The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

was old, but had a clear voice. Would it be this, she wondered? Would it be the music that had always been part of her life that finally opened the doors for her, that took her into those places she dreamed of and rolled out the red carpet she was dying to walk on?
    “Wouldn’t that be odd,” she murmured. “Something you never think twice about because it’s always been there.”
    Idly, she rosined the bow, tucked the violin under her chin, and played what came first to mind.

He’d expected her to come down. Trevor left the site, slipped into the kitchen with the excuse of making a phone call. But she wasn’t there.
    He heard the music, the aching, romantic notes of a violin. The kind of music, he thought, that belonged to moonlight.
    He followed it.
    Her door was at the head of the stairs, and the music seemed to swell against it, rising up like hope, sliding down like tears.
    He didn’t even think to knock.
    He saw her, half turned away, eyes closed. Lost. Her hair was loose, still tumbled from sleep to rain down the back of a long blue robe. One narrow bare foot tapped the time.
    The look of her clogged his lungs. The music she made had his throat burning. She played for herself, and the quiet pleasure of it glowed on that remarkable face.
    Everything he wanted, had planned for, dreamed of, seemed to melt together in that one woman, that one moment. And left him shaken to the bone.
    The music soared, note echoing against note, then slid away to silence.
    Still drifting, she sighed, opened her eyes. And saw him. Her heart stuttered, an almost painful sensation. Before she could recover, before she could slip on the mask of a knowing smile, he crossed to her.
    She felt her breath catch, as if someone had squeezed a hand over her throat. Or her heart. Then his mouth was on hers, hot, fierce. Glorious.
    Her arms fell weakly to her sides, as if the fiddle and bow had taken on great weight. His hands were on her face, in her hair, and need pumped like heat from his body into hers. She took, had no choice but to take, that hard slap of desire.
    She gave, finally; he felt her give. That slow, somehow liquid surrender of the female that made every man feel like a king. Because she did, because it brought the ache inside him toward something like a tremble, he gentled—lips, hands—cruising now, caressing. Savoring.
    When he drew away, she fought off a shudder, forced a smile to her lips. “Well, now, good morning to you.”
    “Just shut up a minute.” He pulled her back, but this time simply rested his cheek on top of her head.
    She wanted to step back. This embrace was more intimate than the kiss, and just as stirring. Just, she realized as she relaxed against him, as irresistible.
    “Trevor.”
    “Ssh.”
    For some reason, that made her laugh. “Aren’t you the bossy one!”
    The tension he’d worried would blow off the top of his head faded away. “I don’t know why I bother. You don’t listen anyway.”
    “Why should I?”
    He held her another moment, steady enough now to appreciate that her robe was very thin. “Do you ever lock that door?”
    “Why should I?” Now she did step back. “No one comes in and stays in unless I want them to.”
    “I’ll remember that.” He lifted a hand, brushed at her hair. “I didn’t know you could play.”
    “Oh, music is the Gallagher way.” She gestured with the violin, then set it back on its stand. “I was in the mood for some, that’s all.”
    “What was it you were playing?”
    “One of Shawn’s tunes. There aren’t any words to it.”
    “It doesn’t need any.” He saw it, the way her eyes warmed with pride. “Play something else.”
    She only moved her shoulders, laid the bow aside.“I’m not in the mood now.” She picked up her tea, and now her eyes were sharp with both humor and calculation. “And I’m thinking I might start saving my songs for those who pay.”
    “Would you sign a recording contract? Solo?”
    She nearly jolted, but recovered neatly. “Why, that would depend on the terms.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Oh, I want this and that. And all of the other things.” She walked to the sofa, sat, crossed her legs. “I’m a selfish and greedy creature, Magee. I want lavish luxury and pampering and slavish admiration. I don’t quibble about working for them, but I want them at the end of the day.”
    Considering her, he sat on the arm of the couch beside her and, testing, trailed a fingertip over her collarbone,