by Alice Raine
A shuddering sigh escaped me as I played back the events that had led to my first meeting with Nicholas Jackson, my now ex-boyfriend, a dominant and passionate man and the only person I’d ever thought I might actually be able to fall in love with.
Several months ago, I had got a call out of the blue from Greggor Marks, the music producer who had signed Nicholas, Isla, and Anthony all those years ago. He had informed me that the trio’s schedules were easing then went on to say that they were in London for some concerts at the Palladium so would I like to meet them? I had been quite touched that he remembered me, and at the time had thought, would I like to meet them? Hell yes. If I’d been ill that day and missed his call, or turned down his offer, I wouldn’t now be making a complete fool of myself in the middle of Camden Market, nursing a broken heart. But I hadn’t. I’d been thrilled and of course accepted his offer immediately.
After getting the Tube down to Euston, I changed onto the Victoria line for the short journey to Oxford Circus. Tugging self-consciously at my jacket, I was glad that in my dressed-up attire – high heels, black trousers, and a silk camisole – I didn’t stand out among the assortment of outfits being worn around me. This was London in all its impersonal glory: you could wear whatever you wanted and people would simply look the other way and ignore you as if you weren’t even there. Ah, the joy of big-city living.
Emerging from the station, I traversed through the bustle of commuters and early-evening shoppers on the rain-slicked pavement of Oxford Street, before turning off and heading down a side street toward the impressive frontage of the London Palladium. The stretch of pavement outside had become a waiting area and was full of similarly dressed people loitering around and talking excitedly about the performance they were about to watch.
Two hours later, after what had possibly been the best night of live jazz music I had ever heard, I found myself waiting to be escorted to the backstage area. Still flushed from the heat in the theatre itself, I knew my face was also red from excitement because in about two minutes I would get to meet the trio I had inadvertently made famous by blogging about them on the internet – Anthony Gurage, Isla Burren, and Nicholas Jackson.
Tonight’s performance was the opening night of a new musical called Keys, set around the development of jazz piano playing over the years. Nicholas had agreed to perform at the première, with all proceeds to charity, before another skilled pianist would set off with the orchestra and tour the country with the show. Apparently, he was too in demand to do full tours these days. If I were big-headed, I’d take the credit for that too, but luckily, my ego was well in check so I merely let the though flit through my mind with a small, indulgent smile.
As planned, Greggor Marks met me at my seat immediately after the performance. He was exactly what I had expected of a super-successful producer: sharp suit, immaculate hair, and a rushed, impatient air about everything he did. He was like the living personification of a tornado and put my already frayed nerves even further on edge.
He led me speedily down a maze of corridors backstage. I tried to follow him as a shrill and rather unpleasant ring erupted from his suit and had him reaching into his jacket pocket. Arriving at a dressing room door, he excused himself with an apologetic gesture to his ringing phone before ushering me inside with a flustered wave of his hand.
Great, I had to go in alone. Confidence was usually a strong point of mine, but this was different: these were real live famous people I was about to meet. Huffing a huge breath to calm my nerves, I pushed open the door.
And there they were.
Well, not all of them, but Anthony Gurage and Isla Burren stood about ten feet in front of me, involved in what looked like a deep conversation. I couldn’t see Nicholas Jackson anywhere, although the dressing room was surprisingly large and appeared to go round a corner at the back.
Standing nervously in the doorway, I pushed my long, blonde hair behind my ear and watched as Isla frowned at Anthony before suddenly turning her attention on me with a smile. God, I wished I felt half as confident as she looked. I knew that Isla was a decade older than me at 35, and was one of the most skilled female saxophone players around. She was also far prettier up close than her publicity shots showed.
‘Rebecca, how lovely to meet you at last, we really should have got together to thank you years ago.’ Isla blushed in embarrassment. Anthony, a trumpet player and six years her senior, came to shake my hand too. It was odd, knowing so much about these people who I’d never met before, but my review had been quite thorough and it’s amazing what you can dredge up on the internet these days.
‘Yes, it really was rather amiss of us to leave it so long. Unfortunately, Isla has just had a call requiring her attention, I’m afraid we are going to have to leave.’
Already? I felt a sharp tug of disappointment in my stomach; I’d only just arrived! That must have been what the deep discussion was about. I also happened to know that Isla and Anthony were dating, so I assumed whatever required her probably needed him too.
‘Oh, no problem, I hope it’s nothing too serious,’ I mumbled limply. Well, at least I had got to watch the performance free of charge, I supposed. Although I’d stuffed a wad of cash into the charity bucket at the end, probably more than the ticket was worth. But you can’t attend a concert with all proceeds to charity and not donate, can you?
Isla and Anthony were already headed for the door. ‘Nicholas, we have to leave,’ Isla called into the seemingly empty dressing room. ‘Well done tonight. Miss Langley is out here to meet you,’ she finished, before turning to me. ‘Sorry again for rushing off, but we’ll leave you in the capable hands of Nicholas.’ Her smile was almost apologetic. She dashed out with Anthony, leaving me feeling distinctly uncomfortable in the large, unfamiliar space.
Her talk of capable hands had me thinking back to Nicholas Jackson’s performance on the grand piano tonight and my breath hitched a little. Wow, it had been just stunning. I hadn’t been close enough to see properly, but his hands had seemed to flow over the keyboard so knowingly, as if it were just an extension of his body. He had been truly magnificent to watch and listen to.
‘Hello?’ I called nervously, and then, after several moments of complete silence, I edged forward and peered around the corner into a small, lit area adorned with make-up mirrors. And Nicholas Jackson.
He faced away from me, bent over the counter doing something with a small red tub. Obviously, he wasn’t rushing to return my greeting, which he surely must have heard. He was just ignoring it. Ignoring me. How charming.
In truth, Nicholas was the one I had been most nervous about meeting. I knew that Isla and Anthony had reputations for being warm and sociable and I’d been counting on them to keep the conversation going, because by all accounts, even at the relatively young age of 29, Nicholas Jackson was brusque, intimidating, and not particularly sociable at the best of times.
Taking the opportunity to glance over at him while he was otherwise engaged, I saw he was tall. Taller than I had expected, actually, with surprisingly broad shoulders. Then, catching a glimpse of his glorious reflection in the mirror, I briefly stopped breathing. I mean the air literally caught in my lungs. From just this brief flash of his profile, I saw it was clear that his publicity shots hadn’t done him justice either. Nowhere near.
He was still wearing his smart black trousers, white shirt, and waistcoat, but I noticed his tailcoat and bow tie were laid over the back of the chair next to him. Hmm, the figure I could see under the shirt was actually rather nice, better than I’d expected from a sedentary piano player. He appeared lithe and athletic looking, but as I allowed my eyes to trace back up his body I caught sight of his reflection in the mirror again and saw that he was looking at me.
Oh God, he was watching me as I watched him. How embarrassing. I felt myself blush immediately at being caught in my assessment of him and hoped my blatant appreciation of his body hadn’t been visible in my expression. Which of course it probably had been. Gre
at.
‘Hi,’ I squeaked, forcing a limp smile onto my burning face and nervously stroking my hair.
‘Miss Langley, we meet at last,’ he observed dryly with a tweak of an eyebrow. ‘Just give me a second to finish off here.’ Glancing at his hands, I saw he was actually applying hand cream to his long fingers and it briefly distracted me from my nerves.
‘You use hand cream?’ I blurted without thinking, surprised that a man as apparently tough as Nicholas Jackson would bother with something so, so … well, girly.
Finally, he turned to face me, still rubbing cream into his hands slowly and smoothly and, if I’m honest, rather distractingly. Why the sight of Nicholas rubbing his hands together like that was making me feel so giddy I had no idea. Reaching sideways, I rested a hand on the wall to steady myself, hoping my action looked nonchalant and casual and didn’t give away just how unsteady my legs had suddenly become.
As I continued to stare at his hands, a small shiver ran through me at the thought of his fingers doing that to me. How would it feel if they were rubbing across my skin? Probably unbelievably good … As my mind wandered, an incredibly loud swallow forced its way down my throat, bringing me back to reality with a bump. I had to get a grip.
Abruptly breaking my fantasy, he spoke again. ‘Actually, no.’ What looked like a sardonic smile tugged at his lips. ‘It’s a special mixture containing tiger balm. After playing for an extended time like I have tonight, my fingers get stiff, and this helps relax them. It’s warming and makes them tingle, reducing the ache,’ he explained softly, finally hanging his hands back at his sides.
Unlike Isla and Anthony, who had seemed to exude a naturally relaxed vibe, Nicholas positively radiated tension. His entire body seemed wound like a spring. His posture screamed authority like I’d never experienced before, making me grip the wall even tighter.
Now I didn’t have the almost hypnotic sight of his rubbing hands to look at, I finally raised my eyes to his face. Thankfully, I already knew what Nicholas looked like and had prepared myself for this moment, because as well as being an incredible piano player, he was also a very handsome man.
And I mean breath-taking, heart-stopping, toe-curling good looks.
As I held his gaze, my heart sped up in my chest and I found myself blinking rapidly, almost in time with its beats. Even though I knew I was staring at him, I couldn’t help it. Dark hair, short at the back but slightly longer on top, fell messily as if he’d recently run his hands through it, and his features were classic: strong jaw, defined cheekbones, and devastatingly dark blue eyes which I now found boring into mine.
I swallowed again out of nerves, and with the tight ball of apprehension in my throat I realised it had probably been loud enough for him to hear it. Damn, even with all my preparation and intentions of being calm and professional, I still found Nicholas Jackson just as intimidating as all the papers said he was.
‘Your playing tonight was superb, Mr Jackson, so beautiful,’ I remarked, trying to break the awkward silence that was hanging between us. Despite myself, my voice was a tad higher than usual.
‘Thank you,’ he acknowledged with a short nod.
‘It gave me goosepimples,’ I said with a smile, before realising what a stupid thing that was to say. Engage brain before speaking, I reminded myself. Nicholas didn’t respond to my comment apart from a slight narrowing of his eyes as he tilted his head to observe me like some curious science experiment.
‘Do you play an instrument, Rebecca?’ he asked softly, and for some reason I was surprised that he had remembered my first name.
‘I play the piano, very badly,’ I added with a roll of my eyes. What I did clumsily with my keyboard at home could in no way be compared to the skilful things Nicholas did with his grand piano. ‘And feel free to call me Becky, everyone else does.’
‘Would you like to see the piano here, Becky? It’s a Steinway, one of the best in the world,’ he murmured, and I nodded keenly, wanting nothing more than to escape this isolated room and the strange tension that seemed to be emanating from Nicholas and somehow clinging to my skin.
‘Come, follow me,’ he instructed, not waiting to see if I followed, which was lucky because my first few steps were embarrassingly wobbly.
Nicholas walked fast, almost gliding in his easy elegance, and was clearly familiar with the maze of small corridors backstage at the Palladium. A couple of minutes later, I found myself following him past a set of huge thick red velvet curtains and out onto the stage. Wow. I stopped dead, drawing in a shocked breath as I took in the scene before me; the theatre looked huge from up here and quite scary with the house lights lowered. How did people ever perform without freezing from nerves?
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ he murmured from just next to me, but when I looked at him I saw his eyes were on me and not the view. The silent intensity of his gaze made my stomach lurch unexpectedly and I bit on the inside of my cheek. He seemed pleasant enough on the exterior, but something about this man was making me feel distinctly uneasy, and it wasn’t helped one bit by the waves of heat I could feel radiating from his body.
I nodded jerkily, glancing away from his probing eyes and looking out at the seats again, trying to calm myself. Even with the lighting low, I could see the grandeur of the place and I noticed a team of cleaners moving between the rows of seats, collecting the rubbish and stubs from tonight’s performance.
Nicholas led me toward the piano that just for tonight had been raised up from within the orchestra pit onto the side of the stage. I suspected this more visible position was all in his honour, because he seemed to have developed a bit of a celebrity status in the last few years. His supreme skill, immense dislike of publicity, and stunning good looks had made him a popular focus for the press. Seeing him first hand, in all his shuttered-off masculine beauty, I could now understand why.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I murmured, my eyes sweeping over the black glazed mahogany of the huge grand piano. Up close, I was actually surprised by just how large it was. I’d only ever seen ordinary pianos or keyboards before, never one as huge as this.
He ran a hand almost lovingly over the closed lid of the piano, and for a ridiculous second I returned to my earlier fantasy, desperately wanting to be that piece of wood and have his fingers running over my body.
I quickly shook myself. What the hell was wrong with me?
‘Can I touch it?’ I whispered, returning my gaze to the piano to distract me from the view of Nicholas and the bizarre thoughts currently running through my mind.
‘Of course,’ he replied, possibly with a trace of humour in his voice, although I avoided looking at him to see if he was smiling.
I could feel Nicholas’ eyes burning into me as I tentatively reached out and stroked the cool wood of the beautiful instrument with a soft gasp. Suddenly awed by both the instrument and the man in front of me, I felt my legs going rather weak again.
‘Can I sit?’ I croaked, indicating to the piano stool, desperately hoping he would say yes, otherwise there was a high possibility that I was about to collapse into a pile on the floor.
He observed me with a tilted head for several seconds before ignoring my question and asking one of his own instead. ‘You are very … well trained. Do you always ask permission before doing something?’ he asked, with a peculiar tone to his voice.
What a strange thing to say: well trained. He made it sound like I was a dog, I thought, almost laughing out loud from my nerves.
‘No … it’s just that you … Uh, I …’ I hesitated, a flush spreading on my cheeks. Honesty was probably best, I decided. ‘Well, you’re rather intimidating, Mr Jackson,’ I admitted finally.
‘I am,’ he agreed with a curt nod, offering no apology for my obvious discomfort and not asking me to call him Nicholas either. ‘Sit. You may play it if you wish.’
Gratefully lowering myself onto the piano stool, I allowed my tense muscles to relax marginally before contemplating his offer. I shook my head reg
retfully. ‘I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Would you play something for me?’
A flash of annoyance seemed to knit his brows and I realised how rude I was being because not only had he already been playing for hours, I’d also completely forgotten my manners too. ‘Please?’ I added quickly, and once again, I saw the faint flicker of amusement on his lips before he nodded and joined me on the piano stool.
The sudden close proximity between us made my breath catch in my throat. He didn’t actually touch me, but there could only have been a centimetre or so between our thighs and I was incredibly aware of every tiny millimetre of that space. Warmth seeped into my skin from Nicholas’ body and if that wasn’t bad enough it suddenly registered in my nose that he smelled absolutely divine too; some spicy cologne or soap that I recognised vaguely, and that suited him perfectly.
The heady combination of this evening’s nerves, the excitement of the show and now his closeness were making my brain feel fluffy. My body was swept with a wave of warmth as I experienced an adrenaline rush like I’d never had before. Bungee jumping, which I’d done once a long time ago (and screamed like a baby for the entire five minutes), was nothing compared to the thrill I was experiencing sitting at the piano next to Nicholas Jackson.
Settling himself at the keys, Nicholas shrugged his shoulders to get comfortable and then extended his arms, shaking the shirt cuffs back from his wrists before proceeding to play the most beautiful piece of music I think I have ever heard.
Holding my breath, partly in awe of his skill, and partly to avoid his scent and the disastrous things it was doing to my chest, I watched in fascination as Nicholas’ fingers flowed over the keys. His lithe body swayed to and fro with the music as he used the pedals below the instrument. His masterful control of the piano completely blew me away.