Edge Of Darkness

40

By the time dinner was over, her nerves were frayed. She and Christian had exchanged a total of perhaps two dozen words.

“Well,” said Christian as he settled back into the plush confines of his silk-covered chair. Toying with his dessert spoon, he sent her a penetrating look from beneath his lashes. “That was one of the more memorable dining experiences I’ve ever had. In spite of the fact that I didn’t taste a bite of it.”

Her lips twisted. She exhaled a slow, ragged breath and tried on a tentative smile. “You live well,” she said quietly, looking down at the untouched dessert on her plate, a sugar-dusted hazelnut merengue the waiter had called “dacquoise.” It appeared diabetes-inducing.

“Thank you,” he murmured. Ember glanced over at him and he was looking back at her with unblinking intensity. Horribly, because of course it would happen, she blushed.

“Okay. How about if we skip dessert and go for a walk instead?” Christian suggested. Ember looked at him and he sent her a wry smile. “I could use some fresh air. You?” “Yes,” she agreed, profoundly grateful. Walking beside him—not having to look right at him—would be much easier than sitting across a table from him trying to ignore all the unresolved s****l tension in the air, or getting back in the car and…what? Christian called the waiter over and paid the check. She’d never been so relieved to skip a dessert in her entire life.

Or so conflicted about it.

Once out on the sidewalk, Christian informed Corbin they’d be walking and they set off at a meandering pace down the boulevard. Corbin followed slowly behind in the Audi. She tightened the cashmere wrap around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the night air. Christian, seeing it, asked, “Are you cold? Would you like my coat?”

“No, but thanks for offering.” She wrapped her arms across her chest because she was exquisitely aware he might take her hand again if she didn’t, and she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted him to or not. “Is he your bodyguard or something?” Ember asked curiously as she glanced over her shoulder and saw Corbin’s worried face through the windshield. He had a death grip on the steering wheel and was staring at the two of them as if he thought something terrible was about to happen.

The question made Christian chuckle. “That would be a no.” After a brief pause, he said, “Why, do you think I seem like I can’t take care of myself?”

She laughed out loud. “That would also be a no. But he does seem very…protective of you.”

Christian’s silence seemed fraught. After several moments, he said, “Corbin’s a good man. He’s known me a long time, since I was a boy, actually. He worked for my father—”

He cut off abruptly and Ember turned to him, remembering with a pang the story Christian had told her about how his parents had died. “Oh no. He wasn’t your parents’ driver, was he?”

Christian shook his head. “My father’s valet. Then my brother’s, then, after my brother married, mine.”

“All in the family, huh?”

Christian glanced at her, his expression giving nothing away. “Precisely. When I moved here, he insisted on coming. I have a feeling even if I’d said no and left without him, he’d have shown up at my door within a week.” His voice grew dark. “That kind of loyalty means everything to me. Especially now.”

They were in Gràcia, a colorful, artsy part of the city known for its nightlife, exotic restaurants and trendy bars. In spite of the chill in the air and the thunderclouds looming ominously overhead, the streets were crowded with pedestrians. Artists with easels were clustered under awnings on one side of the palm-lined boulevard, hawking oil and charcoal portraits to tourists. They were flanked by kiosks selling food, fruit, and T-shirts, interrupted constantly by tiny cafés with patios and upscale clothing boutiques and coffee shops. On their side of the street, there were people painted as statuary who would move in infinitesimal increments if they received money in the can at their feet, and street musicians who would play whatever you asked for the same.

With the Carnaval atmosphere infecting everyone, the streets held a buzz of excitement that warmed the cold air. It was a cacophony of noise and color and motion, and Ember was glad for the distraction from the man walking silently at her side.

She was just about to ask Christian what he meant by “especially now,” when she saw the woman with the cello.

Seated on a chair in front of a jewelry boutique, the woman had her eyes closed, her fingers poised on the strings. Before Ember could turn away or scream the “No!” that automatically rose in her throat with the hot, gagging acidity of bile, the woman lowered the bow to the strings and began to play.

As the first swell of notes rose into the night air and Ember recognized the piece she used to play so perfectly—Kodaly’s Sonata for Solo Cello, the piece that had won her scholarship to Juilliard—she felt a crushing sense of claustrophobia, along with an anguish so fierce and burning, so encompassing and incandescent, it was as if she was standing on the surface of the sun.

A cellist had to have the right combination of passion and steel to meet the extreme demands of Kodaly’s masterpiece. In live performance, when done well, the ear is fooled into thinking multiple players and instruments are at work.