Born of Fire

Hours later, Shahara came awake to the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. Floating through the heavens, she could hear a soft melody that whispered around her, cajoling her, soothing her.

Then she realized it wasn’t a dream. Opening her eyes, she tilted her head to catch all the strains of the haunting melody. Played with such passion and skill, it brought a lump to her throat.

Curious, she rose from the bed and went to investigate. The outer room was dark except for two electric candles that flickered next to the piano. Syn sat on the bench, his hands flying over the keys as he played with his eyes closed. The shadows played against his dark skin, making him look even more dangerous than normal.

He’d taken off his tight black shirt and wore a loose-fitting cream one very similar to the one she’d chosen to sleep in. With the candlelight around him, he cut a dazzling picture.

She stared in amazement. Wherever had he learned how to play like that?

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and jumped. The music instantly stopped. “Ah, jeez,” he gasped. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.”

He closed the cover over the keys. “I’m sorry. I thought I had the volume turned down to where it wouldn’t disturb you.”

“It didn’t disturb me,” she assured him. “I just wanted to hear more. It was incredible.”

He offered her a shy smile. “Not really, but thanks.”

Without thinking, Shahara moved to sit next to him. “I always wanted to play one of these. My uncle had one in his house, and whenever we’d go to visit when we were kids, I’d fiddle with it.” Back then she’d have given anything to be able to play like he did.

“Why didn’t you take lessons?”

She looked at him drily.

“Sorry, stupid question.”

“How did you learn to play?”

Shrugging, he reached for a glass of wine and took a sip. “Too much time on my hands. I taught myself.”

She shook her head. “It seems like a strange thing for . . .”

“A street rat, filch, trash—”

She cut him off with a growl. “No. I was going to say a man like you to want to do. What made you want to play?”

He paused as if thinking about something in his past before he answered. “There was a woman who lived across the street from us when I was a kid. She gave lessons each afternoon and I’d sit out on the stoop and just listen to them play. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. Like a piece of heaven. My father hated music, so to me it made it all the sweeter. After I’d started working for Kip, I was walking past a store one day and saw the one I have at my apartment in the window.” He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as if he were savoring the memory. “It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. So I bought it without a second thought and then sat there until I’d learned to play it.”

“So Mara didn’t get everything then?”

Pain flickered deep in his eyes and she hated that she’d inadvertently caused it. “No, I walked out on it and left it with her. But Kip . . . he bought it off her and returned it to me. He said he knew how much it meant to me and he wasn’t about to let the whore sell it to someone else.” The ragged emotion in his voice brought an ache to her throat.

“You love him?”

“Like a brother. He’s the only person I can fully trust at my back.”

And that was why he was willing to die rather than take Kiara home to her father and clear his name. It made sense to her now. He wouldn’t hurt his friend for anything.

Better he should die . . .

The candlelight flickered against the burgundy liquid of his wine and flashed in his entrancing eyes. He cleared his throat and Shahara became aware of where she sat.

What had made her stray so close to him?

Still, it didn’t seem wrong or frightening to her. Somehow it felt only natural to be beside him.

“Do you mind?” she asked, touching the cover.

“No, go ahead.”

She flipped it back and stared at the black keys.

“Here,” he said, turning the volume up. “Pound to your heart’s content.”

Syn watched as she played with the keys and set a disjointed melody. Maybe it was the wine—and he’d drunk a lot of it—or the scent of lilac that drifted from her hair, or maybe his earlier thoughts, but something sent wave after wave of heat to his groin. And every minute she sat next to him wearing nothing but one of his shirts, the more uncomfortable it became to just sit and not touch.

He shifted slightly, his pants suddenly way too tight.

She frowned as she struck an ugly chord.

He took another drink of wine and set the glass to the side. “Here,” he said, marking the spot on the keyboard. “This is C.” He showed her how to arch her fingers and alternate them down a simple scale.

She duplicated his movements and finally produced something that was harmonious. “I did it!”