Darcy licked her lips. “Come and get it yourself.”
Griffin came off the end of the bed and strode toward her, all six feet, two inches of virile male. “You may be petite, but you’re definitely a handful, Darcy.”
Darcy angled her gaze downward. “So are you, big boy.”
He was brilliant, a masterful performer, and now apparently a gifted composer as well. That he was so handsome and charming, to say nothing of an extremely talented lover, was merely an added bonus. He was the type for whom most women would happily sacrifice their own identity. But for her, the mere thought was appalling.
She ducked by him as he entered the bathroom and waited for him out in the hallway. She struggled to find a better perspective where he was concerned, but as wonderfully attractive as he was, she still doubted they would be a couple for long.
Griffin quickly appeared with a clean black towel slung low around his hips and took her hand. “I figured out how to use the monster oven, but it seems a shame to fire it up for just the two of us.”
“Look at it this way—it’s also awfully late to invite the neighbors over, especially if you have just the one pizza.”
“An excellent point,” Griffin conceded. When they reached the kitchen, he took the pizza from the freezer, checked the directions on the box and set the oven to preheat. Then he leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest.
“Did you mean what you said earlier about the whole point of sex being to lose control?”
Darcy laughed at his question. “It’s wonderful to meet a man who not only listens to what I have to say, but remembers it.”
“Thank you, but I’m not so easily distracted. Is sex just getting off to you?”
Darcy feared no matter what she said, it would be too much, and she looked down at her brightly polished toenails. “No, I was merely attempting to make a point.”
“Fine. What does it really mean to you, then?”
The man had a remarkable persistence, which she would have admired at another time. “Has it occurred to you that we’ve had some deeply personal conversations in odd locations?”
“You’re not usually so evasive,” Griffin observed with a slight frown. “Just answer me.”
What Darcy really wanted to do was yank off his towel and flick his beautiful butt with it. She restrained the impulse for the moment. “With the truth?” she asked.
“Of course. We have a pact, remember?”
“Yes.” Darcy shifted uncomfortably. “Well, the truth is, I flat out love men.”
“Yeah, it shows.”
He was smiling now, which she considered a vast improvement. “Good, but when it comes to sex, I’m also extremely particular about my partner. I’ve slept with you for the sheer joy of being with you and for no other reason.”
Griffin studied her wistful expression and promptly judged it sincere. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever been paid.”
“It scarcely compares to your latest review,” Darcy protested. “Would you play what must be a masterpiece for me sometime?”
“Sure, I take requests.” He slipped the pizza into the oven, reset the temperature and took her hand. “We’ve just enough time while the pizza bakes. Would you like to hear it now?”
“I’d love to.” When they reached his piano, Darcy looked around for a chair, found none and sat on the navy-and-gold carpet.
She didn’t really care what he played when watching him was so enjoyable, but after the first few notes, she was as captivated by the music as she was by the composer. Light and playful at the beginning, the composition gradually gained depth until it resonated with Griffin’s own passionate fire, only to slow in the last passages until the haunting melody gracefully faded away to silence.
The piece was so incredibly beautiful it brought tears to her eyes and, fearful he would mistake her reaction, she hastily brushed them away. She kept a firm grip on her towel and, in an effort to regain her composure, took a deep breath as she rose to her feet.
“I’d like to applaud as wildly as your Seattle audience, but frankly, I doubt I have the strength. That was simply the most stunningly beautiful music I’ve ever heard. There appears to be no end to your talent.”
“Well, let’s hope not,” Griffin responded. “I’m glad you liked it. I’m thinking of writing words and asking Andrea Bocelli to sing them on my next CD.”
“Is it a love song?” Darcy asked, suddenly able to recognize a whole love story in the complex composition.
“Yes, but it could also be life with its bright beginning, dramatic middle years and anguished end.”