Haze

by Deborah Bladon

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Gabriel

  "We need to mingle, Gabriel." My mother pulls on my forearm. "That's what we came here for."

  I don’t remember what I came here for. All I can remember is the way Isla looked at me when she questioned me about Cicely. There was an invitation woven into her eye's response when I told her I was alone. Her body backed that up when I glanced down to see the outline of her swollen nipples beneath the silk of the dress she's wearing.

  She'd walked away from me without a turn back. It only upped my desire for her. She may think she's coy but I felt it. I felt the palpable tension between us.

  "There's a string quartet playing in the atrium. I want to see that before we go into the concert hall."

  Denying my mother anything at this point is only going to result in a temper tantrum to rival a child's. I came here to further the profile of Foster Enterprises so I'm committed to doing that even if my body is craving a taste of Isla.

  "You go ahead." I gesture towards the entrance to the atrium. "I need a drink."

  "Fine." My mother runs her finger along my chin. "I don't like this bristle, by the way. You need to shave that."

  I nod. I'll allow her to continue to think that her opinion weighs heavily on me. It doesn't anymore. My mother's influence is restricted to a constant reminder of the type of woman I don't want to become involved with.

  I love my mother endlessly but her insecurities are exhausting. I've been witness to her self-doubt and the consequences of that my entire life.

  I hesitate as I approach one of the servers, knowing that I should be in the midst of the crowd, shaking hands and talking about the good work the charity I'm here to support is doing. I curse under my breath, adjust the arm of my jacket and walk towards the atrium, hoping at some point, I'll see Isla again before the night is over.

  ***

  She's more beautiful now than when I saw her in the lobby. She's different in this space, with her eyes closed, and her body moving slowly to the music.

  Her hands are elegant, gifted and as she tilts her chin up at the last note, I realize that this isn't something I'd ever imagined when she stood in my office begging for a second chance to sell lingerie at my boutique or when I saw her at Skyn, using her body to capture the attention of every man in that club.

  This young woman has the entire room enthralled. I'd noticed the haunting sounds of the violin the moment I stepped into the space. I'd pushed my way politely through the spellbound crowd until I stood next to my mother mere feet from where the quartet had set up. That's when I saw who was creating the lingering melody that hung in the air. It's Isla.

  She parts her lips as soft applause fills the space. I join in, tapping my hands together quietly as I stare at her, in awe of what I've just witnessed.

  A dark haired woman holding a viola speaks softly to her. Isla nods and touches her shoulder gently before she pulls the bow back and glides it across the strings of the violin resting beneath her chin.

  The woman joins in, her viola a perfect accompaniment to the tender sounds of Isla's violin. Davis Benoit is next to her, a cello perched at the ready. Another violinist is playing but I hear nothing, nothing, but the music that Isla is producing.

  I look down at my mother who is captivated by the sounds, her eyes closed, her body slowly swaying as she finds comfort in the music.

  This is one of the loves of her life. As children, she'd take us to the symphony when our friends were going to blockbuster movies. She enrolled my brothers and me in music lessons, but Caleb and I failed miserably. It was Asher, my youngest brother, who found his passion there.

  I know talent when I see it. I've been trained by my mother's ear to recognize a true gift and that's what Isla possesses.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder that I try to ignore, instead keeping my eyes focused solely on Isla. She's enchanting and with each new piece of music she plays, I'm more compelled to stand in place.

  "Gabriel." A voice punctures the moment, seeping into my ear. "This is important. We need to talk right now."

  I recognize the voice instantly. It's a friend of my father's; a man who worked for our company for decades before I stepped in and pushed the old ways, and him, aside. He was dead weight, pulling a hefty salary for essentially traveling on our dime. He did nothing and when I cut him a severance check and sent him on his way, I'd dealt with the wrath of my father. Our relationship has never fully recovered from that but the company has. I've increased our profits each year since then and I see no end in sight for our success.

  I ignore him, hoping he'll recognize my inattention as a refusal to speak. He doesn't. He becomes more persistent, tapping me on the back now, his voice raising a full notch.

  The woman playing the viola mutters something indistinguishable under her breath but the words, and disdain, are directed at me. I'm not going to tarnish this moment for Isla so I turn quickly on my heel directing him through the crowd and out of the room.

  "What the fuck do you want, Cyril?" I don't try and temper my annoyance.

  "It's Roman." He looks past me towards the atrium. "Was that Gianna with you?"

  "That's none of your business. What about my father?"

  I force myself to face him. His ineptitude may have cost him his job but he's still trying to claw his way back into my good graces. I want nothing to do with the man.

  "You haven't heard yet?"

  His non-answer only irks me more. "If you have something to say do it now so I can focus on my evening."

  "Your father is getting married."

  "What?" I snap back. "To who?"

  "Caterina Omari." He takes a step back as if he's uncertain of how I'll react to that.

  She's a model whose name means nothing to me. She'd thrown herself at both Caleb and me when she was in the vying for a spot in the woman's fashion show in Paris two years ago. I'd turned her down swiftly. Caleb, not one to mute his opinion for anyone, had chastised her in the press for being unprofessional. Neither of us had any interest. Apparently my father does.

  "He's a grown man. His decisions are his own." I turn back towards the atrium and pause. "Send him my regards."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Isla

  "Your grandmother would have been so proud of you tonight, Isla." Davis wraps his arm around my shoulder as we exit the concert hall. "I wish she could have been here to see you."

  I smile at his gentle words. My grandma's death has been difficult on Davis too. He'd known her since he was a kid first learning to play the cello.

  After her retirement, she'd become one of the most beloved private music teachers in Chicago. Her schedule was always full, a smile permanently on her face. Music was her passion and she'd passed that, and many other things, on to me.

  "She would have been so proud of you too." I tap his hand. "You are one of her greatest success stories."

  "Me?" He takes a step back to nudge his father's elbow. "Did you hear that, dad? Isla is singing my praises again."

  I laugh out loud.

  "I'm going to miss you like crazy when you go to Israel." I close my eyes, trying to curb my emotions. "Who is going to call me late at night to ask if I've practiced?"

  His smile brightens. "I'm going to call you every day and you're going to keep practicing. Not that you need to practice. You were the star of the show tonight, Isla."

  "I have nothing on them." I motion towards the main stage. Watching the Philharmonic perform tonight had been our gift for volunteering to be part of the benefit arts' event. Along with a classical guitarist, a pianist and a horn duo, we agreed to participate as a way to showcase young talent.

  When Davis got the call asking our quartet to take part, he didn’t hesitate to say yes. It's not only an amazing opportunity; it's also our last chance to perform together. The new cellist, a woman slightly older than me, will step into his place late next month when we are booked for a dedication ceremony at city hall.

  "You're going to be on that stage one day."
Davis looks down at the worn violin case in my hands. "I'll be sitting front and center watching."

  "We both will," Mr. Benoit says through a smile. "It's your birthday tomorrow, isn't it, Isla? Let's go for a drink. It's my treat. It's not every day that you turn twenty-one."

  I should point out that I'm not going to be twenty-one for another hour and I left my fake ID at home. In fact, I haven't used it since that night at Skyn. I'm still debating whether I'll ever go back there.

  "I think I'll just head home." I look back at the now vacant concert hall. I had hoped to see Mr. Foster again but that hasn't happened.

  "There's a car for us to use." Davis raises both brows. "It's mainly so I can take my cello back to my hotel."

  "Fancy," I drawl. "I have to carry this with me on the bus."

  "You'll come with us." Davis extends his hand towards me. "We'll drop you on our way."

  "That won't be necessary." I hear the unmistakable growl of Gabriel Foster's voice just as his hand touches the small of my back. "I'll be taking Isla home."

  ***

  I look at the back of the seat in front of me yet again. The driver had placed my violin case on the front passenger seat before he held the back door open for me.

  "I'm guarding it with my life, Isla." Mr. Foster's smile is soft and inviting. "It's a treasure. I had no idea you played the violin."

  I had no idea he'd insist that I accept his offer for a ride home.

  At first, I refused, telling him that I wanted to spend time with Davis before he moves, but he'd been charming as he persisted. I'd finally agreed when I saw Davis giving me a thumbs-up behind Mr. Foster's back. He may think that the man has ulterior motives for inviting me into the backseat of his chauffeur driven sedan, but I know better. He's curious about my music. It caught him off guard.

  "You're remarkable." He presses a button on a console in front of us that brings up a barrier of privacy glass separating us from the driver. "How long have you played?"

  "Forever," I say honestly. "I've been playing most of my life."

  "You studied violin?"

  "I took music classes," I go on quickly, "general music classes that all kids take in school but it was my grandmother who taught me."

  "Your grandmother?" His dark eyes slide over my face. "She's a music teacher?"

  I rake my hand through my hair before I scratch my chin. "My grandmother was the most talented violinist in the world. She ended her career in Chicago. She taught music after that until..."

  He adjusts himself on the seat, bending his knee so he's facing me. "Is she gone, Isla? You speak as though she's passed away."

  I bite my lower lip. I don't have this conversation willingly with anyone. The pain of her death might not be as raw as it was the morning I found her in her bed cold and unmoving, but it's still a loss I'll never get over. "Yes, sir. She died."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." He reaches down to touch my hand.

  I stare at his hand, marveling in how large it is compared to mine. "Thank you, Mr. Foster. I appreciate that."

  "Gabriel." He runs his index finger over the top of my hand. "I'd prefer if you called me Gabriel."

  The feeling of his finger tracing a path over my skin gives me goosebumps. The sound of his voice touches me in a way that is both unnerving and arousing. "Gabriel. I'll call you Gabriel."

  "I'm the first to admit that I have no musical talent at all. My brother inherited all the talent in our family."

  "You mean Asher?" I ask without thinking. "Of course you mean Asher. He's everywhere right now."

  "He's in Tokyo, right now, on tour." His mouth twitches. "I'm still adjusting to my youngest brother being a rock star."

  "I think he's incredibly talented," I offer. "I love his music. I listen to it all the time."

  He slides one of his hands over the seat back behind my head, the other jumps to the black leather on the seat next to me caging me in. He's so close that I can smell the scent of his cologne. "Tell me about your birthday, Isla. I heard your friends mention it tonight. What does a woman like you have planned for such a special day?"

  I peer out the tinted window at the streets of Manhattan. It's near midnight but the city is still alive. People are walking along the sidewalks, taxis and cars are speeding past us as we drive towards my apartment. "I haven't thought about it."

  "There must be something special you'd enjoy? Perhaps an experience you've never had before."

  I turn quickly to look at him.

  "A woman your age should be experiencing new things." His hand leaves the seat; trailing a slow path up my arm towards my shoulder before it reaches my chin. "The city is filled with many possibilities."

  I feel a flush of desire race up my neck. I swallow hard trying to chase away the lump that is there in my throat. Even if I wanted to respond, I doubt that any sound that escapes me right now would resemble anything other than a deep and uncontrollable moan.

  The car lurches to a stop but I'm so mesmerized by the way he's looking at me that I don't move an inch. I don't want to. I've never been this close to a man like this and I've definitely never had a man look at me the way he is right now.

  "You're home." He leans in closer. "Let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday."

  I catch my breath as his head dips towards me. I moan faintly and just as I begin to close my eyes, I feel his lips brush against my cheek.

  "Happy Birthday, Isla," he says in a whisper against my skin. "May it be the best year of your life."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gabriel

  Her skin smells like perfection. I linger once I've kissed her cheek, knowing that I need to step out of the car so I can walk her into the building.

  We're still, so still. Her breathing is ragged and fast. My lips still resting against her, my hands fisted in a visible sign of the internal struggle I'm fighting.

  I want her.

  I want to kiss her beautiful lips.

  I want to fuck her sweet, lush body.

  "Mr. Foster." Her voice is so soft that I can barely hear her. "Gabriel, please."

  Please.

  Her hand moves from her lap to my forearm. She grips the material of my jacket in her fist before she releases it. I tremble as I feel it move up my bicep, my shoulder and then finally, it rests against the back of my neck.

  It's an invitation; just as the sound of her breathing is. Just as the movement of her thighs against the leather, as she parts them a touch, is.

  Her hand glides higher, stopping as it reaches the base of my hair. Her fingers float along my skin, softly, so softly.

  "Please." It's my voice this time. I don't beg. I won't beg.

  Fuck it. I will beg for her.

  Her hand knots in the bottom of my hair as she arches her neck, slides her lips along my cheek and finally, finally I taste her on my mouth.

  I groan into the kiss as her soft lips push into mine. I slide my tongue into her mouth, wanting to savor her in any way I can.

  My reward is the sweetest of moans along with the faint sound of her moving on the leather seat of the car.

  I tug her into my lap so she's facing me, her thighs straddling mine. I hear my phone ringing in the distance. It's not important. It can't be important. Nothing is as important as this.

  She adjusts herself, grinding into my erection through my pants. My chest heaves at the sensation. I've never come just from the stimulation of a woman's body or hands on my cock. It's always taken a greedy mouth or a slick pussy to get me off. I've never orgasmed like this, yet now, I know that I could.

  I feel I might if she doesn't stop moving.

  "Isla." I run my hands up her thighs, pushing the skirt of her dress higher. "Your skin is so soft."

  My phone rings again. This time the brittle bite of it halts her movements.

  "It might be important." Her breath touches my lips in the instant before her lips do.

  I shake my head gripping her thighs tighter. She pushes her panties into my crotch,
circling, baiting, wanting.

  "You're a beautiful woman," I whisper as I look down at her thighs. "Every part of you is beautiful."

  Her breath hitches as I push the dress even higher, revealing the sheer black panties she's wearing.

  "Jesus, Isla." I move my left hand, inching it up her thigh.

  A brash knock on the privacy glass startles her so much she leans back almost tumbling from my lap. My hands jump to her waist, pulling her into my chest.

  "What?" I bark. "What is it, Charles?"

  The glass lowers not more than an inch. "Mr. Foster, I apologize."

  My phone rings again. I look down at where it's vibrating in the inner pocket of my jacket. "What's going on, Charles? I assume your interruption is related to these incessant calls."

  "It's your mother, sir," he says loudly. His voice tempered by the glass. "She's been taken to the hospital."

  ***

  I step into the Emergency Department and I'm immediately overcome with a sense of impending doom. There are no reporters demanding a statement. I didn't pass one photographer in the lobby trying to gain access to my mother's room.

  This is the third time this year that my mother has complained of chest pains. Each of the previous two times, she had on full makeup when she arrived via ambulance. It hadn't taken more than an hour for the doctors to determine that it was anxiety causing her discomfort.

  I found out later, much later, that she'd arranged for the press to be there both times. It was sympathy she was looking for. It was a thinly veiled plan to catapult her name back into the spotlight, and my father's view, for a time.

  "Ben," I call out my cousin's name as I see him standing next to a nurse. "It's mother. She was brought in."

  "Gabriel." He shoves the tablet in his hand at the nurse before he walks towards me. "We've been waiting for you."

  I don't hesitate as he hugs me, tightly. We haven't always been close but that's changed since he mended fences with his twin brother, Noah. Ben had pulled away from the family after his mother's death and we lost touch. Now that he's in New York and working as the head of the Emergency Department at one of the city's busiest hospitals, I see him regularly. We've forged a friendship that has been good for us both.