Sparks Fly (14 page)

“How did you get in?”

His mouth—it was a beautiful mouth, I was surprised to notice, full yet masculine—moved slightly, as if he would smile. But he didn’t.

“Locks are easy.”

I swallowed, realizing how small the room was. Just big enough for the baby grand and the person playing it. Sitting on the piano bench, my back was against the wall and I was glad for the cool, hard surface to prop against as I worked to compose myself.

Before I could, he asked, “How the hell did you do that?”

Again, my gut went for embarrassment. For wishing I’d never downloaded the song to my iPod, that I hadn’t given in to the weakness of playing something different. Forbidden.

A stammered reply was on the tip of my tongue when he continued, “Those chords with that song. You were playing minor, diminished.” He shook his head, looked down at my hands, still resting on the keys—gripping them, actually—and said, “It shouldn’t have worked. Nothing about it should have worked. But it did.”

And then, through the crack of least resistance, it finally came. That breathless squeezing in my chest, the racing of my heart. But not from a song.

From
him.

From what he’d said about me, about my playing.

He shifted on the floor, and before I realized it, he was standing up and coming over to the piano. Without asking my permission, he slid onto the piano bench. I was too stunned to think to move over and make room for him. His thigh in his worn black jeans ended up pressing hard against my right leg.

He was warm and it was the strangest thing, but I swore I could almost feel his heart beating through our legs.

What was he doing, coming into my practice room and sitting so close to me like this? I didn’t know who he was, had never seen him before, hadn’t heard that there was a new student. I’d never given a second thought to my safety at school. Not when I’d known everyone here practically my whole life.

But now, my heart fluttered with unease.

At least, that’s why I told myself it was fluttering. That’s what I told myself the knot in my stomach was.

Unease.

Not interest.

Or even something as foreign to me as desire.

No one would ever describe me as bold or aggressive. But I wasn’t shy either. I knew how to express myself, how to ask for what I wanted. Still, instead of asking this stranger to leave me alone, or at least to introduce himself like a normal person, I found myself waiting.

To see what else he would do.

To hear what else he would say.

To see if he would look at me again like he had when I first saw him sitting on the floor...as if watching
me
had stolen the breath from
his
lungs.

Waiting.

Still waiting.

I didn’t know if it was five seconds or five minutes until he raised his hands and arms to the keyboard, his long fingers moving to the exact spot where I’d left off in stunned surprise when I realized he was in the room.

And then, there was no more waiting, because before I could take my next breath, he was playing. Playing hard and fast like I had been before, as if there had been no break between me and him, no exchange of words, no shifting of positions on the piano bench.

He was playing as if the music had never stopped.

My breath got caught in my throat and my heart pounded harder now, and faster too, until there was nothing left of me but the song he was playing.

Silently, so softly that I almost couldn’t hear him, could only smell the rush of mint on his breath as the words left his lips, he said, “Play.”

It wasn’t a request. Not an order, either. Simply the obvious progression of two strangers in a small room with a baby grand. Perfectly natural that four hands should end up on the ivory to wring out as much sound and sensation as possible. As if we had scripted it, my smaller hands found the bass notes, his larger fingers shifting up the keyboard into the mid-to-high regions.

And when his voice came, it was like nothing I had ever heard before. Rich, but with an edge.

Crackling not only with passion, but with knowledge, too, like a virtuoso who really knew how to use his instrument. I got lost in his tenor, let myself drown in the resonance of listening to a born singer. I played into his voice with my fingers on the keys, letting the piano be an accompaniment but nothing more to the real instrument in the room.

So, I suddenly thought, as the temperature in the room rose up to meet the volume, this is what love at first sight feels like.

Only that wasn’t quite right. Yes, he was good-looking. Very. But I’d met plenty of good-looking guys before now and none of them had affected me like this.

He was drawing me in with sound. Weaving a spell around me with vibration.

Using his hands and his voice, he had me. Whoever he was.

When the song finally ended, I found that I was panting. The muscles of my arms were sore, my fingers were still jumping from our playing. I wanted to ask him his name, and tell him mine. I wanted to ask where he’d learned to sing and play like that. I wanted to ask where he’d come from, why I’d never seen him before.

But I’d never felt like this about a guy before. Never had butterflies move up from my stomach and explode across my tongue until they had it completely tied up.

It was all I could do to sit there beside him and keep breathing in. Out. In. Out.

“Next time,” he said into the silence, mint lingering again, “sing with me.”

Before I could reply, he was gone.

...Excerpt from GABRIELLE by Lucy Kevin © 2011.

* * * * *

FALLING FAST (A romance novel about secrets, reality TV...and unexpected love)
When Alexa is sent by a magazine to be an undercover contestant on the reality TV series "Falling For Mr. Right" she assumes the worst part of the assignment will be having to act like a brainless bimbo to try and win the affection of an arrogant guy who is out looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. Color her shocked when it turns out that not only are several of her fellow contestants intelligent, funny women...but that Brandon – aka Mr. Right - isn't at all the kind of man she thought he'd be. What's Alexa supposed to do when instead of digging up dirt for her cover story, she finds herself falling way too fast for the man she’s supposed to tear apart in her first big feature story?

Please enjoy the following excerpt for FALLING FAST © 2011 Lucy Kevin...

“You want me to do what?” Alexa Atkison said, her voice dripping with disbelief.

Alexa's editor, Jane, pushed her glasses up more firmly on her nose and looked pointedly through them at Alexa. “You’re the one who has been on me about doing the bigger stories. I’m dropping this one into your lap.”

Alexa opened her mouth to argue and then realized her thoughts were better left unsaid, particularly to her all-powerful boss. So instead of shooting off at the mouth, she took a deep breath and tried, on the fly, to work out the best tactic for steering Jane toward a less objectionable story.

“What about drugs? Or gambling rings? Don’t you have something scary and dirty that I could investigate instead?”

“No,” Jane said, her lips tight. “I’m handing you
this
assignment on a silver platter. Once you sign the confidentiality agreement, we can discuss the details of your makeover.”

Surprise registered on Alexa’s face. “Makeover?”

“While the editorial staff agrees that you are a perfect fit for the assignment, it is, nonetheless, clear that you need professional help with your appearance.”

Alexa looked down at her clothes. “What does my appearance have to do with this assignment?”

Unsmiling, Jane replied, “Everything.”

Alexa didn’t like being boxed into a corner one bit. Silently, she reassessed her options. Sure, Jane had offered her a huge story, and yes, she desperately wanted the chance to prove herself as a feature writer, as opposed to the fact checking and proofreading she had been doing for the past year, but she also had a healthy dose of self-respect which she didn’t plan on letting go of any time soon.

Trying for diplomacy, Alexa cleared her throat and mustered up her most cooperative expression.

“Look, Jane, I really appreciate this opportunity, and I’m more than willing to go the distance with it, but as I see it, all I need to do is get picked as a single-girl-in-need-of-a-husband by a bunch of dopey TV execs, make it onto as many episodes as possible, and scrounge up dirt on everyone involved, right?”

Jane cut right to it. “I’m as disgusted by primping and makeup as you are, Alexa. But you aren’t going to be much use to us on this story looking like…” Jane’s words drifted off and she scrunched up her nose in just the way one did when blue cheese had been left out on the counter for too long.

“Looking like what?”

Jane sighed. “Looking like you do right at this very minute. The way you look every day, in fact.”

Alexa tried not to let on just how much Jane’s brutal honesty hurt. But seconds later, when Jane uncharacteristically tried to soften the blow, Alexa knew she needed to work on her poker face if she was ever going to make it as a serious undercover journalist.

“Don’t worry,” Jane said. “We’re going to get you a little help in the wardrobe department, and-”

Alexa cut her off. If there was one word that she never thought she’d hear at
ROAR
, it was wardrobe. She had always thought such terminology was reserved for the offices of
Vogue
or
Elle
.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

Jane pursed her lips, seeming to tally up all the problems in her head before listing them. “I’ve never seen you wear anything but jeans and a T-shirt, except for that awful suit your wore for your interview last year.” Clearly exasperated, she added, “Your shoes don’t even match!”

Alexa swung her legs out from underneath the desk. When she inspected her feet, she was surprised to see a green tennis shoe on her left foot and a red shoe on her right.

“I was a little distracted this morning.”

“Try every morning. In any case, we’ve got you scheduled for the spa this afternoon.”

Spa
was another word that she never, ever thought she’d hear at
ROAR
. Alexa narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious. “This isn’t some kind of office practical joke is it? Last time I looked, I was working for the leading feminist magazine in the country.”

Jane looked at her watch, making it clear that the conversation was over. “Your first appointment is in thirty minutes. Do you want the assignment or not?”

Alexa knew she had no choice: Her self-respect was going to have to take a back seat to her first ever byline. There was no way she was going to miss the chance to leap out of journalistic obscurity and onto the cover of a national magazine.

“Where do I sign?”

Jane smiled and handed her a pen.

* * *

“Hold on a second. You want
me
to be Mr. Right?”

Joe Randell, the executive producer of the much-hyped
Falling For Mr. Right
reality TV show, leaned across the conference table as if he was letting Brandon in on a big secret. “You did apply.”

Brandon Philips worked to wipe the stunned look off of his face. “Yes, I did,” he said, leaving off the pertinent fact that he had only done it to get back at his ex-girlfriend for dumping him because of his so-called “commitment issues.”

Stalling for time to figure out just what the hell he had got himself into, he asked, “How many applicants were there?”

“Thousands. But I knew you were our best prospect the minute you walked through the door.

Your screen test confirmed that the camera loves you and your resume is excellent.”

Brandon took a moment to digest the unexpected news. “If I signed on, what would you expect me to do?”

Joe slid a copy of the
Falling For Mr. Right
contract across the table. “The show will air over a period of two weeks. This gives you fourteen days to decide who you want to marry among the thirty women we introduce you to.

Brandon’s mouth went completely dry. How could he possibly fall for anyone that fast? He took a sip of coffee and kept his expression bland, waiting for his brain to click back into the ‘on’

position. “How often would I be filmed?”

Joe looked Brandon straight in the eye. “Brandon, I want to be completely upfront with you today, before you agree to sign anything.”

Brandon nodded for Joe to continue.

“There will be cameras filming you during every interaction with the girls.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite.” Joe straightened his tie before continuing. “There is one special clause in the contract that I need to draw your attention to.”

He pointed out a paragraph in the middle of page one.
Mr. Right will allow Producer to pick
one wild card for each of the selection ceremonies, until only three women remain. At that point, Mr.

Right will have complete control over his contestant selection.

“Can you live with that?” Joe asked him.

Brandon leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t have cared less about one wild-card out of thirty women. How bad could one woman be? The big question was how they were going to make sure he wanted to choose
any
of the women?