Leanne Banks - Trouble in High Heels

Lori’s heart stopped. Is this what our marriage will be like? That sounded as if Jackson was actually considering marrying her. She stared at him, terrified, thrilled.

“Well?”

Lori opened her mouth and moved it, but no sound came out. She closed it for a moment to gather her thoughts. “No,” she said and cleared her throat. “If you and I get married, I won’t be moving on to the next man if I don’t like what you say.” She paused a half beat. “If that were the case, I wouldn’t have mentioned the idea in the first place, because it’s not as if I’ve liked every word that has come out of your mouth.”

He stepped closer. “Then why me, Lori? Your duke would probably go along with everything you want. He would never argue with you. You know we will.”

“Well, you wouldn’t prevent my access to the money.”

“No, but I would do my damnedest to persuade you not to donate your entire inheritance to Designer Duds for Dogs charity.”

“I have to agree that there are more worthy causes.”

“Why me?”

Lori’s heart squeezed tight in her chest. Why him? Because she felt things for him. Things she’d never felt before. But she didn’t want to tell him that. “I told you. I trust you.”

He stood silently, towering over her for what felt like an eternity. “Okay. I’m in.”

Lori felt light-headed. The bones in her knees seemed to melt. Her pulse pounded in her head. Oh. My. God. He’d said yes.

His eyes widening in alarm, he swore as he reached out to her. “You’re white as a ghost. You look like you’re going to faint.”

She clung to him and took baby sips of air. “I’ll be okay,” she said in a voice that sounded wispy to her own ears.

“Did I scare you?”

She gulped over the lump in her throat. “No. I’m just surprised. Very surprised.”

“You sure you’re not having second thoughts?” he asked, studying her.

Try tenth or twelfth thoughts, she thought. “Oh, no,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “I asked you. Remember.”

“Yes, but - ”

Her mind going a million miles a minute, she moved her head in a circle. “Vegas,” she said. “Let’s go to Vegas.”

“Vegas,” he repeated, blinking.

She nodded. “Vegas. Tomorrow night.”

He swore again. “Tomorrow night? Why so soon?”

So she wouldn’t chicken out, she thought. “If you’re sure and I’m sure, there’s no need to wait. Is there?”

He met her gaze, and she saw the second he decided to accept her challenge. “No. There isn’t.”

Maria slammed the teapot down on the tray so hard Geoffrey was surprised it didn’t break. She looked at him with eyes so fiery he briefly wondered if she had some kind of superpower that would make his internal organs explode if he looked at her too long. Ridiculous, he thought, but he still looked away.

“How much sugar do you want?” she asked.

He glanced at her and, rising, shook his head. “Thank you. I can do it myself.”

“No,” she said, the spoon poised above a tiny sugar bowl.

Geoffrey assessed the situation, thankful there were no knives within Maria’s reach. “Two, thank you.”

She stabbed the spoon into the sugar and dumped two heaping spoonfuls into the cup. “Cream?”

“Please,” he said.

She dumped a generous amount of cream into the cup and banged the spoon in a circular motion. “Here,” she said, shoving the cup and saucer into his hands.

Geoffrey nearly spilled the liquid all over himself, but he managed to confine the splatter to the saucer. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

She crossed her arms over her generous breasts and stared at him. “Well?” she said expectantly.

He paused a half beat. “Well, what?”

“The tea,” she said, nodding toward the cup. “Did I make it right?”

He glanced down at the steaming cup. “I’m sure you did.”

“Taste it.”

It was still too hot, but heaven help him if he tried to tell her that. Gingerly lifting the cup to his lips, he took a small sip of the too-sweet, too-weak tea. “Perfect,” he lied with a smile. “Perfect.”

Her glare softened a smidgen, and she pushed a strand of her bangs behind her ear. “Good.” She glanced away, dropped one of her hands to her hip, then lifted her arms again to cross her chest. “I don’t suppose Lori has made tea for you.”

He blinked at the odd question and chuckled. “Not at all. I’m not sure she knows how.”

Maria lifted her chin, and her lips lifted the slightest bit into an almost smile. “She can’t cook, either.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she couldn’t,” he agreed. “After all, she has staff for that.”

Her face fell again. “I’m not wealthy,” she said. “So I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in me.”

When she turned to walk away, he felt an overwhelming sense of panic. “You would be wrong,” he said, the words bubbling up from somewhere inside him. Somewhere that wouldn’t be denied.

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and he watched her shoulders rise and fall as she took a breath and released it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he began, then broke off, utterly conflicted. “Please come back. Just for a few moments.” Setting down his cup of tea, he returned to the piano and began to play the melody that had burned its way into his brain and heart over the last couple of days. He hadn’t needed to write down the notes, because he couldn’t escape the song. It followed him everywhere all the time, even when he slept. The music brimmed with passion and hints of sadness, strength, and vulnerability.

He stopped when the notes and chords in his mind stopped, although he knew it wasn’t the end of the piece.

Silence clung to the air like humidity just before a summer rain. The only sound he could hear was his heart beating inside his head.

“Finish it,” Maria finally whispered, walking toward him. “It’s beautiful. Finish it. I want to hear the rest.”

“That’s all I know,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I know it’s not finished, but that’s all I know.”

“It’s so beautiful. Why didn’t you play it tonight for Virginia? And Lori.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, more in pain than any other emotion he could read.

“It’s not finished,” he said, then added, “And it’s a personal piece.”

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Then why did you play it for me?”

His heart hammered in his chest. This was so right. Yet so wrong. But he couldn’t seem to stop any of it. “The name of the piece is ‘Maria.’”

She stared at him for a long moment, her gaze fixed on his, a dozen emotions flying through her dark eyes. Then she bit her lip and her eyes grew shiny. “You wrote it for me?”

“I wrote it because of you,” he said. Because her being had taunted and tormented him from their first meeting. “I wrote it about you.” He took a deep breath. “That was you in music. The reason it’s not finished is because that’s all I know.”

She sat beside him on the piano bench. “No one has ever written a song about me.” She lifted her hand to his face. “Why did you do it?” She shook her head. “Why didn’t you write one for Lori?”

“Lori is a lovely person,” he said, watching her gaze darken as he said the words. She started to pull her hand away from his face, but he caught it in his. “It’s true. She is lovely. But she is not the woman who has captivated me like no other woman has. I never dreamed a woman could affect me this much. Never.”

She lifted her chin, challenge and fire mixing in her gaze. “You are an odd man.”