His One-Night Mistress(14)

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."