Caressa's Knees (3 page)

Not that he was worried. The job specs were simple. Keep an eye on Caressa. Get her where she was supposed to be. Denise would tell him the schedule and he would make sure the Prodigy cooperated.
The Prodigy.
The moniker had stuck in his head after viewing some old concert footage of her online. She had been eleven or twelve maybe, an awkward pre-adolescent with a talent that overshadowed her frizzy hair and acne, and the gangly knees that poked out on either side of her cello. Kyle hoped he didn’t slip up and call her The Prodigy to her face.

Just after ten, his luggage was picked up and taken for him to the airport. A separate car was due to arrive to take the three of them to their flight.
Kyle, Denise Gallo, and The
Prodi—er—Caressa
.
He was suited up again in a starched shirt, tie, and dark jacket, hoping against hope he and his new client would get along, since it would be a long three-and-a-half month assignment if they didn’t.

Unfortunately, the first meeting wasn’t auspicious. The limousine pulled up to the lobby of his building and he climbed in, finding it rather cramped since
Caressa’s
cello case took up the lion’s share of the space. She was huddled behind it. When her aunt introduced them, Caressa didn’t even look up.

“She’s stressed,” Denise explained under her breath to Kyle. “She doesn’t like to travel.”

Kyle nodded and settled back against the seat, studying the young cellist surreptitiously. It was difficult to reconcile the belligerent, frizzy-haired brat he’d envisioned with the silent, serious beauty sitting across from him. And she was a beauty. Long, sleek spiral curls, pale skin and dark lashes. Really lovely lips turned down, at present, in a small frown.

Perhaps Aunt Denise had exaggerated her problem-child qualities. Kyle hoped so. The rest of the trip to the airport was uneventful. He and Denise small-talked about the upcoming trip, while Caressa—the reason for the trip—sat in sullen silence behind her cello. In fact, Caressa didn’t say a word to him until they were getting out of the limo at the airport, and he reached to help with her instrument.

“Be careful,” she snapped. “That’s very valuable.”

The cello case was hard-sided and, Kyle assumed, had some kind of cushioning system inside, since it was significantly larger than an actual cello. It had wheels and a built-in handle that Caressa pulled out of the wider side.

“Let me do it,” he said. “It’s no problem.”

She looked him in the eyes then, for the first time.
An assessing look from decidedly green eyes.

He dropped his voice and leaned closer. “Listen, I’m not stupid. I get it. It’s valuable and fragile. You can trust me with it.”

For a moment it seemed she would argue, but then she let go of the handle and let him maneuver the instrument across the pavement toward the sliding glass doors. She tripped along beside him, clutching a small handbag and biting her lip. Denise sent their bags off to be checked, but the cello stayed. At security, agents measured, opened, and scanned the case. They carefully inspected
Caressa’s
instrument while she hovered, glowering. Forget about the threat of a concealed bomb or firearm. Kyle thought if they damaged her cello, she would do more violence than all those weapons combined.

With that done, he helped her replace the cello, noting the interior placement and fastenings. As soon as it was secure, she let him roll it to the gate. Denise was already ahead of them, leading them to a private lobby and soon afterward onto the flight. In the first class compartment, there were two seats on one side and three on the other. Denise slid into the double seat with another passenger, so Kyle was left with no choice but to help Caressa strap her cello to the window seat of the three-row.

A flight attendant hovered over them but Caressa wouldn’t let her touch the case. Kyle was starting to wonder if Caressa really
wasn’t
right in the head, despite Denise’s assurances. By the time she flopped into the middle seat beside him with a scowl, he was wondering what he’d gotten himself into. She leaned on the armrest and bit a nail while the other passengers filed past, gawking at her cello. It was so large, it crossed into her space so she was forced even closer to him—no doubt against her will.

Kyle gestured toward the huge case. “Why don’t you just check that?”

“The fact that you would even ask that tells me you know nothing about music.”

“Guilty. Try not to hate me for it.”

She made a small sound like a snort and flipped back her hair, only to have the thick curls fall right back in her face again. “Cellos are very delicate. This one is a
Peresson
. It’s very rare and valuable.
The tone and responsiveness—well.
Whatever.
It’s impossible to explain to a non-musician.”

“Thank you for trying though. I appreciate it.” His conciliatory tone in the face of her haughtiness seemed to give her pause, and she fell silent. “So you don’t put an instrument like that in the cargo hold, I suppose.”

“No. You would never do that. I wouldn’t put a cheap five-hundred-dollar cello in the cargo hold, much less this one.”

“Five hundred dollars is cheap? What’s that one worth?”

She reached out for the case, caressing it in an almost reverent manner. “I couldn’t really say. It’s priceless. The fact that I play it makes it even more valuable.”

“That’s very modest of you.” Kyle stretched out his legs and relaxed back into the cushy seat.

“Well, it’s true.” Was she blushing? Maybe she did have some small inkling of social graces.
Probably not.
She dug in her bag for sunglasses while the attendant launched into the safety spiel up front. “No offense,” Caressa said, “but I don’t feel like talking.
Despite the fact that Denise purposely trapped me here next to you.”

“Trapped you?” Kyle leaned closer to her again, modulating his voice to quiet but authoritative reproach. “Miss Gallo, have I done something to offend you? Because I can honestly say I’ve never made the acquaintance of anyone so rude.”

He couldn’t see her eyes through the sunglasses, but her face was pinched and stubborn. “Why should I be happy to meet the new policeman?”

“I’m actually your assistant, not a policeman.”

“Is that what she told you?” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Believe me, you’re a policeman, and she’ll pretty much expect you to keep me under lock and key.”

“Really?
I was under the impression you did all this voluntarily.” He waved his hand around, indicating
all this
—the airplane, the two-inch-thick dossier of tour docs in his hip bag, the monster cello case pressing against her right knee. “If you’re being made to tour the world against your will, by all means say so, and I’ll whisk you to safety. I love that kind of stuff.
Knight in shining armor.”

She shifted away from him again with an offended sniff, a slight made less insulting and somewhat funnier but the fact that her cello prevented her from moving more than an inch or two. Her left knee was just a finger’s width from his, encased in dark blue denim. He had a sudden urge to put his hand on it and order her to be still. What would she do? Throw his hand off? Curse him out? Or go quiet and docile…? Ugh, these thoughts. His hand made a loose fist and stayed right where it was. He was determined to be ruled by propriety and not libido.

The attendant was finishing the safety lesson and preparing the cabin for takeoff. As the plane started to move,
Caressa’s
hand came down on the armrest between them and he had to move his arm to make room for hers. His gaze moved from her knees to her fingers, long and graceful as they curled around the edge of the padded divider. He could hear her breaths growing shorter and shallower.

“Okay?” he asked.

The plane was picking up speed as it taxied down the runway. She wet her lips and then bit her lower lip, a nervous tic he already recognized.

“Are you an anxious flyer, Miss Gallo?”

She blanched as the engines roared to life and the plane surged forward.
“A little.”

He could have rattled off the comforting statistics, explained how unlikely a plane crash really was, but she probably wouldn’t have heard him. As the plane tipped backward and took flight, her whole body tensed and she actually gritted her teeth.

“It’s okay,” he said. He put his hand over hers, lightly, just a reassuring brush of fingertips over her knuckles. As the wheels folded up with an audible
bump
bump
and the plane banked sharply left, she turned her hand and closed her fingers on his.

Her palm was sweaty and the higher the plane climbed, the harder she gripped him. He sat very still, trying not to react to the viselike pain of her grasp. He was fairly sure she didn’t even realize what she was doing. Behind her glasses her eyes were shut tight. It wasn’t until the plane was righted and at cruising altitude that her grip began to ease in slow increments. Finally, she pulled her hand away without a word and hunched onto her side, her shoulder a tense barrier between them.

He left his hand where it was, on the armrest, in case she needed it again. She was silent and still for so long he thought she had fallen asleep. Then he heard her voice—just barely—over the hum of the engines.

“You don’t have to call me Miss Gallo. My name is Caressa.”

Kyle smiled and looked over at the clouds out the window. It was a small thing, but it was something. And God, she was so pretty. For all her aunt’s warnings, he was starting to think this job would be a piece of cake.

Chapter Two:

Hands Full

Caressa uncoiled slowly as the plane taxied up to the
jetway
. Another flight finished. She felt half-conscious, caught between panic and alertness. She watched him handle her cello, being deliberately slow and cautious, waving off her attempts to intervene. “Let me handle it,” he said. “I’m being paid to help you.”

Well, she didn’t know about that.

Caressa had steeled herself to dislike Kyle Winchell. After the last tour, when her aunt and she had almost killed each other, Denise had set on this idea of hiring a “helper”. Caressa thought it was the stupidest idea ever, and hadn’t really believed her aunt would do it until the man climbed into the limo that morning. Of course she’d chosen a man, like that would make everything okay between them.
Like a man could prevail where two women couldn’t find peace.
Ironclad Solutions.
Ridiculous.

She’d expected a suited-up, pompous gorilla to climb into the car, but the man Denise hired was more like a…panther. Oh, that was so hokey. But she couldn’t really look at her new “assistant” without imagining the sleek, smooth power of a panther. He was even dark like a panther, dark-haired and bronze with eyes like dark blue pools. He was actually disgustingly handsome. Caressa knew he was from Los Angeles, which probably explained why his clothes fit so well and his fingernails looked like they’d been professionally manicured. Her own nails were short out of necessity, and she’d never had them done. No one touched her hands, not ever.
Although he had…just for a moment.
Actually, maybe she’d grabbed his hand while the plane was taking off. She couldn’t remember. She hated takeoffs and landings. She hated flying, period.

Now it was really underway…another long, tedious tour. She loved and hated touring. She loved the idea of it, but hated the actual execution, which is why Denise had hired Kyle Winchell.
She’d probably hand-picked him because he was so handsome and charming, as if that might bring her more easily to heel.
But Caressa heeled for no one.

She would be rid of him soon enough. She didn’t need the distraction of him on the tour. She was already thinking of him more than she liked. His mouth was full and expressive—his smiles wide and his frowns intimidating. When she annoyed him his lips went all tight and straight in a pursed line. She noticed the movements of his hands, which were never casual or careless. He was polish and cordiality on the surface, but she could sense darker currents underneath.

But he was not darkness now. He lifted her cello with almost tender movements. She watched, feeling some alien emotion.
Fondness?
Damn Denise. Caressa looked away, letting music crowd into her subconscious as she followed him off the plane. There was always music in her head and she never knew what kind it would be. Of late, it was Saint-Saëns most of the time, tormenting her and riddling her with doubts. She must have been crazy to take it on at this point in her career. Saint-Saëns’ Concerto One was something cellists did at the height of their arc. After this, there would be nowhere to go but down.

Caressa sometimes suspected that she wanted to go down.

“Caressa?”
Denise said her name sharply, and she yanked her gaze from Mr. Winchell’s broad back.
You can call me Kyle
, he’d said on the plane, right after she asked him to call her Caressa.
Mr. Winchell
fit him better, with his perfectly tailored dark suit and serious expression. He couldn’t be much older than her, but he seemed older.