“You might be tiny, Slim, but I sure hope you’ve got more words in you than that, or we won’t even be able to cut a single.”
Alex blinked up at him in surprise, understanding at last that he’d only been teasing her. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help but like this man who called himself Styx.
Like the river,
not the wood.
She offered him an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry if I was a little cool.” Heat suffused her cheeks as she motioned toward the back of the house—or what she thought was the back at least. “I haven’t had to deal with that scene for a long time. I guess it caught me off guard.” Accepting her apology with a dismissive wave of his hand, he grinned down at her. “Yeah, it can be a little much sometimes. No big deal, Slim.” Then, as they stood
in the hallway smiling at each other, Styx did a quick, almost
imperceptible double take. He stared hard at her face for a split second, then spun away. He was fast—and discreet—she’d allow him that, but she hadn’t missed the light of recognition in his golden stare.
Styx led Alex into a quiet room on the far side of the house. He stepped just inside the door, flipping on a light switch. She caught her breath as her awed gaze locked on the Steinway. She stood transfixed for several long moments. The hand carved, walnut case was exquisite. Her fingers tingled, longing to reach out and stroke.
Begging to pluck a few heavenly notes from that gorgeous instrument.
She stepped farther inside the room, her heels whisper silent now on the soft, thick carpet.
She reluctantly lifted her gaze from the piano and 48
scanned the rest of the room. Rich, dark paneling covered the walls. A massive, mahogany desk, buried beneath a haphazard muddle of papers, occupied the far end of the room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk. A tall, glass display case, filled with ancient weaponry, took up most of one corner.
A comfortable seating arrangement in subtle micro-suede occupied a majority of the middle of the room. The coffee table groaned beneath a messy pile of magazines and newspapers. A large fireplace loomed behind the Steinway, just to her left. A gigantic flat screen rivaling the one in the gazebo for size hung on the wall above the mantel. The clean, spicy scent of male cologne tickled her nose, and her curiosity. What kind of rocker had a room like this? Distinctly masculine…and yet very comfortable. Mature.
Sophisticated.
“This is Cole’s lair.” Something in Styx’s tone drew her gaze, but he pushed on before she could comment on his odd choice of words. A strange smile lit his eyes. “I don’t think he was expecting you quite this early today. Why don’t you hang out here, and I’ll go find him.” Nodding, Alex thanked Styx and wandered to the sofa. She reached for a magazine as Styx slipped back out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Alex leafed through the pages. Her eyes skimmed the glossy photos without registering what she was looking at. Bored, she tossed it aside after only a few moments, and picked up another. It didn’t hold her interest for long, either. Restless, she stood and shuffled the papers and magazines into neat, tidy stacks.
Then she wandered the room.
Drawn inexorably to the display case, she ogled the ancient pieces within. Daggers, several 49
swords, a lethal-looking battle-ax, a scarred shield, and a tarnished Viking helmet rested on pillows of luxuriant velvet. Protected and honored. She blinked, perplexed, leaning closer to the display. Then, eyes narrowed, she leaned back and tilted her hea
d, bewildered. Each piece bore
identical,
distinctive
markings of
possession—the
Odhroerir
, the Triple Horn of Odin.
Ha
ving
been
a fascinated student of
mythology, Alex knew the three, interlocking drinking horns at first glance, as well as the symbol’s meaning. According to Norse mythology, the
Odhroerir
symbolized the magical mead brewed from the blood of the wise god Kvasir. The old Viking tales often varied, but traditionally it was said that on the god’s quest, Odin used his wits and his magic to procure the coveted brew over the course of three days. The three horns reflected the three draughts of the magical mead.
The symbol of possession earmarking each piece in the case was, ironically, all too familiar to Alex. Her hand flew to the small of her back, and she frowned. Disconcerted, she moved away to drink in the eclectic artwork hanging on the walls. Again, to her surprise, good taste prevailed.
At length, she wandered
to the bookshelves, marveling at the titles
therein.
Homer,
Shakespeare, Poe. She took one down to examine it more closely. Her hands bobbled the aged leather bound tome. It was old.
Really old
.
Appalled, she very gingerly replaced the book on the shelf and took a cautious, awed step back. As she turned away, she happened to glance at the papers strewn over the top of the desk. She didn’t mean to snoop, she truly didn’t, but she couldn’t help notice her own name, time and time again.
Careful not to disturb anything, she leaned over 50
the desk and scanned the writing.
Sheet music—original copies of
her
sheet music—lay scattered over one end of the desk. A stack of newspapers covered the rest of the desk; each and every one folded back to reveal her articles. A clipping of an old magazine write up from when she’d first burst onto the music scene, a brilliant star on an upward climb, peeped at her from amid the loose score sheets.
She had to give the man points for doing his homework. The very idea that he’d expended such effort researching her past was flattering, and more than a little daunting.
Frowning, she moved away from the desk and wandered through the room until she stood in front of a long row of windows overlooking the manicured south lawns. Cocking her head to the side, she studied the windows with baffled interest. The glass didn’t give off much, if any light. Peering directly at the pane of glass, she noted the window’s heavy layers of tint.
Well, that was certainly…odd.
She gave a slight shrug at Gunnarrson’s eccentricities.
Well over half an hour passed, and she hadn’t heard a peep from the now MIA Styx, or the elusive Mr. Gunnarrson. She’d quite obviously been stuffed somewhere and forgotten about.
Irritation chewed at the susceptible spot between her brows. Nonetheless, that Steinway was calling to her, making her forget all about her irritation over a man who’d hounded her for two weeks, and then couldn’t be bothered to come meet her.
Alex hadn’t touched her fingertips to ivory in three long years. Would playing be like riding a bike…once you learned, you never forgot.
Shooting a guilty glance at the closed door, Alex ran her fingers experimentally over the keys.
Rich notes flooded the room, the pitch perfect 51
and true. She shivered with appreciation.
Drawing a steadying breath, she slid onto the bench, shot another guilty peek at the door, and positioned her fingers over the keys, half expecting bells and alarms to go off the second her fingers connected with those precious ivories.
She spent a moment running scales, reacquainting herself with the instrument before she lost herself in the music. Alex closed her eyes and let the music flow. As always, the classics came first, Mozart and Rachmaninoff and Debussy, and her favorite—Bach. As the triumphant strains of
Fugue in G Minor
trailed away, she drew another breath, and her fingers stilled.
Then, hesitant notes poured forth. Notes
she’d
written filled her, flowing out through her fingertips. She found herself humming, words she’d penned in another lifetime. But the memories became too bitter, and the music fell away on a discordant note.
Only then did Alex become aware she was no longer alone. She whi
rled around, and her surprised gaze connected with the most
compelling, sultry eyes she’d ever seen…eyes a startling, vivid shade of intense, furious blue. The face that went with those eyes was every bit as heart stopping.
Before she could utter a sound, the tall golden-haired stuff of erotic dreams stomped into the room, fury rolling from him in hot inescapable waves. His voice rang through the silence, compelling and dangerous.
“No one is allowed in here, and
no one
touches the piano.”
52
Alex gazed at him slack-jawed, totally at a loss. The man acted as if she’d been caught elbow deep in a safe or something. Her wide-eyed, involuntary stare skated downward, over his ripped frame, and she couldn’t speak. Good Lord in heaven, he was gorgeous.
True, at present, he had a very strange, very concentrated look on his face, as if he were stripping away layers of her conscience, peering at her soul, but every ounce of him made her mouth water with greedy, astonishing hunger.
His long, tawny hair stuck out in wild disarray beneath a frayed and stained baseball cap. He wore a snug, oil-splattered muscle shirt that outlined sculpted muscles all the way down the length of his long, lean torso. His arms shifted, muscles bunched as he planted fists to hips, proudly displaying an impressive, intricate tribal tattoo that covered his right shoulder and stretched to his elbow.
Smears of motor oil stained ragged, faded jeans…jeans that hung enticingly low on his narrow waist. A pair of wrenches stuck out of his front pocket beside a greasy rag. The line of his strong jaw was bristled in golden stubble, and it, too, sported dark smudges. Alex’s heart stuttered and tripped inside her chest. She’d seen many,
many
attractive men in her life, but she’d never come across one who had the power to make her absolutely speechless just by
being
.
A fleeting image of this man brazenly wielding 53
a lethal sword, boldly riding the raging waves of a frigid sea on the decks of a Viking long ship came to mind. Something stark and savage lurked in his eyes…something that warranted extreme caution. The inexplicable sensation to run away washed through her again, stronger this time, even as her pulses hammered with excitement.
From somewhere deep inside, she dredged up the resolve to stay put. After a moment, the man stopped staring at her with such unsettling intensity. He rocked back on his heels, tilting his head with a bemused frown.
Hating to be at a disadvantage in any situation, irritation shook her temper loose.
Rising to her full five foot eight inches—with the help of her spiked heels, of course—Alex leveled a deceptively calm smile at him. She was sure the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Tell me, just where exactly
should
I be?” When she stood, his gaze fell to her scarlet blouse. Then lower to the gentle curve of feminine hips, and the bold slit in the material over her thigh. His eyes paused there on her skirt, then lowered to her toned calves and her racy shoes with unmistakable sexual interest. By the time his gaze lifted to hers again, she was the one fuming.
He, on the other hand, now
appeared…fascinated.
With a much more inviting smile, he tipped his head to the side and regarded her with b
latant, animal hunger, a long dormant
conqueror rising up and roaring with an undeniable challenge in those beautiful, glittering eyes.
“Well, now,” he drawled, prowling forward. “I could think of a few places, like in my bed…for starters.”
He towered over her, his grin hungry. Alex’s 54
eyes narrowed dangerously, and her hands fisted at her sides until she made a conscious effort to sheath her claws. Perturbed, she ignored the swarm of butterflies his provocative comment—
and the warm glow in his eyes—had turned loose in her stomach.
The chilly disdain in her eyes dropped the temperature in the room to a near sub-arctic freeze, her tone covered six shades of pure ice. “I have a much better idea…”
His eyebrow lifted to a sexy angle, and he edged forward, as if in anticipation of her suggestion. Muttering beneath her breath, she opened her purse and turned away, drawing out a small notepad and a slim, gold pen. She took a moment to pen a brief, angry note to the absent Mr. Gunnarrson, before spinning on her heel to face his mechanic.
From the angle of his head, it wasn’t difficult to guess what he’d been checking out. Even now, he had difficulty lifting his gaze from her cleavage. Stifling a snort of disgusted disapproval, Alex stepped forward, her hand extended to him, a folded square of paper tucked between her slim fingers.
“Do me a favor and give this to your boss. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’re just gonna have to settle for one of the ah—the
ladies
out back. I’ve seen all I need to see, and I’m leaving.” Disappointment shadowed in his confused stare. Though she mumbled beneath her breath as she headed for the door, he couldn’t have missed a word. “I should have
known
better than to come here in the first place. I sit in here for damned near an hour,
completely
ignored, and the only person in this entire
mausoleum
that finally gets around to worrying about me is the mechanic.
The bloody
mechanic
.
And
he
55
propositions me! What the
hell
was I thinking?”