Once More With Feeling (11 page)

They'd both been on the road for several weeks. He was home now, and somehow Raven knew already that she, too, would be at home there. For all its age and size, there was something comforting in the house. Perhaps, Raven mused as she lazily soaped a leg, it's the age and size. Continuity was important to her, as she felt she'd had little of it in her life, and space was important for the same reason.

Raven had felt an instant affinity for the house. She liked the muffled roar of the sea outside her window and the breathtaking view. She liked the old-fashioned porcelain tub with the curved legs and the oval, mahogany-framed mirror over the tiny pedestal sink.

Rising from the tub, she lifted a towel from the heated bar. When she had dried herself, she wrapped a thick, buff-colored towel around her before letting down her hair. The two braids fell from where she had pinned them atop of her head. Absently, as she wandered back into the bedroom, she began to undo them.

Her luggage still sat beside an old brass chest, but she didn't give much thought to unpacking. Instead she walked to the window seat set in the south wall and knelt on the padded cushion.

Below her the sea hurled itself onto the rocks, tossed up by the wind. There was a sucking, drawing sound before it crashed back onto the shingles and cliffs. Like the sky, they were gray, except for where the waves crested in stiff, white caps. The rain drizzled still, with small drops hitting her window to trail lazily downward. Placing her arms on the wide sill, Raven rested her chin on them and lost herself in dreamy contemplation of the scene below.

“Raven.”

She heard Brand's call and the knock and answered both absently. “Yes, come in.”

“I thought you might be ready to go downstairs,” he said.

“In a minute. What a spectacular view this is! Come look. Does your room face the sea like this? I think I could sit here watching it forever.”

“It has its points,” he agreed and came over to stand behind her. He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I didn't know you had such a fondness for the sea.”

“Yes, always, but I've never had a room where I felt right on top of it before. I'm going to like hearing it at night.” She smiled over her shoulder at him. “Is your house in Ireland on the coast, too?”

“No, it's more of a farm, actually. I'd like to take you there.” He ran his fingers through her hair, finding it thick and soft and still faintly damp. “It's a green, weepy country, and as appealing as this one, in a different way.”

“That's your favorite, isn't it?” Raven smiled up at him. “Even though you live in London and come here to do work, it's the place in Ireland that's special.”

He returned the smile. “If it wasn't that there'd have been Sweeneys and Hardestys everywhere we looked, I'd have taken you there. My mother's family,” he explained, “are very friendly people. If the score goes well, perhaps we can take a bit of a vacation there when we're done.”

Raven hesitated. “Yes . . . I'd like that.”

“Good.” The smile turned into a grin. “And I like your dress.”

Puzzled, Raven followed his lowered glance. Stunned, she gripped the towel at her breasts and scrambled to her feet. “I didn't realize . . . I'd forgotten.” She could feel the color heating her cheeks. “Brandon, you might have said something.”

“I just did,” he pointed out. His eyes skimmed down to her thighs.

“Very funny,” Raven retorted and found herself smiling. “Now, why don't you clear out and let me change?”

“Must you? Pity.” He hooked his hand over the towel where it met between her breasts. The back of his fingers brushed the swell of her bosom. “I was just thinking I liked your outfit.” Without touching her in any other way, he brought his mouth down to hers.

“You smell good,” he murmured, then traced just the inside of her mouth with his tongue. “Rain's still in your hair.”

A roaring louder than the sea began in her brain. Instinctually she was kissing him back, meeting his tongue with hers, stepping closer and rising on her toes. Though her response was quick and giving, he kept the kiss light. She sensed the hunger and the strength under tight control.

Under the towel, his finger swept over her nipple, finding it taut with desire. Raven felt a strong, unfamiliar ache between her thighs. She moaned with it as each muscle in her body went lax. He lifted his face and waited until her eyes opened.

“Shall I make love to you, Raven?”

She stared at him, aching with the churn of rising needs. He was putting the decision in her hands. She should have been grateful, relieved, yet at that moment she found she would have preferred it if he had simply swept her away. For an instant she wanted no choice, no voice, but only to be taken.

“You'll have to be sure,” he told her quietly. Lifting her chin with his finger, he smiled. His eyes were a calm blue-green. “I've no intention of making it easy for you.”

He dropped his hand. “I'll wait for you downstairs, though I still think it's a pity you have to change. You're very attractive in a towel.”

“Brandon,” she said when he was at the door. He turned, lifting a brow in acknowledgment. “What if I'd said yes?” Raven grinned, feeling a bit more steady with the distance between them. “Wouldn't that have been a bit awkward with Mrs. Pengalley still downstairs?”

Leaning against the door, he said lazily, “Raven, if you'd said yes, I wouldn't give a damn if Mrs. Pengalley and half the country were downstairs.” He shut the door carefully behind him.

Chapter 10

B
oth Raven and Brand were anxious to begin. They started the day after their arrival and soon fell into an easy, workable routine. Brand rose early and was usually finishing up a goodsized breakfast by the time Raven dragged herself downstairs. When she was fortified with coffee, they started their morning stretch, working until noon and Mrs. Pengalley's arrival. While the housekeeper brought in the day's marketing and saw to whatever domestic chores needed to be seen to, Brand and Raven would take long walks.

The days were balmy, scented with sea spray and spring. The land was rugged, even harsh, with patches of poor ground covered with heather not yet in bloom. The pounding surf beat against towering granite cliffs. Hardy birds built their nests in the crags. Their cries could be heard over the crash of the waves. Standing high, Raven could see down to the village with its neat rows of cottages and white church spire.

They'd work again in the afternoon with the fire sizzling in the grate at their backs. After dinner they went over the day's work. By the end of the week they had a loosely based outline for the score and the completed title song.

They didn't work without snags. Both Raven and Brand felt too strongly about music for any collaboration to run smoothly. But the arguments seemed to stimulate both of them; and the final product was the better for them. They were a good team.

They remained friends. Brand made no further attempt to become Raven's lover. From time to time Raven would catch him staring intently at her. Then she would feel the pull, as sensual as a touch, as tempting as a kiss. The lack of pressure confused her and drew her more effectively than his advances could have. Advances could be refused, avoided. She knew he was waiting for her decision. Underneath the casualness, the jokes and professional disagreements, the air throbbed with tension.

***

The afternoon was long and a bit dreary. A steady downpour of rain kept Raven and Brand from walking the cliffs. Their music floated through the house, echoing in corners here and there and drifting to forgotten attics. They'd built the fire high with Mr. Pengalley's store of wood to chase away the dampness that seemed to seep through the windows. A tray of tea and biscuits that they had both forgotten rested on one of the Chippendale tables. Their argument was reaching its second stage.

“We've got to bring up the tempo,” Raven insisted. “It just doesn't work this way.”

“It's a mood piece, Raven.”

“Not a funeral dirge. It drags this way, Brandon. People are going to be nodding off before she finishes singing it.”

“Nobody falls asleep while Lauren Chase is singing,” Brand countered. “This number is pure sex, Raven, and she'll sell it.”

“Yes, she will,” Raven agreed, “but not at this tempo.” She shifted on the piano bench so that she faced him more directly. “All right, Joe's fallen asleep at the typewriter in the middle of the chapter he's writing. He's already believing himself a little mad because of the vivid dreams he's having about his character Tessa. She seems too real, and he's fallen in love with her even though he knows she's a product of his own imagination, a character in a novel he's writing, a fantasy. And now, in the middle of the day, he's dreaming about her again, and this time she promises to come to him that night.”

“I know the plot, Raven,” Brand said dryly.

Though she narrowed her eyes, Raven checked her temper. She thought she detected some fatigue in his voice. Once or twice she'd been awakened in the middle of the night by his playing. “‘Nightfall' is hot, Brandon. You're right about it being pure sex, and your lyrics are fabulous. But it still needs to move.”

“It moves.” He took a last drag on his cigarette before crushing it out. “Chase knows how to hang on to a note.”

Raven made a quick sound of frustration. Unfortunately he was usually right about such things. His instincts were phenomenal. This time, however, she was certain that her own instincts—as a songwriter and as a woman—were keener. She knew the way the song had to be sung to reap the full effect. The moment she had read Brand's lyrics, she had known what was needed. The song had flowed, completed, through her head.

“I know she can hang on to a note, and she can handle choreography. She'll be able to do both and still do the song at the right tempo. Let me show you.” She began to play the opening bars. Brand shrugged and rose from the bench.

Raven moved the tempo to
andante
and sang to her own accompaniment. Her voice wrapped itself around the music. Brand moved to the window to watch the rain. It was the song of a temptress, full of implicit, wild promises.

Raven's voice flowed over the range of notes, then heated when it was least expected until Brand felt a tight knot of desire in the pit of his stomach. There was something not quite earthy in the melody she had created. The quicker tempo made a sharp contrast, much more effective than the pace Brand had wanted. She ended abruptly in a raspy whisper without any fade-out. She tossed her hair, then shot him a look over her shoulder.

“Well?” There was a half smile on her face.

He had his back to her and kept his hands tucked into his pockets. “You have to be right now and again, I suppose.”

Raven laughed, spinning around on the bench until she faced the room. “You've a way with compliments, Brandon. It sets my heart fluttering.”

“She doesn't have your range,” he murmured. Then, making an impatient movement, he wandered over to the teapot. “I don't think she'll get as much out of the low scale as you do.”

“Mmm.”
Raven shrugged as she watched him pour out a cup of tea. “She's got tremendous style, though; she'll milk every ounce out of it.” He set the tea down again without touching it and roamed to the fire. As she watched him, a worried frown creased Raven's brow. “Brandon, what's wrong?”

He threw another log on the already roaring fire. “Nothing, just restless.”

“This rain's depressing.” She rose to go to the window. “I've never minded it. Sometimes I like a dreary, sleepy day. I can be lazy without feeling guilty. Maybe that's what you should do, Brandon, be lazy today. You've got that marvelous chessboard in the library. Why don't you teach me to play?” She lifted her hands to his shoulders and feeling the tension, began to knead absently. “Of course, that might be hard work. Julie gave up playing backgammon with me. She says I haven't any knack for strategy.”

Raven broke off when Brand turned abruptly around and removed her hands from his shoulders. Without speaking, he walked away from her. He went to the liquor cabinet and drew out a bottle of bourbon. Raven watched as he poured three fingers into a glass and drank it down.

“I don't think I've the patience for games this afternoon,” he told her as he poured a second drink.

“All right, Brandon,” she said. “No games.” She walked over to stand in front of him, keeping her eyes direct. “Why are you angry with me? Certainly not because of the song.”

The look held for several long moments while the fire popped and sizzled in the grate. Raven heard a log fall as the one beneath it gave way.

“Perhaps it's time you and I talked,” Brandon said as he idly swirled the remaining liquor in the glass. “It's dangerous to leave things hanging for five years; you never know when they're going to fall.”

Raven felt a ripple of disquiet but nodded. “You may be right.”

Brand gave her a quick smile. “Should we be civilized and sit down or take a few free swings standing up?”

She shrugged. “I don't think there's any need to be civilized. Civilized fighting never clears the air.”

“All right,” he began but was interrupted by the peal of the bell. Setting down his glass, Brand shot her a last look, then went to answer.

Alone, Raven tried to control her jitters. There was a storm brewing, she knew, and it wasn't outside the windows. Brand was itching for a fight, and though the reason was unclear to her, Raven found herself very willing to oblige him. The tension between them had been glossed over in the name of music and peace. Now, despite her nerves, she was looking forward to shattering the calm. Hearing his returning footsteps, she walked back to the tea tray and picked up her cup.

“Package for you.” Brand gestured with it as he came through the doorway. “From Henderson.”

“I wonder what he could be sending me,” she murmured, already ripping off the heavy packing tape. “Oh, of course.” She tossed the wrappings carelessly aside and studied the album jacket. “They're sample jackets for the album I'm releasing this summer.” Without glancing at him, Raven handed Brand one of the covers, then turned to another to read the liner notes.

For the next few minutes Brand studied the cover picture without speaking. Again, a background of white, Raven sitting in her habitual cross-legged fashion. She was looking full into the camera with only a tease of a smile on her lips. Her eyes were very gray and very direct. Over her shoulders and down to her knees, her hair spilled—a sharp contrast against the soft-focused white of the background. The arrangement appeared to be haphazard but had been cleverly posed nonetheless. She appeared to be nude, and the effect was fairly erotic.

“Did you approve this picture?”

“Hmm?”
Raven pushed back her hair as she continued to read. “Oh, yes, I looked over the proofs before I left on tour. I'm still not completely sure about this song order, but I suppose it's a bit late to change it now.”

“I always felt Henderson was above packaging you this way.”

“Packaging me what way?” she asked absently.

“As a virgin offering to the masses.” He handed her the cover.

“Brandon, really . . . how ridiculous.”

“I don't think so,” he said. “I think it's an uncannily apt description: virgin white, soft focus, and you sitting naked in the middle of it all.”

“I'm not naked,” she retorted indignantly. “I don't do nudes.”

“The potential buyer isn't supposed to know that, though, is he?” Brand leaned against the piano and watched her through narrowed eyes.

“It's provocative, certainly. It's meant to be.” Raven frowned down at the cover again. “There's nothing wrong with that. I'm not a child to be dressed up in Mary Janes and a pink pinafore, Brandon. This is business. There's nothing extreme about this cover. And I'm more modestly covered than I would be on a public beach.”

“But not more decently,” he said coldly. “There's a difference.”

Color flooded her face, now a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. “It's not indecent. I've never posed for an indecent picture. Karl Straighter is one of the finest photographers in the business. He doesn't shoot indecent pictures.”

“One man's art is another's porn, I suppose.”

Her eyes widened as she lowered the jackets to the piano bench. “That's a disgusting thing to say,” she whispered. “You're being deliberately horrible.”

“I'm simply giving you my opinion,” he corrected, lifting a brow. “You don't have to like it.”

“I don't need your opinion. I don't need your approval.”

“No,” he said and crushed out his cigarette. “You bloody well don't do you? But you're going to have it in any case.” He caught her by the arm when she would have turned away. The power of the grip contrasted the cool tone and frosty eyes.

“Let go of me,” Raven demanded, putting her hand on top of his and trying unsuccessfully to pry it from her arm.

“When I'm finished.”

“You have finished.” Her voice was abruptly calm, and she stopped her frantic attempts to free herself. Instead she faced him squarely, emotion burning in her eyes. “I don't have to listen to you when you go out of your way to insult me, Brandon. I won't listen to you. You can prevent me from leaving because you're stronger than I am, but you can't make me listen.” She swallowed but managed to keep her voice steady. “I run my own life. You're entitled to your opinion, certainly, but you're not entitled to hurt me with it. I don't want to talk to you now; I just want you to let me go.”

He was silent for so long, Raven thought he would refuse. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip until she could slip her arm from his fingers. Without a word she turned and left the room.

***

Perhaps it was the strain of her argument with Brand or the lash of rain against the windows or the sudden fury of thunder and lightning. The dream formed out of a vague montage of childhood remembrances that left her with impressions rather than vivid pictures. Thoughts and images floated and receded against the darkness of sleep. There were rolling sensations of fear, guilt, despair, one lapping over the other while she moaned and twisted beneath the sheets, trying to force herself awake. But she was trapped, caught fast in the world just below consciousness. Then the thunder seemed to explode inside her head, and the flash of lightning split the room with a swift, white flash. Screaming, Raven sat up in bed.

The room was pitch dark again when Brand rushed in; he found his way to the bed by following the sounds of Raven's wild weeping. “Raven. Here, love.” Even as he reached her, she threw herself into his arms and clung. She was trembling hard, and her skin was icy. Brand pulled the quilt up over her back and cuddled her. “Don't cry, love, you're safe here.” He patted and stroked as he would for a child frightened of a storm. “It'll soon be over.”

“Hold me.” She pressed her face into his bare shoulder. “Please, just hold me.” Her breathing was quick, burning her throat as she struggled for air. “Oh, Brandon, such an awful dream.”

He rocked her and laid a light kiss on her temple. “What was it about?” The telling, he recalled from childhood, usually banished the fear.