MustLoveMusic Page 9

  “That was wonderful. You’re a marvelous cook.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to have an appreciative audience.”

  “Have you always enjoyed cooking?”

  “No, it’s a recent hobby. I used to have the typical bachelor diet of takeout food and pizza. But I spent far too long drinking all my meals from a straw, and began to obsess about all the foods I couldn’t have. I vowed that once I could eat solid food again, I would make all my future meals memorable ones.”

  “I’m sorry you had to suffer, but I appreciate the result.”

  “I think you’ll appreciate the rest of what I have planned for you, too. Finish your wine, and we’ll go upstairs.”

  Her heart and lungs picked up a rapid rhythm, and her panties grew damp. “To the playroom?”

  “Yes.”

  She tossed back her wine, then shoved her chair away from the table and jumped to her feet. “I’m ready.”

  Rikard’s gaze slid down to her breasts, and her pebbled nipples, before skimming down to her pussy. “I bet you are.”

  Heat flamed her cheeks, but she couldn’t protest, because he was right. She was ready for him to take her right here and now. Waiting was going to be an exquisite torture.

  Placing her hand in his gloved grasp, she allowed him to lead her upstairs. The first thing she saw upon entering the playroom was a scarlet fandango dress draped across one of the tables.

  “Put on the dress.”

  Gayle obediently stripped down to her underwear, then hesitated, looking a question at Master Rikard.

  “Only the dress,” he clarified.

  She pulled off the bra and panties, as well, then lifted the layers of satin ruffles over her head and slithered into the dress. It clung to her chest, then flared out over her hips to cascade in a ruffled fall down past her knees.

  Rikard picked up a black cloak that had been laid out beside the dress, and swirled it around his shoulders.

  “I am Zorro, the masked avenger of the oppressed people of Los Angeles. You are the lovely and spirited Consuela, owner of the taverna. You are cooperating with the evil Don Rafael, to try and trap Zorro, and now Zorro has trapped you.”

  “But I’m not evil, right? Don Rafael has something on me to force me to cooperate with him.”

  Rikard’s slow smile promised a wealth of torturous delights. “That is what Zorro needs to determine, using all the skills at his disposal.”

  He uncoiled a huge bullwhip, and cracked it three times—tracing two horizontal slashes and a diagonal slash connecting them in the air. Gayle shivered, picturing the whip connecting with her flesh and carving the trademark Z into her skin. Or perhaps he’d take a page from Antonio Banderas’ Zorro and use the whip to strip away her gown, leaving her bare before him.

  Instead, he lunged forward, grabbing her wrists. He cracked the whip, coiling the tail of it around the wooden frame that had been mounted to the wall since her last visit, then used the remaining length to lash her wrists together, binding her to the frame. Gayle gave a halfhearted tug against the restraint, not at all eager to escape. Her rapid breathing threatened to spill her breasts out of the low-cut dress, and she felt the first beads of moisture pooling between her legs.

  Rikard crushed his body against hers, his hard thighs forcing her legs apart, while his gloved hands skimmed from her bound wrists down her arms to her flattened breasts.

  “I’ll scream,” she whispered. “Don Rafael’s men will come running to investigate.”

  “Not if I silence you first.”

  His mouth captured hers, his kiss hard and merciless. But she didn’t scream. She could barely breathe.

  She returned his kiss, opening her mouth to draw his tongue inside as she tipped her hips, straining to press her throbbing pussy against the solid bulge in his leather pants.

  Rikard’s kiss softened, his lips nibbling hers instead of grinding against them. One of his hands glided up to cradle the back of her neck, supporting her head as he tilted it to deepen his kiss. His other hand drifted down to her hip. Tugging on her thigh, he lifted her leg up to his waist.

  He reached beneath her billowing skirt and cupped her ass. The smooth leather of his glove caressed her skin, and she moaned into his mouth. Hot fluid dripped down her standing leg. She rolled her hips, wide open and pressed against him.

  It wasn’t enough. She wanted him out of those pants and inside her. Whimpering a protest, she struggled against the whip restraining her hands, writhing against him.

  Rikard broke the kiss and lifted his head, even as he dropped his other hand to her thigh and lifted her remaining leg to his waist, pinning her to the wooden frame with his hips. “Trying to escape, Consuela? Do you plan to run to Don Rafael as soon as I give you a chance?”

  “No, Zorro. I have no love for Don Rafael. He forced me to help him. If I did not cooperate, he would destroy my tavern. I would lose everything.”

  He kneaded her ass with both hands, rolling his hips to stroke his cock against her throbbing clit. “If he catches me, I will lose my head.”

  “But he won’t catch you. You are too clever to fall into his traps.”

  “Then he will destroy your tavern.”

  “Not if I can convince him I did as he asked. It won’t be my fault if his guards fail to catch you.”

  “And what did Don Rafael ask you to do?”

  “Lure you here. Signal the soldiers. And then distract you with my feminine wiles until they could respond.”

  “What is the signal?”

  “I was to blow out the candle in the window.”

  “Then I shall have to keep you away from the window.”

  He unwrapped the whip from around her wrists, and she immediately put her arms around his neck. Easily bearing her weight, he carried her across the room to one of the padded tables. He set her down, then untangled himself from her grasp and stepped back to study her.

  Her skirt was rucked up, exposing her legs to the thighs, and her bodice had twisted to one side, one shoulder strap slipping down her arm while the other dug into her neck. One nipple peeked out over the skewed neckline. She sat without moving, enduring his scrutiny.

  “What can I do to prove I’m telling you the truth? I will not betray you to Don Rafael.”

  Rikard reached beneath the table and withdrew a wicked curved knife with a forked tip, like the kind that would be used for gutting hunted animals. Gayle sucked in a sharp breath, and cringed away from it, even as the fear flooded between her legs with wet desire.

  “I could mark you with my Z. Carve my symbol into your soft flesh. Here.” His gloved fingertips traced the letter on the rapidly rising and falling curve of her breast. Then he pushed her skirt aside and traced a Z on her damp inner thigh. “Or here.”

  “No. Please,” she whispered. “Don’t cut me.”

  He rested the flat of the blade against her exposed nipple. The cold shock stabbed straight to her groin, making her gasp from the pleasure, even as she froze and stared in terror at the deadly blade pressed against her vulnerable breast.

  He twisted the knife, sliding the blade beneath her bodice strap. Gayle didn’t dare to breathe as the knife stroked upward, over the curve of her breast and up to her shoulder. With a savage wrench, Rikard sliced through the strap. It fluttered down against her breast and folded down her back.

  Her breath gusted out, and she sobbed in relief. She barely noticed when he lifted the other strap away from her skin and sliced through that one as well.

  Rikard put down the knife and cupped both of her exposed breasts in his gloved hands, his thumbs flicking back and forth across her pebbled nipples.

  “I had to be sure of you,” he whispered huskily. “You could have screamed.”

  “I will never betray you,” she choked out through her tears.

  He grabbed her savaged dress and pulled it over her head, tossing it aside as soon as the heavy skirt cleared her face. Her legs were spread, exposing her pulsing need for him. He cupped he
r pussy, and she groaned in agonized pleasure. Her entire body throbbed in time to her heartbeat, from her tingling breasts all the way down to her toes. He slipped two fingers inside her soaking wet channel.

  “Please,” she sobbed. “Please. I need you inside me.”

  “Enough games,” he growled. “Let Zorro have Consuela. Master Rikard wants to make love to Gayle.”

  “Yes! Please.”

  “And I want to do it in a comfortable bed.”

  Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her into the guest room. A moment later, his pants were down, a condom sheathed his cock, and he was kneeling between her widespread legs.

  “Please, Rikard. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  He thrust, hard and sure, filling her with one strong stroke. Gayle arched up off the bed, screaming her fulfillment as the orgasm ripped through her. Rikard just held her, letting her shake and shudder with his cock buried deep inside her. When she finally began to breathe normally, he started to move slowly in and out, quickly whipping her into another frenzy. His pace accelerated, faster and harder, until they were slamming together in mindless need, both straining desperately toward release.

  Rikard stiffened, his arms locking and his spine bowing as he trembled, then came in a powerful explosion. Gayle writhed against him, then arched upward, coming in a shuddering rush. They collapsed onto the bed, hot, sweaty and tangled in each other, but neither willing to move.

  “God,” she breathed. “I had no idea being scared out of my mind was such a turn-on.”

  “As was scaring you. I think we’d better back off on that scenario for a while.”

  “Why? It was great!”

  “Because I need to be able to remain in control during a scene. And now that I know what fear of knives does to you, I don’t think I could. That makes it too dangerous. I won’t risk you getting hurt, no matter how great the sex is.”

  Gayle smiled, a warm glow of contentment settling deep within her chest. He might not know what he was saying, but she did. He wasn’t just interested in sex. He wanted a real relationship.

  Chapter Eight

  Gayle woke disoriented and alone. Amazingly soft sheets scented lightly with citrus caressed her naked body, and a pillow so fluffy it had to be one-hundred percent goose down cradled her head. Light streamed into the room from the wrong direction, allowing her to recognize the furniture in Rikard’s guest room. She stretched, feeling the stiffness of last night’s vigorous lovemaking in her hips and thighs. No jogging this morning for her.

  She glanced around the room, until she located a small clock on the dresser. Quarter after six. She had plenty of time to drive back home, shower, dress, and still get to work. But only if she got a move on.

  Tossing back the covers, she encountered heavy resistance. Rikard had left the bathrobe she’d used before draped across the bottom of the bed. She shrugged into it, then went looking for him.

  She checked the attached bathroom and studio first. Both dark and empty, although she took the time to admire the décor of the bathroom. Black and white tiles set off towels, fixtures, and shower curtain patterned with swirls of musical notes and flowing staves, and black-framed prints of pianists graced the walls. It was the first obvious nod to his career she’d seen, other than the music room and studio, and those had been purely practical. Idly, she wondered if the bathroom decorations had been Rikard’s idea, or simply a way to use up music-themed gifts he’d accumulated from friends and family over the years.

  She frowned. She assumed he had friends and family. But he’d never spoken about them. Oh, he’d made general references, like saying his family was from New York, which had made it easy for him to attend Columbia. But nothing recent. She didn’t even know if his parents were still living, or if he had any brothers or sisters.

  Her next stop was the playroom. It was empty, except for her neatly folded clothes on one of the tables. As she was getting dressed, she heard water running on the other side of the wall in the master bathroom.

  She went back out into the upstairs foyer, and politely knocked on the doorframe before poking her head inside the open door of Rikard’s bedroom. It shared the same oak-and-iron furniture as the guest room, but the walls and linens were all soothing blues and greens, shading from dark to light as they swirled upward. It felt like she was standing at the bottom of the ocean looking up through the water toward the light of the surface.

  “Rikard?”

  “In here,” he called from the bathroom.

  She followed his voice, and found him leaning against a cream and white marble countertop, wearing only black silk pajama bottoms. Droplets of water clung to his broad back, and his wet blond hair was slicked back into a ponytail. In the mirror, she could see that shaving foam coated his face from eyes to halfway down his neck, except for a stripe the width of his razor on the right cheek and jaw.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’ll be another few minutes shaving. But if you’re willing to wait, I can make you breakfast. How do blueberry pancakes sound?”

  Gayle grinned. She loved a man who was so willing to cook for her. “It sounds heavenly. But I’m afraid I can’t wait. I’ve got to get home, or I’ll be late for work.”

  “No jogging this morning?”

  “I got enough exercise last night.”

  He grinned, the shaving foam puffing up on his cheeks. A slight dimple was visible in the thin strip of shaved skin, where it would be covered by his Master’s mask. She hadn’t noticed the dimple when they met for coffee, and thought it was a sign that he was more relaxed around her now. His eyelids were much more even when he smiled now, too, the faint offset no more than most people’s side-to-side discrepancies.

  He dropped his razor onto the counter and turned to face her, leaning back against the edge of the counter and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajamas.

  “If you want to bring some clothes over next time, go ahead. Then you won’t have to run away in the morning.” He tossed out the suggestion with a studiously neutral tone that implied he didn’t care if she did or not. Recalling his reactions the first time they’d made love, she suspected he cared, and cared deeply, about her answer.

  “I’d like that. A lot.” She shook her head. “But I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

  “Friday?”

  “Works for me. And then I can spend Saturday with you, too.”

  He stiffened, his eyes widening, the right opening wider than the left. “I won’t be available during the day. I have a previous obligation. But I can see you Saturday night.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t have to look so panicked at the thought of spending the day with her. “Are you busy Sunday, too?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Gayle pursed her lips, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to meet with someone about a song. It’s a four-hour drive.”

  Her eyes widened. “And you’re driving there and back in the same day?”

  “I’ve done it before. It’s no big deal.”

  “Well, would you like company for the drive?”

  He shook his head, bits of foam flying off to spatter on the thick blue carpet. “No. I won’t be good company. I will, in fact, be the stereotypical neurotic artist, obsessed with what they think of the song.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Would you like to hear it?”

  “I’d love to.” She was going to be late for work. Maybe she could skip the shower, and just do a quick rinse-and-go. She knew an olive branch when she saw one, and she wasn’t about to refuse.

  “Come on. It’s already cued up in the deck.”

  He bounded out the door, making her run to catch up with him. He crossed directly to his studio, bypassing the guest room and bath, and fired up the banks of electronic equipment. After a few minor adjustments to various switches and dials whose purpose escaped her, he punched a button and the opening power chords of a pop ballad thundered through th
e room.

  It started like so many other songs, extolling the virtues of the bad boy who stole the singer’s heart. Hearing Rikard’s voice singing lyrics obviously meant for a woman was a little strange, but his knife-like delivery didn’t give her room to think about it, cutting straight to her heart with his pain and anger.

  “I thought it was forever. You thought it was one night. Now I’m hotter than hot, and you’re sniffing at my heels like you never went away. Gonna buy me a lover, make him big and strong and dumb. Gonna buy me a lover, one who’s never gonna run. Gonna buy me a lover, and we’ll have all kinds of fun. Gonna buy me a lover, and he’ll love me until the money’s all gone.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as verse after verse hammered her with Rikard’s pain and desperation. Despite the upbeat, perky music that practically begged her feet to dance, the lyrics spoke of a bleak, meaningless future. She’d known he had issues. Carrie had warned her that he couldn’t commit to a real relationship. Had losing his girlfriend in the accident really crushed him that badly, that he couldn’t risk loving again?

  Oh, God. He wanted to buy a lover because it put him in the position of control, and that way he wouldn’t be hurt again. Was that why he was so adamant about staying in his Master persona?

  Gradually, she became aware that the room was silent, and Rikard was watching her intently.

  “You’re crying. Why are you crying?”

  “It’s just so sad.”

  “But sad in a good way?”

  Gayle gave a strangled laugh as she wiped her cheeks. “I see what you mean about not being a good traveling companion. It’s a powerful song. Who’s it for?”

  He hesitated, then turned away to shut down his equipment. Talking to the bank of dials and switches, he mumbled, “Amanda Tiegg.”

  “The pop princess?” Gayle squeaked.

  “Yeah. She wanted something darker, to try and change her image.”