A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (8 page)

“Yeah,” I say like it’s a question. “I can play a bit of guitar, too, but I haven’t practiced in a long time.”
Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I played anything.
“Playing instruments just kind of comes naturally to me, I guess.”

He watches me for a long moment. It makes me squirm. “Why didn’t you pursue music as a career, then?”

“That’s a long story,” I say, pushing the vegetables around my plate.

“You seem to have lots of those.” He grins playfully.

“You have no idea.” I take a good, long drink.

“Well, let’s hear it,” Dan says. He leans back, ready to listen.

After swallowing one more fortifying mouthful of wine, I nervously begin. “I started playing piano at maybe four or something—just goofing around at home, nothing formal. My parents knew I enjoyed it, so they signed me up for lessons. When I got older, I took up violin easily enough and loved that, too. I minored in music in college, played in concerts there. My parents encouraged the extracurricular-ness of it, but they weren’t too keen on me relying on that for a living, you know? They thought I needed to have a real job to count on.” I finish the last part mimicking my father’s deep voice.

Dan frowns. “So you went into teaching by default?”

I pause. I’d never thought of it that way. “I guess, maybe, but I really do enjoy teaching.”

“Why didn’t you become a music teacher? Seems like a natural fit.”

“Well, I considered it, but playing music was my escape and teaching it made it more like work. It took the joy out of it to teach people the notes and how to move their fingers and whatnot. I wanted to keep it for me. Maybe that’s selfish—I don’t know.” I stare at my plate.

“No, it’s not selfish—it can be difficult to share something so personal.”

I nod. Always uncomfortable talking about myself, I look up and ask, “Do you ever wish you were in one place all the time for work?”

I can tell the abrupt switch throws him off, but he goes with it. “Uh . . . yeah, sometimes. I do enjoy traveling, even though most of the time I’m stuck inside a hotel room. But there are times I wish I didn’t have to pack up and go. Do you like to travel?”

“Yes, but I don’t do it very often, unfortunately. You need money to travel, and living in the city eats up any extra money I might otherwise have.”

“So, if money were no object, where’s one place you’d love to go?”

“Hmm, one place?” I think for a moment, fiddling with my wineglass. “There are a few places, but if I have to pick one, I guess I’d say Italy.”

He nods. “Yeah, Italy’s nice.”

“You’ve been there?”

“A few times, mostly for press, so I didn’t get to see much. I’d love to go there again and spend time really seeing the sights. I’ve always loved the artwork.”

“Oh yeah. Me, too. The artwork is phenomenal—in books, anyway. I can’t imagine what the statue of David or the Sistine Chapel might look like up close. How about you? Is there any place you haven’t been that you’d love to see?”

“I’d love to go to Africa on safari.”

I’m leaning in, thrilled that we seem to be on the same wavelength. “That would be amazing. See? There are too many places to pick just one.”

He’s leaning in too. “So what’s your favorite film?”

I’m about to answer when it dawns on me. I smile wide. “
Life in Eden
!”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” He rolls his eyes.

“Really, it stars my favorite actor,” I say straight-faced.

“Oh yeah? Who?” He plays dumb, as if he isn’t the star.

“Blake Thomas.” He’s one of the supporting actors in the movie with Dan.

“Yeah, Blake. He’s hot,” he teases, hiking his voice up like that of a thirteen-year-old girl.

I laugh. “Wow, I’m equally impressed and afraid. You do that frighteningly well!”

“Don’t poke fun. I’m quite proud of my teen girl voice. It’s on my resume: ‘Dan Chase’s skills include speaking like a schoolgirl’,” he finishes in a high-pitched giggle.

I laugh even harder.

For a while, we just eat, enjoying a few moments of relaxed silence.

Dan asks, “Really, what’s your favorite film?”

“Well, I like funnier movies, like romantic comedies. I don’t like sitting and crying much, so some of my favorites are
While You Were Sleeping
,
Ever After
,
Love Actually
—”

“Very girlie,” he says, grimacing.

“Yes, well, smarty-pants, I am a girl! And what about you? What do you like, tough-guy?”

He smiles wide and says, “I like
Rambo
one, two, and three.”

I tilt my head to the side, snickering. “Come on, seriously.”

“I like all different kinds—drama, action, comedy. And the completely foolish ones where they poke fun at other movies—those make me laugh.”

I grin and shake my head. We eat silently for a little and all the while I’m internally pinching myself that once again we’re together, eating and laughing.

“Do you rent an apartment in L.A.?”

“No, I own a house there, but I travel a lot, so I’m only there occasionally. I like your flat. It’s charming—quite, um, cozy.” He laughs.

It’s clear he’s just teasing, but I joke too. “Well, Mr. Millionaire, I don’t have the cash to sit pretty in a lavish penthouse like some people.”

“Yeah, ‘millionaire,’ ” he says, scoffing at the idea.

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “Well, most people I know can’t afford to fly across the country to go on a date.”

He pauses. He leans close, only a few inches away and says in a low voice, “Believe me, if you’re on the other end of the flight, most men would find a way.”

I’m not quite sure how to take that, so I playfully narrow my eyes at him. “You think you’re such a charmer. You probably say that to all the girls.”

“Yes, to each and every one,” he retorts, grinning.

By the time dinner is over, I’m tipsy once again. I’m also scooted right up next to him. The sides of our legs touch while his arm drapes along the back of the booth behind me and his fingers graze my shoulder. I sit back, allowing my eyes to feast on his strong jaw, sculpted cheekbones, and full lips . . . lips that were all over mine last weekend, the ones I’ve dreamt of traveling over every sacred place on my body.

I’ve had too much to drink.

“So, Miss Daisy, if it’s not too late for your ancient bones, would you like to break our tie tonight?”

I squint my tipsy eyes at him. “Ancient bones, huh? No. No pool; I don’t want to risk a hip or anything.”

His head tips back in laughter. “Good because I was wondering if I could hear you play some music?”

I sit up, completely caught off guard. “Um . . . what?”

“What’s what?” He laughs at me. “Yeah, I’d love to hear you play. Are you allergic to playing or something?”

I feel a bit woozy, a bit nauseous at the idea. “No . . . It’s just that . . . playing live for someone is hard for me.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. You said you played in concerts.”

“Yeah, I did, but it was easier to play in front of a crowd when the bright lights blinded my view of everyone . . . I know, it’s weird, but playing with someone right next to me has always freaked me out. Plus, I don’t have a piano.”

He’s silent and focused on his fingers wiping the sweat off his glass.

Shit.
He’s flown all this way. I have to do something.
“Well, I have some old recordings from college you can listen to.”

His face perks up. “Yeah? I’d love to hear them.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

We gather our things, and as we head over to my apartment, I realize I’ve just put myself in the exact position I feared—home alone with Mr. Beautiful.

Chapter Nine

Walking into my apartment, we remove our coats and drape them over the back of the sofa.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Some water would be good, thanks.” He follows me into the kitchen.

I fill two glasses, and we lean against opposite counters in the small kitchen.

Dan looks about. “How do you cook in here without setting the flat on fire?”

I laugh. “Very carefully.”

He snorts and meanders into the living room. “Where’s your music?” He pokes around near the TV and sound system.

“I have it in the other room. I’ll be right back.” I set my glass on the coffee table and leave to dig out the recordings that reside somewhere in a box at the bottom of my stuffed closet.

I click on my bedside lamp and open the closet door. I reach way in along the side and fish around for the shoebox. Once I reach it, I carefully pull it out.

I plop on my bed and open it. I turn over several cassettes, reviewing their spines, and realize that I haven’t listened to these since college. Like so much else in my life, music has been on hold, too. I finally find the right one and head back into the living room, where Dan is entirely too enthralled with the cassette deck’s eject button.

“Watch this,” he says, pressing the button. The tape deck slowly tilts open. He raises his eyebrows at me, proud of his new discovery.

I snicker. “I know. It’s really old. Can’t even fix it if it breaks. Have you never seen a tape deck?”

“I think in a museum once.”

I grin and roll my eyes. “I’ve had that thing for ages. Same with this, too.” I hold up the cassette. “My professor had a thing about cassette tapes. He believed it offered superior sound to CDs and made us use them.”

“So he was mad.” He smiles and shakes his head at me.

“Yes, a nutty professor.” And we both crack up.

“All right. Enough of this silly stuff. You’re stalling.” He points an accusatory finger at me. “Come on, let’s hear it.”

I’m beyond anxious. Sharing my music is difficult for so many reasons. I feel the need to preface the tape. “Okay, so . . . like I said, this is something from college, so it’s really old, and I wrote it myself.”

“You write music as well?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but this is old and—”

“Just play the thing, Claire.”

With fumbling fingers, I pop it into the player and hit rewind. He places his glass on the table and gets comfortable on the edge of the sofa. He smirks at me, seemingly amused at my cringing.

When the whirring noise stops, I press play and swallow hard. There’s no way I can sit. Instead, I grip the stereo unit and stare at the carpet.
Thank God I’m still tipsy.

When the first soft notes begin, I risk a peek at Dan. He rests his elbows on his knees and focuses on his clasped hands. He looks so serious, so thoughtful.

As the tempo gradually increases and the notes run up and down the scales, the oddest thing happens—the tips of my fingers tingle as if they’re traveling the keyboard, stroking each ivory with careful timing and precision right here, right now.

I shake it off. I glance at Dan, who’s staring ahead now, perhaps focused on the melodies blending, rising, and falling between the harmonies. Or not. He probably hates it. Maybe he’s trying to figure out a gentle way to tell me I suck. Or maybe he’ll be blunt like my mother, pointing out every wrong note, or like Mark, who half-listened and shooed me away with an “It was nice.”

The music changes, rising to its emotional crescendo. Dan’s eyes meet mine and narrow as if he’s trying to make sense of something.

The concluding notes drift from a faster tempo back to a slow, steady one. When the song ends, I hit stop and wait as if for bad test results.

He regards me in silence for a decade and a half. Finally, he says, “You’re killing me.”

“What does that mean?” My stomach churns.
Here it comes.
I brace myself.

“It means that was bloody brilliant!”

What? He’s just buttering me up, hoping to get a piece.

He shakes his head at me. “You don’t believe me, do you? That was beautiful, Claire. You are—” He stops and rubs the back of his neck. “It was seriously moving, and you wrote that? I can’t understand why you didn’t pursue music. You’d be doing quite well, you know.”

“It’s a little late now, I think.”

“It’s never too late.” He shakes his head. “Are there more songs on there?”

“Yeah, a few more.”

“May I hear them?”

I don’t think my nerves can handle more.
“How about I let you borrow it.”

His face lights up. “Yeah, I’d love that. Thanks.” Dan holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers for the tape.

I slide the tape out of the player and hold it up. “Do you even have a tape player to listen to this?”

“I’ll break in to the museum,” he says with a smile, snatching it up and quickly planting it in his jacket pocket.

I take a seat next to him on the sofa and ask, “So, are you hungry?”

He laughs. “No, we just ate. Are you?”

“Actually, yes.” I chuckle. “Dinner was about all I ate today, so I think it’s catching up with me.”

“Why didn’t you eat?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Wanna guess?”
Oh, how the wine makes me bold.

Puzzled, Dan shakes his head until realization hits him. “Me?”

“Yeah, smarty.” I nudge him with my elbow.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m sure plenty of girls are nervous around you.” I sip my water.

He seems taken aback. “I guess . . . it’s just that you always seem so cool and calm. I didn’t think tonight was a big deal for you.”

I almost spit my water across the room. “Are you kidding? I’ve had a hole in my stomach all day and night.”

He laughs. “Perhaps you should be the actor—I would never have known!” Turning more thoughtful, he asks, “Why are you so nervous, exactly?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I really don’t understand why you’re nervous.”

I examine him a moment and realize he really doesn’t know. I set my glass on the coffee table.
“Dan, I haven’t been on dates, ones that I actually wanted to go on, in . . . years. Yes, sadly, years—not to mention the fact that the dates are with you.” I gesture to him as evidence. I take a deep breath—my first relaxed breath of the night, and boy it feels good.

His mouth hangs open. “Wow . . . I didn’t expect that. At all.” He swipes at the back of his neck, shaking his head. “Look, if we’re baring souls here, I’ve been rather nervous myself.”

I raise a suspicious eyebrow at him.

He rolls his eyes at me in return. “You’re always challenging me—in a very good way, of course—and I’ve certainly never flown anywhere to go on a date. My best mate thinks I’m mad for doing this.” Dan laughs nervously.

Oh my God.
“You’ve never done this before? You said it was no big thing that you’re always flying.”

“Yeah, I
am
on planes a lot but never just for a date.”

“No?”

“You think I often get on planes for dates?” He laughs and looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am.

I nod since I’m speechless.

He places his glass on the table, too, and shifts to face me. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t do this often—I never have, in fact.”

I shake my head and look to the safety of my twisting fingers.
Why would someone go to all this effort to go on a date with me?
Finally I manage to say, “I’m blown away here.”

“You blow me away,” he says quietly.

My head snaps up only to meet his piercing green eyes.

He reaches for my face, cupping it in his warm hand. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone as his eyes focus on my mouth. “You have been on my mind far too much.”

I can’t help it. I lunge. My lips collide against his with more urgency and desire than I’ve ever known. I grip his trademark hair, tugging him onto me as I lean back against the sofa. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight.

Only a few moments and a million heartbeats pass before I break away. “Hang on a second. I’ll be right back.” I maneuver out from under him and stand.

“Where are you going?” he asks, confused and slightly disheveled.

“Meet me in there?” I nod to my bedroom.

He presses his lips together to stifle a smile. “Just in case of your flatmates, eh?”

I shake my head slowly. “No. They’re away for the weekend.”

I watch his jaw drop before I bolt to the bathroom and shut the door. I lean against the sink while the yin and the yang duke it out.

Breathe, Claire.

If I sleep with him, I’m setting myself up for heartbreak . . . can I handle that? Does it matter anymore? I can’t say no again. I can’t. I want him. Desperately.

I frantically brush my teeth as my mind scrambles, trying to make sense of all we just admitted.
For the first time ever he flew across the country just to go on a date with me? Me! It’s shocking. And even though I’m beyond nervous, my heart is Morse-coding a mating call to Dan, who’s waiting in my bedroom. Right now
.

If I stay in the bathroom much longer, I’ll overthink things like always. I can’t let that incredible man in my bedroom go to waste. No way. No way!

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth slowly, calming myself. Finally, I give myself a pregame pep talk in the mirror.

If I’m going to do this, I have to take control. I won’t get hurt that way . . . actually, no, I’ll still get hurt, but it’ll hurt less . . . I think.
For God’s sake, go for it. Do it! Give him a night he’ll be hard-pressed to forget. I can do this!

With a quick fluff of my hair, I adjust my breasts to sit proudly in my demi cup bra under my shirt. I nod at myself, throw on a dab of lip gloss, and make my way to my bedroom.

I walk in to find Dan seated on the edge of my bed, gripping the mattress with white knuckles and staring at his bouncing knee.

Oh my God, he’s nervous.

When the click of the door sounds, his eyes flash up to mine. I stand against the closed door a moment, drinking in his impeccable features bathed by the soft glow from the lamp.
My God. He’s utterly beautiful.

Be bold. Take control. Do it.

I inch up the hem of my shirt, bit by bit, until it hits the bottom of my bra.
This is it.
I pause and smirk.

His eyes widen slightly, but he smirks right back.

In one swoop, I lift the shirt over my head and toss it to the floor. My hair falls around my black lace bra. His eyes remain glued to me.

I step closer to him, yet still out of his reach, and unbutton my pants. With one quick slide of the zipper, my pants pool at my ankles. A quiet gasp escapes him.

I step out of them and stand for a moment in my matching panties, bra, and heels. I can almost hear him panting. Or maybe that’s me.

Three steps forward and I’m standing between his parted knees. He grips my hips and strokes his thumbs over my lower belly.

“Your body is . . . unbelievable.” He swallows hard. He’s blushing. “Watching you . . . is worth a million plane rides,” Dan whispers. His eyes dart from my bra to my panties.

Take control, Claire
.

I grasp his shoulders and look him in the eye. “Are you all done, then?” I taunt, playfully hitching up an eyebrow.

He laughs darkly. “No—not by a long shot.”

“Good.” I push him back onto the bed. I climb up, straddle his hips, and perch on his thighs. When he reaches for me, I gently place his wrists at his sides and shake my head. “Keep your hands here.”

He nods as he blinks at me, surprised, his breathing rapid.

“Good.”

I unbutton his shirt, kissing every bit of newly exposed skin. When the last button is undone, I sit up and push aside the fabric, exposing a full view of his taut chest.

Wow.

I lightly scratch my nails across every ripple. He takes in a shuddering breath.

Well done, Claire. Keep going.

I lean down again, kissing up the center of his chest toward his neck. As I progress, I drag my lacy breasts against his warm skin. He squirms.

I continue to nibble along his collarbone, his neck, and his ear.
Oh that soap and shaving cream scent . . .

Twice when he tries to touch me, I pull back and shake my head. “Not yet,” I whisper.

I head south again, kissing through the smattering of soft chest hair where his heart thumps hard. I continue on until I hit the trail to Treasure Island, where I’m sure he’s already sailing at full mast.

I sit up on his hips with his belt positioned directly between my thighs. For a fleeting moment he holds my waist, but I place his hands down again and shake my head. He groans in frustration. I grin and grind my hips in one firm rotation against him. I pull his belt tight to unlatch it. His eyes close briefly as he impatiently taps his fists on the bed.

I unhook the belt and separate the two ends. Our eyes lock as I scoot down a smidge. I unbutton his pants and let the zipper down, purposely grazing what lies beneath. He groans when my thumbs skim along the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Then I stop.

“You’re probably too jet-lagged. I should let you sleep.” I lift a knee in a mock dismount. His eyes widen, and in one swift movement, he flips me onto my back and pins my hands above my head as he hovers over me.

Breathing hard, he playfully glares at me. “Jet-lagged? Let me show you how jet-lagged I am.”

“If you insist,” I tease, and it turns out he isn’t one bit jet-lagged.

Before long our bare bodies writhe and twist together on the bed. I mount him and position our bodies just right. On the verge of connection, he grabs my wrists. With eyes afire, he asks, “Are you sure, Claire?”

Intoxicated by his breathtaking face and form, I breathe out, “Yes.”
Please don’t break my heart.
“Are you?”

“Oh yeah,” he pants and firmly grasps my hips. All systems go.

With our eyes locked, I slide his body into mine. His mouth falls open.

I gasp and close my eyes as the sensation of fullness overtakes my body and mind. Our bodies begin to move in opposite directions, slowly at first. Our rhythmic pace continues and we grow sweaty and breathless.

I lean down to kiss him, but he sits up and wraps his arms around me. He switches places with me, gently placing me on my back. I’m lost to him. I have no idea how much time passes. Nor do I care.

His strength, his soft touch, his body wanting mine, moving to a sensuous rhythm we create—all of it—commands every cell in my body to attention.

Low in my body, deep in the place I shut down long ago, the cylinders begin firing, rattling, and shaking my body alive. A tingling—that incredible sensation I’ve nearly forgotten about—builds and intensifies.

As he hovers over me, his eyes search mine as if looking for the answer to some mysterious question. I’m unable to give it more than a moment’s thought because that low tightening demands my focus. I’m not sure how much longer I can hang on.

“You feel . . . so . . .” he mutters, finishing his thought with parted lips and a sharp intake of breath. His body tenses and his guttural moan pushes me over the edge, too, my release forceful and pounding.

He collapses on top of me and rests his head on my chest. I wrap my arms and legs around him, hugging him tightly against me.