A Need So Insatiable

by Cecilia Robert

  I take a deep breath and nod again.

  “Good, because Arturo Gardelli will be flying in next week. You need to know this part before he arrives.”

  Crap! I have to get a handle on this, or I’ll be stammering the lines in front of the full cast like an idiot. Just thinking about meeting the Italian maestro known for his flamboyant, energetic conducting style has me sweating bullets. He must be in his forties now. Does Simone know I had a mega crush on him? He’d once worked with my mom on several projects in Venice.

  She winks at me. I drop my gaze, heat filling my cheeks. I sure as hell hope that doesn’t mean she knows about my crush.

  “You can do it, Sophie. I composed this aria with your voice type in mind,” Simone says gently, then steps back and eyes me from head to toe, chuckling. “Martin is going to love this.” She picks her phone up from the desk and makes a call while I stare at the sheet music. Mom did it, so why can’t I? And then, I realize something. I’ve been trying to be like her, wondering if she’d be proud of me. But I need to sing this for me. Not for her, for me.

  Breathing out, I look around, then focus on the photo on Simone’s desk. It’s the cast of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. According to the date at the bottom, it was taken the day Mom died. A much younger Rafael, with hair immaculately swept back, is squeezed between Mom and Simone, his eyes dark and intense, unsmiling. He’s dressed in a dark blue blazer over blue jeans and a light shirt. A contrast to the gowns Mom and Simone are wearing.

  “Hey, Simone,” I say as soon as she disconnects the call. “You and Rafael seem really close. Do you think you could . . . um . . .” Just say it. “I could meet him? I heard he’s back from Sydney. I’ve had the longest crush on him, and I’ve never been to any of his concerts--” And there I go, babbling like an idiot. “Maybe--” I stop as Simone’s face grows pale. I drop the sheet music and dash to her side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she says, then takes a deep breath, averting her gaze from mine. “When you were eight, you swore you were going to marry Gardelli.” I can hear the teasing note in her voice.

  “Ah, yes, but then I realized that, by the time I was old enough to marry, he’d be ancient and wrinkly,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment with a laugh. “So I decided a younger model wouldn’t hurt.”

  She chokes back a laugh, pulling away. “Don’t mention that when you see him.”

  My heart picks a faster beat. “Rafael?”

  She glances up from the papers in her hands. Color has returned to her cheeks. “Gardelli.”

  “Oh.”

  She plays with the edge of the documents, her eyes downcast, as if she’s avoiding looking at me. Did I say something wrong?

  As soon as Martin enters into the room, Simone exhales and smiles widely, looking extremely relieved. She darts a glance at me, then walks toward him.

  What the hell was that look?

  “Hey, Soph. You look quite . . . stylish this morning,” Martin says, shaking his ruffled, brown hair out of his eyes. It’s messier than usual today.

  “Ha! Look who’s talking.” I point at his wrinkled jeans. “We’re two of a kind.”

  He grins. “Marry me, please.”

  Simone groans. “If we get this over with, I’ll officiate the wedding myself.”

  Martin winks and grabs his violin, while Simone sits in front of the piano and I pick up my sheet music.

  “We’ll work on this first, then try combining it with a recitative.”

  I take a deep breath, and wait for my cue from Simone.

  Rafael

  AFTER FINALLY tracking down the understudy cellist for tomorrow’s concert, I head toward Simone’s music room. I need to collect the residence registration forms she picked up for me, so I can change my current address to Vienna, and drop off the tablet for her to fix.

  I scowl down at it, and tap the little envelope on the screen to display my appointments--again. “Prague” is highlighted in yellow, but I can’t open the damn note.

  The thing beeps at me, and the urge to smash it on the wall returns tenfold.

  As far as I’m concerned, this tiny piece of technology is Satan’s little minion. Why Simone wants me to use it, when she damn well knows my hatred toward it, is beyond me. She says it will help me keep tabs on my appointments, especially if she isn’t around. Personally, I think it’s a torturing device, and it’s giving me a fucking headache.

  What happened to jotting appointments in notebooks and post-its?

  I drag my hand through my hair. I need a haircut. Having this much hair hanging around my head like an ape isn’t very attractive. I’ve an image to uphold.

  I lift my head from the tablet as something barrels into me. Slender arms sneak around my waist, followed by warm breath tickling my jaw. Everything below my belt turns into a hot, volcanic mess, and my brain screams, “Female. Female.” Lips that smell like strawberries, and a hint of cigarettes, connect with my jaw and I’m ready to focus my frustration on something other than the minion in my hands, break the bet-induced celibacy I’ve been on for the last month and a half.

  “Good morning, handsome.” The voice is hoarse to the point of raspy. Strong fingers clamp around my biceps, and all I can think about is having them wrapped around my dick.

  “And to you, Gabriele.”

  Her free hand slides over my shoulder, dropping lower to cup my ass.

  So shameless. Extremely beautiful. Confident. Bold.

  “Now, now, Gabriele,” I say, tactfully stepping aside so her hand drops. “No feeling up the goods without permission.”

  She laughs. “Come on, Raf. You keep brushing me off like a fly. I don’t like it.”

  I love determination, especially when wrapped in a throaty voice like Gabriele’s, and right now, I’m in the mood to play sexy kitten and horny beast--just not with her.

  “Listen, Gabriele. You are a beautiful woman.” My voice is low and deep, just the way women like it. She grins, all teeth and a hint of gums. I shudder.

  Eye contact, Rafael.

  “I--we can’t do this.” She pouts, but I forge on. “You had an itch, I scratched it. Don’t make it more than it is.”

  She sighs dramatically. The pout melts into a grin, and she winks. “Well, you know where to find me if you want to trade scratches.” Her hand flutters back to my thigh and cups my erection through my pants, squeezing me to the point of pain.

  “I could help with this.”

  Fuuuck!

  I back her into the wall, crowding her with my body, my hands on her hips, and drop my forehead on the wall behind her.

  “Do you want to suck me?” My voice is hoarse and I can’t see straight.

  “Yes,” she says, her hot breath brushing my cheek. Her voice is heavy with need, her eager fingers fumbling with my zipper. She pulls it down, the sound loud against my heightened senses.

  Shit. I snatch her hand in mine. “No.” I lift my head and scan the hallway, taking deep breaths as I zip my pants up. I push back to look into her confused expression. “Goodbye, Gabriele.” I walk away without looking back.

  “You know where to find me, Raf,” she says again.

  Like hell. “I wouldn’t think of looking anywhere else.” Gabriele is one crazy bitch. We’d dated once. She was all over me like a tick riding a dog’s ass. That experience isn’t worth repeating.

  I readjust the front of my pants, breathing deep to try and bring my rapid pulse under control, and turn down the hallway that leads to the music room. I stop when I reach Simone’s door, listening to the voice coming from inside. Clear and strong. Hauntingly familiar. A voice so breathtaking, it has the hair on the nape of my neck standing on end. Goosebumps prickle over my arms and down my back.

  I enter the room. Simone sits in front of the piano, head tilted to one side, swaying with every note her fingers play. As if sensing me, she looks up. Her eyes widen, then dart a look to her left. I follow her gaze and my thoughts screech to a halt as I take in t
he woman in the middle of the room. Her back is to me. A flash of white reminds me of the incident outside the theatre. I try to summon that anger, but it’s a useless effort. Right now, I’m curious and feel some sort of instinctive protectiveness; I’m not sure why.

  I can’t help but let my eyes feast on her. She stands with that effortless grace opera singers do, managing to look taller than her five foot, four inches. Her dark-brown, reddish hair is bound in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, locks curling loosely along the side of her face. My gaze slips lower, taking in the way the white dress moulds around her body, and I swallow, hard.

  Taking a deep breath, I let my eyes slide lower.

  Christ!

  Combat boots, shapely legs, and that gentle dip at the back of her knees visible through sheer, black pantyhose. Moments ago, I’d wanted to throttle her for her carelessness, but damn. My body tightens with need, acting like this girl is the sole reason God put men on earth. I tip my head back and stare at the domed ceiling.

  Thank you, Big Guy.

  I blink to clear my lust-filled vision and find Simone scowling at me. She jerks her head toward the door, asking me to leave.

  Hell no! Not until I see Killer Legs’s face. I shrug and sidle back against the wall, shutting my eyes.

  I wait.

  Listening to Killer Legs sing is like jumping off a cliff, but instead of plunging headlong to a certain death, I find wings to fly.

  The song ends and I open my eyes, my heart racing in my chest.

  Turn around. Look at me.

  Her head remains bowed. Her shoulders rise and fall like she’s just sprinted a marathon. Simone steps around the piano, smiling wide, and wraps her arms around Killer Legs. Even Martin blinks like he’s been hit with the same thing that’s ensnared me.

  Killer Legs steps back and says something to Simone in a low tone. Is her voice as sensually intoxicating as her singing? Or scruffy, like her boots?

  As they continue talking, I study the graceful curve of her neck and back. She has a butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder and . . . freckles? My chest tightens as the image of another girl with freckles on her shoulder pierces through my mind. I shove the painful memories aside and focus on the here and now. My sex-deprived brain absorbs those boots again, the shift of muscles in her curvy legs as she moves.

  Killer Legs suddenly turns around, and my head jerks up. Our gazes collide and lock. Her eyes widen, obviously surprised by the extra audience. I drink in her stunning features--heart-shaped face, full sensual lips that have my groin tightening, pierced nose and labret on the corner of her lower lip, hazel eyes, and a dimpled chin.

  Hazel eyes. Dimpled chin.

  It can’t be! After all this time, she’s here, standing before me. Childhood curves and lines have faded, replaced by delicate beauty. Her face has haunted me for years.

  I’m glad the wall supports me, because my legs sure as hell aren’t. Everything I’ve tried to overcome, to forget, suddenly blows up in my face as I watch my past rush forward, colliding with my present, shifting and rearranging my future.

  She frowns deeper, her teeth grazing the labret on her lower lip. I wait for her to smile, shake my hand, hug me, anything to show she remembers me. She doesn’t.

  My heart fists in my chest. I should probably say something, not stand here staring like a besotted fool, but for some reason, my tongue is stuck on the roof of my mouth. From the corner of my eye, I see Simone wringing her hands. This is the reason she wanted me to leave.

  Oh, Simone, you she-devil of a woman. First the tablet. Now this.

  Simone clears her throat, but I’m afraid if I look away, I might miss something in her face. Something that shows she remembers me.

  “I’ll see you next week, Sophie,” Simone says. Sophie nods, her eyes still on me.

  Sophie.

  Sophie.

  Sophie.

  Her name is a sentence of its own. Every syllable, a balm to my strung senses. I thought staying away from her would make me forget. But seeing her again leaves me breathless.

  Sophie squares her shoulders and takes a step toward me, sticking her hand out. The corner of her mouth curls up into one damn sexy smirk.

  I push away from the wall, and gravitate toward her, my hand itching in anticipation.

  “Sophie Fisher,” she says. Did her voice tremble? “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Van Rees.”

  Jesus. The way my name sounds on her lips is pure sin.

  As soon as my hand closes around her smaller one, my heart slams inside my chest. She sucks in a breath, her hazel eyes widening. Goosebumps spread along her forearms, and up her arm. She shivers, and I want to roar with pride. I fucking made her shiver.

  I continue to watch her face closely before letting out the breath lodged in my throat. She doesn’t recognize me. And the irony of it is, this is the same room I first saw her in, over thirteen years ago. To her, I’m probably just Rafael Van Rees.

  Nothing more.

  Damn it all to hell! I hope my face is blank, because I feel like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest.

  “The pleasure is all mine . . . Sophie.” I lift her hand to my lips, and kiss the back of it. Her skin is soft, and she smells like apples, and spring, and Sophie.

  I feel like I’ve been drowning for a long time, waiting to be saved. But now Sophie’s here, breathing life into my suffocating lungs.

  She tugs her hand from mine, collects her bag from the floor next to Simone’s desk and skirts around me, walking through the door.

  Rafael

  SOPHIE’S BOOTS squeak on the polished, tile floor as she walks away. From me. I stare at the door, feeling like a lost puppy with a knife jammed in my chest.

  “You can close your mouth now, Rafael,” Simone says.

  I snap my mouth shut, but continue to stare at exit, long after Sophie’s footfalls have faded. Abruptly, I toss the tablet on Simone’s desk and dash out of the room.

  “Rafael, don’t!” Simone’s voice trails behind me, but my heart and mind are centered on the woman walking away.

  I round the corner, and right before she reaches the theatre doors, I halt, pulse racing. “Sophie.” I say, bridging the distance between us until I’m standing a foot away from her.

  She spins around, and stumbles. I dash forward, snatching her up before she hits the floor. Her heaving chest presses against mine. I’m sure she can feel my thudding heart, because I can feel hers. She swallows, and her tongue sneaks between her parted lips to wet them. I lean lower, hypnotized by that single action.

  “Are you all right?” I manage to blubber like a fool.

  Nothing fazes me. I’m control reincarnated.

  “Mr. Van Rees?” God, her voice is peaches and whiskey.

  “Rafael.” Lifting my free hand, I twirl a single lock of her hair, rubbing it between my fingers. It feels like silk, only better. Softer. I breathe her in, fighting the urge to close my eyes. Fresh apples, and Sophie. “Sorry to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t. That was just . . . oh, hell, you did.” She chuckles, wiggling out of my arms. She smoothes her dress, her round breasts straining against the fabric. When she catches me staring, she pulls her jacket together, her cheeks flushing. “Did you need something?”

  “Just this . . .” I frame her face with my palms and brush my lips on hers. She sucks in a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. She grabs the front of my shirt as she sags forward, like her legs can’t hold her up anymore. Slipping one arm around her waist, I pull her curvy, soft body flush against my hard one, my lips still on hers.

  Fuck yes! The buzz is still there. We were both young when we shared our first kiss, but this. This is different. Time hasn’t erased the connection between us. My heart recognizes her, beating to a rhythm that’s only hers.

  Pulling back, I stare at the face that has lived in my head for years. Haunting me. Comforting me. Her eyes slowly open, and she blinks, looking dazed. She presses her fingers on her lips.

&
nbsp; “You kissed me,” she whispers, as if it’s the most unusual thing. Does she not get kissed often? Her lips were made for kissing, and I can’t get my greedy eyes off them.

  I tip my head to the side. “I did,” I say, pressing my thumb on her bottom lip, inching up to the labret. Her mouth parts slightly. I could kiss her again, slip my tongue past those delectable lips. Taste her. Really taste her.

  “Goodbye, Sophie.” I drop my hand and turn to leave, then stop. “Nice tattoo, by the way. A butterfly.” I emphasize the last word to get a reaction. Nothing.

  “Mr. Van R--Rafael. Do we know each other?”

  Christ, the way she says my name has every part of my body straining, wanting to hear her say it again.

  “Do we?” I lift a brow.

  Her frown deepens, and her bewitching eyes, smoky after the shared semi-kiss, narrow at me.

  I’m not about to tell her. I need to find out why she can’t remember me first. “Drive safely, Sophie.” I turn, and stride back to Simone’s music room. I feel her eyes on my back, my shoulders, my ass. I let her have her fill. I’m not going to deny her--and me--this chance. I’m selfish, but hey, she needs the image to go along with the kiss. Right before I turn the corner, she takes a loud, deep breath.

  Damn right, Butterfly.

  Rafael

  “WHAT WAS that?” Simone asks, scowling at me as soon as I return to the music room.

  I feel like I’m fifteen again, and I’ve been caught being naughty. “Don’t, Simone. How long have you been working together?”

  She sighs. “We started rehearsing for the opera a few months ago.”

  “You didn’t think to tell me?”

  “What would you have done, Rafael? Flown back from Sydney?”

  Frankly, I’m not sure how to answer that, so I turn to look out the window, trying to bring my warring feelings under control.

  “I thought you weren’t dropping by until later,” Simone says.

  I run a hand through my hair, turning to face her again. “I had an appointment with the reporter today, and needed to drop by for this.” I motion at the tablet on her desk with my hand.