Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 100796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
She looked at me like I’d just asked her to kill the Pope. “Now?”
Why the hell not? I’d had a surge of adrenaline when I thought she was going for my gun, and the effect hadn’t worn off yet. I was jittery. She acted like this music was priceless. I was curious if I’d see value in it like she did.
Her expression was pure disbelief, and I hardened mine in response. “Let’s go.”
Oksana snatched the book from me, grateful to have it back, and she climbed to her feet. I followed behind her when she trudged to the door.
The rain had ceased, but the clouds blotted out the moonlight, and we could barely see the shape of the black grand piano sitting beneath the window. I flipped on the entryway light when we reached the bottom of the stairs and blinked against the chandelier’s glow.
I gestured to the office. “There’s tape on the desk.”
She went in and I stood at the doorway, watching her bend over the desk and repair the pages. Her blonde hair looked white in contrast to my dark robe, and the sliver of skin between the lapels of the robe teased me. I could order her to take it off, but it was more fun if she accidentally flashed me.
When Oksana seemed satisfied with her work, she straightened from the desk and set her gaze on me. Her expression was hard to read. Was it fear? Excitement? Was she wanting an asshole as the audience for her music?
I glanced at the piano. The last person to play it had been my mother, who I had hardly any memories of. What would she think about this Russian girl laying her Russian fingers on the ivory keys?
I pushed the thought away. My mother had been dead for twenty years, and Oksana playing on it wasn’t going to change that, or my memory of Luka sitting on my mother’s lap while she played. She’d let him hit some of the keys while I’d pushed the pedals at her feet, demanding to be included in the song.
We went to the piano. I stood beside it, and Oksana’s voice was soft and warm as she pulled out the bench. “I hope it sounds as beautiful as it looks.”
She folded the music on the shelf like it was delicate. It was unnecessary. The piano was nothing more than a museum piece. My father tried to sell it once. I’d told him not to, but he hadn’t given in to my demand until Luka sided with me. I’d thought the piano made my father sad, not recognizing at the time it was more likely guilt. Every time he looked at it, was he reminded of how he’d had my mother killed?
Oksana set her open notebook on the piano and sat on the bench with her back stiff and straight. Below the belt, the robe fell open and exposed one of her long legs clear up to the thigh, like she was wearing a dress with a slit up the side.
Her fingers were set on the keys. She drew in a deep breath—
“What’s it called?” I interrupted before she could even start.
“Temperance.”
What the fuck? I already hated it, but then she began to play and confirmed my judgement. The melody was obnoxious. It was up tempo and . . . fuck, I couldn’t think of the right word. Jaunty? Yeah. It was jaunty as fuck, and I added it to my list of unnecessary noises. “Stop.”
Her hands froze and the room went silent.
She turned slowly to look at me, gauging my reaction, and her lips twisted down in a frown. “When was the last time this was tuned?”
“Don’t blame the piano. Play something else, Oksana. Something better.”
She was more offended I hadn’t liked her shitty song than when I’d shoved my dick in her mouth. This girl was something else entirely. She turned the pages and settled on a new song. Her fingers moved over the keys, sharp and attacking.
“Wow,” I said flatly. “What’s this awful one called? Let me guess. Abstinence?”
She inhaled so sharply, it was like I’d slapped her. Her fingers retreated from the keys, my words visibly stinging. A lesser guy would have been cut down by her vicious glare, but the blow glanced off me. When she tried to stand, I put a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down to sit, and her ass thumped on the bench.
“Don’t play happy music in my house,” I threatened. “It doesn’t belong here, and certainly not coming from my mother’s piano.”
Oksana stared at the book before her, considering what to do. Finally, she paged through it and selected a song in the middle of her scribblings. Her shoulders lifted as she took a breath and she pushed back the oversized sleeves of the robe. Her fingers crept back to the keys.