side of her neck and lower, to the outer curves of her breasts. Once there, she ran her fingers in narrowing circles, stopping just short of the bull’s-eyes—her nipples.

  “Jesus,” he said in a throaty voice.

  When her nipples ached and demanded relief, she palmed them, hard, and kneaded them with a rough grip that made her moan with pleasure. She rubbed. She squeezed. She flicked and gently
pinched.

  On the other side of the blindfold? She sensed Daniel’s utter stillness. His rapt attention.

  All the work on her breasts made need spiral inside her, lower and lower, until it concentrated in that one exquisite bud at the apex of her thighs. So she massaged her way down her sides and across her hips, to her belly. When her fingers brushed the top of her narrow strip of wiry hair, she stopped.

  Daniel’s breath caught.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  He came closer, bringing the scent of Ivory soap and a wall of body heat with him. “You don’t touch me,” he warned.

  She sighed helplessly, a begging puppet dancing on the end of his strings. “Kiss me. Please.”

  His mouth skated across hers. She shuddered, crying out, and automatically reached for his face to anchor him there so she could taste him. His mouth disappeared and he reinforced his message by taking her wrists with a firm squeeze.

  “You don’t touch me,” he said, his voice in her ear and in her head. “You touch yourself.”

  But to her surprise, he raised her right hand and sucked her middle fingers all the way into his mouth. The wet suction—so sensual; so unexpected—was almost her undoing.

  “Daniel.”

  Who knew that fingers were an erogenous zone, shooting electric bolts of pleasure directly to a woman’s sex? Or was it just that a skilled lover like Daniel was a wizard, capable of making G-spots appear out of thin air?

  He tipped his head back, letting her fingers slide out of his mouth and resisting her efforts to capture his face again.

  “Touch yourself,” he reminded her, lowering her hands between them.

  Entirely at his mercy now—if he told her to baa-baa like a sheep, she’d start sewing herself a woolly costume—she took a deep breath and tried to refocus. She ran her middle finger over her slick cleft, making herself shudder and cry out with delicious, streaking sensation.