Rubbing her hands together before the fire, Nicole glanced about, her entire body tight with tension and frustration.

So, Michael wanted her to keep to herself, did he? You stay in your corner of the house, and I’ll stay in mine. Fine. It was a big house. She could find things to do on her own. He could stay in his study all day and night and starve to death for all she cared.

Her gaze fell on the grand piano at the front of the room, by the picture windows overlooking the forest beyond. Nicole couldn’t resist crossing to it and running a hand along its polished black surface. It was a beautiful instrument. She’d sold her own piano when she left Seattle three years ago, and had only played a handful of times since.

Music had always offered her a wonderful escape from the outside world, a means of releasing her anxiety and emotions. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she’d missed it. What better method was there to release her pent-up frustration than to play the piano?

Nicole hesitated. Given Michael’s foul mood and his proclivity for being alone, he might not appreciate someone else touching his piano. He was a far superior musician, and she felt a little intimidated at the thought of playing when he could hear. The music might disturb him.

Screw him, she told herself, mentally squashing all thoughts of awkwardness or consideration. If he doesn’t like it, he can come out and tell me to stop.

The late afternoon light was dim and gray. Nicole switched on the brass lamp atop the piano and opened the bench. It was stuffed with piano music, some of which looked very old. She shuffled through it until she came to something familiar—Chopin’s Prelude no. 24—a thrilling piece she’d once known by heart, and had played often with great enjoyment. Setting the sheet music on the stand, she sat down on the bench, lifted the lid over the keyboard, arranged her hands in position, and began to play.

Nicole warmed up with a few scales, then plunged into the piece itself. It was complex and required great concentration. From the first bold stanza, an unanticipated surge of pleasure raced through her. As she followed the score, it was as if her brain was siphoning off all her excess energy into the task of getting her fingers into the right place at the right time.

The longer strings of the grand piano produced a larger, richer sound than the instrument she was used to, with truer overtones and lower inharmonicity. With every vibration of the instrument, she could feel the music as well as hear it. The song was glorious and beautiful. A smile built deep down within her soul, and all her tension and frustration began melting away.

Nicole was halfway through the piece when, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of movement as she played. She glanced up, startled, to find Michael standing by the hearth, long legs crossed, arms casually folded across his chest, watching her intently.

Ignoring him, Nicole played on, the room filling with the extraordinary beauty of the music.

“You didn’t say that you played,” he said quietly.

“You never asked,” she retorted bluntly.

She gave her full attention to the music, feeling a little self-conscious now because he was still staring at her. She made a few mistakes, which had more to do with being out of practice that it did with him watching. When she came to the end of the piece, Michael applauded with enthusiasm. She sat back, wondering what was going through his mind. Considering the antagonistic remarks he’d made earlier, she couldn’t begin to guess what he expected of her—so she said nothing and waited. Finally, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him sharply. His expression was equal parts surprise, admiration, and contrition.

“I behaved like the most vulgar, offensive, and ill-mannered Neanderthal,” he continued. “You went to great effort—I imagine—to prepare a nice meal for me, and I was entirely unappreciative. I said things I didn’t mean. Please forgive me.”

Okay, as apologies went, it was satisfactory. Nicole sensed that it was genuine and came from the heart. Still, she was in no mood to forgive him.

“I appreciate the apology,” she said coolly, “but it doesn’t excuse or explain the behavior.”

“You’re right. What can I say? Except, again: I’m sorry. Can we chalk it up to cabin fever?”

The look in his eyes was so hopeful, repentant, and filled with teasing good humor that—despite herself—Nicole felt her anger scattering to the wind, like the billowy parachutes of a dandelion seed head. Damn him, she thought, straining to hold back the beginning of a smile. I can’t even stay mad at him when he deserves it. “I hope you don’t mind that I played your piano.”

“Not at all.” In a few graceful strides, he crossed the room and joined her. “I haven’t heard anyone else play in a long time. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful it was—how wonderful you were. That’s a very difficult piece, and you’re very good.”

“Not as good as you.”

To his credit, he didn’t try to refute that. “Perhaps I’ve just had more practice. You have a lot of talent. How long have you been playing?”

“Twenty-three years. You?”

“A bit longer.”

He stood beside the bench, a foot from where she sat, one hand resting on top of the piano as he gazed down at her. The look on his face was tender. Nicole wanted to bang her head against the keyboard. A few minutes ago she’d been so furious with him that she was ready to cut his head off. All it had taken was a few sweet, well-chosen words and a certain look in his eyes to wash all that away. Once again, her heart was beating fast and butterflies were starting to flit in her lower regions.

“The piano has long been my solace,” he said, “a source of pleasure when things go right, and a place to escape when things go wrong.”

“The same for me,” she admitted.

“It’s like opening a door to the subconscious.”

She nodded. “To allow the mind to wander.”

“When I play Chopin’s Nocturne no. 2 in E-flat Major, I sometimes feel as though I’m in a kind of trance.”

“Me, too."

"I’ve gone through entire pieces of music without being able to actually remember playing them.” The excitement in his voice was infectious.

“When I get really angry, I play scales and arpeggios.”

“If that doesn’t work, I launch into massive chords.”

“It’s like magic,” she enthused. “I love hearing the music, knowing that I can create this big, beautiful sound all by myself.”

“And the best part is how your own emotions change the meaning of the music.”

“Yes! The same tune played by three different people can express three entirely different things.”

Their eyes were locked now and they were both smiling broadly, bound by mutual interest and excitement. “Would you like to play a duet?” he asked.

“I don’t know any.”

“I used to have some old music for a piano duet that you could sight-read in your sleep. Let’s see if it’s still in the bench.”

Nicole stood. He rifled through the contents of the bench, finally coming up with the music sheet he was looking for. He handed it to her. “Are you game?”

It was Mozart’s Sonata for Piano Duet in D. She’d never played it before. “Why not?”

Setting the music on the stand, Nicole resumed her seat. Michael sat down beside her. The bench was just big enough for the two of them. Nicole felt the now familiar quiver deep inside her as Michael’s thigh and upper arm touched hers. They both moved their hands into position. Michael inhaled an anticipatory beat, they exchanged a glance and a nod, and began to play.

The music sprang forth from the instrument at the touch of their fingertips, resounding throughout the room. Michael’s skill was masterful. Nicole worked hard to keep up with him, matching his precise cadence. As their fingers moved along the keys, Nicole was hyper aware of his taut body pressed against her own. Each unsteady pop of her heartbeat seemed a sharp point and counterpoint to the rhythm they played.

It was wonderful. Delirious. Breathtaking. Exhilarating. Together, they were creating something beautiful, just as they had earlier in his woodshop downstairs. The memory of what had followed after that event made Nicole’s heart thud in her ears, and it became increasingly difficult to concentrate on the score. When they finished the piece, she sat with lowered eyes, fingers still at the keyboard, struggling to control her rapid breathing, knowing that if she looked at him, he’d see the longing on her face that she could not hide.

Suddenly, Michael’s fingers were at her chin, gently lifting and turning it. His eyes smoldered, wordlessly communicating an attraction that matched her own. His other hand sifted through her long, wavy hair, then tucked a stray lock behind one ear. Lowering his head now, he touched his lips to hers.