Caressa's Knees (4 page)

Caressa trailed after him and Denise fell in behind her. Saint-Saëns went silent in her head, replaced by thoughts of what Mr. Winchell might look like with his suit off. The idea of it made music start again.
Wild, unruly arpeggios.
The more she thought of it, the more her nipples tightened against the scratchy mesh of her sheer bra. She pulled her cardigan shut in front of her, lest he turn around and
see
. When they climbed into the limo, she placed her cello between them like some kind of shield.

God, the music was making her crazy. She just wanted some silence, just for a moment, a minute. She was going out of her mind, and Kyle Winchell wasn’t going to do anything but make her crazier. Somehow, she was sure of that.

* * * * *

Kyle looked around the well-appointed hotel suite. There was something about a classy hotel that got his sap flowing.
Pleasure, comfort, wealth…sex.
Why couldn’t he get off the sexy thoughts? Caressa was not exactly a seductress, with her prickly distant attitude, but she obviously made some jack because they were staying in a Presidential three-bedroom suite on the top floor of one of San Francisco’s ritziest hotels.

Caressa disappeared into her room immediately, saying something about taking a nap. They had an eight o’clock dinner engagement with the conductor of the San Francisco Orchestra, and they were all still on New York time. Denise decided to nap too, but Kyle was too wound up to sleep. Instead, he unpacked for their five-night stay, a trick he’d learned in his travels. Unpack, and any place felt like home. When all his clothes were in drawers and closets, he went to the window. The cityscape was gorgeous, although he thought he heard the rumble of distant thunder. He wandered back out into the main room and finally decided to do a short workout in the gym before he had to corral The Prodigy to her eight o’clock dinner meeting.

By the time he returned and showered, the distant thunder had turned into a storm. Rain beat against the windows, obscuring any view of the city. Denise was in the kitchen fiddling with the coffee machine.

“Caressa go to the gym with you?” she asked.

“No. I thought she was resting.”

“I knocked a few minutes ago and there was no answer.”

Kyle went and knocked too, then looked back over his shoulder at Denise.

The older woman sighed. “Don’t be afraid to go charging into rooms after her. She doesn’t open doors if she doesn’t feel like it. It’s almost seven-thirty, and we’ll be late if she doesn’t get herself in gear.”

Kyle cracked the door,
then
pushed it open. The room was dark—and empty.

He turned to Denise. “She’s not here.”

The look she returned pretty much told Kyle everything.
Not my problem anymore.

Kyle pulled out his phone and dialed
Caressa’s
cell number, which he’d been organized enough to program into his phone before they even got on the plane. Unfortunately, her phone rang out in the silence of her empty room.
Damn it.

“Try downstairs,” Denise suggested. “Maybe she was too hungry to wait for dinner.”

“She doesn’t leave messages?”

“Not often,” said Denise with a sigh.

Well, she will after this
, thought Kyle with annoyance. He looked in the restaurant and then the gym, and then started asking hotel employees if they’d seen a woman fitting her description. Finally, one of the room service waiters said he’d just seen a young woman fitting her description heading up the service stairs.

“And the service stairs go where?” Kyle asked with a sinking feeling.

“Up to the roof.”

Kyle could hear the rain pelting against the windows of the lobby. “I guess I’ll check it out.”

The hotel manager looked mildly alarmed. “Shall I send someone to come with you?”

“No,” Kyle said. “She was probably just getting some exercise. If you would show me to the stairs…”

“Why don’t you take the elevator up and go from there?”

“Fine.”

The manager followed Kyle to the elevator to key in the button for the rooftop floor. “Don’t hesitate to call me at once if there’s a problem.”

Oh, there’s a problem all right. There’s a wandering prodigy on the loose and when I find her I’m going to wring her talented little neck.
She knew she had a dinner to go to. She knew they’d all be looking for her.
Passive-aggressive little brat.
He rode the elevator up thirty-five stories to the door that opened onto the roof.

Damn, it was pouring. No way was she out there. He shoved open the door and a wall of rain hit him. He looked around. Lightning lit up the dark sky, followed by a deafening boom of thunder that made him jump.

Jesus Christ, she
was
there. Stupid fucking prodigy lacked a brain. She was standing less than twenty yards away, leaning against a metal light pole and looking at him with a smirk on her rain-soaked face.

* * * * *

She really hadn’t come up here to get a rise out of him, although the expression on his face was priceless. Super pissed, super scared.
Super everything.
He was super in so many ways. She only came up here because there were so few really powerful storms, and so few places to really experience them. But man, he looked angry. He ventured closer, a few feet away, so she could see the striking eyes, the white teeth set in a grim line. She stared at his light shirt, quickly soaking through as the rain attacked him. She was already soaked to the bone.

“Are you insane?” he yelled. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I love storms,” she yelled back. “I really love them!”

How to make him understand? It was the only time a force greater than music could overtake her. She looked up at the sky, at the spitting clouds. The rumble of thunder resonated in her shoulder blades and down her spine.

“Do you also love thirty-thousand volts of fucking electricity stopping your heart and frying your brain? Step away from the fucking lightning rod at least.”

She smiled at him, doing a twirl around the metal pole in a playful approximation of a stripper. “You curse like a sailor, Mr. Winchell.”

“This isn’t funny, Caressa. Come inside before you get struck by lightning or manage to kill yourself falling off the roof. You’re on top of a thirty-five story building.”

“Oh, really?”
She ran for the edge just to hear him gasp, and he did. He didn’t just gasp, he made some noise between a grunt and a yelp and lunged for her, but when she kept backing away, he stopped.

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “You made your point. You’re a psychopath. I get it.”

“I’m not a psychopath. I told you, I just like storms.”

She was drowning.
Drowning.
Her hair was drenched, a sodden tangle heavy on her back. Her clothes were stuck to her skin with cold, driving rain. She blinked raindrops from her lashes. She wouldn’t fall. She was a survivor.
Didn't die.
Didn't die.
Didn't die.

“Don’t worry. I won’t die,” she yelled through the clamor of the storm.

“You may not die, but I’ll
beat
your ass black and blue for this, you little idiot.”

She laughed. “Will you?”

He advanced and she took another step backward. He froze, his entire body a rigid, quivering monument to just how messed up she was.

“Damn it!
Enough.
You’re too close to the edge now.
Really too close.”

She didn’t even need to look back. She could tell how close she was from the look on his face. His features were crumbling from the stress of what she was doing to him. He felt helpless and she could tell he hated it. She didn’t much like him this way either. She liked him when he was all bravado and snarky attitude, not this serious face.

“Come and get me,” she said so quietly she wasn’t sure he could hear her over the storm.

“No,” he said after a moment. “You come to me.
Right now.”

She gazed at him—soaked, angry male. His button-down shirt, that miracle of tailoring, was plastered to his broad chest and muscular arms. His dark hair was even darker now, glossy black in the driving rain. His blue eyes looked black too.
Furious.
But not defeated. He stood straight and alert, and his shoulders looked strong enough to catch the zigzagging lightning like a spear and fling it back from whence it came.
Strong enough to catch her if she did manage to fall off.
Don't fall. He won't catch you, you idiot. You're in this alone.

If he were music, he would have been a
crescendo
. He would have been
allegro
and
fortissimo
. She was
morendo
…fading away. She jumped as thunder boomed like a gunshot and lightning lit the air around them into a blinding white out. When he spoke, it was with slow, emphatic conviction.

“Caressa, you have a dinner meeting at eight o’clock. It’s time to get ready.
Right now.”
His voice was all control, even though his temper seemed poised to shatter. She couldn’t stop looking at his fists, his restless fingers.

“Dinner?
I was looking forward to that ass-beating you promised me.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not playing games with you. We could both be struck by lightning up here and guess what? It won’t end well. Come away from the edge right now or I swear to God I will fucking push you off.”

She was fading, feeling sick all of a sudden from the way he looked at her. Everyone looked at her that way, like she was trouble. She was always bad. She was never good enough. She thought he was handsome and strong, and yes, even funny. She wanted to flirt. She wanted to kiss him—and he wanted to push her off. She wanted to stand in the pouring rain forever, until she turned to water herself, flowing away down the gutters to the street and down to some river or ocean. She loved him and she hated him.
Kyle Winchell, I hate that you make me feel this way.

“I have a fucking dinner to get ready for,” she muttered. She moved forward, away from the edge of the roof, and tried to walk around him, but he intercepted her. He took her wrist and yanked it. She yanked it back but only ended up hurting herself when he didn’t give an inch.

“Let go of me,” she snarled, suddenly as furious as he was.

“When we get inside.”

They wrestled one another until they reached the rooftop door. He pushed her through and released her as soon as the door slammed behind them. She ran ahead down the stairs, dripping water behind her. She hoped he slipped on it. She still wanted him to kiss her. Her wrist ached where he’d grabbed it.

She hated his guts.

* * * * *

“Miss Gallo, on behalf of the San Francisco Orchestra I just want to say how delighted we are to participate in this collaboration. I have personally been following your career for many years. Your talent is…amazing.”

Caressa looked at the portly conductor from under her lashes, ignoring her aunt’s nudge under the table.

“Eh, Caressa is very excited too,” Aunt Denise finally responded. “Her career has been a…a wondrous arc, and to be playing as a guest with such fine orchestras as the SFO, well…it’s obviously a dream come true. Isn’t it, Caressa?”

She looked up at the conductor again. They were all so pompous.
So critical.
They were all the same. They didn’t love music, they loved authority and order. They loved to exploit her talent to fulfill their own visions. She pasted a wide, fake smile on her face. “Of course it’s a dream come true. Yes.”

She could feel
him
glowering on the other side of her. Kyle. Mr. Winchell.
The thundercloud.
Thanks to her rooftop shenanigans, they were fifteen minutes late to dinner.
All her fault, as usual, although her aunt blamed it on traffic.
Her aunt had also strong-armed Mr. Winchell into accompanying them, and so they had shared a cab shoulder-to-shoulder, with him a rock of indignation beside her.

Her long, thick hair was still wet even now, but his hair was dry, glossy brown and shining again. His eyes were still dark, though. She turned and gave him the same big, fake smile she’d given the SFO conductor, whatever his name was. Kyle didn’t smile back, only looked at her with that troubling gaze.

Aunt Denise and the conductor were talking about the musical program now, and Caressa drifted, half-listening. Sometimes she felt like participating in these forced meet-and-greets and sometimes she didn’t. Tonight she most definitely wasn’t in the mood. Fortunately, no one ever asked for ID at these posh restaurants, and Aunt Denise hadn’t said anything when the waiter poured her wine, although Kyle had given her a dire look.
Whatever.
She drained her second glass and made a few lackadaisical replies to the conductor’s obsequious questions. After several unsuccessful attempts to draw her into conversation, the conductor turned to Kyle.

“It must be exciting to you, I suppose.
These tours.
Getting to watch her performances.”