What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(61)
“It was beautiful, like sparkling colors.” He bent down to kiss the side of her neck.
She leaned her head back against him and reached up to clasp his hand. “Thank you. And Ludwig thanks you too. It’s ‘Gertrude’s Dream Waltz.’ Beethoven wrote it for one of his students. It was my recital piece when I was seven.” She smiled and ran a couple of arpeggios up the scale. “I had to roll the chords back then.”
Jase nodded, but didn’t understand. He enjoyed music, but only as a listener, like a restaurant patron who likes what he eats, but has no comprehension of all the slicing and dicing that went on in the kitchen. To him, Laurel’s playing was sheer magic, wonderful and unexplainable.
Most of the kids he’d gone to high school with had been into music big-time. A few of them even played the guitar or sang, which he thought was great, but not for him. His activities had to put money in his pocket. Football had been the only exception, and he figured the physical competition had been what made him sign up year after year. That, and the attention the coaches gave him. It was nice to be valued. Who knows? Maybe he even saw them as father figures.
His stomach rumbled and Laurel laughed, removing her hand and standing up to face him. “Sounds like someone needs a snack.”
“No time now. But what’s for dinner?”
She went rigid, and her eyes widened with alarm. “I—I really haven’t thought about it yet.”
He tried not to smile. She looked like Lolly when he was confronting her about some harebrained escapade she’d tried to keep secret from him.
“Com’ere, hon.” His voice softened with tender amusement as he drew her out from behind the piano bench and into his arms. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. I spotted the shrimp boxes in the trash can when I threw away the newspaper this morning.” He massaged her shoulders gently. “Tell you what. We’ll go out to eat tonight. I’ll be back about six to change clothes so I won’t disgrace you. I’ve got a guest card for the Bosque Club.”
He kissed her hard on the mouth, and, before she’d registered what he’d said, he was out the back door.
Laurel’s knees buckled and she sat down hard on the bench. Her eyes wandered sightlessly around the room. If ever in her life she was going to have a stroke, this was it. She’d known Jase’s visit had to end sometime. Dear God, she’d had much more time with him than she’d asked for, but she’d hoped…well, she’d hoped for a miracle, maybe that he’d tell her he’d known about Daddy all along, but didn’t want to distress her by discussing the situation. Or maybe that he’d take her back to Dallas with him, at least for a visit.
She braced her hands on the piano bench. His escorting her to the Bosque Club would be like throwing herself to the wolves—and him too. How could she get out of it? She’d already played the sex card.
With a sudden rush of energy, she rose and began prowling the room, touching a lampshade here and the back of a couch there, as if searching for advice from the furniture. She even peeked out to see if Sarah was in the front yard with one of her kids.
No Sarah. And it wasn’t as if her former friend would have cared anyway.
Letting the curtain drop, she walked back to the piano and played a restless one-handed scale to the top of the keyboard, then glanced over at the door to her father’s study. The key was still in the lock. She walked over to the door and, on sudden impulse, pushed it open and went inside the room.
She didn’t know what she’d expected—the study looked the same as it had yesterday, which was the same as always. Sinking into her father’s swivel chair, she glanced up at the family portrait above the desk.
“What should I do, Daddy?”
But no dry, kindly tones echoed answered her from the great beyond. She was all alone and talking to a stupid photograph. She pushed herself up from the chair and walked out, locking the door behind her. Nothing to do but retreat to her bedroom.
The afternoon heat was gathering, but she didn’t turn on the window unit—she didn’t deserve to be comfortable. Picking up an old paperback, she sprawled across the bed and tried to read, but couldn’t make herself care about the beautiful blond heroine’s problems with her handsome rapscallion of an Italian conte.
Blondie would have a happy ending, but Laurel wouldn’t. She’d made her bed and now she had to lie in it, but it would be a bed of nails rather than the one she wanted to be in. Resigned to her fate, Laurel laid her head on the pillow, turned off her brain, and slept.
Hours later she heard a masculine voice calling her name. Still half dreaming of an Italian conte who inexplicably preferred so-so brunettes to drop-dead-gorgeous blondes, she managed to sit up on the side of the bed as Jase came rushing into the room.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. You’ve got half an hour to get ready for the Bosque Club.”
“I’m not going,” she heard herself say as she stood up to confront him.
She hadn’t planned to say that, but that’s what came out, without excuse or explanation. Maybe it was her subconscious taking over and fighting to prolong Jase’s visit. Maybe it was heroine’s voice from the romance she’d been reading. Whatever the source or intent, she was standing by it.
He gave her a long, level look, and she knew he was going to ask her the question she didn’t want to hear.