He didn’t release her hand. “You stole my land,” he said, still studying her as if something here was a complete mystery to him.
“It was a gift.”
“I want it back.”
Anxiety swamped her immediately, the clamor of the world coming back, just outside this valley, drowning out her music. Drowning out that buzz of bees she had been chasing on her guitar that morning, those soft silk petals. The bear in that song might be loud enough to be heard over the clamor, but all the rest would be lost. She had to catch it first. “I can’t…I can’t do that.”
His lips pressed together, emphasizing all that tough, stubborn strength in his face. “How much do you want?”
She had no idea. “A few weeks?” Who was she kidding? She hadn’t managed to write anything worthwhile in the last six months. There was no way she was going to pull fifteen or so solid songs out of her a—hat in a few weeks.
He blinked, visibly confused. “What?”
“What are we talking about?” she asked, confused, too.
“How much do you want for it?” His voice had tightened, like his face. “This house and land. What’s your price?”
Oh, God, she was really, really bad with money. It was a family curse. Her mother was an art professor, she herself was a musician. And her mother had supported her in that career. She hadn’t even told her daughter to become an accountant or anything instead. Layla had even turned down major recording contracts in favor of the indie route because she preferred the artistic control. She wasn’t sure she had the genes for practical decisions. “I don’t want to sell it,” she protested. “I don’t even know why it came to me yet. And I like it here.”
I was writing a song this morning! Do you realize what that means? That I’m not some zombie up there on the stage playing a guitar anymore. That I can still create.
She expected another flare of grouchiness on his part at her refusal, but her last sentence seemed to distract him. A little light came into his eyes, even, as if she had paid him a compliment. “Do you?”
She gestured out over the roses with her free hand. “It’s beautiful.” It’s quiet. It teases the music right out of me, lures it into the open. It’s like the old days, when I wasn’t trying to think the music out, I could just feel it.
The light in his eyes grew brighter. “You really think so?”
She nodded.
His hand didn’t seem to know how to let go of hers. But then, she didn’t try to wiggle free either. It was such a nice, strong, warm hold.
“I’ll try to take good care of it,” she offered. “I won’t sell it to the highest bidder or anything.”
A hint of brooding snuck back into his expression. “The highest bidder is likely to be one of my cousins. They have more liquid assets.”
Not having ever had an extended family, she had no idea how to address that. Well, she had one. “How about if I promise to sell it to you if I ever do sell it?” What was her little chunk of this valley even worth? It was right off the Côte d’Azur, but clearly agricultural.
His face tightened again. “Layla. This valley is supposed to stay in the family. It’s mine.”
“I’m pretty sure this part never was yours, or it wouldn’t have come to me,” she pointed out.
He scowled, temper flaring in his eyes.
Since she shouldn’t let herself stroke his chest and smooth his T-shirt down, she offered him something else: “You can keep picking my roses.”
That made his head rear back. “Of course I can keep picking those roses! We just planted those bushes three years ago, they—” He broke off as she put her free hand over his lips.
“Or you could say, ‘Thank you very much for being so cooperative,’” she suggested sternly.
He studied her, one eyebrow going up. Then he leaned a tad into her, pressing his will onto her as if seeing how she held up to it. “I could say that. But they are my roses.”
Ha, as if he was the first man who’d ever tried to get her to bend to his sheer force of male will. Busking around Europe and then dealing with the music industry had brought her into contact with plenty of men who wanted the little female to cooperate. Little females who couldn’t afford a personal bodyguard had to learn how to look out for themselves in the world. So she only raised her eyebrows, amused. “Every single last petal?”
“Every single one.”
“You’re very possessive, aren’t you?”
He nodded unhesitatingly, as if she had just affirmed one of his more admirable qualities.
She locked eyes with him. “I’m not good with possessive people.” The words were so inherently true to who she was, that it was odd they seemed to rub her throat wrong coming out, as if she was telling a lie. A little frisson of loneliness ran inexplicably across her skin.