Reckless Abandon(12)

I was good. I was damn good because I loved it. But one accident, a broken hand and a crushed nerve left me unable to pick up a bow. If I curl my palm to a certain degree, and hold it just a second too long, pain shoots so far up my arm I want to scream.

Turning away from the cello, I walk to a far corner of the room where there is a large grand piano. It’s black, sleek and I know without checking it’s perfectly tuned. No one who owns an instrument as fine as this leaves it untuned. I take a seat and lift the lid to the keys. The ivory feels so smooth under my fingers.

Just being this close to one makes me feel jittery and excited. I’m like a drug addict falling off the wagon—this is my line of cocaine.

My mom has been trying to make me play something, anything. She doesn’t care if it’s the drums, the sax . . . a trombone. She just wants me to play. Said it would be good for me. But I couldn’t.

Now, sitting here, in this foreign room, alone with this beast of dark musical power, I have an intense desire to put my hands down and . . .

Play.

Slowly at first, I let my fingers push down on the keys. I close my eyes and my hands dance. I play a melody that pops in my head. It’s not one I know, it’s one that is just playing. The piano is not my instrument. If I ever played, and it was so very rare, it was like this. Just a little melody from inside my head.

Using both hands, I play a few chords and let them harmonize with one another. The sound is nice and I’m slightly surprised by that. I feel my lips tip up and my head falls to the side as the music takes over me.

It’s unexpected how good it feels to play. My fingers move faster and my hands travel up and down the length of the piano, playing sequences I haven’t heard in so long.

The wooden case surrounding the soundboard and metal strings vibrates and hums with each stroke of my fingers. The percussion resonates in my heart until the pain in my chest settles back in, causing me to slow down. I remove my hands from the keys and let my head fall forward.

This felt good but it’s not for me. It will never make me feel whole again.

Letting the air puff out from my lips, I swallow, then lift my head to rise and go back to finding Devon.

But when I look up, I startle.

Standing in the center of the room is a man. He is tall and commanding. His face is serious and tense by the look of his square jaw and stern brows. A straight nose and full lips are accented by light hair and bronzed skin. His body is well built, broad at the top and narrow at the waist.

And if there’s one thing I notice it’s his piercing gaze.

So piercing because of golden eyes.

You know how yesterday I said the view of Capri was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen in my life?

I take that back.

He is the most beautiful thing I have ever, without a doubt, seen in my entire life.





“What are you doing?” Those full lips let out a sound that’s deep, thick, manly, and frightening as all hell.

I freeze for a second before remembering what I came in here to do. Staggering my words, I try to form a coherent sentence. “I’m sorry. I was looking for Devon.” I grab the paper off the top of the piano and hold it up. “I am supposed to bring this to him.”

“Well, he’s not in here, is he?” Golden Eyes looks right through me. Even referring to him like that in my head makes him sound like a character out of a James Bond movie.

He is intense and way too annoyed with my being here. He is wearing black shorts, a white polo, and boat shoes. I’m assuming he is one of the crew. Surely he must understand how overwhelming this boat can be to a newcomer.

“I was looking for him when I saw the cello . . . I just had to see it, and then I saw the piano, and I . . . I just had to play.” I am rambling like a ninny. What is wrong with me?

It’s the eyes. They are definitely setting me off-kilter.

“You play the cello?” he asks.

“Yes . . . no. Well, not any more. It’s a long, awful story. And the piano was just calling me. I can’t explain it.”

“You play beautifully,” he says, his voice deep and melodic. Ugh, that sounds so ridiculous, even in my head.

I stop to think about what he just said. I don’t play beautifully. I suck at the piano. Clearly this guy needs to be schooled in music if he thought that was good.

“Thank you.” Even though he has no idea what he’s talking about, it’s best to be polite.

I rise from the bench and become very aware of my attire when his gaze skims my robe. I swear I see his pupils dilate and I suddenly feel very, very naked.

“Can you tell me where your boss is?” I ask, trying to break the unwanted stare.

His head pops up. “My boss?”

“Devon. I don’t know his last name. My sister and I fell into the water and I lost my bag. He was kind enough to bring us back here and let us change. I think someone is drying our clothes too.”

The man looks at me perplexed. “Let me get this straight. My boss—Devon, you say—rescued you and brought you back here to change?”

Clearly this guy is not going to bring me to his boss until I explain the whole story. “My bag fell in the water and it’s gone. We lost our passports, money, credit cards, everything.”

“We?”

“My sister Leah and I. She’s downstairs.”