A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“Did you leave an Apple laptop in my room? I can’t keep it.” I kept my eyes on my bare flexing toes as I spoke.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s beyond inappropriate. I’m not in the habit of accepting expensive gifts from strangers.” Gathering my hair quickly, I tied it back in a ponytail, readying myself for battle.

“I’m not a stranger, I’m your employer.” His voice was unusually bland. I didn’t let that fool me.

“Or employers.”

“Well that would be stupid.” His anger percolated quickly. “Those books are outdated. You need a computer.”

“You make perfect sense, but I still can’t accept it. It’ll be in your office tonight.” I doubted anyone ever dared to disagree with him, not if they valued their welfare.

His eyes assessed me shrewdly. His jaw tightened and he raked his fingers through his hair. He was working up another argument, as apparent on his face as if he had shouted ‘pistols or rapiers?’ Surprisingly, though, he pivoted and walked away with ground eating strides. Needless to say I was relieved, although unsure if the issue had been settled.

The cane must have sunk into a soft patch of grass because I watched him lose his balance and crumple to the ground. Instinct thrust me forward, towards him. He was clutching his knee when I reached his side. I knelt down closer and discovered his face twisted in pain.

“Should I go to the house and get somebody?”

“No!” he barked out. “Give me a minute.” Reaching into the pocket of his athletic pants, he pulled out a prescription bottle. I snatched it out of his hand and read the label.

“These are very strong. When was the last time you took one?”

His eyes briefly darted away from me, then returned weary and cautious. “Four hours ago.”

“You’re not due for another hour,” I said as gently as possible. Unlike him, I gathered no pleasure seeing him brought low.

He stared at his leg and didn’t respond. When he finally did look up, the mask was gone. His eyes were two deep pools of emotion, allowing me a glimpse of his pain and frustration, beseeching me to understand.

Wordlessly, I walked back to the basket and grabbed a small bottle of Pellegrino. His large hand trembled as he took the bottle from me. I wrapped mine around his, to steady it, and felt him flinch.

Was I that repulsive? I couldn’t even begin to understand this man.

His athletic pants were loose at the bottoms. Before I realized what I was doing, I had reached down and pushed the hem up his calf. He stiffened immediately and gently covered my hand with his own, the warmth of his palm unleashing a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, held his gaze and watched him wrestle with it. “This may help until the pill starts to work.”

He reminded me of a great wounded beast, guarding himself, ready to strike out. No sudden movements. Talk softly. It must have been evidence of how much pain he endured that he let me touch him at all.

He released my hand and my practiced fingers went to work, moving up his leg until his pants were pushed high up his thigh. I looked up briefly and found his features frozen. He was holding his breath, his eyes wide and focused on me. A light mist of sweat glistened on his forehead. He looked almost––frightened.

The scar was an angry snake wrapped around his leg. My fingers alternated pressure around the kneecap. Massaging, soothing, stimulating. I gently kneaded up and around the knee, to the lower thigh, then down the calf; the scars sometimes smooth, sometimes rough under my fingertips. He flinched a number of times, but then subtly pressed into my touch instead of pulling away.

I inspected the thick scars where the skin grafts pulled over bone and sinew and discovered they didn’t prevent any mobility. The root of the problem must have been elsewhere, where the titanium pins held bones together, I figured.

A few moments later, I glanced again in his direction and found his expression had completely transformed. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady, his nostrils flaring. The groves around his sensual mouth had relaxed. What a sight––even more stunning than when he was neatly groomed and master of himself. A real flesh and blood man, not the unfeeling sculpture he usually resembled.

His dark golden scruff glinted in the sunlight. My gaze fell on the tiny scar at the top of his lip and all I could think was that I wanted to lick it. I spoke purely to distract myself.

“What were you doing walking this far from the house?” I asked, my ears burning in shame. When he didn’t open his eyes, I thought he hadn’t heard me.

“I come out here to think.”

“I’m sorry. You wanted some privacy and you found me hanging around.”