Any Way You Want It (32 page)

More pain filled him, but he broke eye contact and moved to the keyboards. He poised his fingers over the keys, then began to play, pouring every bit of emotion into the song, putting all his love into every note.

Maggie tried to remain distant, and she’d managed it until Ren began to play. The song that he’d played that first night. The song that had led her to him. And her heart began to ache just watching him.

He was beautiful to watch, and so incredibly talented. The song was as haunting and intricate as she remembered. A song of heartbreak and forlornness. She could feel it with every note, she could see it on his face as he played.

He looked up from the keys, seeking her out. Their eyes locked. She could see the pain, the regret, the…she didn’t dare give the other emotion a name.

What if he hurt her again? She just didn’t know if her already fragile heart could take another trauma like that.

He brought the song to an end, and the crowd applauded and whistled, having no idea that they had just seen a composer genius perform a masterpiece. They just cheered because it added to their own fun.

“Thank you,” he said, and Maggie noticed how husky his voice was, as if he was holding back those emotions in his eyes, and it was nearly strangling him.

“I wrote that piece a long, long time ago. I actually wrote it for my father, a man I loved, who never even acknowledged me as his son in return.”

The crowd grew silent, some perplexed, some drawn in by the story. Some, like Maggie, waiting for him to continue with bated breath.

“Tonight I want to give this song to someone else. This person gave me her love—openly, fully.

And I stupidly, very stupidly, gave it up.”

Ren pulled the mic off the stand and walked to the edge of the stage. Maggie watched, her heart ceasing to beat in her chest.

“Maggie”—his eyes held hers—“if you give me another chance, I swear, I will never, never hurt you again. I want to give you an eternity of the love you deserve.”

Maggie didn’t react. She couldn’t. All she could do was stare at him. God, she wanted to believe.

She did.

“Maggie, I am crazy in love with you. And I know this sounds like the lamest excuse, but I only did what I did in a misguided attempt to protect you.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Vittorio said from beside her. “And I can also attest to the fact that it was seriously, seriously misguided.”

Ren had stepped down off the stage and now stood a few feet away. “He can. And he can also attest that I’m so damned in love with you, I don’t know what to do.”

“I can,” Vittorio agreed.

A broken laugh escaped Maggie, and for the first time, she realized tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Please, Maggie, I can’t write anything new, but every sonota, every concerto, every symphony, they are for you. Only you.”

Ren stood directly in front of her, his eyes pleading. And Maggie knew he was telling her the truth.

She could feel it in the very depths of her soul. But all she managed to give him was a nod.

His eyebrow rose. “Is that a yes, you’ll give me a second chance?”

She nodded again, and then she found herself pinned tight to Ren’s hard chest. He lifted her, spinning her around. His mouth kissing her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, and finally her lips.

When they broke apart they were both laughing, although both of them had suspiciously moist eyes.

“Don’t ever hurt me again,” Maggie warned.

Ren kissed her again, then murmured against her lips. “Never. Never.”

“S o what did Erika and Jo think about your decision to move here?” Ren asked as he placed the last of Maggie’s boxes in the living room of his carriage house.

“Erika wasn’t surprised at all,” Maggie said, dropping her own box next to his. “And Jo wasn’t surprised; more concerned. She’s a mother hen, you know.”

Ren moved over to pull Maggie against him. He kissed her neck, finding the sensitive spot just below her earlobe that he knew drove her crazy.

She tilted her head, allowing him better access.

“Did you tell them anything about what I really am?”

Maggie shook her head, then pulled back to look at him. “No. And if I did tell them, it wouldn’t be to tell them what you are, but rather who you are.”

“Are you just attracted to me because I was once a nearly famous composer?” Even though he asked the question jokingly, Maggie sensed the small bit of real concern there.

Poor Ren still believed he’d never been loved for anything other than his talent. Which apparently had been true of his mother. Maggie had been shocked when she learned that Ren really did have a curse on him and why his mother had done it. Orabella D’Antoni Ridgewood truly was a horrible, selfish woman. It was a wonder she’d given birth to such a sweet and generous son as Ren. And Vittorio too.

But Maggie had a surprise for Ren. One that she hoped would help him see his own self-worth, just as he’d done for her.

“Where are you going?” Ren’s hold tightened as she tried to wiggle free. She laughed, enjoying his attention very, very much.

“I need to show you something.”

“Hmm, does it involve taking off your clothes?”

Maggie laughed again. “Not this particular thing, no.” She wriggled free, and moved to one of the boxes that had just been shipped here.

“We’ve been apart for a week. I have no intention of doing anything that doesn’t involve touching you.”

Maggie sidestepped him, as she tugged at the packing tape.

“Behave yourself,” she halfheartedly scolded him. Frankly, she wanted nothing more than to touch him too. But this was too important not to show him. “A week cannot be that long to a vampire, after all.”

“Ha!” But he did let her finish opening the box.

She pulled out a rather large, ungainly chest. Carefully she placed it on the floor.

“This is all of your original sheet music.”

Ren stared at the chest, his skin actually growing pale.

“I called the person who shipped it to me, and they verified that it was found at the estate that your father owned. The one in Essex.”

Ren crouched down, and touched the lid of the old box. The lid was carved with a pastoral scene.

His long, tapered fingers traced the carvings. “This was my toy box.” His voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear him.

“It was a part of his estate. And it turns out that if I’d looked at the contents of the box closer, I would have realized that I wasn’t sent this to figure out the composer. I was sent it just to validate the sheet music’s authenticity.”

Ren looked up from the box. “What do you mean?”

Maggie reached down and opened the box. On the top she’d placed the letter, yellowed and barely legible. Carefully, she picked it up and handed it to Ren.

She watched his face as he read what it said. Then he reread it. Finally he gaped at her.

“My father saved these.”

She nodded. She knew what the letter said, word for word.

It was his father’s apology for never claiming him as his son publicly. It explained why he did it.

Because of his position as duke, because of his other children and his legal wife. But that he’d loved him so very, very much.

“Your father did love you. And he saved every single thing you wrote. Even things you balled up and tossed in the bin.”

Ren stared down at the piles and piles of music, stored in his very own toy box.

When he looked back up at Maggie, his eyes were suspiciously glittery.

“He did love you, Ren.”

Ren stared at the note for a moment longer. Then he hugged Maggie tight against him.

“And somehow he also brought you to me,” he murmured in her hair.

She smiled. “Maybe you are right.”

She squealed at he swept her up into his arms and headed for the stairs to the loft.

After he placed her on the bed, she gazed at him, all humor lost. “Will you make me like you?”

“If you want me to,” he said. “I want forever with you.”

“I want that too. Can we do it tonight?”

Ren didn’t hesitate. Obviously the idea of love didn’t scare him in the least now.

“We can do it now.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

She playfully cuffed him. “Not that it. Although I do want that too.”

He smiled. “Good.” But then his expression grew serious. “Are you sure you want to be like me?”

“I just want you. Forever.”

Ren pulled her tight again him. “I am yours. Any way you want me.”

If you liked this story,

you’ve got to try

THE BLACK SHEEP AND

THE HIDDEN BEAUTY

by Donna Kauffman,

available now from Brava.

Turn the page for a sneak peek…

Elena backed down the ladder from her loft apartment over the outer stables, yawning deeply and wishing like hell she’d remembered to set the timer on the coffeepot the night before. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon and last night the temperature had dipped down a bit further than it had recently making for a chilly late spring morning. She shivered despite the long underwear top she’d donned under her overalls this morning. Teach her to be a smartass and offer up a dawn class. But then, she hadn’t really expected him to take her up on it. He struck her as more of a night owl, than an early bird. Serve her right if he stood her up. With her luck, Rafe was probably still tucked in his nice warm bed. Which was where she should be. Well, not in Rafe’s bed, but…

No way could she stop the visuals that accompanied that little mental slip. It wasn’t a shot of warm coffee, but it did have the added benefit of getting her blood pumping a little faster. Of course, if she were in the same bed as Rafe, she wouldn’t need any coffee, just…stamina.

“Morning.”

His voice surprised her, making her lose her footing on the last rung. An instant later two strong hands palmed her waist and steadied her as both feet reached the ground. She could have told him that putting his hands on her was not the way to steady her at the moment, but she was too busy trying to rally her thoughts away from imagining him manhandling her like this while they were both naked among tousled sheets.

Then he was turning her around, and she was getting her first look at a scruffy, early morning Rafe. And whatever words she might have found evaporated like the morning mist under a rising sun.

Goodness knows her temperature was rising.

He wore an old forest green sweatshirt and an even older pair of jeans, if the frayed edged and faded thighs and knees were any indication. It was standard weekend morning clothing for most men, but, until that moment, she’d have been hard pressed to visualize it on him. Of course, on most men, that combination would have given them a disheveled look at best. In fact, she was feeling incredibly disheveled herself at the moment. Rafe, on the other hand, without even trying, looked like he’d just stepped off the pages of the latest Ralph Lauren ad. She resented the ease with which he made scruffy so damn sexy, except she was too busy fighting off the waves of lust the look inspired.

“So,” she said, her tone overly bright. “You ready for lesson number two?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

She led the way down the aisle toward Petunia’s stall. “It’s been a while since your first lesson, so keep in mind that you’ll probably need to reestablish your report with Petunia.”

“Check.” He said nothing else, just followed behind her.

She stopped at the tack room door and went inside. “I haven’t set anything out, so we need to get her saddle, pads, bridle, everything.”

He followed her into the smaller room. “Just point to what we need.”

She could feel him behind her, her awareness of him as finely tuned as her senses were to the animals she worked with. Except with him, there was all that sexual energy jacking things up. She cleared her throat, maybe squared her shoulders a little, then made the mistake of looking back at him before reaching for the first of the gear.

Something about the morning beard shadowing his jaw, the way his hair wasn’t quite so naturally perfect, made his eyes darker, and enhanced how impossibly thick his eyelashes were. And she really, really needed to stop looking at his mouth. But the ruggedness the stubble lent to his face just emphasized all the more those soft, sculpted lips of his.

Her thighs were quivery, her nipples were on-point, and the panties she’d just put on not fifteen minutes ago, were already damp. The morning air might have been head-clearing, but her body hadn’t gotten the message at all.

“You take the saddle there,” she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she knew she did.

Dammit. “On the third rail,” she added, pointing, when he kept that dark gaze of his on her.

“What else?” He didn’t even glance at the rack.

“Grab one of the pads. Same kind that we used last time. I’ll get the halter and bridle.”

“Okay.”

She waited a heartbeat too long for him to move first. He didn’t.

So they were officially staring at each other now. The silence in the small space expanded in a way that lent texture to the very air between them. The room was tiny, the temperature warm, with little ventilation. The sun hadn’t risen enough to slice through the panels on the roof, leaving the room deep in shadows, with thin beams of gray dawn providing the only light. There was a lightbulb overheard, but she’d have to reach past him to get to the switch.

He stepped forward. “Elena—”

“Rafe—”

They spoke at the same time, and both broke off.

He paused. “Yes?”

She really wanted to know what he’d been about to say, before she potentially made a very big fool out of herself, but went ahead before she lost her nerve. “I can’t—I mean, not to be presumptuous here, but I can’t—don’t—mix business with pleasure.”

“Are we?”

She didn’t back down. She might not be the most experienced person in the world when it came to relationships, but she knew the way he was looking at her wasn’t of the innocent teacher–

student variety. “It feels like more than a simple riding lesson to me.” There. She’d said it.