Page 86 of Once an Angel
She crept down the long, curving staircase, realizing halfway down that the drawing room lay directly across the checkered tile of the foyer. Moonlight spilled through the wall of windows, varnishing the
grand piano to an ebony gloss.
Justin's hair flew as he pounded the keys. He had abandoned his waistcoat, and his white shirt was half unbuttoned. The muscles in his shoulders rippled beneath the rich linen. Sweat glistened on the column
of his throat.
Emily sank to a sitting position on the stairs, clasping the wooden balusters in her trembling hands. The melody poured over her in jarring shocks of recognition. It was the symphony he had written for her on the island. Hearing it rendered in these magnificent tones made her realize what pathetic justice her own reedy voice had done it.
Justin played the piano like a master. His hands flew over the keys, making her purr and thunder beneath his skillful touch.
Emily's eyes fluttered shut. Her mouth felt dry, her breathing unsteady. It was as if Justin were ravishing not the piano, but her, taking her against her will with each crash of the chords. As the music climbed to
a crescendo, a broken gasp escaped her. Her eyes flew open.
Justin looked up, and his gaze met hers across the gleaming expanse of tile. His eyes were dark and dangerous. His fingers never missed a stroke.
I've spent the last few nights pouring all of my passions into my music when all I really wanted to do
was pour them into you.
Without warning his words came back to her, rough with promise.
Tearing her gaze away from his, she rose and flew back up the stairs. She slammed her door and locked it, her heart beating frantic wings in her throat. She jumped into the bed, slippers and all, and pulled the comforter over her head. But no matter how hard she pressed her hands to her ears, she still could not stop the music.
Chapter 20
Yet when we said good-bye, the shadow
of the woman you will become was in your eyes.
"There's one, sir," Penfeld said, jabbing his finger at the newspaper spread on the dining room table. " 'Personal maid,' " he read over Justin's shoulder, " 'Companion. Expert dresser of hair. Fluent in
French and Italian.' "
Something slammed into the ceiling above them. Tiny specks of plaster floated down to dust Justin's
tea. A muffled oath that was neither French nor Italian burned their ears.
"Do you think we can find a maid fluent in bear wrestling?" Justin muttered.
"You might try the circus," Penfeld suggested.
Justin held the paper in front of his face, trying to ignore the alarmed cries, thumps, and howls coming from the second floor. He winced at the tinkling sound of glass shattering.
Penfeld lifted the teapot to pour him a fresh cup of tea.
"One. Two," Justin counted under his breath.
A door slammed. The valet gazed upward, pouring a stream of amber over the ivory tablecloth.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs accompanied by hysterical sobbing.Click, click, clickwent the
shoes across the marble tiles of the foyer, then the front door slammed with a bang that echoed like a gunshot through the waiting house.
"Three," Justin dourly pronounced, massaging his aching brow with the palm of his hand.
Warm tea trickled into his lap.
