ed him.
“Darcy.” His faint accent caressed her name obligingly, but he turned away without asking to be called Griffin.
Insulted, Darcy couldn’t draw a deep breath until he’d returned to the house, and even then she wasn’t certain who had actually won that exchange. Deciding it’d probably been a draw, she took comfort in the familiar, made some quick measurements of the scruffy lawn, then sat on the terrace steps to create a sketch. Knowing what was required, she’d prepared some rough figures before leaving the nursery and was about to complete her written estimate when Griffin began to play the piano.
She’d once dated a man who could produce a passable version of “Memories” from CATS, and a few Beatles tunes. That’s all she’d expected from Griffin, but he was playing an intricate classical piece whose lofty strains soared to the living room’s twenty-foot ceiling and then rolled out over the terrace in thunderous waves. The only classical selections she could name were the “1812 Overture” and Ravel’s “Bolero”, and it was neither of those.
She quickly added the costs entailed in constructing the Zen garden, then got up and crossed the terrace to stand at the french doors Griffin had left ajar. She hesitated to enter the living room for fear of disturbing him even more than she already had, and so simply propped her shoulder against the jamb and waited for him to finish whatever it was he was playing and look up.
The piece was a lengthy one, however, and Griffin demonstrated far more than mere technical brilliance. He played with the very same passionate fire she’d glimpsed in his dark eyes. The music washed through her in a sensuous rush and, far from being annoyed at having to wait, she stood transfixed, caught up in the melody Griffin coaxed from the keys with a fury that would surely have reduced a lesser instrument to a heap of kindling.
Other than the sticks Darcy had tapped together in the rhythm band in kindergarten, she had no experience in creating music. She’d been to a couple of rock concerts, even seen the Grateful Dead once in San Francisco, but she’d never attended a symphony performance. Still, even a novice such as she would have recognized Griffin’s genius.
When he finally drew the piece to a crescendo of pulse-pounding chords, she couldn’t help but shout, “Bravo! That was fantastic.”
Griffin glanced up and for a terrible moment appeared not to recall who she was. Afraid she’d disturbed him after all, Darcy approached the piano with a cautious step. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you, but I thought you were finished. I’ve never heard anyone play so well.”
She remembered hearing the Russians were passionate and mentioned the only composer who came to mind, praying she didn’t sound as ignorant as she truly was. “Was that Tchaikovsky?”
Griffin left the piano bench with an easy stretch. “Franz Liszt. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
He came forward with a slow, smooth stride, and Darcy couldn’t seem to make her feet take a step backward even after he’d invaded her personal space by several inches. He came to a halt so close she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She thrust her clipboard into his solar plexus to jolt him into stepping back and create more distance between them.
“At the top of the form, I’ve made a drawing to show the placement of the cypress and boulders. My total is at the bottom. If you’d like to get other bids, please go right ahead. I’ll not be offended, and you’ll find my prices are competitive.”
Griffin took hold of her clipboard and, after a quick glance at the form, reached toward her. “Do you mind?” he asked.
Darcy was too shocked to object when he plucked the rose-topped pen from her bib pocket, but his fingertips grazed her breast to coil an electric charge around her ribcage. With an almost painful sweetness, lingering sparks drifted downward to leave her moist with desire. She shook her head, but it wasn’t simply to offer the pen.
Griffin’s slightest touch brought such a heart-stopping thrill that she couldn’t help but wonder if she would survive should he ever show her the same unbridled passion he’d just lavished on his piano.
Then, with a slight tremble, she wondered how she could bear to exist if he didn’t.