Page 51 of Boss of Me
“Marlowe,” I correct.
She blinks innocently. “Isn’t that what I said?”
“You said Margaret. It’s Marlowe.”
“My apologies.” She barely contains a smirk. “I can’t make out your accent. Where are you from?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Goodness. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” She eyes me suspiciously. “Do you plan to stay in Texas permanently?”
“Um—”
“She just got here,” Gunner drawls with wry indulgence. “She’ll cross that bridge when she finishes grad school.”
“Right.” I smile at Laurene. “Whathesaid.”
Her lips tighten with displeasure.
Gunner regards me silently, running his thumb around the lip of his glass. I stare at his long fingers and can’t help remembering the way they felt inside me, stroking, thrusting, bringing me to the hottest orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.
As heat floods my cheeks, I lift my gaze to his. I can tell by the devilish gleam in his eyes that he knows exactly what I was thinking about, and he likes it. Bastard.
Laurene waves at someone across the room and then links her arm with Gunner’s, clearly staking her claim for my benefit. “Let’s go say hello to Hugh. I want to hear all about his new yacht, and maybe you can talk him into throwing one of his fabulous sunset parties next month.”
Gunner downs his champagne and places the empty flute on my tray, looking me in the eye as he murmurs, “We’ll let you get back to work.”
“Of course. Enjoy yourselves.” I smile sweetly and walk off. Hazarding a glance over my shoulder, I catch Gunner staring back at me with the barest hint of regret before he and Laurene disappear into the crowd.
I serve champagne until my tray is empty. On my way back to the kitchen for a refill, Mrs. Calder intercepts me.
“You play the piano, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I reply, giving her a wary look. “Why?”
She motions to the gleaming concert grand piano tucked into a corner—wing raised, strings exposed, ivory keys shining. “I’ve seen you admiring it every time you clean the living room. Why don’t you play something for our guests before dinner?”
“Oh no,” I say hastily. “I haven’t played in months. I’m so rusty?—”
“This isn’t Carnegie Hall, dear. No one is expecting Mozart.” She plucks the tray out of my hand, ushers me over to the Steinway and practically shoves me down onto the bench.
Several people glance our way. A few start drifting over, lured by the prospect of an entertaining performance. Others soon follow, and before I know it, a large crowd has gathered.
I gulp hard as I look around. Maverick stands near the front of the crowd with an attractive woman on each arm. Laurene stands off to one side, fingering her diamond choker as she watches me with a look of bored disinterest.
Gunner, thankfully, is nowhere in sight.
“This piece was composed by my father,” I nervously announce to my audience. “It’s called ‘Blue Wish.’ His work isn’t well known, so I’m hoping if I mess up a few times, you won’t know the difference.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd. Maverick grins at me, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. Mrs. Calder gives me an encouraging nod.
I can’t remember the last time I played “Blue Wish.” But as my fingers start moving over the keys, the familiar melody comes back to me, and suddenly I’m transported back to my childhood, sitting at our old piano and plinking out the notes of the song under my father’s proud gaze.
Just as my nerves are starting to settle, I look up to see Gunner framed in the entryway.
Our eyes lock.
The connection is palpable, jolting me so hard that I almost hit the wrong note.
