She covered his hands with hers, stilling him, the sound fading. “Or you could stop with the games all together and simply talk to me about what’s upsetting you. How was your visit with your father?”
“His condition remains unchanged.”
Upsetting to be sure, but somehow she hadn’t reached the core of what was bothering him, of why he chose to play…. “You’re thinking of your mother, maybe?”
As tempted as she was to say to hell with it all and lose herself in his arms, she needed something more first. She needed answers to understanding the man she was considering linking her life with.
The thought stopped her short. She was actually considering his marriage proposal, waiting for a sign that she could trust the feelings building inside her. She waited, letting him find his way as she’d learned long ago there was no pushing this stubborn man into saying or doing anything until he was good and ready.
His hand gravitated back to the keys, rippling a five-finger scale back and forth. “Mother was an artist in a thousand ways and in no way formal. She played the piano by ear. She was an amazing cook but said she learned from watching her mother. And needlework…in spite of having unlimited funds, she knitted blankets.”
The low rumble of his voice carried shades of grief, loss and nostalgia in the treasured memories of a lost loved one.
Her heart squeezed with sympathy. “She sounds like a very talented and busy woman.”
“Busy?” His eyebrows pinched together. “I never thought of it that way since she was always laid-back, never seemed rushed. But what you say fits with what I remember.”
She linked her fingers with his. “How old were you when she died?”
“Thirteen.” His squeezed her hand, tightly, the line of his jaw taut. “I prefer to celebrate the way she lived, not dwell on how she died.”
Cradling his face, she stroked until the tensed tendons under her fingers eased. “I’m sure she would prefer you treasure those happier memories.”
The silence between them stretched with only the sound of their breathing to fill the vastness of the room and the depth of his loss.
His throat moved in a long swallow before he continued, “I play to remember her because there aren’t any home videos or even that many photos of our life as a family. Our father kept us out of the public eye even then as much as he could. He destroyed most of our personal items before we left.”
And his life had continued in that stripped-down fashion from his bare-bones office to his stark home…even his place here, understated in comparison to the rest of the opulent mansion. The escape from San Rinaldo had marked this family in so many ways, but Carlos bore physical scars as well.
“Your brothers mentioned gunshot wounds this afternoon. So there wasn’t a riding accident.”
He shook his head, his answer slower this time. “I was wondering what you would think when that was mentioned earlier.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“You could just access my medical records,” he joked lightly.
“Leaving aside the ethics for a moment,” she answered seriously, “I wouldn’t break your trust that way.”
“Ah, Lilah…” He tucked a knuckle under her chin, calluses warm and masculine against her tender skin. “That’s why I like you. And believe me, I don’t say that lightheartedly.”
“Then thank you.” She leaned into his hand, deepening the touch, the connection. “I like you, too, most of the time, anyway. Help me understand you so I can like you even more of the time.”
He looked away, staring into the open top of the grand piano at the lines of strings. “I was shot in the back by rebels during our escape from San Rinaldo.”
She’d guessed as much from what his brother said earlier, but hearing Carlos confirm it brought the reality of that attack so horribly alive in her mind. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine how terrifying and painful that must have been for you.”
Still he stared into the piano, his fingers stroking over the ivories without pressing. “Not any more frightening than the kids I treat who’ve been gunned down in their own neighborhood for no reason other than where they live or what color shirt they wore that day.”
He had a point, not that it lessened the horror of what he’d endured. “I guess not.”
“I tried to save my mother and I failed. If I’d stepped more to the left… I’ve replayed that day in my mind so many times and there seem to be a million options I could have taken.”
Heartbroken for the young boy he’d been, for the man now, she touched his arm lightly, squeezing the tensed muscle gently. “You were only thirteen.”
“At the time I thought I was a man.” He glanced at her, his bicep flexing under her touch.
“You must have grown up far too fast that day.” Her heart hurt at the image stamped in her mind.
“Stop. I don’t want your pity, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
She flattened her hands to the hard wall of his chest, his heart hammering through his shirt. “How can I know this about you and not be moved? How can I just let it go on command?”
Her defenses were impossible to find, much less resurrect around him. She had to face the fact that it was impossible to stay logical and impartial around Carlos. He pulled her closer until the heat blasting from his body seared through her nightgown, through her skin, deep inside and pooling low.
His head lowered until his breath fanned over her face. “I’ll just have to distract you, then.”
Smoothly, his mouth covered hers with the familiarity of lovers who knew each other well, who knew just how to touch, stroke, taste and nip to drive the other to the edge. Even just when to hold back and draw that pleasure tighter.
How could a man know her body so well, yet still be such a mystery? She reassured herself that she’d learned more tonight. They were making headway. He’d opened up more tonight than ever before.
And those marriage proposals?
She still didn’t know what prompted him to make those offers for a lifetime commitment, but right now, she wanted to focus on the feelings, the connection. Her heart ached for him and all he’d been through. While she refused to let that blind her, she also couldn’t look away.
He skimmed aside the shoulder on her robe and gown, exposing her collarbone to his kisses, his hand curving around her breast.
She wasn’t as adept as him at shuttling aside tumultuous emotions. So many roiled inside her, she needed an outlet. And regardless of what tomorrow held, she couldn’t leave him here alone with his painful memories. “I think it’s time to lock that door.”