A Price Worth Paying(39)

She tried to concentrate on the sand and the squeak of their steps on the sand, on the lights of the buildings reflected into the bay, on the stars and moon above, but his touch wasn’t easy to ignore. Damon hadn’t liked holding hands. He’d said it signalled possessiveness and argued that people weren’t possessions.

Was Alesander being possessive or just … neighbourly? Whatever, he had nice hands and a nice touch. She didn’t mind the feel of her hand wrapped in his as they walked along the sand. And meanwhile the silver ribbon on the water shimmied, the shoreline spun with gold of the reflected city and the night air was fresh and clean.

She sighed wistfully. ‘It’s so beautiful here. You’re lucky to live so close to the bay.’

‘Do you live near the sea?’

‘No, not really. I live in a shoe box of a flat near the university where I’m studying. It’s about an hour to the coast, probably two to get to a decent beach.’ She sighed again. ‘The beach there is nice enough but it’s nothing like this.’

They walked a few more steps, the strains of the violin haunting in the night air.

‘What are you studying?’

And the question took her so unawares that she laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It just seemed odd—we just got married and here you are, asking me what I do. Normally you’d ask that before you got married.’

‘Normally a woman wouldn’t turn up on your doorstep and propose.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, looking at her feet. ‘I take your point. I’m studying psychology. I’m in my final year.’

They neared a building that jutted out onto the beach—the same restaurant near where she’d crossed the road that first day—which meant his apartment must be just across the road. Here the music was louder, and she could see a small band of musicians playing on a balcony overlooking the sea, scattered patrons lapping up the last of the evening’s musical fare. The music tugged at her as they passed by, the violin so sweet over the piano and drums, so richly emotional that she stopped to listen. ‘What is that tune?’

‘That one?’ He smiled. ‘It’s an old folk song. The lyrics tell of the mountains and the sea and the people who settled here originally and made it home. But most times they don’t bother with the lyrics. They let the violin sing the words.’

‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said as she watched the violinist coax his instrument to even sweeter heights.

For a moment it was just the music and the tide that filled the space between and all around them, until he uttered the words, ‘You are,’ and she felt the night air shift sensually around her. ‘Very beautiful.’

She looked back up at him, startled, to see him smiling down at her, and maybe it was the music that she could hear, the music that sounded so poignant and bewitching against the rhythmic shush of the tide, or maybe it was the velvet sky and the silver ribbon of moonlight on the water, but she caught the spine-tingling impact of his smile full on and then immediately wished she hadn’t. Because she didn’t want him to smile at her like that. She didn’t want him to smile at her at all. She didn’t want him to tell her she was beautiful and make out this marriage was something more than it was.

And suddenly she regretted letting him take her hand and walk her along the sand as if they were friends or even lovers. They were neither. They had a business arrangement, that was all it was, the terms of which he’d changed to suit himself, and only after it was too late for her to get out of it, once she was already committed. And now this whole ‘walk on the sands holding hands’ episode spoke of nothing more than lulling her into some false sense of security—to make her think he actually cared—when his apartment was right across the street and it was clear that was where they were headed next—so he could finish this thing he’d started.

She wasn’t having it. She shook her head, saying no to whatever it was he was offering, vaguely aware of another tune, violin over drumbeat, half familiar.

Momentarily it threw her. Until she realised it was the music that had played at Markel’s birthday party, the tango to which the dancers had danced so seductively. So passionately.

The music he’d told her was called Feelings.

And the music told her what a marriage should be. The music told her what was missing from this marriage and could never be a part of it.