Читать книгу Tea and Destiny - Sherryl Woods, Sherryl Woods - Страница 8

Ann heard the music the instant she turned into the driveway. Beethoven? At full blast? She had to be hearing things. She was used to being greeted by rock and roll at best. She listened more closely. The familiar classical strains swelled, carrying on the turbulent wind. It was definitely Beethoven. The night air was suddenly filled with violins and the sound of waves crashing against the shore. She felt as if she’d stumbled into the midst of an outdoor concert in which man and nature combined to stir the soul.

Exhausted and drained by a nerve-racking series of sessions, to say nothing of the residual impact of Hank Riley’s totally unexpected and thoroughly devastating kiss the previous night, she leaned back in the front seat of the car. The music flowed over her, soothing, working its magic. Her eyes drifted closed. Hank’s provocative image appeared at once. She opened her eyes to banish him, but the image lingered just as plainly. She gave up the pointless battle and shut her eyes again. Her lips curved in a smile at the pleasantly surprising sensation of peace after so many hours of jarring dissonance.

“Annie?”

Dazed, she blinked at the sound of Hank’s voice.

“You okay?” he asked, leaning down beside the car and peering in at her. His blue eyes were filled with tender concern. Recognizing it, her heart tapped a new and surprisingly sensual rhythm. It had been years since anyone had ever worried about her, even fleetingly. She was the strong, clear-thinking one. She was the one others came to to pour out their troubles. Whether privately or professionally, she was expected to cope, to endure. The fact that this man thought she might occasionally need help in doing that made her feel cherished somehow, even as it sometimes irritated her. Sometimes? It almost always irritated her. But not tonight. Tonight she basked in the unfamiliar warmth of the sensation.

“I’m fine,” she told him now. “I was just enjoying the concert.”

He grinned ruefully. “Sorry if it was too loud. The kids haven’t complained, so I didn’t realize how far the sound carried.”

“Don’t apologize. It was wonderful to come home to that. Just what I needed.”

“Bad day?”

“No worse than most others. I just seemed to have less patience with it.” Probably because she’d been up half the night for the second night in a row trying to make sense of the astonishing effect this man had on her. Her entire body—and her common sense—had melted in his arms. She hadn’t been able to come up with a single, logical explanation for it and she was a woman addicted to logic. Logic made sense of life, brought order out of chaos. And it was tidier by far than being prey to erratic emotions. Even though she knew all that, she looked into his eyes and felt the irrational tug of desire starting all over again.

“Have you eaten?” he said.

She shook her head.

“Then come sit on the porch and let me bring you something. Tracy made vegetable soup. With this chill in the air, it seemed like a good night for it.”

Beethoven? Homemade soup? What was going on here? “Who’s idea was all this?”

“All what?”

“The music and the soup.”

“Tracy had the recipe book out and the soup on when I came in from work. She said something about experimenting. It sounded dangerous to me, but it turned out to be edible. Paul and David actually finished every bite. Melissa picked out all the carrots and Tommy threw them across the room, but I think we found the last of them. It’s safe to come in now.”

She regarded him oddly. He actually sounded as though he’d enjoyed the evening. He was adapting far more readily than she’d anticipated. It sounded as though the children were, too. That pleased her, even as it made her uneasy. How long would it last? How long before he vanished from their lives?

“After all that,” he was saying, “I felt like listening to some music. I hope you don’t mind that I went through your iPod.”

“Not at all. I must admit I’m a little surprised by your choice.”

He turned a knowing grin on her. “I’m sure you expected a preference for twanging guitars over violin concertos.”

“Something like that,” she conceded.

“Loretta Lynn and Tammy Wynette have their places. So do Beethoven and Mozart. I’ll have you know I can even manage a little Chopin on the piano.”

“You?”

“Three years of piano lessons,” he boasted.

“Your mother must have been very strong-willed to manage that.”

“My mother had nothing to do with it,” he said with an unmistakable edge in his voice. “I took the lessons a few years ago.”

Intrigued by his tone, she was more astounded by his announcement. She stared at him in wonder. “You took piano lessons when you were—”

“Thirty-four,” he supplied, chuckling as he held up hands that looked far too large, far too strong, to be used in such a gentle pursuit. Those hands playing Chopin? Those hands caressing…