by Tara Wylde
“You mean besides escaping the fall of the Soviet Union, building a vast fortune and rescuing damsels in distress?”
“You know what I mean,” he grins.
“Anyone can learn,” I say. “Tell you what: since you’re teaching me self-defense, I’ll teach you piano. What do you think?”
He frowns, and with a stab of panic I suddenly realize what I just implied: that I’d be here long enough to teach him to play piano. That’s a lot to presume.
“I don’t think I can,” he says.
“That’s – that’s fine,” I stammer. “I mean, I didn’t mean to…”
He gives me a quizzical look and holds out his hands. “I mean because of these.”
Relief washes through me as I see what he’s talking about: those giant fingers of his.
“We can work with those,” I say. “It just takes practice.”
“If you say so.”
“Let’s start with just one.” I take his left hand in my right. “Index finger only.”
He extends his pointer and I tap it against the C key. “Tap this three times.”
He does. Then I take his finger onto the B, then the A, then back to the B, C and D. Then I lift his finger onto the E key.
“Tap three times.”
He does.
“Okay, now do all that again. Can you remember it all?”
He plays all twelve notes again in perfect order with perfect timing.
“See?” I say. “You’re a natural.”
“What was that?” he asks.
“Ever heard of Heart and Soul?”
He shakes his head, so I play the first few bars myself. “It’s a Hoagie Carmichael song. One of the great American standards, and a good first song for piano beginners.”
“You were using both hands, though,” he says glumly. “That looks complicated.”
“No more complicated than the techniques you’re teaching me to use in the dojo. Like you said, it just takes practice.”
I take his hand in mine again, only this time I stroke his palm with my fingertips.
“Like I said, I think we can work with these,” I coo. “Don’t you?”
He gets my drift instantly, hungrily. An instant later, his hands are on my thighs and his lips are on my throat as his fingers roam into places where they’re more than welcome.
“That’s the way,” I sigh. “Practice makes perfect.”
Chapter Eighteen
18. STORM
“This china is exquisite,” I say as I lay out the place settings on the huge ebony table in the dining room. “Where did it come from?”
Nick opens his mouth to answer, but I stop him. “Let me guess: it came with the house?”
He smiles and shrugs. “You didn’t honestly think I bought china, did you?”
Not for the first time, I wonder just how much he paid for this place. The plates are thick, blue and white, with stylized pagodas and birds of paradise in the centers. I don’t know anything about antique china sets, but judging by the amount of dust I had to wash off, it’s worth something.
In any case, it’s sure to impress our guests. You know, just in case the cavernous mansion and the rest of the estate don’t. I’m not sure why that matters to me – maybe because I’ve never had nice things, and it feels good to have them now, even if they’re not mine.
What feels even better is the freedom I feel. Freedom to be myself, for the first time in my life. To be an extrovert. To be fun.
“How’s the food coming?” I ask, placing the last of the silverware.
He runs his hand through his thick black hair. “Good, I guess. Olivier salad and borscht are in the fridge, charcuterie and caviar are ready for cocktail hour. Lamb’s marinating for the shashlik. We can wait till after dinner to cut the sweet cheese and fruit.”
I stare at him, grinning.
“What?” he asks, frowning. “Did I forget something?”
“You’ve never had people over for dinner?”
“I told you, no.”
“Why not? You’re obviously built for it. They’re going to love it!”
“The food, maybe,” he says. “But that’s not all there is to a dinner party. Guests expect you to… you know, talk. Be charming, and all that shit.”
I giggle and shake my head. “I guess that’s why we make such a good team.”
“We’re a pair, all right – I can’t talk and you can’t cook.”
“I made piroghis,” I say, slapping his shoulder as I pass by on my way to the kitchen. “And you actually had a real conversation with Ellie and Frank the other day. Sort of.”
Nick pours us each a glass of wine and we sit next to each other on the stools at the breakfast bar. My first sip almost knocks me off my seat – it’s rich and sweet and delicious.
“Whoa,” I say. “This is amazing.”
Nick takes a gulp of his own and smacks his lips. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?”
He lifts the bottle and peers at the label.
“Chateau Mouton-Rothschild, 1945,” he reads, butchering the French pronunciation. “There’s a bunch of it in the cellar. I’m a beer man, myself.”
I look at him sidelong. “Where did it come from? And if you say…”
“It came with the house.”
I shake my head. “So everything classy about you came with the house?”
“Not everything,” he says. “You didn’t come with the house.”
The way he says it – so matter-of-factly, not as a come-on – makes hot blood rush to my cheeks, and into other areas that make my tummy flutter. If I didn’t know our guests could arrive at any minute, I think I would actually take him by the hand and lead him up to his bedroom.
Then again, we have all night. A thrill runs up my spine at the thought of how the evening might end. I’ve never been so ready for anything in my life.
“Ahem,” I say. “That’s very sweet of you.”
He kisses my forehead. That’s not going to do it, so I grab his face in my hands and lay a long, deep, wet kiss on his mouth.
The deep double chime of the doorbell breaks us out of our passion.
“Shit,” I whisper as our lips part.
“Remember,” he says, touching his forehead to mine. “You’re the one who wanted this.”
I sigh. “Be careful what you wish for.”
By nine o’clock, there’s not a scrap of lamb left on the table, and everyone is groaning softly.
“Jesus, Nick,” says Ramona Patterson, the town’s self-proclaimed matron and president of the Rotary Club. “If I’d known you could cook like that, I would have married you a long time ago.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, babe, but so would I,” says her husband, Greg, the senior partner of a prestigious law firm in Manhattan.
The rest of the table chuckles, except for Frank, who’s too busy picking his teeth with a complete lack of self-consciousness. Ellie finally elbows him and he stops.
“The house is still treating you well, Nick?” asks Louis Beauchesne, the realtor who sold it to him. “You say Storm is sizing up the antiques – you wouldn’t happen to be looking for a new place, would you?”
The smile on Chad’s face next to him tightens, and suddenly Louis’s own smile looks more like a grimace of pain. I’m pretty sure his partner just kicked him under the table.
“I mean, no hurry,” Louis says quickly. “Hell, the commission from the sale of this one alone carried my business for years. I was just curious.”
Nick smiles and shakes his head. “I like the place,” he says. “And now that I’m sharing it with Storm here, it’s only half as big as it used to be, right?”
“Fifteen thousand square feet each,” I say. “Cozy.”
More chuckles. I’m on fire tonight, if I do say so myself. Our guests have been charming and fun, and so have I. Best of all, none of them are asking any of the pointed questions that neither of us wants to answer. Whether that’s out of politeness,
or respect for Nick’s reputation for privacy, doesn’t matter. Small talk and jokes are the order of the night, and that’s just fine with us.
Which, of course, means that Murphy’s Law has to kick in at some point. In this case, during our after-dinner drinks, as Chad and Louis chat me up. Louis is around Nick’s age, but Chad is closer to mine, and we’ve got a lot in common. Which is why I really shouldn’t be surprised by what comes next, but I am.
“Have we met before?” Chad asks. “For some reason, you look familiar.”
“I’d definitely remember meeting you,” I say, trying to sound witty despite the flood of adrenaline coursing through me.
Truth is, he very well could have watched me perform at some point. I played concert halls all through the eastern seaboard in my early teens. Back during that brief time when I was still considered a prodigy, before it all came crashing down around me. If he recognizes me, he’ll start asking questions.
“Same here, honey,” Chad says with a laugh, and inwardly I heave a sigh of relief. “You really know how to throw a dinner party. And you managed to tame the Russian Tarzan. That’s no mean feat in itself.”
I smile. He wouldn’t think I’d tamed Nick if he’d seen him handle Arkady and his goons the other day.
“We just clicked,” I say. “When it’s right, it’s right.”
“Well, I’m happy to finally see him with someone again,” says Louis. “I mean, after what happened with Katrina…” He shakes his head. “The guy deserves to be happy.”
I nod as if I know what he’s talking about. Katrina has to be the first wife that Ellie mentioned, but Nick has never said a word to me about her. I wasn’t really curious before, but now, how could I not be?
Nick breaks me out of my reverie by bringing the tray of cheese and fruit into the parlor.
“Who’s still hungry?” he asks.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” Frank groans as he picks up a crystal plate and scoops dessert onto it. “Which is why I’m just going to swallow this whole.”
I laugh, but Ellie rolls her eyes and grabs her own plate. “Somewhere in the Catskills, there’s a motel lounge that’s missing a comedian,” she sighs.
Nick sidles up and puts an arm around my waist.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Perfect,” I say, smiling.
Inside, I’m wondering what Katrina looked like.
Chapter Nineteen
19. NICK
“That wine we had with dinner was divine,” Ellie says.
She followed me into the kitchen. Everyone else is in the parlor, talking about the upcoming mid-term elections. I don’t even know what congressional district I’m in, so that was my cue to cut out.
“You should have some more, then,” I say. “There’s plenty.”
“I’m driving,” she sighs.
“This house has something like twenty bedrooms. Everyone can stay over.”
Her eyes light up. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She yells out into the parlor: “Anyone got a problem with staying the night?”
“Can we open up more of that wine if we do?” Chad calls back.
“That’s the whole point!”
“Well, then, tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, honey!”
The rest of them break up into drunken laughter. Ellie turns to me with a grin.
“I guess that answers that question,” she says.
I pull the cork from a fresh bottle – well, as fresh as 70-year-old wine can be – and pour her a generous glassful. She hoists it and toasts my bottle of Miller Lite.
“To that new smile of yours,” she says. “I like it.”
Ellie’s the only person outside of Storm who can make me feel like a shy schoolboy. I suppose it’s a trait they share because neither of them is intimidated by me.
“Storm really likes you,” I say.
“And I like her. But more importantly, Nick, she really likes you.”
And I really like her. But I’ve had just enough beer, and Ellie is close enough to a friend, that the next question just sort of pops out.
“You don’t think the difference in our ages is a problem?”
She frowns mid-sip. “What are you talking about?”
“Storm is twenty years younger than me.” Or more; neither of us has ever mentioned our actual age.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “This is… new to me.”
“Michael Douglas is twenty-five years older than Catherine Zeta-Jones,” she says. “Harrison Ford, Clint Eastwood – they both married women decades younger than them.”
I never thought of that. Maybe I’ve been worried over nothing.
“Young women are often attracted to the strong, silent type,” says Ellie. “Especially these days, with all the young men running around in skinny jeans and sweaters down to their knees, spending all their time whining on social media about how hard their lives are. Real men are in short supply, it seems.”
The dregs of my beer are warm, so I pop another. It’s a full-on party now – the first one I’ve been to since I was as young as the men Ellie is describing – and I’m hosting it. Here’s to me.
“Besides,” Ellie says. “If I had a young stud sniffing after me, I’d drop Frank and shack up with him in a New York minute.”
“You’d starve to death,” I deadpan.
Her laughter reminds me of Storm’s, open and unreserved. Another thing they have in common.
“You’ve got me there, Nicky,” she sighs as she finishes the last of her wine. “But at least I’d die skinny and satisfied.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. She waggles her glass for a refill and I oblige.
“Seriously, though,” she says. “You deserve to be happy, Nick. I know you went through – some of it, anyway – but it’s been over fifteen years now. It’s long past time that you moved on to the next phase of your life. And if Storm is the one to take you there – and from what I can tell, she is – well, then, you better grab on.”
She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but she is confirming that yeah, maybe this is going to work out. And maybe it’s a good thing for me and for Storm.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and plant a little kiss on the side of her head.
“Thanks, Ellie, I appreciate it.”
She gapes at me. “Good Lord, Nick,” she says. “Public displays of affection? From you? That’s one of the seven signs of the apocalypse, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t stop myself.” I shrug.
“I have to say, though, a kiss from a handsome, rugged younger man woke up some feelings in this old bird. If I thought for one second you were serious – ”
“You’d do nothing, because you love your husband.”
She sighs. “Yes, I do. But don’t tell him that. He’ll get a swelled head.”
“Each room has its own en suite, so you don’t have to worry about wandering through the halls in the middle of the night,” Storm says as we assign our guests their bedrooms.
“Thank God,” Chad says with a hiccup. “I was going to ask for a flare gun just in case I got lost. This house really is stupidly big. I mean, like, Hogwarts big.”
“I didn’t bring any overnight clothes,” Ramona giggles. “Guess you’re getting lucky tonight, Greg.”
Frank leers at Ellie, who rolls her eyes. But she’s smiling. She really does love him.
“Roman orgy!” Chad hoots. “I’m in!”
“Come on, Hugh Hefner,” Louis sighs as he guides his partner into their room. “You’ll be lucky to get undressed without passing out, let alone any orgy activities.”
“Which room do you two sleep in?” Ramona asks with a waggle of her eyebrows.
Storm’s eyes widen. “Oh,” she says. “Um…”
“We’re just up the hall in the master suite,” I say, wrapping an arm around her waist. “The cleaning service comes tomorrow, so don’t worry about making
the beds or anything. Breakfast around nine o’clock sound good?”
Drunken smiles, nods and good-nights. A fart from Chad as he staggers into their room.
Storm and I turn and head toward my bedroom – which, for tonight at least, is our bedroom.
“Are you sure?” she whispers. “I could sneak back to my room, then come back in the morning before they get up. Let you sleep.”
“There won’t be much sleeping going on in here tonight,” I say as I lead her into the expansive suite where I’ve spent every night alone for more than a decade. “I’ve got you booked for music lessons all night long.”
She gasps as I pick her up and throw her on the huge canopy bed.
“I need to work on my hands,” I say, undoing my pants. “Like you said, practice makes perfect.”
Chapter Twenty
20. STORM
My heart is galloping like a race horse as I pull off the dress I bought specifically for tonight. All through dinner, I was hoping this was how the night would end. When Nick invited everyone to stay over, I thought it meant nothing was going to happen.
I’m so glad I was wrong.
Nick’s eyes roam all over me as he finishes undressing, and mine roam over him. The tattoos, the rippling muscles heavily shadowed by the light of the antique lamp. That intense stare that makes me feel like he’s looking right into my soul.
I climb up to my knees on the bed and look him in the eye.
“Come and put those fingers to work,” I growl.
He does as he’s told, reaching behind me and unhooking my bra. My breasts pop free as the straps slide down my arms. Instantly, his hands are gripping my ass and his hot mouth is on my nipple.
“Oh God, Nick,” I pant. “I’ve been fantasizing about this all night.”
He pulls me up off the bed and I wrap my legs around his chiseled torso, my bare breasts pressing against his rock-hard chest. The crotch of my panties is already damp against the skin of his belly as he envelops me in his arms and squeezes, his lips sealed against mine.
Our tongues greet each other hungrily. Nick’s breathing is hard and fast now, and I can feel his heart hammering against mine. His mouth works its way down to the nape of my neck, then the hollow of my throat, then up to my ear.