Lost Melody (10 page)

“I try to get in an hour or two. The
rhythm of every song depends on me keeping the beat. It requires
concentration, and like any good athlete, muscle memory. Sometimes
I play for my own enjoyment. I’ve been known to go three or four
hours, especially if I have something on my mind I need to work
through. The music helps me, it always has.”

She scanned the room. Other than the
drum kit and sitting area in the opposite corner, there were no
other furnishings. A built-in console across the back wall
contained a dizzying number of knobs and switches. An industrial
style clock and a small control panel next to the door stood out
against bare, white walls. She pointed to the buttons on the
console beside the door. “What are these for?”

“It’s a signal system,
similar to what you see in doctor’s offices. The green light means
all clear. The yellow indicates someone is here to see me, or if
it’s flashing, I have a phone call on my private line. The red is
for emergency use only. It means, get the hell out.
Now
. So far, it’s never
been used. There’s a call panel in the house, in my office, and one
in the studio. That’s how I knew you and Dad were here the other
night. He signaled me from the house.”

“It’s an impressive
system.”

“It works for me. I tend to forget
about the rest of the world when I’m in here.”

“Well, don’t mind me. I’m just going
to watch.”

He played along with the song only he
could hear. His fingers held the sticks loosely. His hands flew
through the air. The play of muscles in his forearms and wrists
fascinated her. The steady beat from the bass drum drew her
attention to his muscular thighs as his feet worked the foot
pedals. His broad shoulders moved in time with the unheard track.
He closed his eyes and kept up the steady backbeat, his body moving
in graceful harmony with the music.

She was far from bored. The pulsing
beat coursed through her body, mesmerizing her. She opened herself
to the rhythm. The tempo changed as he moved into the drum solo. A
small crease formed between his brows as he concentrated on the
music, pouring his soul into the exciting beat, building to its
climatic peak. When the tempo eased back into the slow, sensual
beat of the melody, she let her eyelids fall, giving herself over
to the erotic message of the music.

He risked a glance at her. He fought
his body and mind for control. Only years of practice saved him
from missing the beat. He had chosen the song with care, a sort of
test to see how it would affect her, if at all. The lyrics told the
story of a night filled with intense passion, the beat, slow and
sensual, mimicked the rhythm of making love. The drum solo built to
a soaring climax, mellowing into the aftermath of
passion.

Her hand, pressed over her heart,
fisted, clenching her blouse and drawing it tight across her
breasts. His body reacted, and he fought the urge to throw down the
sticks, cross the room, and take her. She could deny it all she
wanted, but music ran hot and passionate through her
veins.

The music ended in his headset, but he
continued to play. Tiny movements signaled her growing need,
mirroring his. He sighed and eased out of the rhythm until the
drums were silent.

She sat up. Her gaze locked with his.
Behind the drum kit, he dug his fingernails into his thighs to keep
his hands from getting him into trouble. He’d never been wound so
tight in his life as he was right this minute. A muscle ticked
along his jaw line at the sight of her flushed with passion. What
had started as a good idea, he thought, had totally backfired on
him. He had to get her out of here before he forgot she wasn’t
ready for him, might never be.

“I’ve done enough for today,” he said,
turning to store his sticks in the cabinet behind him—giving him a
few extra seconds to wrestle his libido under control. He spun
around, rising and crossing the room to her. “I don’t know how you
slept through it. You must be desperate for sleep.”

He offered his hand. Her skin was so
damned soft, and from the current running between them, he knew
sinking inside her would be like inserting a plug into a socket.
They’d light up the world. As soon as she was on her feet, she
jerked her hand from his and stepped away, nervously straightening
her slacks and blouse.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have
drifted off. I don’t sleep well at night.”

“What do you mean?”

She glanced up, and her gaze met his.
Something inside him shifted at the wariness he saw
there.

“Nothing,” she said, dismissing her
comment. “I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

That was a damned lie. It was written
all over her face. He took a step back, giving her space. Maybe
he’d been too harsh, demanding she explain. But damn, if she had
dragons after her, he wanted to slay ever last one of them. Except,
he couldn’t do anything for her until she trusted him enough to
tell him what was wrong.

An unfamiliar wave of emotions washed
through him. He wanted to protect, to comfort, and to shelter her
in a way he’d never experienced before. He wanted to break down the
barrier she’d built to shield her heart, to take away any pain,
erase any suffering. It was a foreign feeling for him, but another
one, more familiar, held sway. His arms ached to wrap around her,
to hold her close, to explore every inch of her. It was one emotion
he understood.

He stood by while she fidgeted;
smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her clothing, brushing her
hair away from her face, gathering her bag and notebook. Silently
he catalogued every movement. He crammed his hands in his back
pockets to keep from touching her. Turning away, he stared at the
ceiling, took a deep breath, and let it out. Of all the things he
had expected from his pursuit of Melody Ravenswood, a rush of
emotion was the last. He’d hoped they could forge some kind of
emotional bond, but he’d never expected to feel so much, so
quickly.

The sooner he got her out of the barn,
out of his sight, the better off he would be. This was so not a
part of the plan. He walked her to her car, hoping distance would
quiet his rioting emotions.

* * *

“I didn’t hear you drive up.” Hank
gathered the papers and crammed them in his pocket. At least
yesterday hadn’t scared her off. She’d come back for another day.
He took it for a good sign.

Mel closed the screened door and bent
to pet the dog, who came to greet her. “Hi Betty, How are you
today?” She gave her an affectionate hug and turned her attention
to Hank. “I didn’t mean to startle you. What are you working
on?”

“Nothing. It’s not much yet, just a
bunch of disjointed notes. It can wait.”

“What’s that?” She pointed to a small,
round object. About the size of dinner plate, it resembled a toy
flying saucer.

“It’s a portable electronic drum kit.”
He drew her closer. “It has a tiny finger pad. It’s like finger
drumming on the table, except it converts the taps into
real-sounding drum beats I hear through the headphones.” He held
the headphones out to her. “Here, try it.”

She secured the earbuds, and he tapped
out a beat on the finger pad. She smiled at the brief solo. He took
her hand, urging her to try it herself. Timidly, she tapped a
one-fingered beat then a more complex one. Her laughter rang out in
the room, and he thought he’d never heard anything so beautiful in
his life. Her lips curved into the first genuine smile he’d ever
seen from her, and for a moment, he wanted to kiss her more than he
wanted his next breath. The realization rocked him back on his
heels.

She jerked the earbuds loose and held
them out to him. “That’s fun.”

“You can try the real thing if you
want.”

“No. Uh-uh. I’ll leave those to
you.”

“Well, if you change your
mind…”

“I won’t. What’s for
breakfast?”

“French toast?”

“Sounds good to me.”

After they ate, they took a walk
through the cotton fields to the creek that gave Willowbrook its
name. Cottonwoods and weeping willows lined the banks, casting long
shadows over the sleepy creek. They sat on the grassy bank, and she
brought out her voice recorder. She felt better prepared today and
resolved not to let him turn the questions back on her as he’d done
the day before. It was time to put an end to the two-way
interview.

Unable to sleep the night before,
she’d gone over and over the previous days and wondered at how
easily he’d drawn her out. She’d never talked about her personal
life with anyone the way she did with him. Reluctantly, she
admitted he probably understood her life better than anyone else in
the world. He’d lived the same life her father had—music, tours,
fans, groupies, paparazzi, hotels, planes, busses, and limos. If
anyone could understand why she hid herself away in Willowbrook, it
would be Hank Travis. However, it didn’t explain why she felt she
could joke with him about where they bought their underwear. Her
face flushed at the memory.

He eyed her curiously. “What are you
thinking?”

“Nothing.” Touching her fingertips to
her cheeks, she added, “I’m just a little warm in the sun.” She
dropped her hand. “Tell me about growing up in
Willowbrook.”

He accepted the change of subject, lay
back in the dappled shade, and began to talk.

She placed the recorder in the grass
between them and wrapped her arms around her drawn up knees. He
told her about his maternal grandparents and about his friends and
their exploits. She stiffened when he talked about the girlfriends
he had brought to the very spot where they sat.

“Why did you bring them
here?”

He sat up. With a gentle finger on her
chin, he turned her face. His lips were a whisper away—so close his
breath feathered across hers. “For this.”

He pressed his lips to hers. One large
hand slid into her hair, cradling her head. His tongue traced a hot
demand across her mouth, urging her to allow him in. She opened for
him, and he swooped in. The kiss changed from soft and gentle to
flagrant and needy, igniting her desire into a firestorm. Changing
the angle, he drew her across his lap and folded her into his
strong arms.

Heated blood rushed through her veins.
Every nerve ending screamed for his touch. His other hand on her
back molded her body close to his. She was secure in his embrace,
warmed by his possession.

As he eased her onto her back, her
heated skin cooled against the soft spring grass. He came over her,
grinding his hips into the juncture of her legs. She parted for
him, and he settled between her thighs. He moved to an age-old
rhythm. Propped on his forearms, his palms bracketed her face; his
tongue penetrated her in harmony with the movement of his
hips.

She trailed her fingers along his jaw
and down the tensed cords of his neck. His strength, his weight
bearing down on her, awakened something deep inside. Deep inside,
her body mimicked the drumbeat and she remembered the strain on his
face while he’d concentrated on playing “One Night”. The erotic
rhythm pulsed through her body.

Reality crashed over her as if they’d
tumbled into the cold, rushing waters of the creek. She tore her
mouth from his, shoving against his shoulders. “Stop! Hank, please
stop!”

Tears streamed across her temples. He
brushed them away with his thumbs and rolled off her. He pulled her
into his embrace, and her sobs eased to a soft
snuffling.

Burying his face in her hair, he
kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry, Melody.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He tightened his hold on her. “I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I thought one kiss would be
enough, but I was wrong. I got carried away, and I was arrogant
enough to think you wanted it as much as I did. It won’t happen
again unless you want it to.”

His voice rumbled through
his chest, the timbre as comforting as the words themselves. Oh
God. He was right. She did want him. Lying in his arms, she felt
safe, cherished, but he was a musician. Her body yearned for his,
but she couldn’t fall for him. Her mother's warnings set off alarms
in her head.
Musicians. Don't believe
their pretty words
.
They'll just break your heart.

He could never lead a normal life.
There would always be someone wanting a piece of him, and it would
eventually kill him. She wouldn’t put herself through that
again.

She pushed from Hank’s embrace and
gathered her scattered wits. Better to keep her association with
him on a professional level. “I should probably interview some of
your friends from school, you know, get their side of the
story.”

Mel the reporter was back. He’d held
Melody in his arms for a brief, intense time. His desire had gotten
out of hand, but it wasn’t his imagination. For a moment, she’d
wanted him, too. Then something had happened, and she’d thrown that
damnable brick wall up again.

He glanced at her. The tension in her
shoulders made him think she was holding herself together with
nothing more than willpower and determination. It didn't make any
sense. There wasn't any way she could deny she enjoyed the kiss,
but she wasn’t going to let him inside her protective shell for
more than a minute.