Symphony of Light and Winter (2 page)

It was him. Impossible.
Ten years ago, I held Overton’s guest as he bled out onto the snow. He died. This could not be real.

“Damn it!” Willoughby’s exclamation and step backward pulled me from my stupor.

“Oh! I am so sorry. Let me get that.” Long, clumsy strides took me to the bar for a stack of napkins, then back. I dropped to my knees and wiped at the amber liquid. Anything to break eye contact. My hands shook, making the task difficult.

I mumbled apologies to Willoughby and looked up to see him staring down at me. The mischievous grin told me he could see down my shirt. From my knees, I ventured a guess at the fantasy running through his head.

I rose to my feet, careful not to look anywhere but at Willoughby. “I’m so sorry. Please let me pay for your dry cleaning.” Sincerity proved difficult when my mind couldn’t care less about the smelly man or his pants, given the new development.

“Nonsense. It’s just a little scotch. It will come out in the wash. Besides the image of you on your knees was payment enough.” He winked.

I faked a giggle and hid my trembling hands. A familiar heat coursed through my body, disturbing and undeniable. I needed a moment to gather myself. “I should probably go freshen up. I got scotch on me too.”

Willoughby grabbed my arm and looked into my eyes with surprising and welcome concern. I don’t know what he found. Fear? Exhaustion? Confusion?

“What’s wrong, Linden?”

“I feel bad about your pants,” I lied. “I didn’t ask you here to ruin your night.”

“I know.” He reached out and brushed one of the strands of hair from my face. As he did, I glanced up to verify the man who accompanied Overton remained in the room. He had not wavered.

Willoughby seemed to pick up on my emotions. “Ms. Hill, we both know what these gatherings are about. As much as we love the pretense, let me make this a little easier. How much do you need?”

I hoped he had a tight grip on his drink when he learned the amount. I gave him a weary smile. “Fifty thousand.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be first on the list for one of the boxes?”

“Yes.”

He paused and stared into my eyes. His gaze then drifted to my cleavage. He sighed. “Done. I’ll have my assistant send over the check in the morning.”

“Thank you so much.” I extended my gratitude not only for the money, but also for the distraction. “Really, thank yo—”

“As always, Ms. Hill, it was my pleasure. My wife is waiting for me in the car. Call me when the box assignments are made.”

“Certainly. Thank you, again.”

He threw his arms around me and pulled me into a fierce hug, which landed his nose between my breasts. After one last squeeze of my bottom, he turned to leave.

Who would have thought I would be sorry to see Martin Willoughby go?

Overton stood at the bar conversing with Clarence, his guest no longer in the doorway. Exhaling a sigh of relief, hoping I imagined everything, I heard his voice come from behind me. Different accent; same tones. Light tremors racked my body as he drew near. Even though I could not see him, the pulsing under my skin alerted me to his proximity. His scent, unmistakable.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Green?” The words slid like velvet from his tongue as he approached.

By some miracle, I managed to respond, “Yes?” My back to him, eyes closed. Michael, my late husband, convinced me I had concocted the man’s entire existence. I had always secretly hoped he was wrong, hating to think someone imaginary had affected me so deeply—that I was still in love with a dream. Wait, he called me by my married name? No one knew I was a widow.

“I’d like to introduce myself.” His words were almost a whisper, and so close his hot breath tickled my ear.

I turned to face him, trembling. Our eyes met, and the intensity nearly buckled my knees.

He extended his hand. “Morgan Peters.” Same blue eyes.

Deep breath. In slow motion, I slipped my hand into his. Electric, just as I remembered. A low voltage ran through my body. His touch simmered my blood and I worried my bones might turn to liquid. He was the nexus. My stare drifted to his hand, large and masculine, tightening around mine, then looked up into his wide, surprised eyes.

My tongue felt thick and dry from anxiety; beads of perspiration peppered my skin. I swallowed hard and exhaled. “It’s nice to meet you…Mr. Peters.” Cyril Aristin was the man I watched die, not Morgan Peters.

He searched my face, his smile holding a hint of snide satisfaction. “Do I make you nervous? You seem a bit… Out of sorts.”

I took a deep breath and shook my head. “No. Ah…not at all, my apologies. I spilled my drink on someone and I feel awful. Can we start again? I’m Linden
Hill
. Did you attend the performance with Mr. Overton?”

“I did.” My memory, or imagination, had not done the ocean-blue of his eyes justice. So captivating. “Stanton and I are old friends. We’ve conducted many business transactions over the years. He told me of the superb orchestra you have in this city. Since I’ve never had the pleasure, I decided to accompany him tonight.” He took my hand in his once more, raised it, and kissed the back of it. “And what a pleasure it has been.” Even though the contact with his lips was only a quick passing, the sensation branded my skin with delightful heat.

When he released me, I instantly longed for his touch. I breathed in a scent that brought memories of teenage fantasies.

Attempting to reclaim dignity, I cleared my throat. “Di-did you enjoy the performance?”

“Yes, very much. Stanton told me you are undertaking quite the renovation project. Is that true?”

“Yes, we’re updating a lot of the original features, adding the private boxes, and remodeling backstage to help attract better touring companies.”

His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. The intensity in his gaze frightened me. His hand rose toward my face.

Turning my head toward the bar, I pointed, and in the process dodged his touch. Unsettled by his expression
,
I broke the silence. “Can I get you a drink, Cy…Mr. Peters?”

“No, thank you. I must be going. Stanton told me on our way here tonight that you made a promise to make sure he upholds his obligations to the arts. He’ll be in touch.” He shot me the first true smile since our introduction.

“I look forward to speaking with him.” I smiled back, hoping my anxiety didn’t show.

“Again, my pleasure, Mrs. Green.” He brought my hand to his lips, but paused before touching my skin. He inhaled and released his breath with a long sigh, and it blew hot across my skin.

Dumbfounded, I managed nothing more than a stunned stare.

Placing his lips lightly against my hand, with deliberate slowness, he lingered. I hoped he didn’t notice my shiver, but the sly smile pulling at the corner of his mouth told me otherwise.

He released my hand and tucked his behind his back, gave a slight nod, and walked toward Overton.

I watched as Peters whispered something to him. I didn’t move.

Overton glanced at me and placed his drink on the counter. “Peters” stole one last look over his shoulder. His brow furrowed one last time when our gazes connected. Finally he turned, and they made their way down the hall to the exterior doors as the musicians completed the final stanza.

I watched him until they were out of sight. I moved to the far wall and slumped on the red leather bench.

I needed Clarence’s confirmation. Or Olivia’s. I refused to cry over a delusion. My closest friend, besides Clarence, and the daughter of our wealthiest patron, Olivia spent a lot of time hanging around the office. I thought for sure she would make an appearance. She loved crashing my gatherings.

Clarence took a seat beside me. “So, how’d you do? Did you land Willoughby? What about tall, dark, and dangerous? That man should be illegal.” Clarence tried to hide his grin, but failed.

That confirmed he was real at least. “I don’t want to talk about it. Have you seen Olivia? I thought for sure she would drop by.”

“I saw her in the lobby before the performance. She said she was going to stop by to see you.”

“I haven’t seen her, but I really need to talk to her.”

“She came with her dad. It’s possible he had to leave. He is a busy man, with City Council and the company.”

“Yeah…you’re probably right. What about you? How did you fare?”

“Overton seemed distracted. He told me Peters is a business partner. Said he’d donate something, but he kept watching Peters. I’ll follow up with him midweek.”

In the corner, the musicians packed their instruments. I waved. “Thank you for the beautiful performance.” A few free hands raised in acknowledgment.

“Well?” Clarence prompted.

I put my face in my hands and spoke through widespread fingers. “I got the fifty thousand from Willoughby.”

“Fabulous news! You didn’t have to get naked!”

I moved my hands away from my eyes enough to glare at him. “But I did indulge his oral sex fantasy while on my knees wiping scotch from his pants.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t ask you to help him take them off.”

I cringed.

“Did you get money from the Peters guy?”

“No. Long story.”

He shot me a puzzled look. “What’s wrong, Linden?”

Taking a deep breath, I tossed my head back and stretched my neck from side to side. “Nothing. I’m tired. Go ahead and take off; I’ll close up here. We can talk about everything on Monday. Have a good weekend, and be careful on your way home.”

Giving a sympathetic smile, he patted my shoulder. “You too.”

I willed myself not to cry. A long night’s sleep was in order, courtesy of the sleeping pills Clarence gave me after a bad string of nightmares.

Exhausted from dealing with Mr. Undead, I removed my shoes, letting the plush carpet comfort my tired feet, and made my way to the restroom. The concertgoers and staff were long gone, making the hall eerie. Under normal circumstances, I would be reveling in the fortunate events of the evening, but encountering Cyril—rather, Mr. Peters—caused an old wound to fester. I wondered what the hell he was. A ghost? Long-lost twin? Or had I finally gone crazy?

I reached behind my neck with both hands and unclasped the necklace irritating my skin. Using my behind to bump open the bathroom door, I slipped inside.

The restroom was left over from a time when women escaped from overbearing men to powder shiny noses and gossip about how much other women gossiped. The walls were covered in a garish color best described as grandma-was-a-whore pink. I placed the necklace and my shoes on one of the worn sea-green velvet benches as the door on its pneumatic hinge creaked closed.

I shivered from a resurgence of the strange current that radiated through me earlier. Maybe Cyril wasn’t the cause. Maybe I was getting si—

He held me against the wall with such strength my feet no longer touched the ground. Supported by the crushing force of his body, the compression caused my breasts to escape an already bulging blouse, and mashed my nipples against the horrid paint. His chest rose and fell against my back. He spoke, not with the same American accent he tried to deceive me with earlier, but rather the tones of the British Isles mixed with something ancient and familiar. “Who are you?” His breath, hot against my ear, and a soft, rich voice contrasted with the violence of the leg wedged between my thighs.

He restrained my hands above my head in the steel grasp of his fist. I attempted to answer him, but couldn’t force enough air into my lungs. He growled. His chest rumbled.

The intense heat of his body was a dramatic contrast to the cold wall on my exposed skin. My nipples hardened to painful peaks. He brought his free hand to my throat, cradling it in warning. The next moment he spoke in low, punctuated notes. “Who…the…fuck…are…you?” The words reverberated, sustaining the menace.

I managed only a whimper, too shocked to form complete words. His grip loosened, but he did not release me. I swallowed hard. “Lin—”

“I know your name, Mrs. Green. Don’t take me for a fool. Now tell me why you have seen fit to steal from me?” He inhaled a sharp breath. “How dare you take what was not freely given. Do you have any idea what you have done…” His last words were uttered on a groan as he lowered me, shifted, and then rubbed his swollen arousal against my ass.

The friction of his body did strange things to me. My head clouded with images of our earlier life together, making it difficult to form rational thoughts. Flashes of a fantasy I once had of him where he took me against the glass wall of his cabin penetrated the fear.

I mustered as much air as possible and issued my indignant response. “You don’t have any right to complain about things that aren’t freely given. Hypocritical of you given our current position, isn’t it?”

He growled and moved his leg, still seated between mine, in a slow and rhythmic friction against my sex. It was a dare. He was egging me on. He wanted me to defy him again; it was evident in his every movement.

I groaned and slammed my eyes closed, trying to ignore the heat building in my stomach. Another deep inhalation made it easier to speak. “What exactly do you think I stole from you?”

He moaned as he slowly licked my neck from nape to ear and whispered, “Everything. You, my little thief, need to convince me that I shouldn’t take it back.”

Never had anyone touched me in such a way, and my traitorous body couldn’t care less about right or wrong, good or bad. It was need. The need to be touched. To feel alive. The need for him. Damn the consequences.
I shivered as his breath blew cold across the wet trail his tongue left on my searing skin. He shifted, wedging his clothed erection firmly into the cleft of my ass, while his heat penetrated every place he touched.

He grabbed my chin with the hand he once had at my throat, and turned my face. In the mirror, our reflection was a disturbing yet erotic sight. Seeing myself pushed against the wall made the vision terrifying, but at the same time arousing.

As his body blanketed mine, a voice in the back of my mind whispered,
Surrender.
His height, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and well-defined muscles were all discernible through his custom-made black suit. His hair framed the sharp angles of his masculine face—straight nose, square, shadowed jaw, and full, sensual lips.