His Heir, Her Honor (Rich, Rugged And Royal #3)(30)
Author: Catherine Mann

As much as he ached to be with Lilah tonight, to bury himself in the warm softness of her body, he couldn’t risk it. The next time he faced her, he had to have his game plan prepared. If she caught him unaware now, he would combust.

Ten

Lilah bolted upright in her bed.

She searched the dark room lit only by moonbeams piercing the curtains, momentarily disoriented at being in a strange space and unsure what had woken her. The room felt empty, no sounds other than the rolling gush of waves outdoors. She rubbed the slight curve of her stomach as if she could somehow apologize to her baby for disturbing her—his?—slumber as well.

Swinging her feet to the floor, she toe-searched along the dense nap of the antique rug until she found her fuzzy slippers. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, she slid from the high bed, curious and now completely awake. Her sleep had been restless anyway, her imagination painting too vivid a picture of a younger Carlos and his brothers escaping San Rinaldo.

But she refused to get sucked into this extravagant lifestyle simply because her heart hurt for this family. As much as she truly enjoyed beautiful things, she felt stronger in her own world, where hard work had bought every object in her possession.

She flicked on the bedside lamp, the flood of light confirming she was alone. Where was Carlos now? Asleep in his room on the other side of the sitting area? She hadn’t even been able to ask him about what Eloisa had shared. Carlos and his brothers had stayed late at the hospital, visiting with their father. Duarte had called Shannon, who’d passed along the message to the rest of them. Lilah had tried to hide the sting of hurt over Carlos not phoning her directly…then mentally kicked herself for being selfish. He had overwhelming family concerns. This wasn’t a pleasure trip.

Still, he could have at least said good-night when he returned.

Snagging her white cotton robe from the bench at the end of her bed, she slipped her arms into the sleeves, covering her matching eyelet nightgown. Carlos’s suite was decorated far more starkly than the other quarters she’d seen, much as his Tacoma home provided a bare essentials place to crash. All burgundy leather, deep mahogany wood and brown tones, the space shouted masculinity without even hints of softness to welcome a woman.

As she padded away from her four-poster bed toward the sitting area, she felt the floor vibrate under her bare feet. Again. Again. From music?

She tipped her head to the side, listening more closely to nuances underneath the crash of waves. She swung open the hall door. Melodic runs of a piano swelled from the east wing.

She considered stepping back into her room—or waking up Carlos. But her pride kept her from entering his room when he hadn’t bothered to speak to her when he came in.

She stepped farther into the hall. Curious. And determined to tap into her practical lawyer side to find out who was playing, and playing quite masterfully. Nodding to a guard, she continued her search. Hadn’t Shannon said she once taught music? If the woman couldn’t sleep either, perhaps they could talk more, or she could simply listen until she grew groggy again.

Softly, she followed the hall around corners and down stairs until she stopped outside the almost closed door leading to… She peered inside the circular ballroom she’d only viewed briefly during her tour earlier. Wooden floors stretched across with a coffered ceiling that added texture as well as sound control. Crystal chandeliers and sconces cast shimmering patterns. She looked past the gilded harp to a Steinway grand…

And Carlos?

Not Shannon.

Curiosity melded into something deeper, something more emotional. He sat on the simple black piano bench, his suit jacket and tie discarded over the harp. His gabardine pants were still creased perfectly, a sure sign he hadn’t been anywhere near a bed since returning from the hospital.

His face intent, distant, he leaned over the keyboard, his fingers flying across the ivories, playing something classical. Flowing from Carlos’s fingertips, the music sounded intense, haunting, so much so she felt the first sting of tears at the tortured passion he milked from every note.

Her feet drew her deeper into the room to a tapestry wingback tucked in a shadowy corner by a stained glass window. She felt closer to him, to the man inside, in this moment than ever before. There were no walls between them now, only raw emotion from someone who’d faced the worst life could dish out and was clawing his way back to the light note by note.

Carlos’s hands stilled as the final chord faded. Her breath hitched somewhere between her lungs and throat. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been holding it, but hesitated to even exhale for fear of disrupting the mood.

Turning his head slowly, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Sorry to have disturbed you. You were sleeping so soundly when I looked in on you.”

He’d come to her room? How long had he watched her? The thought stirred her, knowing he hadn’t simply turned in. He’d been concerned, checking, letting her rest. She closed the distance between them with a half-dozen hesitant steps, her slippers whispering across the hardwood floors.

“You didn’t bother me. I couldn’t sleep,” she lied, tracing the curved edge of the Steinway. “How did I never know you played?”

He turned on the wooden bench, his eyes tracking her every movement. “It never came up in conversation. I’m not what you would call chatty.”

“That’s an understatement.” She stared back from the far end of the piano.

Awareness vibrated from him to her like another chord from his fingers.

“What do you want to know, Lilah?”

“Who’s your favorite composer?”

“That’s it? Your big question?” His bark of laughter cut through the otherwise silent room.

“That’s a start.”

“Rachmaninoff.”

“And you picked him because…?” She walked slowly around the piano toward him again. “Come on, help me out here. Conversation involves more than clipped answers.”

“My mother played the piano. He was her favorite to play when she was upset or angry.” His fingers hammered out a series of angry chords, then segued into something softer. “When I’m at the piano I can still hear the sound of her voice.”

His answer stole the air from her lungs. For a stark man, sometimes he said the most profoundly moving things.

She sat beside him on the bench. “That’s beautiful, Carlos. And more than a little heartbreaking.”

“Keep up comments like that and I’ll stop the sharing game.” He picked up the pace until his fingers flew across the keyboard again. “Maybe we can play a game I like to call ‘Strip for Secrets’.”