Unfinished Business

talented fingers were stroking along his skin. That soft, sulky mouth was toying with his. When he reached for her, she sighed, arching under his hand.
    Everywhere he touched she was warm and smooth. Her arms were around him, strong silken ropes that trapped him gloriously against her. When she said his name, once, then twice, the words slipped under the gauzy curtain of his fantasy. He opened his eyes and saw her.
    This was no dream. She was smiling at him. Those misty green eyes were heavy with sleep and passion. Her body was slim and soft and curved against his.
    “Good morning,” she murmured. “I wasn’t sure if you—”
    He closed his mouth over hers. Dream and reality melded seductively as he slipped inside her.
     
    The sunlight was stronger when she lay over him, her head on his heart, her body still pulsing.
    “You were saying?”

    “Hmm.” The effort to open her eyes seemed wasted, so she kept them closed. “Was I?”
    “You weren’t sure if I what?”
    She sifted through her thoughts. “Oh. I wasn’t sure if you had any morning appointments.”
    He continued to comb his fingers through her hair. “It’s Sunday,” he reminded her. “Office is closed. But I have to run into the hospital and check on Mr. Benson and a couple of other patients. How about you?”
    “Nothing much. Some lesson plans, now that I have ten students.”
    “Ten?” There was more snicker than surprise in his voice.
    She shifted then, folding her arms over his chest and resting her chin on them. “I was ambushed at the picnic yesterday.”
    “Ten students.” He grinned at her. “That’s quite a commitment. Does that mean you’re planning to settle in town again?”
    “At least for the summer. I haven’t decided whether I’ll agree to a fall tour.”
    So he had the summer to convince her, he thought. “How about dinner?”
    She narrowed her eyes. “We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
    “I mean tonight. We could have our own picnic with the leftovers. Just you and me.”
    Just you and me. “I’d like that.”
    “Good. Now why don’t we start the day off right?”
    After a chuckle, she pressed her lips to his chest. “I thought we already had.”
    “I meant you could wash my back.” Grinning, he sat up and dragged her out of bed.
     
    Vanessa discovered she didn’t mind being alone in the house. After Brady dropped her off, she changed into jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt. She wanted to spend the day at the piano, planning the lessons, practicing and, if her current mood held, composing.
    There had never been enough time for composing on tour, she thought as she tied her hair back. But now she had the summer. Even if ten hours a week would be taken up by lessons, and nearly that many again by planning them, she had plenty of time to indulge in her first love.
    Her first love, she repeated with a smile. No, that wasn’t composing. That was Brady. He had been her first love. Her first lover. And it was more than probable he would be her last.
    He loved her. Or believed he did. He would never have used the words unless he believed it. Nor could she, Vanessa reflected. She had to be sure of what was best for herself, for him, for everyone, before she risked her heart with those three words.
    Once she said them, he wouldn’t let go again. However much he had mellowed over the years, however responsible he had become, there was still enough of that wild and willful boy in him to have him tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her off. While that fantasy might have its appeal, a daydream appeal, she was too sensible a woman to tolerate it in reality.
    The past was done, she thought. Mistakes had been made. She wouldn’t risk the future.
    She didn’t want to think about tomorrow. Not yet. She wanted only to think of, and enjoy, today.
    As she started toward the music room, the phone rang. She debated just letting it ring—a habit she’d developed in hotel rooms when she hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. On the fifth ring, she gave in and answered.
    “Hello.”
    “Vanessa? Is that you?”

    “Yes. Frank?” She recognized the voice of her father’s nervous and devoted assistant.
    “Yes. It’s me—I,” he corrected.
    Vanessa could all but see him running a soothing hand over the wide bald spot on top of his head. “How are you, Frank?”
    “Fine. Fine. Oh—how are you?”
    “I’m fine, too.” She had to smile. Though she knew her father had tolerated Frank Margoni only because