Had she really sent the letters?
If she hadn't, why would she bother constructing such an elaborate system of lies? And why would she be so angry with him?
Even if he left the letters out of the equation, this reunion was still horribly fraught. He had nothing to offer her. He'd never marry her; no amount of hot, glorious sex could change that.
But a one-night stand-or its equivalent-was also out. Lia d'Angeli wasn't like the women he always dated: emotionally cool, malleable, as rational in their way as he was in his. Lia was hot-tempered, strong-willed, intense and generous. All he had to do was think back eight years to know just how generous.
He couldn't mess around with her. One of her strengths as a musician was that she took risks, opening herself to the music and making herself vulnerable. She'd do the same in bed with him, he knew it. He couldn't abuse that vulnerability, any more than he could take advantage of her generosity.
Several months ago, a friend in Berlin had introduced him to one of her CDs. He'd never forget how her playing had penetrated every one of his defenses; it was as though she knew him intimately, and was addressing only himself: the lonely little boy he'd been, the guarded man he'd become.
After that, he'd bought every one of her recordings. But he'd never gone to a live recital. He'd known it would be too much for him; he loathed exposing his emotions in public.
So he'd never seen her in the flesh. He always steered away from reading reviews of music, preferring to make up his own mind, and the society pages weren't part of his reading matter; he also, therefore, knew very little about her. But there was one more reason he hadn't recognized her in the lobby of the Tradewind Room. Her CDs all had reproductions of famous paintings on the cover; her own photo, if there at all, was tucked somewhere in the liner notes, her face merged with those of the players in the orchestra. Presumably it had been against her principles to use her beauty as a sales pitch.
Hadn't she refused to have dinner with him last night because of her principles? She didn't trust him, and therefore was refusing point blank to spend time with him. Odds were he'd be eating breakfast alone.
If that's what happened, he'd track her down afterward and tell her calmly and logically that she was right, they shouldn't see each other again; it was out of the question that he have either a brief fling with her, or commit to any kind of longstanding relationship. He'd keep the whole thing low-key and under control.
Game over. Before it had begun.
As for himself, there'd be no risk that, once again, she'd touch him in that indefinable place called the soul. It had taken too long to get over her the last time. He didn't want a repeat.
His decision made, Seth should have found it easy to fall asleep. The numbers on the clock jumped from one digit to the next; the night sky slowly lightened, and the birds began warming up outside his window in a medley of chortles, whistles and screams.
It didn't matter what his decision was, Seth thought in near despair. He still wanted Lia. If she were here with him now, her slender warm body pressed to his, he'd be kissing her until he couldn't breathe, tasting her skin, exploring its every secret … dammit, why couldn't the birds shut up?
At six Seth got out of bed, dragged a T-shirt over his head and went outside. He had three hours before he met Lia for breakfast. He lay down in the hammock strung between two tall trees, wedging a pillow under his head. The sky was a gentle eggshell blue, washed with streaks of pale pink and gold. Listening to the soft shushing of waves on the sand, he closed his eyes. He wouldn't sleep. But at least it would be better than being caged up indoors …
In the dream, it was blinding sunlight. Mud huts, an army jeep, a mute array of helpless villagers. The soldiers were dragging a mother away from her little boy. The boy was screaming. As one of the soldiers took out his machete, Seth gave a hoarse shout of horror and ran toward him. But his feet were as heavy as lead and he couldn't cover the ground quick enough. The machete was descending and again he shouted …
"Seth! Wake up, please wake up!"
He was tangled in ropes, his whole body bathed in sweat. Seth's eyes flew open. Lia was bending over him, shaking him by the shoulder, her dark eyes appalled. The sun made a brilliant aureole behind her head.
He wasn't in Africa. He was at the White Cay Resort. Tangled up in a hammock. The machete still inscribing its deadly arc in his mind, Seth rasped, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I was walking back to breakfast when I heard you yell-I thought someone was murdering you."
His humiliation that she'd heard him screeching like a banshee translated itself into rage. Seth yanked his fingers free from the weave of the hammock and swung his feet to the ground. "Just what were you going to do if someone was?"
"I don't know-I hadn't got that far. Were you having a nightmare?"
He stood up, swaying momentarily. As she grabbed for his arm, he shook her hand off, his face a rictus of fury. "Why don't you get lost?"
"I asked you a question."
"Which I'm choosing not to answer."
Her lashes flickered. "You're ashamed of yourself," she said pithily. "Embarrassed. Because I've seen a part of you that's private."
"Whadda ya know," he snarled, "you're not just gorgeous, you've got brains as well. Vamoose, Lia."
It would have been all too easy to have snarled back. Lia had had very little sleep, and what she'd managed to get had been riddled with dreams so sexually explicit that she'd been more than embarrassed. The object of those dreams was now glaring at her, all six feet three of him. But when she'd woken Seth a couple of minutes ago, the sick horror in his eyes had struck her to the heart. Horror, pain and helplessness … they'd all been there. Reining in her errant temper, she said tightly, "Let me tell you something about myself. My father was Italian, a very famous baritone-"
"Arturo d'Angeli," Seth interrupted impatiently. "I'm not a total ignoramus." His voice gentled. "I read somewhere that he and your mother were both killed in a car crash several years ago."
"When I was eighteen. I still miss them." Grimacing, Lia picked up her train of thought. "My father was passionate and romantic, all his emotions as volatile as an erupting volcano-including his rages, which were legendary. My mother was Norwegian, though. A harpsichordist of world renown, who was cool, rational and controlled."
"Gudrun Halvardson."
"Right now I'm trying very hard not to act like my father. To be my mother instead. Calm and moderate." Lia's voice rose. "Even though I'd like to bang your head on the nearest tree."
Despite himself, a smile tugged at Seth's lips. A reluctant smile, maybe. But still a smile. "I hate to tell you-Arturo's winning."
"Why wouldn't he? You're so goldarn stubborn! Stubborn, strong and silent. A bad combo-in my books, that adds up to dull. Deadly dull. So why don't you tell me what you were dreaming about?"
Her hair, black as a raven's wing, had the same blue glint of raven feathers in the sun. She was wearing a dress he hadn't seen before, the fabric a dizzying swirl of red, black and white. Her earrings were huge red hoops, while clunky red and white enamel bracelets circled her wrists. "You won't get lost in a crowd," he said.
"If that's supposed to be a compliment, I'm underwhelmed."
Before he could lose his nerve, Seth said rapidly, "I was in central Africa last week. Saw more than I wanted to of a local insurrection-that's what I was dreaming about. If you'll give me five minutes, I'll shower and take you to breakfast."
Her face softened. She said quietly, "I was part of a benefit concert to raise money for AIDS's relief in Africa last year. I made myself look at a lot of news footage … I had awful dreams for weeks afterward. I can't imagine what it would be like to actually see that kind of stuff."
He ran his fingers through his hair. "It's the kids that get to me. I can't get them out of my mind."
"Why were you there? On business?"
He could have lied; he rarely talked about this side of his personality. "I started a charitable foundation several years ago … it's grown over the years, perhaps you've heard of it."
She shook her head. "After you didn't answer my letters, I avoided any mention of you in the press."
He labored on. "I take a personal interest in it-visit all the places to see the money goes to make people as independent as possible."