A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

We entered the apartment with a set of codes on a panel. The carved, maple door opened and as I stepped inside, dim lights automatically turned on to reveal the beauty and elegance within. A mixture of contemporary and antique furniture struck the right balance. All clean lines and rich, luxurious materials. Inviting, comfortable instead of formal. Biedermeier pieces in pale wood, oversized down couches in a palette of soft neutrals; light and dark grey, beige, white, light blue. A beautiful orange cashmere throw added a splash of color. But the view stole the show; an entire wall of windows overlooked the city and the shoreline of the lake.

I could feel him watching me closely, measuring my reaction. No one had ever expended so much energy trying to gauge my thoughts. My eyes came across a large squeegee painting hanging at the end of a hallway and my breath caught.

“Is that a Gerhart Richter painting?”

“Yes, do you like his work?”

“Very much. I mean…I’ve only seen it online.” I knew the Tate in London had one…and so did Sebastian apparently.

“What do you think?” There was a sweet, uncertainty in his eyes. Slay me now. I wanted to launch myself at him and kiss that look away. A nervous laugh escaped my throat instead.

“It’s breathtaking.”

“It’s mine. I bought it and had it renovated long before I inherited the estate, or the bank…this is really home for me.”

“You don’t feel at home at the estate?” I was surprised by his confession. He played lord of the manor quite naturally.

“It’s my father’s house.” With his hands buried in his pant pockets, he shrugged. “That’s how I’ll always think of it.” His expression had turned a little too sober. I reached up and petted his chest until his gaze returned to me with a smile.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked gently.

“Not tonight…come.” Grabbing my hand, he pulled me through a bedroom and into a walk-in closet where women’s clothing hung neatly spaced apart. It felt like I had been dropped a from fifty story building, my stomach bottomless. “These are for you. I’m pretty sure I got the size right,” he casually explained. Oh… my eyes widened. “The first dress is for dinner. Then we’ll come back here and change for a party we’re going to.”

Speechless, I picked up the hanger and inspected the first dress, running my fingers over the soft, light wool. Roland Mouret. It was constructed and lean, a deep burgundy color; perfect for my pale skin and dark hair. The other was a floor length, black gown of silk jersey. It had a halter top and a knife pleated skirt with a slit that split the side. A small tag with gold lettering was visible. Gucci. I could feel him watching me.

“Did you pick these out?” Our eyes met and he replied with a quick nod. “I love them. Thank you, Sebastian.” His earnest, shy smile made something inside of me come loose. My stomach fluttered.

“I’ll leave you to get dressed.”

I watched his steps as he walked out, and couldn’t detect any extra stiffness. I had come to know the way he carried himself so intimately that I could tell when the pain started to break through the oxycodone, even when he tried his best to hide it.

“Sebastian––” He turned and looked at me, sweet expectancy on his face. I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated him, how much everything he did meant to me… how much he meant to me. “Nothing…I’ll be ready soon.” His smile faded and guilt made my gaze swing away. I had never thought of myself as a coward. But apparently I was.

Inside the closet, I found two shoeboxes. The first one was a pair of platform black, kidskin Christian Louboutin’s with a peep toe. I inspected them like they were priceless artifacts, a weeks worth of salary I reminded myself. The second contained a pair of Sergio Rossi black high heeled sandals that had thin straps crisscrossing all the way up to the knee. They were incredibly sexy and tasteful. There was also a tiny pink shopping bag from Agent Provocateur that contained a couple of pairs of silk thigh high stockings––although, I was a bit disappointed to discover that there wasn’t any sexy lingerie. I was certain that my practical cotton bra and panties weren’t exactly making him lose his mind.

The bathroom attached to the bedroom was as beautifully decorated as the rest of the apartment. It had a sparkling mother of pearl mosaic floor, an infinity pattern that ran all the way around the white marble wainscoting, and a sculpted ivory tub. I sat at the vanity to do my makeup. The usual––since I’m hopeless with anything other than kohl eyeliner, mascara, and blush.

I stared into the Queen Anne mirror, and wondered how many times she’d sat here doing the same thing. His beautiful, dead wife…whom he was still in love with. The bathroom had a feminine quality to it. Did he have it decorated for her? My spirits sank just thinking about it. The more he disclosed about her, the more I wanted to know. His confession about having been in a dark place after her death elicited a range of emotions that ran the gamut from empathy to jealousy. A novelty for me. Who was this woman, and why did she so thoroughly own his heart?