CHAPTER 156: CHAPTER 156 TOUCHING HER

*LORENZO*

“Is it her?” Carla asked.

“What?” I scoffed as I drove her home.

“Your cleaner.”

Shit.

“What about my cleaner?”

“Is it her?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Carla crosses her arms. “That’s not a no.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” I stare out at the streets through the car’s steamed-up window as I feel a flush creep up my neck, betraying me.

How did I give myself away?

“I’ve never seen you so solicitous with your staff.”

I scowl at her. “Speaking of staff,” I say. “She just started working for me. I barely know you. And as you can see, she doesn’t talk much.”

“Enzo, if you don’t like the girl, get rid of her.”

“You’re acting pretty bloody weird about her.”

“No I’m not.”

“Whatever, Enzo.” Carla’s mouth presses into a hard line as she folds her arms and stares out the misting cab window, leaving me to my own thoughts.

What I really want is information about Danica. I process what I know.

Fact one, she doesn’t talk much.

And she seemed to be new in Mexico City.

How old is she? Where does she live? Does she travel far each morning? Does she live alone?

I could follow her home.

Stalker!

I could ask her.

Fact two, Danica is reluctant to talk again. Or is she reluctant to talk to me? The thought is depressing, and I stare at the rain-lashed streets, sulking like a needy adolescent.

Why does this woman confound me?

Is it that she’s so mysterious?

That she’s from a completely different background to me? The fact that she works for me?

That makes her off-limits.

Fuck.

The truth is, I want to bed her. There. I admit it to myself. That’s what I want, and I have a severe case of blue balls to prove it. What’s more, I don’t know how to make that happen, especially as she won’t talk to me. She won’t even look at me.

Does she find me repellent?

Maybe that’s it. She just doesn’t like me.

Hell, I don’t know what she thinks of me. I’m very much at a disadvantage. For all I know, she could be rummaging through my belongings right now, learning more about me. Figuring me out. I grimace. Maybe that’s why she dislikes me.

“She seems terrified of you,” Carla observes.

“Who?” I ask, though I know full well who she’s talking about.

“Danica.”

“I’m her boss.”

“You’re awfully touchy about her. I think she’s terrified because she’s crazy about you.”

“What? Now you’re hallucinating. She can barely stand to be in the same room as me.”

Carla shrugs.

I frown at her.

She sighs. “She can’t be in the same room as you because she likes you and doesn’t want to give herself away.”

“Carla, she’s my cleaner. That’s all.” I’m emphatic, and it’s an effort to throw Carla off the scent, though this gives me hope.

She smirks as the car pulls up outside of Carla’s house and she gets down.

************

I missed my workout this morning, so I vault up the stairs to my flat. Breakfast has taken longer than I intended, and I’m expecting Jacob at any minute. Part of me also hopes that Danica will still be there. As I approach my front door, I hear music coming from the flat.

Music? What’s going on?

I slide my key into the lock and cautiously open the door. It’s Bach, one of his preludes in G Major. Perhaps Danica is playing music through my computer. But how can she? She doesn’t know the password. Does she?

Maybe she’s playing her phone through the sound system, though from the look of her tatty anorak she doesn’t strike me as someone who has a smartphone.

I’ve never seen her with one. The music rings through my flat, lighting up its darkest corners.

Who knew that my cleaner likes classical?

This is a tiny piece of the Danica’s puzzle.

Quietly I close the door, but as I stand in the hallway, it becomes apparent that the music is not coming from the sound system. It’s from my piano. Bach. Fluid and light, played with a deftness and understanding I’ve only heard from concert-standard performers.

Danica?

I’ve never managed to make my piano sing like this. Taking off my shoes, I creep down the hallway and peer around the door into the drawing room.

She is seated at the piano in her housecoat and scarf, swaying a little, completely lost in the music, her eyes closed in concentration as her hands move with graceful dexterity across the keys. The music flows through her, echoing off the walls and ceiling in a flawless performance worthy of any concert pianist. I watch her in awe as she plays, her head bowed.

She is brilliant.

In every way.

And I’m completely spellbound.

She finishes the prelude, and I step back into the hall, flattening myself against the wall in case she looks up, not daring to breathe. However, without missing a beat she goes straight into the fugue. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, marveling at her artistry and the feeling that she puts into each phrase. I’m carried away by the music, and as I listen, I realize that she wasn’t reading the music. She’s playing from memory.

Good God. She’s a fucking virtuoso.

And I remember her intense focus when she examined my score while she was dusting the piano. Clearly she was reading the music.

Shit. She plays at this standard and she was reading my composition? The fugue ends, and seamlessly she launches into another piece. Again

Bach, Prelude in C-sharp Major, I think.

What the fuck is she doing cleaning when she plays like this?

The front doorbell sounds, and suddenly the music ceases.

Shit.

I hear the loud scrape of the piano stool on the floor and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I barrel down the hallway in my socks and open the door.

“Good afternoon, sir.” It’s Jacob.

“Come in,” I say, a little breathless.

“I let myself in downstairs. I hope you don’t mind. Are you okay?” He asks as he enters.

He stops and stares at Danica, who is now standing in the hall silhouetted against the light doorway. As I open my mouth to say something to her, she scoots into the kitchen.

“Yes. I’m fine. Go on through. I just need a word with my cleaner.”

Jacob frowns in confusion but makes his way to the drawing room.

I take a deep breath and run both my hands through my hair, trying to contain my...wonder.

What the hell?

I stride into the kitchen, where I find a panicked Danica struggling into her anorak.

“So sorry. So sorry. I am so sorry,” she mumbles, unable to look at me. Her face is pale and strained, as if she’s fighting back tears.

Shit.

“Hey, it’s okay. Here, let me help you with that.” My tone is gentle as I take hold of her coat. It’s every bit as cheap, thin, and nasty as it looks. The name John Madrigal is sewn into the collar. John Madrigal? Her boyfriend? My scalp prickles as all the little hairs on the back of my neck rise. Maybe this is why she doesn’t want to talk to me. She has a boyfriend.

Fuck. The disappointment is real.

I slip her jacket over her arms and shoulders. Or maybe she simply doesn’t like me.

Pulling the anorak more tightly around her body, she steps out of my reach while she fumbles with her housecoat and stuffs it into a plastic shopping bag.

“I am sorry, sir,” she says once more. “I will not do it again. I will not.” And her voice cracks.

“Danica, for heaven’s sake. It was a pleasure to hear you play. You can play anytime.”

Even if you do have a boyfriend.

She stares at the floor, and I can’t resist. Stepping forward, I reach out and gently tilt her chin so that I can see her face.

“I mean it,” I say. “Anytime. You play so well.” And before I can stop myself, I let my thumb trace her full bottom lip.

Oh, God. So soft.

Touching her is a mistake.