Page 3 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Normally, I wouldn’t like someone talking to Harry that way, but in this case, he deserves it. I also like the sisterly undertone to her irritation. She’s definitely not his girlfriend, and the realization makes the room seem a little brighter.
Harry throws his hands up in the air. “What can I say? I haven’t studied at Curtis for three years like a certain someone.” His voice is entirely too loud, his gestures too exaggerated. He’s lying through his teeth.
And the girl sees through him, much to my satisfaction.
She snorts. “Well, if you practiced, maybe they’d let you in. Let’s try again.”
I shake my head. It’s a lost cause. Harry will only butcher one of most hauntingly beautiful piano pieces ever composed.
At the same time, she can’t play it solo. Fantasie needs a secondo to be complete, and Harry’s not the man for that. So I tap his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
He swivels around and stares, his mouth open. “Whoa! Holy shit! Dad said you were coming this week, but…!”
He jumps off the bench and hugs me. I hug him back.
“Shoulda texted me!” he says. “I would’ve gone to the airport to pick you up.”
“It’s all right. Father sent a car.”
He looks at the piano, then back at me. “You’re going to show off, aren’t you?”
“Like she said, if you practiced…” I stretch my fingers as I approach the piano. “Now watch and learn.”
Rolling his eyes, he gestures at the now-empty spot on the bench. I take his place.
Her curious gaze bores into my cheek, but before she can ask any questions, I start. I don’t want her to have any weird preconceptions about me because of who I am, or what people whisper about me behind my family’s back. Although I know from Edgar and Harry that my parents have done a lot to ensure the general public doesn’t know the real reason I was banished, people aren’t stupid. They can put two and two together. They just don’t say anything openly because of the power and influence we have in the area.
The girl smells subtly of tiger lilies, but warmer and more alluring. Even though I’m the one who has to start the piece, she’s the one who sets the pace, and I let her, looking at her long, elegant fingers.
She’s a superb pianist. We’re in perfect sync as we play. She doesn’t miss a beat or a note, and neither do I. I can feel her soft breathing, the heat of her skin. My breathing alters to match hers, and my body shifts a tad closer to her, as though it can’t bear to be away from her warmth. It feels like even my heart is beating to the pace she sets…as though we’re one through the music.
I almost falter at the thought, the back of my neck prickling.
She stops when the first movement is finished. Harry claps. “You haven’t lost your touch, Tony.”
“And you haven’t improved.” My riposte is almost perfunctory, mainly because I’m still digesting the earlier sensation of being keenly linked to her. During that time, the weight in my heart grew lighter. Made me feel like I could breathe again.
He spreads his arms. “What can I say? I don’t have the ambition or drive.”
True enough. Harry never cared much for the piano. He only took lessons to please Mother. He whined endlessly in texts, which made me wistful for the luxury of not being the best at everything I do. I have to be so good Mother will have no choice but to forgive me.
The girl’s gray eyes are focused on me, her cheeks rosy now. I can’t tell if that’s from the performance or something else, but I want to stroke them with my fingers and find out if she’s as affected as I am. She purses her mouth, and I note a tiny mole below the exact center point of her bottom lip. It seems to beg me to flick my tongue across it while I kiss her. Yup. A temptress’s mouth. A hint of cherry and caramel tickles my nose as she breathes out softly, and the warmth from her bare arm against mine leaves a shivery tingle.
“You’re pretty good,” she says finally.
“Not too shabby yourself.”
She clears her throat. “I’m Ivy.”
The name is like a bat to the back of my skull. Uncle Perry’s adopted daughter, Ivy. The one Mother apparently dotes on, if even half the stuff Edgar and Harry said is true.
By the time I recover, bitter disappointment is flooding through me like acid. Thank God for the gentlemanly decorum my European teachers hammered into me. I manage a polite smile. “I’m Tony,” I say, then immediately want to kick myself. Anthony is the better choice—the default name I give to people I have no intention of becoming close to. I can’t believe I screwed up, but too late now to take it back.
“Tony?”
“Anthony Blackwood, but Tony to friends and family.”
She tilts her head as she smiles. “Am I your friend?”
An honest answer won’t do. Mother wouldn’t approve. “Well, we’re related.”
“Not by blood,” she says hurriedly. A flush deepens her cheeks as she clears her throat. “I have to practice some more.”
“I’ll do it with you.” The offer slips out before I can catch myself. Shit.
She looks at me from under her lashes. “Can you do it ten times?”
“Sure. Ten more times.”
