He didn’t answer. Darkness descended and the theater quieted. The first strains of the music floated upward and filled every empty space. Miranda sat back and let go.
The first half of the opera was a joyous clamor of instruments and singing and clumsy laughter. But a bigger story seethed in the background, the triangle of the young Nedda, the arrogant, enraged Canio, and her secret lover Silvio.
By the time Canio discovered his wife’s betrayal, Nedda refused to give up her lover’s name, even from his threats. The emotional intensity between Nedda and Canio built with each level of music, and Miranda leaned forward in her seat, waiting for the unstoppable conclusion. Canio’s final arietta rung true and clear through the theater, his voice rich with husky overtones, booming in madness and fury. He stabbed Nedda, who fell onto the ground, and who finally called out her lover’s real name with her dying breath. As Silvio rushed through the crowd, the knife lifted again, and Silvio fell to the floor next to his lover. In the stunning silence of realization, Tonio, the friend who had set the whole chain of events into play, rips out the final line:
“La Commedia e’ finita!”
The play is over!
The curtain crashed down.
Emotions rioted and pounded for release, but she tamped down hard. She would not cry, not with Gavin. Her promise to always try and remain in control stayed true. Using her breath, she steadied herself, the roaring notes of the music echoing in her head. The lights slowly came up, and she forced a smile.
“Magnificent. Everything I hoped it would be.”
He reached out and dragged a finger down her cheek. “But no tears.”
Her lips tightened. “No. Not anymore.” Maybe with Andy, in the dark, at the opera. But not in Gavin’s presence. Never again.
Gavin nodded, a gleam of grief piercing bright blue eyes. She didn’t have time to ponder the startling emotion. He stood and donned his coat. Tucked her arm within his. And led her out of the theater.
He remained quiet as he guided her to the parking lot and retrieved the car. The Mercedes pulled smoothly into traffic while they made their way back to her apartment. Miranda glanced over and studied Gavin from under heavy-lidded eyes. Muscular thighs shifted in the seat as he pressed on the gas and dodged between the bulleting vehicles. He drove with the same unconscious arrogance he brought to every action, guiding the black luxury car through a variety of traffic disasters with an easy grace.
Blunt fingertips wrapped around the steering wheel. Miranda remembered those hands on her skin, remembered how he’d use all that intense concentration to make a woman experience earth-shattering pleasure. Remembered the way his lips glided over hers, thrusting his tongue in and out of her mouth while he plunged deep inside and held her on the edge without mercy. Remembered her spread out on the bar as he brought her to orgasm, wringing cries from her lips.
Oh, God.
How long had it been since she’d taken a man to her bed? Too long. She wanted him, craved the masculine demand of him and her surrender. She almost laughed out loud at her ridiculous assumption she’d be safe with conversation. With a slow building, non-physical relationship. Was she kidding? Why hadn’t she counted on the vivid images flickering past her vision? The weakness of her body? The pull of their connection?
“Are you okay?”
She shook herself out of her trance. “Yeah. Why?”
A lopsided grin curved his lips. “We’ve been sitting in your parking lot for the past five minutes. You look deep in thought.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “Uh, I was just thinking about this article I’m working on.”
The grin widened. “Sure. Must be quite an interesting article to make you blush.”
“Stop teasing me.”
His voice dropped to a sexy growl. “I don’t intend on teasing you, baby.”
She grew hot and achy and ready. The invitation popped out of her mouth. “Do you want to come up for a nightcap?”
Surprise flickered across his face. “You want me to come in?”
“Well, we could drink the brandy in the car, but my apartment is more comfortable.”
He laughed. “Then I accept your gracious invitation. It’s been a long day.”
They walked up the stairs. He plucked the key from her fingers, unlocked the door, and ushered her inside. The lights bathed the room in an intimate glow as Miranda retrieved two glasses from the cabinet and watched him settle on the sofa.
“Your apartment is different from the last place you had,” he commented. His gaze swept the cool, elegant furnishings of slate gray and silver. Glass tabletops were carefully scattered around the room amidst a few green plants, bookcases, and a computer desk. Black and white photographs hung on the wall and added to the atmosphere of clean lines and simplicity.
Miranda handed him a snifter. “Hope so. I had a studio, a roommate, and no money. You saw it before.”
Curiosity gleamed in his eyes, as if trying to decipher something deeper. “I didn’t notice the details. I was always in a mad rush to try not to get kicked out.”
“What’s different?”
“You always loved clutter. Books, magazines, throw pillows. Those crazy animal figures you collected. Now everything’s in its proper order.”
She shrugged. “I decided messiness was an indication of non-discipline. Now when I come through the door, there are no surprises. I like knowing where everything is at all times.”
He tapped the edge of the glass thoughtfully. “In other words, you always want to be in control.”
He lifted her chin. “There’s nothing wrong with being in control.”
“All the time?”
“Of course. If a person plans her life carefully enough, and takes full responsibility, there’s no excuse for being out of control.”
He took a sip of brandy and seemed to ponder her statement. Miranda fidgeted with sudden defensiveness. Who was he to come in and judge her life?
“What about surrender?” he asked.
The room sizzled with unspoken tension. “What about it? If you’re in control, you don’t have to surrender.”
“You make the concept sound like a bad thing, Miranda.” His voice raked across her ears in a caress. “Take passion. Two people who voluntarily give up their control to achieve a greater pleasure.”
The air grew thick and humid, and she struggled to take a deep breath. Intimacy simmered under the surface all night, and tipped on the edge of raging out of control. Miranda knew the conversation had been guided into dangerous territory. She paused on the verge of retreat, not sure how deep she wanted to dive. But he placed the snifter down on the glass tabletop and shifted his weight. The gap between them closed another inch. She fought to keep from studying the intriguing line of golden hair that began at his upper chest and disappeared behind the knit shirt. Her fingers flexed.
He continued, his voice weaving its spell of shot-silk and gravel. “That’s another reason the opera calls to you. You allow yourself to let go to the magic of the music and passion and messiness.”
She forced herself to answer. “Ah, but great opera is based on rigid control. Notes must be ruthlessly adhered to or the entire production falls apart. It’s also a reminder surrender is dangerous. Pleasure can be great, but the pain afterward reminds us that life is better when a person is in control. As shown in Pagliacci this evening.”
One blunt fingertip traced the line of her jaw. His spicy scent teased her senses. “Not better,” he murmured. “Just safe.”
“There’s nothing wrong with safety.”
“There’s nothing wrong with surrender,” he said.
Blue eyes flared like a beginning tropical storm. Her lower lip trembled as he leaned in and closed the distance. The simple need burst into monstrous proportions, until her mind lost the battle. And why not? Why not surrender her body on her own terms? She still owned her fate. This time, she’d give only her body to Gavin Luciano, not her mind or heart or soul.