“Do you play?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said, walking over to admire the fine piano. “My grandmother taught me. Whose is this?”
“My mother’s. This is her sitting room,” he said, glancing around and taking in their surroundings. His vague curiosity made her think he hadn’t been in the room in a long time.
“Does she play in here often?”
“No. She did when I was really little, but not anymore. This room doesn’t get used much. Music just kind of . . . faded away from her life, I guess.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Yeah. It is. Promise me you’ll never let that happen to you.”
She laughed softly.
“No, I’m serious. Promise me that even if you end up being some kind of business mogul, you’ll never give up your music.”
She snorted at the idea of her ever becoming a titan of business. Asher continued to appear dead serious, though. So she promised him.
“But only because I can’t imagine music not being a part of my life. It would be like . . . giving up air or something.”
He pulled back the piano bench. “Since I don’t read music, I thought you might want to play some of what you’ve written.”
She glanced back at the open door anxiously. Asher strode across the room and shut it. “They won’t be able to hear out on the terrace. Neither will Eric and Zara. Eric’s bedroom is on the northern corner of the house.”
She felt her cheeks go hot at his matter-of-fact assessment.
“Okay. Well . . .” She inhaled for courage and walked over to the bench. “Here goes nothing.”
“Can I sit next to you, so I can see the lyrics?” he asked once she’d sat and pulled one of her well-worn music notebooks from her bag.
“Yeah,” she said, scooting over. She played a few notes, warming up. Her fingers faltered, causing a jarring chord. She glanced over at Asher apologetically. “I’m really nervous,” she confessed. “No human ear but mine has ever heard this stuff before.”
“Don’t be nervous,” he said gruffly. He ducked his head and kissed her, swift and potent. “Music is part of who you are, right? Never be embarrassed about any part of yourself. You’re too special.”
He’d said something similar last night, when she’d climaxed so thunderously at his mere touch. It was far too easy to remember every detail of that moment, feeling his body next to hers, breathing his scent, seeing the heat in his radiant eyes.
Straining to calm herself, she propped open the notebook. She chose a bluesy, soulful ballad she’d recently written in less than two hours in a manic burst of creative energy. It was one of those rare songs that had just clicked for her. Highly conscious of Asher’s gaze on those virgin pages, she began to play. Her fingers loosened as the melody began to flow around them. Every once in a while, she’d sense his gaze moving off the pages of music and transferring to her profile.
“Sing,” he said quietly when the music wound back to the refrain once again.
At his simple command, the words flew past her lips. They’d already been crowding there in her throat, eager to be released. A feeling of electricity pulsed through her. It wasn’t just the words that’d been liberated from her throat.
She’d been freed. The music had liberated her.
Asher had.
The final chord hung in the air around them. Silence descended. A tightness started up in her chest. It grew hard to breathe. Slowly, she glanced over at Asher, eager for his response. Dreading it. His expression looked rigid. His stare blazed down at her.
“You’re incredibly talented. It was amazing,” he said.
Pleasure tingled in her limbs. She’d done it. She’d exposed her music, revealed a part of herself. And he’d liked it. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure . . .”
“Be sure.” She blinked at his fierceness. Nervous laughter bubbled past her lips.
“It’s not that simple, Asher.”
“Yeah. It is.” Suddenly, he cursed heatedly under his breath. He reached for her. “Come here.”