Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  “I thought I could show you how I work today.”

  She added pancakes and bacon to her plate, absolutely certain the last thing she wanted to do today was watch him work. But if she went through with his interview plan, she would have to get over her prejudices and fears, sooner rather than later.

  Memories floated to the surface. One in particular stood out. She’d been around eight years old. It had been a magical time, spent with her father on one of her summer visits to his estate in England. She could still see her father playing her song on the grand piano in the music room of the ancient manor house. He usually sang her song a cappella, and she loved the times when he would play the accompaniment too.

  Another memory slammed into her—one much more recent. “I have to ask you something,” she said, cutting into the stack of pancakes she no longer thought she could eat—not with the way her stomach was churning. “The other day when I met you at your dad’s house, you were listening to something on your MP3 player. What was it?”

  “I don’t remember. I have about two thousand songs, and they play in random order. Why?”

  “No reason. I was just curious.” She forced herself to chew and swallow the pancakes. Did he really not remember, or was he lying because he’d been listening to her father’s song—her song?

  * * *

  “Let’s go,” he said after the kitchen was once again spotless. “I’ll walk you through my day. It’s pretty mundane actually, so try not to go to sleep on me.”

  “I think I can handle it,” she said.

  He produced a stack of mail from a drawer and paid his household bills. If she wanted to see what his life was really like, well, it didn’t get more real than sorting mail and paying bills. She’d soon realize his life was mostly boredom, punctuated by brief periods of creativity.

  “Don’t you have an accountant?”

  “No. I have one for everything related to my business, but I like to take care of my personal expenses. It makes me feel normal. How about you?”

  “Same,” she answered. “I pay my own personal bills. I don’t like the idea of an office full of strangers knowing which stores I shop in, or criticizing how much I spend.”

  “You can tell me where you buy your panties. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Her cheeks flamed instantly, and she turned her back to him as if studying the awards lining the wall. He returned to his bills, satisfied with the reaction he’d received from the off color remark. He laughed to himself. It was easy to throw her off kilter, and he enjoyed watching her get all hot and bothered.

  As fun as it was to tease her, he admired her. It must have been difficult growing up, hiding her identity from her friends. He could understand why her mother made the choice to live quietly, away from public life, but it must have taken a toll on her and her daughter. Coming into his celebrity status as an adult, he’d had more choices in the way he handled it.

  He’d almost forgotten their last exchange when she spoke, “I shop at Victoria’s Secret. How about you?”

  She spoke so softly, still facing the wall, that he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. He replayed it in his head before responding. Visions of angels in underwear with less substance than clouds invaded his brain. Good Lord, was she flirting with him?

  “JC Penney. Want to see them?”

  “Tighty-whities?”

  Damn. She was flirting. Who knew she had it in her? His heart rate skyrocketed. He watched her carefully, hoping she would remain across the room. Most of his blood had rushed to his groin, making him lightheaded, among other things. His mouth was as dry as the Sahara. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  She spun around. Her stricken expression made it clear the flirting episode had come to an end. She drew in a deep breath, restoring her outward shell. Bright splotches of color on her cheeks were the only remaining sign of their verbal sparring.

  “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional and out of line. It won’t happen again.”

  Disappointment stabbed him in the chest. For a few seconds, he thought perhaps he’d caught a glimpse of Melody Ravenswood, but Mel Harper, reporter had returned. He’d enjoyed the exchange. There was a real woman inside the walls she had built around herself. He decided to do whatever it took to bring her out again. He didn’t think he had much of a future with Mel, but Melody was another story altogether.

  “I don’t mind. Just please don’t print that. I think my underwear choices could be considered too much information.”

  “I wouldn’t print anything so personal.”

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. I won’t tell a soul about Victoria’s Secret, or should I say, Mel’s secret?”

  They lunched on sandwiches in the farmhouse kitchen, and then he led the way to one of the soundproof rehearsal rooms, leaving Betty Boop to sleep off her meal under a shade tree in the backyard.

  Mel sat in a plush easy chair in one corner and he took his place behind the elaborate drum kit. He flipped switches on the panel mounted on the wall behind him and picked up a set of headphones.

  “Listening to me practice is probably going to be boring for you. All you’ll be able to hear will be the drums. I hear the track through the cans.” He held up the headphones in explanation. “If it gets too much for you, there are some sound muffling headphones in the drawer next to your chair, or you can slip out. I won’t mind. It’s boring stuff for most people.”

  “Do you practice every day?”

  “I try to get in an hour or two. The rhythm of every song depends on me keeping the beat. It requires concentration, and like any good athlete, muscle memory. Sometimes I play for my own enjoyment. I’ve been known to go three or four hours, especially if I have something on my mind I need to work through. The music helps me, it always has.”

  She scanned the room. Other than the drum kit and sitting area in the opposite corner, there were no other furnishings. A built-in console across the back wall contained a dizzying number of knobs and switches. An industrial style clock and a small control panel next to the door stood out against bare, white walls. She pointed to the buttons on the console beside the door. “What are these for?”

  “It’s a signal system, similar to what you see in doctor’s offices. The green light means all clear. The yellow indicates someone is here to see me, or if it’s flashing, I have a phone call on my private line. The red is for emergency use only. It means, get the hell out. Now. So far, it’s never been used. There’s a call panel in the house, in my office, and one in the studio. That’s how I knew you and Dad were here the other night. He signaled me from the house.”

  “It’s an impressive system.”

  “It works for me. I tend to forget about the rest of the world when I’m in here.”

  “Well, don’t mind me. I’m just going to watch.”

  He played along with the song only he could hear. His fingers held the sticks loosely. His hands flew through the air. The play of muscles in his forearms and wrists fascinated her. The steady beat from the bass drum drew her attention to his muscular thighs as his feet worked the foot pedals. His broad shoulders moved in time with the unheard track. He closed his eyes and kept up the steady backbeat, his body moving in graceful harmony with the music.

  She was far from bored. The pulsing beat coursed through her body, mesmerizing her. She opened herself to the rhythm. The tempo changed as he moved into the drum solo. A small crease formed between his brows as he concentrated on the music, pouring his soul into the exciting beat, building to its climatic peak. When the tempo eased back into the slow, sensual beat of the melody, she let her eyelids fall, giving herself over to the erotic message of the music.

  He risked a glance at her. He fought his body and mind for control. Only years of practice saved him from missing the beat. He had chosen the song with care, a sort of test to see how it would affect her, if at all. The lyrics told the story of a night filled with intense passion, the beat, slow and sensual, mimicked the rhyt
hm of making love. The drum solo built to a soaring climax, mellowing into the aftermath of passion.

  Her hand, pressed over her heart, fisted, clenching her blouse and drawing it tight across her breasts. His body reacted, and he fought the urge to throw down the sticks, cross the room, and take her. She could deny it all she wanted, but music ran hot and passionate through her veins.

  The music ended in his headset, but he continued to play. Tiny movements signaled her growing need, mirroring his. He sighed and eased out of the rhythm until the drums were silent.

  She sat up. Her gaze locked with his. Behind the drum kit, he dug his fingernails into his thighs to keep his hands from getting him into trouble. He’d never been wound so tight in his life as he was right this minute. A muscle ticked along his jaw line at the sight of her flushed with passion. What had started as a good idea, he thought, had totally backfired on him. He had to get her out of here before he forgot she wasn’t ready for him, might never be.

  “I’ve done enough for today,” he said, turning to store his sticks in the cabinet behind him—giving him a few extra seconds to wrestle his libido under control. He spun around, rising and crossing the room to her. “I don’t know how you slept through it. You must be desperate for sleep.”

  He offered his hand. Her skin was so damned soft, and from the current running between them, he knew sinking inside her would be like inserting a plug into a socket. They’d light up the world. As soon as she was on her feet, she jerked her hand from his and stepped away, nervously straightening her slacks and blouse.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have drifted off. I don’t sleep well at night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced up, and her gaze met his. Something inside him shifted at the wariness he saw there.

  “Nothing,” she said, dismissing her comment. “I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

  That was a damned lie. It was written all over her face. He took a step back, giving her space. Maybe he’d been too harsh, demanding she explain. But damn, if she had dragons after her, he wanted to slay ever last one of them. Except, he couldn’t do anything for her until she trusted him enough to tell him what was wrong.

  An unfamiliar wave of emotions washed through him. He wanted to protect, to comfort, and to shelter her in a way he’d never experienced before. He wanted to break down the barrier she’d built to shield her heart, to take away any pain, erase any suffering. It was a foreign feeling for him, but another one, more familiar, held sway. His arms ached to wrap around her, to hold her close, to explore every inch of her. It was one emotion he understood.

  He stood by while she fidgeted; smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her clothing, brushing her hair away from her face, gathering her bag and notebook. Silently he catalogued every movement. He crammed his hands in his back pockets to keep from touching her. Turning away, he stared at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and let it out. Of all the things he had expected from his pursuit of Melody Ravenswood, a rush of emotion was the last. He’d hoped they could forge some kind of emotional bond, but he’d never expected to feel so much, so quickly.

  The sooner he got her out of the barn, out of his sight, the better off he would be. This was so not a part of the plan. He walked her to her car, hoping distance would quiet his rioting emotions.

  * * *

  “I didn’t hear you drive up.” Hank gathered the papers and crammed them in his pocket. At least yesterday hadn’t scared her off. She’d come back for another day. He took it for a good sign.

  Mel closed the screened door and bent to pet the dog, who came to greet her. “Hi Betty, How are you today?” She gave her an affectionate hug and turned her attention to Hank. “I didn’t mean to startle you. What are you working on?”

  “Nothing. It’s not much yet, just a bunch of disjointed notes. It can wait.”

  “What’s that?” She pointed to a small, round object. About the size of dinner plate, it resembled a toy flying saucer.

  “It’s a portable electronic drum kit.” He drew her closer. “It has a tiny finger pad. It’s like finger drumming on the table, except it converts the taps into real-sounding drum beats I hear through the headphones.” He held the headphones out to her. “Here, try it.”

  She secured the earbuds, and he tapped out a beat on the finger pad. She smiled at the brief solo. He took her hand, urging her to try it herself. Timidly, she tapped a one-fingered beat then a more complex one. Her laughter rang out in the room, and he thought he’d never heard anything so beautiful in his life. Her lips curved into the first genuine smile he’d ever seen from her, and for a moment, he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath. The realization rocked him back on his heels.

  She jerked the earbuds loose and held them out to him. “That’s fun.”

  “You can try the real thing if you want.”

  “No. Uh-uh. I’ll leave those to you.”

  “Well, if you change your mind…”

  “I won’t. What’s for breakfast?”

  “French toast?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  After they ate, they took a walk through the cotton fields to the creek that gave Willowbrook its name. Cottonwoods and weeping willows lined the banks, casting long shadows over the sleepy creek. They sat on the grassy bank, and she brought out her voice recorder. She felt better prepared today and resolved not to let him turn the questions back on her as he’d done the day before. It was time to put an end to the two-way interview.

  Unable to sleep the night before, she’d gone over and over the previous days and wondered at how easily he’d drawn her out. She’d never talked about her personal life with anyone the way she did with him. Reluctantly, she admitted he probably understood her life better than anyone else in the world. He’d lived the same life her father had—music, tours, fans, groupies, paparazzi, hotels, planes, busses, and limos. If anyone could understand why she hid herself away in Willowbrook, it would be Hank Travis. However, it didn’t explain why she felt she could joke with him about where they bought their underwear. Her face flushed at the memory.

  He eyed her curiously. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.” Touching her fingertips to her cheeks, she added, “I’m just a little warm in the sun.” She dropped her hand. “Tell me about growing up in Willowbrook.”

  He accepted the change of subject, lay back in the dappled shade, and began to talk.

  She placed the recorder in the grass between them and wrapped her arms around her drawn up knees. He told her about his maternal grandparents and about his friends and their exploits. She stiffened when he talked about the girlfriends he had brought to the very spot where they sat.

  “Why did you bring them here?”

  He sat up. With a gentle finger on her chin, he turned her face. His lips were a whisper away—so close his breath feathered across hers. “For this.”

  He pressed his lips to hers. One large hand slid into her hair, cradling her head. His tongue traced a hot demand across her mouth, urging her to allow him in. She opened for him, and he swooped in. The kiss changed from soft and gentle to flagrant and needy, igniting her desire into a firestorm. Changing the angle, he drew her across his lap and folded her into his strong arms.

  Heated blood rushed through her veins. Every nerve ending screamed for his touch. His other hand on her back molded her body close to his. She was secure in his embrace, warmed by his possession.

  As he eased her onto her back, her heated skin cooled against the soft spring grass. He came over her, grinding his hips into the juncture of her legs. She parted for him, and he settled between her thighs. He moved to an age-old rhythm. Propped on his forearms, his palms bracketed her face; his tongue penetrated her in harmony with the movement of his hips.

  She trailed her fingers along his jaw and down the tensed cords of his neck. His strength, his weight bearing down on her, awakened something deep inside. Deep inside, her body mimicked t
he drumbeat and she remembered the strain on his face while he’d concentrated on playing “One Night”. The erotic rhythm pulsed through her body.

  Reality crashed over her as if they’d tumbled into the cold, rushing waters of the creek. She tore her mouth from his, shoving against his shoulders. “Stop! Hank, please stop!”

  Tears streamed across her temples. He brushed them away with his thumbs and rolled off her. He pulled her into his embrace, and her sobs eased to a soft snuffling.

  Burying his face in her hair, he kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry, Melody.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He tightened his hold on her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I thought one kiss would be enough, but I was wrong. I got carried away, and I was arrogant enough to think you wanted it as much as I did. It won’t happen again unless you want it to.”

  His voice rumbled through his chest, the timbre as comforting as the words themselves. Oh God. He was right. She did want him. Lying in his arms, she felt safe, cherished, but he was a musician. Her body yearned for his, but she couldn’t fall for him. Her mother's warnings set off alarms in her head. Musicians. Don't believe their pretty words. They'll just break your heart.

  He could never lead a normal life. There would always be someone wanting a piece of him, and it would eventually kill him. She wouldn’t put herself through that again.

  She pushed from Hank’s embrace and gathered her scattered wits. Better to keep her association with him on a professional level. “I should probably interview some of your friends from school, you know, get their side of the story.”

  Mel the reporter was back. He’d held Melody in his arms for a brief, intense time. His desire had gotten out of hand, but it wasn’t his imagination. For a moment, she’d wanted him, too. Then something had happened, and she’d thrown that damnable brick wall up again.