Page 9 of The Music of Love

Portia waited until he’d turned before closing her eyes, weak with relief. She could stay—at least for now—and wouldn’t have to beg and scrape her way back to London and live off her friends’ charity.

“One more thing Signora.”

Portia looked up and saw her new employer was standing in the open doorway.

“Yes, Mr. Harrington?”

“As far as I’m concerned the subject of your deception is closed. I will not bring it up again.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“However, I want you to understand I do not tolerate lying from the people I employ.”

His cool rebuke crushed the gratitude Portia had been feeling and her hackles rose. But she triumphed over her nature and caught the angry retort before it left her mouth.

“I understand, Mr. Harrington.”

He nodded and the door clicked shut behind him.

Portia stared into the dimness, the exhilaration of only a few moments ago now tainted by anger—and fear. His words echoed in her head and she ruthlessly pushed them to the back of her mind. She’d told him everything he needed to know. The truth about her past was none of his concern and made no difference to her teaching. All Mr. Harrington needed to know about her life with Ivo was that he was gone.

Stacy sat down at his desk, extinguished the candles, and removed his glasses, letting his eyes rest in the velvety blackness of the library.

What the bloody hell had he just done? He’d gone in there determined to give her a proper raking and send her packing; instead, he’d been stupefied by her playing and then offered her a damned job.

He was still awed by her brief performance—a masterful demonstration of passion and precision he could never aspire to.

Don’t forget her person, a sly voice in his head reminded him.

Stacy snorted. As if that were bloody likely.

He’d caught only a glimpse of her last night, but it had been enough to pique his interest. She’d looked wild on the balcony, her eyes huge, her full lips forming a surprised O when he’d caught her spying. Untamed spirals of dark hair haloed her pale face, her thin garment rendered all but transparent by the candlelight behind her.

Blood rushed to his groin at the memory of her voluptuous silhouette.

Christ. Stacy shifted in his chair.

Last night’s woman had been alluring, but so had this morning’s, although for entirely different reasons.

Gone were the wild eyes and in their place was a haughty stare. She’d restrained her magnificent hair so brutally Stacy wondered if he’d only imagined her unruly curls. Her serviceable brown dress was high-necked and long sleeved, but it could not hide the enticing body he’d so briefly seen last night.

Her nose, undoubtedly a gift from some Italian ancestor, was her most prominent feature and ensured she’d never be considered a conventional beauty. That said, her dusky hair, creamy skin, and voluptuous body made for a delicious—and dangerous—combination.

But her attractive person wasn’t all that captured his interest.

She’d entered the library prepared for battle, armed only with her pride and talent—but, oh, what formidable weapons those turned out to be!

A fire burned inside her and Stacy had seen the flames—hell, he’d been scorched by them—when she spoke of her ability. She’d faced him with an arrogant confidence that had been damn near erotic, and, as it turned out, not at all unwarranted.

And then he’d become aroused when she’d played.

He should be ashamed by his body’s earthy reaction, but he wasn’t. A man would have to be dead from the neck down not to become hard. She’d swung from tightly laced to tempestuous and flushed—like a woman in the throes of passion—in the blink of an eye. The experience had not only been arousing, it had been soul-shattering: Stacy could practice for a hundred years and never play half as well.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

There was no doubt in his mind Signora Stefani had much to teach him—but would he be able to learn anything in her distracting presence?

You are not some rutting buck sensing a mate. Surely you can control your urges?