Pursued by the Rogue (The Fairy Tales of New York Book 1) (8 page)

“That’s quite a selection.”

“Well, I travel,” he murmured. “Okay, they’re my favorites. I had to learn to make them if I wanted to eat them on a regular basis,” he added, and made her laugh.

“I might be able to get out of seeing Chicago, but I’d still like to eat with my mom and aunt before hand. There’s no need to feed me.”

“Next time,” he said.

There were a lot of next time’s piling up when it came to Finn. “Send me your address. I’ll be there. And, hey. Congratulations on conquering Sibelius. I wish you the company of good friends this evening and many drinks. And then elevator music.”

‡

“S
o this Finbar
Sullivan,” Dawn’s mother began at dinner in a tapas restaurant the following evening. “How long have you been seeing him?”

She’d been seeing him in her dreams since she was seventeen. “Not long. A few weeks.” Okay, two weeks. “It’s a casual arrangement. He’s busy. I’m busy …”

“You should have invited him to dinner,” said her aunt. “We’re casual too.”

“Maybe another time.” Dawn rarely shared her life or her achievements with her mother or aunt. Maybe it was because they seemed so complete without her. A lot of it was because her mother had failed to share her own trials and tribulations with Dawn. Some of it was because by the time Dawn had found out about the Huntington’s, her father’s symptoms were well advanced and that interim time where Dawn could have been there for both of them was gone. Her mother had her sister for support now and again Dawn felt like the outsider in her own family never mind that her Aunt Meg was lovely.

They came to visit her every couple of months, and, when they did, Dawn made time for them and tried to make their stay a pleasant one.

But that was enough.

If she could occasionally do more, be more involved emotionally, well … everybody had their flaws.

“Are you sure you won’t come to the theater with us?” Her mother looked hopeful, those gray eyes so like her own showing a rare vulnerability. “Seems a shame to waste such a good ticket.”

“I haven’t seen Finn for a while. I figured tonight would be the best time to catch up. I’ll be back to pick you up after the show.”

“I’m sure we can find our own way back to your place,” said her aunt. “I don’t think anyone’s going to object if you decide to stay the night elsewhere? Are we?” she asked, turning to her sister.

“Of course not.” Her mother’s eyes warmed. “It’s good to see you making time for someone.”

“Like I said,” Dawn countered warily. “It’s just a casual thing.”

They parted ways after the meal, her aunt and mother to the theater and Dawn to Finn’s. He lived in Columbus Circle, which was a decent enough neighborhood and presumably not far from where important musical fixtures were. Nerves assaulted her as she stood at the doorway to Finn’s apartment building just west of the theater district. Decent neighborhood and handy to his favorite music venues, she guessed, but a part of her still wondered why he hadn’t stayed in Brooklyn where the rest of his family lived.

Finn seemed close to his family, for the most part.

Unlike her.

Dawn felt unaccountably nervous as she buzzed his apartment and a doorman let her in.

“You’re Dawn?” he asked with a cheerful smile, and when she nodded, he willed the elevator doors open and held them there while she entered. “Tenth floor, apartment 101.”

Finn met her at the elevator looking impossibly sexy in a faded black tee and camel-colored cargo trousers. Bare feet again, and she raised an eyebrow and caught his boyish grin. “You have a doorman,” she said.

“Lot of valuable instruments in this building. We have a doorman
and
a lot of security. Probably accounts for the lack of fancy living space. Priorities.”

“We all have them,” she said as she followed him to a well-constructed door with two types of lock on it. “My mother thanks you for the tickets, by the way. How much do I owe you?”

“I don’t even know,” he murmured. “I’ll have to find out. Or we could just forget about it.”

“Generous, but I’d like to repay you. I don’t like being indebted.” He opened the door and gestured her inside and she stepped into a tidy living area of medium size, with a kitchen off to one side. Good smells came from that kitchen and a bottle of red sat on the bench alongside a half full beer. “I know you’ve eaten, but I’m running late and I’m starving,” he said. “I’ve been living on takeout and couldn’t stomach any more of it.”

“What are you making?”

“Irish stew. All your talk of mothers got me thinking about mine. I wanted to tell her about the recording I’ve just finished. I wanted to celebrate an achievement. I told her all about it while I was peeling potatoes. I’m scaring you, aren’t I?”

“Only if she turns up.” She liked hearing about the love he still felt for a mother long dead. He could doubtless teach her something about grief and how to live with it.

She cast around for conversation that didn’t involve mothers, something to comment on. A music stand sat in the corner of the room next to a wall lined with battered four-drawer filing cabinets of all different types and colors.

He followed her gaze. “Picturesque, isn’t it.”

“What’s in them?”

“Sheet music.”

“Ah.” She looked around for more signs of the music that dominated his life but found nothing. “No posters of your concerts?”

“Are you serious? My family would never let me live it down if I turned this place into an ode to me.”

“There’s a poster of one of your concerts hanging on a wall at Sully’s.” She’d seen it.

“And it’s a good one,” he said. “Faith and Pop are allowed to brag. I’m not. Beer, wine or something else?” he offered as she set her bag on the ground and perched on a kitchen stool to watch him stir his home made stew. He had crusty bread to go with it.

“I could stand to have a little bowl of your stew in the interests of celebration,” she said. “And a beer to go with it.”

He got her one from the fridge and she studied the pictures on the door of that fridge as he opened it and set it in front of her. He got her a glass next and poured for her and her gaze was torn between those talented hands of his performing a task so menial and wanting to stare at the pictures of the little boy she’d seen with Finn at Sully’s. A child’s crayon drawing of a dragon had also been given pride of place, stuck to the door with bright fridge magnets from around the world. A stranger to Finn’s world might think he was a father, given the adornments on that fridge.

Again, she didn’t quite know what to ask. Again, Finn followed her gaze and offered more information.

“That’s Gil. Faith
did
tell you about Gil. Didn’t she?”

Dawn nodded and looked at a picture of a young Finn and another young man in an orchestra setting with violins in hand. Both of them cracking up, mucking up, if the picture was anything to go by. “Is that Gil’s father?”

“Yeah. Joey. Josef Hann. We studied together at Juilliard. Good violinist.”

“How did he die?”

“Bone cancer. First it was a sore wrist, then a dropped shoulder. Typical aches and strains that string players get. And then they made a diagnosis. He was dead six months later.”

“Sad.”

“He was a good friend. A good man. Gil’s a good kid.”

“How often do you see him?”

“Once every couple of weeks, if I can. Doesn’t always work out when I’m away on tour.”

“That’s quite a commitment.”

“It’s not a chore.” She could feel his eyes on her, intent in spite of his relaxed stance. “What about you, Dawn? Do you want kids?”

She hesitated, torn. As a child growing up she’d always thought that one day she would have kids of her own, more than just one, and a husband to go with it. That was back before miscarriage had filled her to overflowing with feelings of inadequacy and loss. And then there was her gene pool. “I’m fifty-fifty when it comes to wanting kids. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t,” she offered quietly. “Not exactly good odds. I told you before – my attitudes towards having a family of my own are complicated.”

“Because you were abandoned by yours?”

“There are other reasons.” She shrugged. “Best I can do is say that I’m undecided. There are other paths through life and I’m not against them.” She took a deep breath. “What about you? Is having a family on your agenda?”

“It is eventually. A wife to love, kids to bug, a home to come home to. I want all that.”

“It’s a pretty picture.” But there was a whole lot of fantasy wrapped up in it. “You going to have time for all that
and
a performance career?”

“I hope so.”

“It’s going to take a special kind of woman.”

“It is.” His smile grew crooked. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re not that girl?”

“I thought I already had,” she offered coolly. “Would you like to hear my stance on this relationship again?”

“No, I heard you the first time.” There was a gleam in his eyes that she didn’t quite trust. “You’re here for a small bowl of stew, friendly conversation and the sex. Mutual physical release.” His voice deepened as he stalked her and backed her against the bench, his arms coming either side of her to pin her there. “It’s not as if I’m against this notion.”

She’d look him in the eye in a minute. Right after she’d finished starting at his mouth.

“I only have about three hours to spare,” she murmured.

Not that she wanted to rush him or anything, but he hadn’t kissed her yet. An oversight he needed to rectify fast. “I can be done with the conversation any time you like.”

He smiled and brushed warm lips against hers. The kiss deepened, and he lifted her up and she wrapped her arms and legs around him and clung. She loved the easy strength in him. There was more than he let on. She loved the way he handled her body, the hungry possession as he ran one hand up her spine and the other curled around one buttock and thigh. And how his fingers managed to brush along her center along the way. “I love your hands.”

“You should. They worship you.”

“How fast can you eat your stew?”

“I’m thinking food can wait.”

He took her to his bedroom, a plain room with a king sized bed in it and she heartily approved. He reacquainted himself with every inch of her and she did the same to him. With lips and hands she worshipped and fed. One kiss sliding into the next, robbing her of breath and the will to more closely examine what was happening between them.

This
was happening. And she’d never had any defense against it.

With infinite patience and a whole lot of devilry, Finn didn’t stop teasing until he had her spread naked before him, wanton and willing to do anything for one more piece of him.

“I hate you,” she said as he built her towards a crescendo yet
again
and then held off on delivery.

“No you don’t.”

No she didn’t. He entered her in one smooth thrust and she clenched around him, so close to gone, and he buried his face in the curve of her neck and breathed in deep as he stilled and backed her away from the edge. “This no strings sex we keep having,” he murmured, and ran his lips along her ear, possibly to make absolutely sure she was listening. “The kind where you surrender your soul to me and I feed it straight back to you?” He started to move, slow and sure. “People can spend a lifetime looking for this.”

He didn’t let her talk. He ripped her to climax instead and rode her straight through it, grinding down hard and not letting her subside at all before shooting her higher.

Only when they lay spent some twenty minutes later, curled into each other on their sides, short of breath and slick with sweat and other happy liquids, did he speak again.

“We could build on this,” he offered as he smoothed her hair away from her face with tender fingers and Dawn felt her heart sink at the unspoken plea for more.

She couldn’t do it.

“Second date syndrome,” she countered quietly as blissful lassitude warred with her need to be on the defensive. “What I want from you hasn’t changed. Don’t go there, Finn. Please.”

“It’s too late.” He pinned her with that glorious green stare. “I’m already there.”

“You don’t know me.” Reaction was starting to set in. From the incendiary sex. From the threat he posed to her wellbeing. From the dice he didn’t even know he was rolling when it came to his own wellbeing. “You won’t like what you find.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me. You give me a chance.” Dominance was alive and well in him and part of her thrilled to it even as the rest of her trembled. She should have guessed. A man didn’t get to
be
at the top of his profession without bulldozing through barriers fashioned by others. “Tell me what you
think
I won’t like about you,” he continued. “Something beyond our different goals. Because goals can change with the right person in place and there is
nothing
that can’t be made to work.”

“You’re wrong.” Her laugh sounded more like a sob as she pushed at his chest until he gave her some space. She rolled onto her back, but all he did then was rise up onto his elbow and stare down at her, his hand splayed possessively over her waist. “I can’t do this,” she told him raggedly. “Please. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t you look.”