Page 37 of I Would Beg For You

“Not a fan of liverandworms, I see.” He laughs.

If I think about this too hard, I’m going to throw up. Hard stop on liver and worm talk.

Valentino pulls me back into him, drops another kiss to my temple, then lets me go. I feel the loss of his warmth acutely.Wait, don’t let go, I want to say.

I see him stop in front of an espresso machine and look at me over his shoulder.

“Coffee?” he asks.

I nod with enthusiasm. “Yes, please.”

While the machine is rumbling away and extracting the drink from the pod, I glance around the room. It’s a big space, with white walls and a beautiful wood floor, thick plush rugs, custom built floor-to-ceiling bookcases along two walls, a massive desk, and taking pride of place in front of expansive windows, a black grand piano.

I find myself going to it as if hypnotized. What’s this doing in his study? I’m no expert, but the bench looks like it’s been sat on a lot. The keys are polished, but there’s some hints of dullness on them at regular intervals.

I blink when a small coffee cup materializes in front of my face. I gratefully take it and have my first sip. It’s rich and strong, just hot enough, and sweetened, too. I appreciate that he didn’t give me a bitter black coffee.

As Valentino moves away, he caresses the piano. Wait, it’s his?

“You play?” I ask before I can curb my curiosity.

“Yes.”

There’s no being coy or anything in his answer. It feels like playing the piano is part of who he is—that’s how quickly and assertively his reply came out.

“Will you show me?” Suddenly, I’m dying to hear him play something, anything.

He huffs a small laugh. I’m worried he’s going to demur, because he doesn’t move for a few seconds. It feels like a very long time.

Then he steps around me and sits on the bench. His long fingers settle in the middle of the row of keys, and they’re suddenly a blur as a rhythmic symphony, like the dance of a galloping horse, erupts in the room.

He stops after the first few chords and looks up at me.

“Coffee. It’ll grow cold,” he says with a nod to my hand.

“Hmm? Oh right.” I’d completely forgotten I still held the cup in my hand. I down it in one single shot and put the cup and saucer on a coaster on a side table. “I know this tune.”

He smiles. “Most people do, though they don’t know the title.”

“Which is?”

“Mozart’sRondo Alla Turca. Most commonly known as theTurkish Rondoor theTurkish March.”

“It’s…fast.”

He laughs now. “It’s a good piece to let the fingers run.”

No wonder his fingers know how to run so well on a woman’s body. He hones them on this beautiful piano.

“Music,” I say. “It’s part of you.”

Valentino stays silent, then a soft nod comes to confirm my assumption.

“Play something for me,” I urge. “Something that makes you think of me.”

Where this boldness comes from, I don’t know. But it’s like asking someone to walk into a perfume store and to choose the scent they most associate with you. It’s a glimpse into their perception, a view of what you evoke in them. And suddenly, I want to know what I invoke in Valentino Andretti.

Silence stretches between us. I’m starting to worry he won’t heed my request, until he turns away from me and stares at the piano. His hands settle in the middle again, and the first note pierces the quiet.

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