first, he had wondered why. He hadn’t changed. He was the same person. Until he looked in the mirror one day for a self-portrait. His cheeks had been thick with grizzle, toughening the flawless skin that had once been speckled with teenage blemishes. His eyes had deepened in color and in intensity; his mouth had turned sensual and hungry. His body had hardened from pumping iron. His forearms were developed from hours of cello playing. Suddenly he realized what had happened. Hormones and genetics had finally worked in his favor. They had turned him into a man.
A vengeful person might have reacted with hostility. But since emotions weren’t part of his equation, he reacted as he always did. With control and calculation.
He regarded himself through her eyes. It must have been hard for a rich, spoiled Italian princess to accept a gawky fourteen-year-old mongrel three years her junior. Her former boyfriends had been older than she—nineteen or even in their early twenties, with deep voices and developed muscles. He must have looked like a worm in comparison.
So he decided to be gracious with her. Kind but never attentive, closed but not cold. Physical affection, of course, but only the obligatory kind if you please—a peck on the cheek, his hand on her arm as they strolled through the family’s vast country acreage.
She knew something was off, but she couldn’t call him on it. Because he behaved like the perfect gentleman that Daddy had ordered. They played tennis together. He always won, but not by too many points. They went to the symphony together. He knew the pieces by heart, could have conducted them if push came to shove. She had a hard time staying awake. He teased her about her strong New York accent, but it was always in good humor. They went to Mass together. He prayed fervently as she sneaked him sidelong glances, her leg rubbing against his thigh.
He jerked her around like a rag doll, kept her off balance. After the official engagement had been announced, she waited … and waited and waited. Finally, she came to him. To his amazement, she was still a virgin. So he’d been gentle with her. Gentle but dispassionate. Their first nighttime tryst, which she had arranged to cement their relationship, had only served to increase her anxiety.
What was wrong?
Nothing, it was fine.
What could she do to please him more?
Nothing, he was fine.
What could she do to make herself better?
Nothing, she was fine.
He had finally gained the upper hand.
He pulled a suitcase down from his bedroom closet. He didn’t feel like packing, so instead he lit a cigarette.
What he really wanted was another drink.
But that was the wrong thing to do.
It was time to use logic, analyze why he wanted the drink so bad.
Was it the gigs? After all these years was he finally getting performance anxiety?
No, he never was anxious about anything.
Was he worried about failure?
No, he was a pro.
Was the thrill gone?
He sucked on his smoke.
That was part of it. Just wasn’t as thrilling as it used to be. Truth be told, he was just going through the motions. So what? That was life, buddy. Everybody had to earn their keep. Besides, he needed the bread now more than ever because he was doling out so much of it to her.
Her.
Still the same thrill every time he thought about her. At least that much hadn’t changed. How she’d slipped by him in orchestra was still beyond his comprehension. He chalked it up to the way he was. He never went after girls. They had always come to him.
Just like Cheryl.
Not that he hadn’t noticed Cheryl. How could he not have noticed Cheryl? And yeah, he had wanted her. But Cheryl had been business as usual. He’d sent her “the vibes” and she had responded quickly … satisfyingly …
Terry had been different. He hadn’t noticed her because she’d been buried in the back of the second violin section. They’d been playing Rossini’s William Tell Overture. The beginning of the piece, Hedding purposely dragging the tempo, milking the cello solo—his solo, of course. Then Hedding had stopped the orchestra. Apparently, someone had been making loud snoring noises in the background.
Lack of sleep, Miss McLaughlin, or do you have a problem with the tempo?
Lots of giggling now … at least, two or three girls.
No, sir. Sorry, sir.
The voice had been sultry. He had craned his neck, but hadn’t been able to make out the person.
Perhaps you’d like to come up and conduct the piece at a tempo more to your liking.
By then the entire orchestra had gotten into the act. Egging her on. Red-faced, she stood up. But she did it. Conducted the entire piece. Did a pretty good job of it, too.
All he had remembered was his heart pounding out of his chest. Good thing he was such a natural, because he hadn’t known what he’d been playing. His mind racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess.
Where the fuck had she been hiding?
So mind-boggling gorgeous, and best of all, she didn’t even know it.
Immediately, he started sending her “the vibes.” But they hadn’t worked and he figured out why. She was a good girl. Well, that wasn’t so bad. Because he knew all about good girls. They weren’t hard to catch, but you had to do it indirectly. Then she walked by one day, and Bull made some lech comment. They had all laughed about it. Bull also mentioned that she’d been his tutor.
The opening he’d been waiting for.
But it wasn’t working out as planned. She was supposed to be a blow and go. Instead, something got messed up in his head.
He closed his eyes, allowing his brain to flash up her image. He studied the purity of her oval face, the arch of her cheekbones, the liquid in her exotic, amber eyes, the sweep of her long, auburn hair.
Though he tried to fight it, he knew he was going under.
He was falling in love.
His groin ached. He realized he was rock hard.
So that’s why he had wanted to drink. He had wanted to suppress his arousal. God, he wanted her.
But that was out of the question.
He grabbed his rubbers, a handful of old neckties, and headed for the streets.
6
Rina realized the bed was empty. Not an infrequent occurrence of late. Ever since Peter had returned home from New York, he’d been hit with bouts of insomnia. The nightstand clock read two A.M. Stomach still awash in sleep-laden nausea, Rina rose slowly from the bed, donned her robe, and slipped her feet into mules. Moving slowly through the darkened house, she found Peter seated at the kitchen table, fingers running through his mop of red hair, his shoulders hunched over the Formica top.
“What are you doing?”
Startled, Decker pivoted around to face her. “I didn’t hear you get up.”
She sat next to him. Immediately, Decker began stacking papers in front of him. Once they were piled up, he covered them with his elbows, hiding them from Rina’s eyes as if she were trying to cheat off him.
“Peter, what are you doing?”
“Just going over loose ends.”
“What loose ends?”
“Just business stuff. Not important.” He scooped up the papers and stood. “Come on. We’ll both go back to bed.”
Rina pointed to his chair. Decker sat back down. “Tell me the