Striking a Chord
When Nick Laurent’s grief over losing his wife transitions into full-blown depression, his best friend Paolo DeLuca is worried. After trying and failing to pull Nick out of his downward spiral, he decides that his girlfriend Angharad Johns can accomplish what he can’t, and convinces her to try seducing the guitarist.
Nick Laurent, missing his wife and wishing that his friends would leave him alone in his grief, is unsure of accepting a new partner in Angharad. As his feelings for her develop, Nick wonders if he’s betraying his late wife by falling for Paolo’s girlfriend.
Angharad Johns is conflicted at the idea of seeing two men at the same time. Instead of being the seducer, Angharad is seduced, and soon finds her schedule fuller than she could ever imagine. If she is going to keep this up, she has to find a way to fit both gorgeous men into her life.
Genre: Contemporary, Multiple Partners
Length: 34,562 words
STRIKING A CHORD
Mary K. Preston
POLYAMOUR
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: PolyAmour
STRIKING A CHORD
Copyright © 2013 by Mary K. Preston
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62242-541-9
First E-book Publication: March 2013
Cover design by Harris Channing
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my wonderful family and friends, who have pressured me for years to actually publish something I’ve written. Thank you, guys!
STRIKING A CHORD
MARY K. PRESTON
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
Angharad stood in the hallway, staring at the door. She raised her hand to knock. It fell, numb and nerveless, to her side again. Just knock, she thought at her hand, glancing at it, shifting her weight from one leg to another. She took a deep breath, lifted her hand again. It retreated again, less a fall than a hesitation. What if he wasn’t in? Oh God, more to the point, what if he was? Don’t be ridiculous, she thought at her questioning self. Of course he’s in. Where else would he be? She briefly considered the possibility of standing outside of his door until something drew him out of the apartment, of pretending she had only just come up. Oh, I was just coming to see you. Angharad discarded the idea. It was the stupidest kind of ploy. She bit her lip in thought and shifted her weight to her other foot again. The climate control in the antique type of building he lived in never seemed as efficient as the newer apartments. It was the kind of late summer that city dwellers dreaded, the heat magnified by all the asphalt, reflected into deep, glassy canyons and radiating off of chrome and steel. Like living in a microwave. She could hear the dull roar of the climate control working, but there was still something stale in the air there in the hallway. She breathed in the faint smell of floor cleaner, someone’s cooking, industrial grease from the workers downstairs keeping the elevator running. They’d actually stopped what they were doing to let her use the elevator. “You don’t want to hoof it up those stairs in them shoes,” one of them had said. She looked down at her feet. They hurt anyway—it wasn’t as though the stairs would have put much more of a pinch on her toes. It would have maybe made them numb, even. But she had appreciated the gesture.
Her stomach roiled with an echo of discontent from the morning. She hadn’t slept well the night before—hadn’t slept at all the night even before that—and waking up, nerves like hot metal coiling in her body, had been both difficult and a relief. She had almost talked herself out of coming, almost put it off another day, another week. Just as well to get it over with and at least get some sleep out of the deal. Anxiety had pulled her out of the few brief moments of deep sleep she had accomplished, the sudden feeling like her alarm clock would go off at any moment, or that she’d already overslept. It was one of those silly unconscious mechanisms from her long-gone school days. She had pulled herself out of bed, her eyes feeling gritty, her mouth dry, and her stomach pitching and twisting, letting her know its thoughts on her lack of sleep. A shower, she had decided, would set her right enough to contemplate breakfast.
The shower had helped, at least enough to clear her head of the sleep-deprived fog. Alternating hot and cool water, she had gotten herself clean in automatic movements, holding her head out of the water flow for a few minutes to let the conditioner sink in while she ran her hands over her legs, feeling the smooth skin. She had dried off slowly, wrapped her dark auburn hair in a thick towel, slipped into her favorite robe, cotton soft like a T-shirt, aquamarine blue with yellow roses patterned on it. A gift… she didn’t think about that, instead made her way over to the kitchen nook. It was somewhat to her despair that she had let herself be blinded by a sizeable balcony and enormous living room, not noticing how ill suited the kitchen was to any but the most basic of meals. The cabinets were fine old wood, solid, but too few. She’d had to convert a spare closet into pantry usage, the distance not convenient for cooking but well enough for basic storage. A compromise. She flipped on the burner under the kettle. Her brain wanted c
offee, but her stomach wanted tea. Waiting for the water to boil, she decided to appease her stomach with white toast and her brain with the coffee it wanted, not too much sugar but plenty of milk. She scooped coffee into her French press, flipped the whistle just before the steam activated it and poured. In a few minutes, she was sitting in the late morning sun with coffee and toast with homemade strawberry jam from her mother, music playing. Almost ready to face her errand of the day.
Her stomach for the moment quieted by the alchemy of crisp toast and sweet berries, she went back into her bedroom. How did one plan for such an event? She slipped out of her bathrobe, let her hair out of the towel, and looked at herself in the mirror, seeing her auburn hair with its coppery glints, her olive-pale complexion, long legs and short waist, her hourglass shape. Her face in the frame of her wet hair was a slightly rounded oval, with high cheekbones from her Native American ancestry, hazel eyes, and slightly thin lips. Too short and with looks just a touch too quirky to model, she emphasized her curves and modified her clothes to her own taste. This was getting her nowhere. She turned away from the mirror and toward her closet, music drifting in from the living room, coloring the atmosphere. She tried to fool herself that it soothed her. She flipped on the light and peered at her choices, tried to think strategically. She wanted to be sexy, but not obvious. A skirt, she decided, twisting her bottom lip between thumb and forefinger meditatively. She thought back. What had he seen her in? What would be new to him? Would it be better to pick a completely new outfit, or to go with something familiar? Was this event formal or casual? She giggled a little hysterically and then made herself stop. But her moment of hysteria had jogged loose a memory, a comment he’d made.
She had pulled her outfit together quickly after that and dried her hair, styling it to keep the slight waviness intact. Indulging in another long stare in the mirror, she decided to keep her makeup minimal, just enough to highlight her high cheekbones, frame her big eyes, a swipe of lip stain across her lips to tint them just a bit. She brushed her teeth and applied another light coating of the liquid color to her lips to undo the harm. Her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and told herself she was doing the right thing. What was the worst that could happen? she had asked herself. That he’ll say no? A quieter interior voice added, that he’ll say yes? She felt a rush of blood to her face, spreading down from her cheeks to her chest, all the way up to her hairline. She told herself to stop speculating, to just get it over with. One last look in the mirror and she made for the door, grabbing her purse on the way.
The cab ride over had been relieved by the occasional mutters, shouts, and slammed brakes of the driver. She was grateful for the way that being slammed back into her seat made her forget her ruminations, her nervousness. Halfway to the apartment, she had a sudden impulse to tell the driver to stop, to give him a different direction. She bit her lip just long enough to stifle it, to pass the point of no easy return. Given the man’s temper, she wasn’t sure it would even be safe to suddenly tell him to go somewhere else. Temporizing, she made it to the address and gave the cabbie a good tip, a smiling, “Have a good one.” She’d been let in by the doorman. He knew her. And now…
Chapter Two
She looked down at her outfit, picked with a memory in mind, and only at that moment debated herself on the selection. She wore a dark green paisley skirt, asymmetrical, floating in silky fabric just a few inches above her knees. With it was a creamy off-white blouse, cut perfectly to cling to her curves, with a deep V-neck. She had worn an unusual green amber necklace, catching some of the lighter green tones in the paisley of the skirt. Her legs were bare underneath the skirt, ending in dark-green suede heels. She had worn the matching earrings that went with the necklace, less because she thought he would notice the detail and more because she loved the cool green of the stones. She had reminded herself while putting them on that she knew he had an eye for details, for the little things that made up the pleasing whole. He was attentive to everything. She didn’t have any reason to leave anything to doubt. She took a deep breath. Her hand felt like it was made of lead, but she raised it, took another breath, and knocked on the door.
From the other side of the polished wood door, she heard the sound of his French bulldog, Sophie, barking. There was a slight sound of movement. Angharad made out the skittering of claws on the floor, the deadbolt shooting, and then the clink of the chain lock, the seal-cracking sound of the door. Before the door began opening, she would have given long odds against her heart racing any faster than it had been. Now, trying to keep her composure, she took a surreptitious breath. He was all long lines. The figure in front of her had slightly curling hair, darkened from its normal mid-brown by a recent shower, falling past his shoulders, long arms and legs, skinny articulate fingers, lean torso not quite as long as his legs. She took in his big, bright blue eyes, the three days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, the way his much-washed T-shirt, the sleeves cut away, draped across his wide shoulders and didn’t quite cover his flat stomach. His jeans were more an idea than a reality, ripped and frayed, almost a second skin. Hearsay and common rumor said that he didn’t wear anything underneath those jeans.
“Hey, Nicky,” she said, finding the courage to smile. He didn’t quite smile back. His lips curved in an ironic movement, but his eyes looked straight through her, almost burning her in their intensity. It was as though he lived in a different climate, the way he looked so cool and calm, not sweating in the stifling heat. She could hear music, muffled by distance, playing in the apartment.
“Annie,” he replied, his voice soft, blue, a crushed-velvet voice with a slightly French emphasis.
“You’re not busy, are you?” she asked, shifting her weight, tilting her head slightly. His eyes changed color somehow from bright cerulean to robin’s egg, and he shook his head.
“Nah. Come in.” He opened the door wider and then turned away from it. She stepped in, following his gesture that she should precede him. Nick’s apartment was an impressive old relic with well-maintained hardwood flooring and pristine walls. Angharad stooped down out of his way, greeting Sophie with a few caresses for a moment to help her keep her composure. “Want a beer?” Nick asked, walking toward the kitchen. Angharad nodded, knowing he would get her one without even checking for her response. After a few more moments of lavishing attention on the dog, she stood, following her host into the kitchen. Nick took the cap off of a Stella Artois, handed it to her, and attended to his own. Out of long habit, she took a sip, put the bottle down on the counter top, and lifted herself to sit next to it.
“I wanted to drop by,” she told Nick, taking another sip of her beer, trying not to be obvious about watching him take a long pull from his own. “I haven’t seen you in a while, since…” She faltered, took another sip of beer to cover.
“Since the funeral,” Nick finished for her. “No, I haven’t been out of the house much. Where have you been, Annie?” His bright eyes on her again, Angharad somehow found the courage to shrug.
“I thought I’d give you some space. And then, of course, I had a dozen deadlines to meet.” She smiled wryly. Nick took another pull of his beer.
“You’re about the only person who thought I might like some space. And now you’ve come to invade my space, too.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m not blaming you,” he said, stopping short. “If I haven’t been out of the house, it’s partly because there’s always been someone here to watch me, ever since…” He took a deep breath. “I probably know more about your boyfriend’s current events than you do.” He smiled at Angharad, and she felt an echo of the old charm she’d known in him. There was something about his sarcasm, his cynical humor, the way he could smile sometimes that took away the ability to breathe.
“He’s not neglecting me,” Angharad said. “He was over the night before last.” Better not to think of that, she told herself. “I’ve got an article out next week. Three full pages!” Nick raised his bottle in congratulations. “I w
as thinking, we should go out for lunch. It’s a nice day for it.”
“It’s already two,” Nick said, but with a little grin. “You just want me to take you to Mom’s.” His mother, an enterprising Frenchwoman, had carved out a niche in the restaurant scene, offering housewifely cuisine to the jaded appetites of gourmands. Nick had treated her to lunch there before, to celebrate a victorious campaign of writing snippets and only the occasional real article that had ended in her securing her own column at the magazine she worked for.
“Well, whose fault is it that your mom has the world’s best coq au vin recipe?” Angharad kicked her feet a bit in the air. Nick laughed, a real, genuine laugh, and for a moment the person he’d been before. But then, just as quickly, he stopped. He looked into his beer bottle and knocked half of its contents back.
“I don’t feel like going anywhere.” He leaned against the counter opposite Angharad, crossed his arms over his chest. So defeated, Angharad thought, just like the last time she’d seen him. Angharad looked around his apartment. He’d moved in record time. Within two weeks, he’d been out of the old apartment, a luxury place with four bedrooms. This new place was every bit as luxurious, but much smaller. From what Paolo had told her, it was a two-bedroom, with one of the rooms stuffed with guitars and amplifiers and a futon crammed into a corner in case of drunken guests. It was on the other side of the city from Nick’s old place, as far removed from the ultra-modern building he’d lived in as it was possible to get. Like a wounded animal, he’d gone to den. The countertop at this new place was easier to hop onto, but not as comfortable, she thought. The countertops at the other apartment had been butcher block, and these were some kind of stone. Some ambitious renovator had updated the appliances, and Angharad would normally have coveted the nice range with its pristine burners if she hadn’t been preoccupied.
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