by Naima Simone
As if sensing her study of him, Chayot lifted his head, his steady gaze meeting hers.
Holy freaking God, the man is gorgeous.
Chayot’s stoic expression never changed, but surprise flashed in his eyes. Low snickers punctuated the room, and her eyes widened.
“Oh shit. Did I just say that out loud?”
More chuckling. Chayot slowly dipped his chin.
She cringed. Flames scorched her neck and cheeks. Jesus H. Christ, they must all think I’m a bubble-headed idiot. They were in her home responding to a peeper call, and she was ogling the witness. Where was that floor-opening-up-and-swallowing-you-whole wand when you needed it?
Flipping their pads shut, the officers thanked her neighbor for his cooperation, then approached her.
“Ms. Jericho,” the younger of the cops said. “We’ll put out a BOLO with the description of the man Mr. Grey gave us. We’ll also have officers on patrol drive by your house, keep an eye out for suspicious activity. If you hear or see anything, please don’t hesitate to contact us.”
She nodded. “I will. Thank you so much for your help.”
Both officers nodded before leaving. She stared at the closed door for a long moment, avoiding the man standing silently in her living room. Swallowing a sigh, she gathered her courage—and pride—and faced Chayot, a strained smile and apology on her lips.
“Listen, I’m sorry about”—she twirled her fingers—“that. Believe me, I’ve been told I have no filter. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Those steady, light eyes didn’t waver. They didn’t soften or flirt. If a woman had humiliated herself by blurting out how beautiful he was, her ex, Lorenzo Argiolas, would’ve been preening, his dark eyes smoldering with sensual invitation by now. But not Chayot. He just continued to stare at her, his shuddered gaze and unsmiling mouth revealing none of his thoughts.
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about it.”
Yeah. Right. She tried another smile and extended her hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced yet. My name is Aslyn Jericho. Chayot Grey, right?”
He enfolded her fingers in his then quickly released them. “Chay,” he said. “And I know who you are, Ms. Jericho. I’m a fan.”
“Aslyn,” she corrected, ignoring the tingling in her palm and the urge to rub it against her thigh. Another swirl of warmth tickled her at the thought of this man sitting in a chair large enough to fit his large frame, eyes closed, that thick, gold hair framing his stunning face as he listened to her CD… She studiously ignored that tickle, too.
He nodded. “Aslyn,” he repeated. She had to imagine how the low rumble of his voice rolled over the syllables of her name as if he physically caressed them…stroked them. “Are you okay?”
Was she…? Damn! Peeping Tom. Perv. Police. “Yes”—hell no—“I’m fine.”
“Is there anyone I can call to come stay with you tonight?”
“No,” she blurted, then stifled a wince. “No,” she repeated more calmly. “Really, I’m okay. Thank you for…for everything tonight.”
He studied her for a long, unnerving moment where she fought not to squirm. Jesus, he could wet a woman’s panties and make her run for the hills at the same time with that stare. Finally, he nodded again.
“If you’re sure.” He turned, crossed the room, opened the front door, and paused on the threshold. “And by the way,” he murmured. “You’re gorgeous, too.”
With those quiet words, he pulled the door closed behind him.
She remained frozen, staring at the door.
Umm…wow.
She blinked.
Freakin’ wow.
Chapter Three
Chayot Grey strode down his neighbor’s walkway, calling himself all kinds of idiot.
What in the hell had prompted him to tell Aslyn Jericho he found her gorgeous?
Maybe the faint blush coloring her elegant cheekbones. Or the grit in her assertion that she was okay…even though he could detect the traces of uncertainty behind her determined voice and words.
Maybe it’d been the “Holy freaking God, the man is gorgeous” she’d blurted out in front of him and a couple of officers, followed by the appalled embarrassment after she realized she’d spoken the words aloud.
Or maybe it’d been the faint but lingering shock of finding himself face-to-face with the woman whose CDs he’d listened to countless times and whose concert he’d attended with thousands of other fans.
Jesus, she was even more beautiful up close. Gorgeous red and gold curls had framed her face and tumbled down around her shoulders and arms. Unlike most redheads, she didn’t have a porcelain complexion or freckles. Instead, her skin could’ve been dipped in liquid gold. Like a sun-kissed peach. And her eyes. Like newly minted silver dollars that shone bright under the light over her door.
Damn.
Why didn’t he just go home, pop in the last season of Vampire Diaries, and bedazzle his toenails?
But…Aslyn Jericho.
Three months ago, he’d been shocked to realize one of his favorite artists had moved into the empty house next to his. He loved her music—had all her CDs and had even attended a concert a couple of years ago when she’d come to Boston. God, what she could do with a piano was…amazing. She could go from ethereal classical notes to fist-pounding rock then to bluesy jazz without breaking rhythm. There’d been more nights than he could count that he’d sat in his home office, working or just sitting with his eyes closed, letting the pure, honest notes of her music wash over him. Soothe him.
And now she lived less than a stone’s throw away from him. And since he couldn’t throw a baseball for shit, that was pretty close.
Their first introduction should’ve been something a little less…Criminal Minds-ish. He’d imagined it involving a chance meeting, conversation. Not jumping a fence and chasing a Peeping Tom across her backyard.
Even now anger blazed in his gut at the memory. Drinking a beer on his back porch. Noticing the darker shadow separate from the others. Watching it creep from the bushes nearest Aslyn’s porch and slink to a side window. Vaulting over the fence and charging after the masked figure.
And losing the peeper as the man leaped over the far gate and disappeared into the tangle of trees separating Aslyn’s property from the home backing hers.
Hell, this had been a bitch of a day.
Thirty minutes late for a security consultation with a new client. Uncomfortable lunch date with his mother. Torturous hour perched on a psychologist’s couch as part of his court-mandated counseling.
And now this.
After arriving home from work, all he’d wanted was a cold Sam Adams, pizza, and Red Sox baseball.
Heaving a weary sigh, he headed up the walkway of the home that still had that “new house” smell to him, even after four months. He’d moved to the quiet, exclusive suburb about thirty minutes outside of Boston, and he still experienced initial moments of confusion. He’d lived in Randolph for seven years and had loved his simple home in the older but cozy neighborhood. But after the death of his stepfather and the breaking of the news about Richard Pierce’s disappearance and murder in late October—and his involvement in it—he’d allowed his mother to move into his home and bought another. One more private and not circled by the press as if it were chum in bloody water.
As he entered the three-story, colonial-style house, the emptiness of the cavernous rooms reached for him with long, bony fingers, seeking a weak spot to infiltrate his body—until the same yawning barrenness rooted inside him expanded. Grew until he resembled an emotional wasteland.
Restlessness crawled through him, vibrated under his skin.
He slammed the door behind him, continued through the foyer, down the hall, and entered the kitchen. He paused long enough to grab a beer from the refrigerator, then continued to the back door and the screened-in, wraparound porch.
Immediately, the clawing void eased its tenacious grip, and he inhaled deep. Shit. He twiste
d the lid from the bottle and sipped. Maybe if he drank for a while he wouldn’t feel so damn… Well, he just wouldn’t feel.
Or think. Not about work. Not about court-appointed counseling sessions. Not about Peeping Toms. Not about sexy musician neighbors.
He jerked his head up at the creak that groaned across the silence of the early summer night. A light flickered on, and he shifted farther into the shadows of his porch as his next-door neighbor stepped out onto hers and folded all those pretty curves onto the wooden porch swing. The soft light caught the honeyed gleam of her bare arms and legs. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, the gesture defensive, protective.
This—sitting on her back porch, stargazing—had become her nightly routine since the weather had become comfortable enough to do so.
And his had become watching her.
It should surprise him, finding her out there after the evening she’d had. But since meeting her? Yeah, he couldn’t really say he was shocked. Even confronted with the news of someone spying on her, she’d remained steady, strong, that innate confidence intact. Both—the strength and the confidence—had been hot as hell.
Or maybe the fear and suffocating anxiety had driven her outside. Like him.
Shaking his head, he gulped down more beer.
A small voice whispered he should go over there, sit next to her on the swing, strike up a conversation. He almost surrendered to the nudge. But didn’t. Since she’d moved to Canton, no one had visited her house. And he hadn’t caught sight of one reporter or photographer. Yes, she was a concert pianist, not Beyoncé, but she was also very dynamic. After the attack on her life some months ago, he figured the press would find her appearance in suburbia newsworthy. But all had been quiet on the media front, and since all the shit with Richard had hit the fan eight months ago, he’d been real sensitive to the appearance of the press.
No guests, no reporters. It appeared Aslyn Jericho was hiding out.
And most likely wanted to be left alone.
He got it. Aside from his friends, their partners, his aunts, and mother, he didn’t have company, either. He loved Gabriel Devlin, Malachim Jerrod, and Raphael Marcel, but there were times when the darkness inside him welled so strong, drilled so deep… They’d already been touched by it twenty years ago when they helped him clean up a murder scene and bury Richard’s body. So when the pain and rage swelled and became too much, he retreated. Hid. Those times had come more and more often lately. Since the world had discovered his secret.
Well, most of it.
There were parts he would never let the light shine on.
Closing his eyes, he downed another swallow of alcohol. Funny how they were both nestled away in the quiet, peaceful exclusivity of this town running from their pasts. Oh, he didn’t know for sure, but since she’d fallen off the face of the earth after the attack six months earlier, he’d bet his left nut that’s why she now lived next door. And him? Well, the relentless presence of the press and quiet censure of his mother had driven him out here.
Both of them were hiding. Both desired anonymity.
He’d grant her wish.
Chapter Four
“Damn it!” Aslyn hissed.
Panic surged up her throat, clawing the tender lining. Black and gold dots swarmed at the edges of her vision as nausea twisted her belly. She willed her hands to lower to the black and white keys. To touch. To play…
But her fingers remained curled, trembling as another wave of queasiness tinged with terror swept through her.
With another low curse, she slammed her hands to her thighs. Hastily, she shoved away from the twelve-foot Steinway concert grand piano that had been her cherished companion for the past seven years. She leapt from the stool, not bothering to slide it under the instrument’s undercarriage. Rage and grief poured through her. But underneath the fury and sorrow lurked something far worse. A void. Emptiness. In the place where music used to simmer and quicken. The place where she could just touch and the notes and melody would reach out, meeting her halfway before spilling out beneath her fingers.
Now, there was…nothing.
Quinton Lakes had broken something inside her. Thanks to him, fear wound through her like an insidious viper, spreading its venom. Since the assault, that poison had contaminated her ability to play, to create. Music, the piano—they’d been her life, her passion since she was nine years old. Now that she no longer had the music, could no longer play the piano, she was lost. Emotionally adrift, unsure of who she was, who she’d become.
On edge, she strode from the living room, away from the specter of the piano and her music career. As she passed the window, she glanced out, catching a glimpse of her neighbor’s yard and empty driveway. Like the clawing grasp of a drowning man, she clutched onto the memory of Chayot, desperate for the distraction. And what a distraction he was. It wasn’t every night she opened the door to find the love child of Chris Hemsworth and Enrique Iglesias on her porch.
An image of his exotic, beautiful features flashed in front of her eyes, and her breathing deepened. A slow coil of heat unfurled low in her belly, its sinuous warmth spreading to her breasts before winding a path lower to the flesh between her thighs. Flesh that hadn’t experienced a man’s touch in so long, dust mites probably swirled and danced down there. But then again, no man had stirred the tugging pull of need Chay had. Not even her ex, Lorenzo, had inspired the desire to strip his clothes off item by item like a sexy birthday present.
She’d lain awake in bed last night, eyes focused on the ceiling, but instead of the off-white textured paint, she pictured Chay’s soulful brown-and-green eyes that seemed to see everything but reveal nothing. The classical, almost aristocratic bone structure—his noble profile wouldn’t have been out of place on an old Roman denarius. The cold aloofness. Yet, the sensual curve of his full mouth and the hardness of his tall, toned frame contradicted the reserve. Someone with lips like his—lips that promised all kinds of carnal acts capable of making a woman lose her shit and her clothes—had to have a deep well of passion brimming underneath all that stone-faced stoicism.
Shaking her head, she snorted. Here she was, mooning over her neighbor like some besotted teenager crushing on the high school quarterback—mooning over a man she didn’t know a damn thing about. Yes, he’d had a hero moment last night, but in his daytime hours, he could be a man whore. Or a flesh peddler. Or a serial killer. One moment he was chasing a pervy peeper away from her window, and in the next, he could be having a Silence of the Lambs moment and ordering her to put the lotion in the basket. All right, that might be a little overkill, but in her experience men who looked like hot-monkey-sex-on-a-stick tended to have issues.
Only one way to find out.
As soon as she entered the study, the peal of Yanni’s End of August called to her from the desk. She plucked up her cell phone, not bothering to glance at the screen. Why bother? Only one person called her these days. Her choice.
“Hey, Liam,” she greeted, leaning forward to sweep the mouse across the desk and awaken the sleeping monitor. “Hold on a sec.” She settled her hands-free headset over her ear. “Okay, I’m back.” With a few taps to the keyboard, she pulled up the Google search engine and entered a name.
Chayot Grey.
“Hi, love,” Liam said. Anyone overhearing his endearment might scream sexual harassment, but the two of them had been together too long for her to give that any thought. Liam wasn’t just her manager, but her friend. He’d been in her life since she was fifteen. When her parents had died in a car accident on a rainy road the year she turned eighteen, leaving her alone in this world, he’d become her surrogate family. And after she’d contracted a post-op infection after the surgery that saved her life after the attack, he’d stuck by her side, never leaving or abandoning her during the torturous two-month recovery. He’d changed the dressing on her wound, for God’s sake. The niceties and formality didn’t exist between them. “How’re you doing?”
She envisioned the tall, strong, reserved, and faintly intimidating man from the previous evening. It was difficult picturing him as a young, vulnerable boy. Until you looked in his eyes. Those light, shuttered eyes.
“Aslyn?” Liam’s sharp tone snagged her attention from the news story. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” she assured him. “I’m sorry, I was a little distracted. What did you say?”
He sighed. “All that buildup wasted since you weren’t even listening. I said I’ve scheduled a concert in Puerto Rico for October. Two nights. El Morro, Aslyn. The contract arrived today.”
El Morro. Excitement fluttered in her chest. Yanni had played at the historic old fortress in Old San Juan. She would perform where the man she’d idolized as long as she could remember once had. What a gift! She’d only been to Puerto Rico a couple of times, but she’d fallen in love with the commonwealth. The mesmerizing mixture of history and the progressive present. The beauty of its city and people. The colorful culture. God, she couldn’t wait to go back…
