Page 92 of Serving the Maestro

This was not a simple solution.

THIRTY-THREE

TRENT

The music flowed around us.

Hands on the piano keys, I closed my eyes to the world, lost to the sound of piano, violin, cello, and flute. This piece hit right in the gut, exactly as I’d imagined, conveying a deep, intimate sensuality without a single lyric.

As the final notes faded from the air, I opened my eyes and looked at the musicians hired to work along with me. Each of them looked as pleased with the song as I felt.

“That’s pure magic,” Sylvie Mercer said, heaving out a pleased sigh as she stroked a hand down the gleaming wood of her cello. “This soundtrack is going to make you a legend, Trent.”

I smiled but offered no other response. I agreed with her, but the magic in the songs had risen from a place I’d discovered for the first time with Jazz. Strange that the one thing I’d never thought I wanted, much less needed, seemed to be the key to opening the door to crafting the best music of my career.

I glanced up to check the time, wanting to try the piece again, but a flash of movement caught my eye.

There, standing at the monitor window that allowed observers in the control room to watch as we played, was a beautiful woman in a luxurious fur coat, her deep brown hair artfully tousled.

Avery Gilmore.

Looking away, I silently swore to myself. Then, before I could say anything that would make the next few minutes worse than they already would be, I turned off the mic and rose.

“Why don’t we all take a break for lunch?” I said, looking at the musicians instead of at my former lover.

“Sounds great.” Hector Suarez, the violinist, put his violin in the case, eyes on Sylvie. “Sylvie, you got any plans?”

Frank Mullins followed the other two out. I was glad when nobody asked about Avery, although who could miss her? Walking to the door separating the recording from the control room, I opened it and nodded at the engineer.

He was trying hard not to look at Avery.

“You want to grab some food, too?”

He wasn’t as quick to leave, but once the door shut behind him, I locked it and blew out a hard breath before facing Avery.

The control room wasn’t small. There was a lot of equipment, but it was comfortably sized, with several rolling stools and a recliner in one corner.

I sat down, hooking one ankle over the opposite knee as I studied the woman before me.

“Kind of warm out for a mink fur coat, Avery,” I said, wondering what she was up to.

“I was feeling decadent,” she said, moving to the open door of the recording room to peer inside. Over her shoulder, she smiled at me. “Your own private recording studio for your new project, Trent. How delicious.”

“No, it's just more productive to work this way. I don’t have much time, and I need to grab some food myself.”

“Hungry, are you?” She turned to me, a familiar, coy smile playing about her lips.

The hint of mischief in her eyes might have turned me on once. No. There was no might about it. I would have already pulled her close, tried to figure out what game she wanted to play—and if I’d play along or devise a game of my own.

But that was before Jazz.

Suddenly tired, I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Avery, look, we need to talk.”

Her shadow fell over me, and I looked up just in time to see her part the opening of her coat, then shrug out of it.

She pushed against my shoulders, surprising me enough that I wasn’t quite prepared for the way she climbed atop me, one knee on either side of me, braced on the arms of the leather chair.

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