Page 120 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Fifty-Three
Iris
The door closes, leaving me alone in Tony’s room. It’s overwhelmingly masculine, not even a hint of a feminine touch. Lots of blue and green with pale earth-tone accents. A huge contemporary bed and dark wood furniture dominate the area. The floor is bare except for a thick rug at the foot of the bed.
I go to the enormous walk-in closet. He has rows of crisply ironed dress shirts, suits, belts and cuff links under glass covers. I start to reach for the drawers, then stop. Why am I so curious about what he has in there? I’ve never nosed around in another person’s private space before. But with Tony, I want to know everything about him.
Still. It’s rude to snoop. I drop my hands, feeling like a naughty kid trying to filch a cookie.
I pull a large shirt off its hanger and hold it in front of me, making sure it doesn’t touch my soiled dress. It’s long enough to serve as a micro-dress.
Shirt in hand, I cross over to the bathroom. It’s huge and ultramodern, with clean, minimalist lines. A little too modern for my taste, but it has a towel warmer, where a thick, fresh blue towel is resting, and heated flooring that feels divine on the soles of my feet. There’s a separate multi-headed shower and sunken tub with Jacuzzi spouts.
As immaculate as it is, there isn’t much of a personal touch. The cabinets only contain aftershave and a bottle of aspirin. There’s one toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste on the vanity. It reminds me of a nice hotel suite—well appointed and clean, but utterly impersonal.
As I turn, my reflection in the mirror catches my eyes, and I gape. Oh no… A drowned rat probably looks better than I do at the moment. My hair’s flat and stringy from the wine, and my face has a reddish tint. My mascara and eyeliner are smeared, and the dress has red stains all over. Basically, I could star in a horror movie.
Suddenly, I feel like screaming. The date was going so well. Tony was charming. The food was great, the wine perfect. Okay, the music was sort of crappy, but whatever. The mood was sweet and romantic. I was relaxed and happy. Tony even laughed, which was thrilling because he so rarely laughs like that. But then that crazy actress had to show up!
I almost didn’t recognize her. I thought Audrey Duff would be more…delicate. I mean, she ostensibly tried to kill herself over love. But the woman in person isn’t as pretty as in her pictures and movies. There’s a taut, rusted-sheet-metal quality to her. And she directed all her misguided anger at me, throwing the wine and making a scene so awful, I felt utterly paralyzed. It was like it wasn’t even happening to me, more like I was watching the whole drama play out.
If she hadn’t interrupted, who knows how the date might’ve ended? Tony and I could be kissing again by now. Maybe even taking it a step further, into the bedroom. Because I really wanted him to kiss me again at the end of the date. And then go from there.
I wish I could have a do-over, but what’s done is done. Happy and relaxed Tony is gone. He was tense the entire ride home. He was tense when he brought me to the bathroom. He’s probably still tense right now.
Frustrated and exasperated, I strip out of my ruined dress. The stains will never come out. I step into the shower, which instantly spews hot water. I wash myself thoroughly, making sure the wine’s completely gone from my hair.
Once done, I dry myself with the warm towel and put on the shirt. After rummaging around, I realize Tony doesn’t have a dryer. Guess it makes sense, since his hair is short, but…
Ah, who cares?It isn’t like we’re going back out. I towel-dry my hair as much as possible, then go down to the living room. Tony’s at his Steinway, a crystal tumbler half-full of amber liquid in his hand. His head swivels in my direction. As he takes me in, his green eyes darken with a need and yearning so stark it leaves an aching hitch in my heart. I feel pulled closer, as though we’re connected with unbreakable chains.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks.
Betterisn’t how I’d put it. I want to reach out and brush my fingertips over his cheek, but there’s a touch of bleakness to him that makes me hesitate. So I keep my hands by my sides and say, “Yes. Thank you.”
He finishes his drink in one swallow, his eyes still on me. Thoughts cross them like quick-moving clouds, and finally something that looks suspiciously like grim determination settles over his face.
I start to step forward, reaching for him. I don’t want him feeling guilty over what happened at the restaurant. I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me—saving me from Jamie, helping me look for a job, showing me the beautiful coastline, comforting me when I had a nightmare…basically, treating me like I’m a normal person rather than some damaged girl.
Suddenly, he turns to the piano and starts playing secondo from Schubert’s Fantasie. What the…? I drop my hand, feeling slightly rejected by his abrupt shift in mood and action. And why is he playing this? It isn’t complete without someone to play primo.
He keeps playing. The incompleteness of the piece disturbs me. Although I’ve played a few trio or duet pieces, I don’t remember playing anything that requires partners to share a piano. But my fingers twitch as though they know exactly what keys to strike.
Finally, unable to bear it, I sit next to him on the long bench and let my hands do what they will. At least I’ve listened to the music before, so I’m aware of what it should sound like.
My fingers move on their own, striking the chords and notes perfectly. Tony alters his pace to match mine. We’re in perfect sync, and his body heat warms me until I’m feeling almost too hot.
Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. My heart beats to the music, and I can sense Tony’s does, too. My mouth dries. Fantasie doesn’t require the technical dexterity of Liszt’s études, but it isn’t a simple composition. Haunting, with a hint of hesitation and reluctance, but delicately graceful and flowing. Just hitting the right notes at tempo will turn the lyrical piece flatter than two-week-old Coke, without the careful building of tension to the climax toward the end. The only reason I can play it so well must be because I’ve practiced it to the point of mastery. My hands are relying on muscle memory, even though I have no recollection of ever performing this.
By the time I hit the last note, my breathing is uneven and shallow. I stare at Tony. He said he didn’t really play the piano, but he was virtually perfect, as though he knew exactly how I needed him to perform his part. Like we’ve played this together many, many times before.
His Adam’s apple moves once. Then he leans forward and presses his mouth to mine.
