Chapter 1

I watched the beautiful woman on the stage glow as the applause rang out. She stepped back from the black grand piano and gave a graceful bow to the audience. The spotlights that circled the piano dimmed, and a single spotlight followed her movements across the stage. She turned to face all areas of the auditorium and drank in their adoration.

I was on my feet applauding with the rest. The middle-aged woman who stood beside me spoke to me.

“Isn’t she wonderful? I love the way she plays the piano.”

I nodded in reply and followed the action on the stage. The woman, her name was Kayla Ortiz, was in her early thirties. She was five foot six, slim, the full-length dark blue dress made her look taller. Her long blonde hair fell halfway down her back. Although I couldn’t see them, I knew her eyes, set on her beautiful face, were a deep blue.

She had just finished playing the finale of the concert. Her signature piece, Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21, C Major, K. 467, and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. For five minutes, she stood alone, basking in the audience’s applause. Finally, she was joined on stage by a tall man in his late forties, an elegantly refined gentleman wearing a dinner suit. A second man, dressed in a similar manner, hovered in the background.

“That’s her manager, Stephen Matthews,” the woman beside me said as she pointed at the first man. “They say he’s her lover, as well.”

The woman, I still didn’t know her name, had been feeding me facts and bits of gossip during the pauses in the performance. She was the only downside of the evening. I’d paid a premium to a scalper to get this seat. It was a good position, only ten rows back from the middle of the stage, and I’d ended up next to this woman.

I thought back to how I’d come to be here. I’d no intention to be at this concert; I wasn’t even supposed in town for several hours, but as luck would have it, I’d managed to get a much earlier flight to New York than planned. I had made it to the exclusive hotel where my wife had been staying for the past week, a good ten hours earlier than I’d anticipated. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t around when I rang her room.

I checked into the suite my agent had reserved for me and the receptionist handed me a note from my wife saying she wouldn’t be back until midnight. Given that she hadn’t expected me to get in until then, it wasn’t a big issue.

My suite was on the executive floors, just one floor below the private roof patio with its bar and terrace. It was the usual extravaganza that I’d grown to expect from the agency, a large bedroom off an even larger lounge that opened out onto a private balcony, which had a view across Central Park. There was a connecting door to the suite next door.

The door opened under my touch, and as I peered through the door there was abundant evidence of her stay scattered all around. A set of used lingerie from Victoria’s Secret was draped over the back of a chair. It was a set I didn’t recognize. When I raised them to my nose, her heady aroma assailed my senses, causing my cock stiffen. We’d both been travelling separately for the past month, and her lingering scent enforced how much I’d missed her.

I was going to settle down and do a bit of work on my book while I waited for her. Then, I found a beautiful sheer black negligee draped on the bed in my suite, a silent promise of things to come tonight. Working on the book wasn’t going to work for me now; I needed to find something else to occupy me while I waited for my lover.

I was in New York, the theatre capital of the States. I called down to the bell captain and asked if there was any chance he could get me a ticket to a show or a concert for this evening.

After ten minutes, he’d called me back. “There are a couple of shows I can get tickets for.” He listed them, but not one of them appealed to me.

“Or,” he suggested, “there is a ticket for the Kayla Ortiz concert; there’s only the one decent seat available, and it’s not cheap.”

“She never is,” I muttered to myself.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that?”

“I said, how much is it going to be?” I replied.

“Seven hundred, but it’s a good seat, in row ten,” he said defensively.

I sighed; the stupid thing was, I already had a ticket to see her tomorrow night, but now that he’d put the idea into my mind, I wanted to see her tonight, as well.

“Well, it’s only money,” I muttered, “I’ll take it. Can you charge it to suite 2403, or do you need cash?”

There was a pause, and I could hear tapping on a keyboard. “That’s okay sir,” he said. “You can pick it at the box office. What name shall I give them?”

I thought for a second and gave my real name, not my pen name. “Peter Ryan,” I told him.

That’s who I am, Peter James Ryan, if you want full disclosure. I used to be a journalist, but now I’m an author. You won’t find any books out there with my name on them. I’ve got over a dozen books that have been featured on the best seller’s lists, not at the top but comfortably mid-table. Marion Peters, Sylvia James and Ryan James are the best known of my aliases. Ah, now you know who I am, I thought you might!

Who’s Peter Ryan? I’m British and thirty-two years’ young, I’d spent most of the last few years globetrotting. I’m a fraction over six-feet-tall, with a build that matches my height. I have light brown hair, blue eyes, and a close-cropped beard that softens an angular jaw line.

Back to the moment at hand. The applause was still ringing out and the annoying woman beside me was still talking. I guess she thought that I was attracted to the woman on the stage and I needed the lowdown on Kayla.

“She’s not married, you know,” she said.

“Really, I heard that she was,” I replied.

“No,” and she shook her head dismissively. “I’ve been following her for years, ever since she won that young musician of the year competition in Britain when she was sixteen.”

“Seventeen!” I muttered, but she carried on as though she hadn’t heard me.

“There have been several love affairs mentioned in the papers,” she said in an almost scandalized voice. “She does seem to play so much better when she’s in love. Her first lover was her music professor at the Royal Academy when she was eighteen, and a couple of years ago, it was that Italian conductor. There have always been rumors of a secret long-term lover, then there’s Stephen, her manager. Now they say she has a new lover!”

While she spoke, I was watching as Kayla took Stephen’s hand. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a kiss. The spotlight dimmed, the house lights brightened and then they joined the second man as they walked off the stage, Kayla was holding the large bunch of flowers she had been given earlier, and she looked out across the audience. For the briefest moment, I was sure her gaze fixed on me, then she was gone, and I was left with the annoying woman beside me. Her last few words piqued my interest; I hadn’t heard that one about a new lover before.

With a shrug, I said goodbye and, gathering my belongings, I made my way out of the auditorium. I was lucky and managed to grab a taxi. I settled back in the seat and checked my messages. There was one from my wife that she’d sent a few minutes ago.

‘You’re here?’

I responded with a quick smiley face

‘I won’t be late; do you want to meet in the bar?’

I sent her back a second smiley face and a kiss and got one in return.

The taxi pulled up at the hotel and I took the elevator up to the twenty-fourth floor. In the suite, I changed quickly out of my suit and into a pair of old soft black jeans and a polo shirt. I collected my iPad from my bag and made my way to the exclusive, “executive floor only,” bar on the roof. I thought I probably only had half an hour before my wife arrived, so I sat down on a stool at the empty bar and ordered a Glenrothes. I ordered red wine, for her.

I opened the iPad and checked on the latest mail from my editor. The number of edits and comments on the last chapter made me reach for my whisky. I swallowed the glass and asked for a refill before doing a quick search on the gossip surrounding Kayla. The woman had been right; there were quite a few references over the past couple of weeks to a new man in her life.

I was wrong in my guess; it was less than ten minutes later that a warm body pressed up against my back and a soft pair of lips nibbled at the back of my neck.

A sultry voice whispered, “Hi lover, did you miss me?”

I replied without turning, “I always miss you but aren’t you supposed to be in your lover’s arms?”

She giggled and spun me around in the seat until I faced her. “Where did you hear that little titbit, darling?” she said.

“I had it on good authority from the woman sitting next to me, that Simon is your lover, “ I told my wife. I don’t know why I didn’t add the titbit about a new lover.

“I think James might object to that, he’s a rather possessive wife as you well know!”

I stared up at Kayla Ortiz’s blue eyes and laughed. Her nose twitched, and the soft peal of her laughter joined mine.

I’d first met Kayla when she was just nineteen; a couple of months after she’d ended the affair with her music teacher. I was a couple of years older, having just come up to my twenty-second birthday.

We were both someone else’s plus one at a wedding in London. She’d caught me scribbling in a notebook as I kept glancing at her. She sat down beside me and pulled it out of my hands to read what I’d written.

“Long blonde hair, swept back, falling halfway down her back. Her sensual neck...” she read out aloud. “Hey, this is me, isn’t it?”

I swallowed and admitted that it was. I was people watching, making notes on those around me to use in a story I was writing. She was the most attractive woman at the reception, and I’d been watching her, casting her in a role in my next story.

“They’re character development notes for a story I’m writing. When I see interesting people, I jot my thoughts down,” I explained.

“Would I have I read anything by you?”

“I doubt it, I’m not a full-time author,” I replied. “I’ve only published one book, and that disappeared into the black hole of mediocrity. Most of my stuff is short stories, which I post online. I write between trying to earn a crust as a journalist on the local rag. I’m Peter, by the way.”

I held my hand out, and she shook it saying, “and I’m Kayla, pleased to meet you, Peter.”

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a music student the Royal Academy of Music; I’m studying piano.”

That triggered a memory; I looked at her a bit more closely, and I realized that I recognized her.

“Didn’t you win the young musician of the year a couple of years ago?” I asked.

She nodded shyly.

“You played that lovely piece by Mozart, if I remember correctly.”

“His Piano Concerto No. 21, that’s right. You saw me play?”

“I did, and I’ve seen you play a couple of times since.”

She grinned back at me happily. “Do you like classical music?”

I nodded, “To be honest, so long as it’s not rap I like almost all types of music.”

“That could be a deal breaker, I like rap.”

I mockingly made the sign of a cross with my fingers to ward her off. She burst out laughing and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

We carried on talking for the rest of the evening, much to the annoyance of the people we’d come with. At the end of the reception, I drove her home. At that time, she was sharing a flat on the south side of Clapham Common with a couple of other music students.

When we pulled up, I jumped out, ran around the car to open her door and she gave me a slightly surprised look before gracefully accepting my hand to help her out of the car. Chivalrous, possibly, opportunist definitely, for as she eased herself out of the car, her dress slid up to mid-thigh, and I was able to enjoy her perfect legs.

She stood at the bottom of the short flight of steps leading up to the entrance and looked at me.

“I had a great evening,” I softly said. “Would you be interested in drinks and a meal next week?”

“I’d like that; how about Friday at seven? I’ll meet you in the lobby of the academy if that’s okay?”

I agreed, and she looked at me. I leant forward to give her a good night kiss and she met my lips with her own. The kiss seemed to go on forever until the lack of oxygen forced us to break apart.

“Oh, we’re so definitely picking this up again on Friday,” she whispered, before turning and entering the building.

Our date on the following Friday was a great success, and it was the start of a romance between us that just kept on growing. That first evening we went to Covent Garden and spent a couple of hours wandering about, watching the street performers before we ate at a local wine bar. I couldn’t tell you what food we ordered, I just remember basking in her smile, and holding her hand.

As the evening drew to a close, it was evident that neither of us wanted it to end.

“Can I come back to your place?” she asked softly, as we stood with our arms wrapped around each other in the crowds watching a keyboard player. “My flat mates were handpicked by my parents and seem to have a hotline to them whenever I do something they consider to be inappropriate.”

I kissed her before replying, “I’d love to wake up beside you in the morning, but I don’t want you to think I’m presuming.”

She did a little happy dance that made me laugh, and then hugged me. The next thing I knew she was whispering in the ear of the street artist. He smiled at her and moved away from the keyboard. Moments later Kayla’s fingers were dancing across the keys, and the crowd hushed as the first notes of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no .2 echoed across the plaza.

For ten minutes, she played her heart out, drawing from the cheap electronic keyboard sounds a Steinway grand would be proud of.

As the last note drifted away into silence, she bowed her head. For the longest pause, you could have heard a pin drop, and the applause rang out. She jumped up from the old duct tape patched stool and hurried over to me. She practically jumped into my arms covering my face with kisses.

“That was just for you, cos I’m so happy,” she murmured. “That piece is always going to remind me of you.”

Somehow, we managed to find a cab. We were shedding clothes as soon as we managed to push ourselves through my front door. The trail of discarded clothing led to my bed. Her panties went flying across the room as she kicked them off, sliding down the wall.

For a moment, I couldn’t believe the beauty of the girl sprawled across the white sheets of my bed. Her skin showed faint tan lines, the pale conical perky breasts were tipped with large pink nipples; the tuft of fine hair proof that she was a real blonde, nestled at the junction of her legs.

She saw me hesitate and held her arms out to me. I joined her on the bed reveling in the sweet sensations as I pressed myself against her soft skin. She pulled me onto her, wrapping her long legs around me to hold me tight. Our lips joined, and we began the dance of love.

Bodies touching, bodies merging, all the while our eyes were locked on each other

Too soon, we both sensed we were going to climax. I wasn’t sure I could last her out.

“Too soon,” I groaned.

I tried to slow down, but she held me tightly, pulling me deeper into her, urging me on.

She gasped between the moans, “No, finish in me, I’m so close.”

There was no sound, but her mouth opened wide in a mute scream and the actions of her body spoke for her, her orgasm making her shake wildly, tossing me to the side. I came with her, my first jet surging inside her. The next ones between us as she involuntarily forced me out of her.

We made love twice more that evening before collapsing into a deep sleep. The next morning, I woke to a messy but very empty bed. Her clothes were gone. The only thing left was a note on her pillow.

“Peter,

Last night was so much fun, I think I’m so close to falling in love with you. I have an early practice at the Academy, which I can’t miss. You looked so comfortable I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I’ll call you later today. :)

K xxxxxxxx”

We tiptoed around each other for a few weeks, talking on the phone and meeting for the occasional drink. Her teachers were less than amused when a video of her impromptu concert found its way onto YouTube and got her parents involved.

Yes, her parents ... the less we say about them, the better. All her life, Joyce and Rodger, with the rest of her large family of musicians, had been controlling all aspects of her career and social life. Nothing, and that included a boyfriend, was going to get in the way of the family’s ambitions for her.

Over the next few months, we were able to steal the odd afternoon and evening together, and soon we both realized that what we had wasn’t an infatuation. It was the real deal; we were madly in love with each other.

There was one big stumbling block in our growing relationship, and that was Kayla herself. As we grew closer, Kayla grew more anxious. When we were alone or with close friends, she was outgoing and loving, but in public, she was reserved, almost cold with me.

It took time and a partial breakup for her to explain what was going on in her mind. A tearful Kay had been sitting on my sofa when I’d arrived home early one Saturday. She’d been distant and cold to me at a reception held at the academy the evening before, and in the end, I’d left her there on her own.

She hadn’t been keen on me going with her, but I’d insisted, as we intended to go on to one of her friend’s birthday party afterwards. We’d arrived together, but she’d quickly distanced herself from me. I stood and watched her. Soon I was experiencing a feeling similar to that suffered by wallflowers at school dances, standing at the side, watching all the popular kids enjoying themselves.

The worst point came when I saw her talking to a semi-famous musician and a critic, both graduates of the academy. I went over to join her, but she ignored me, and following her lead, so did the others. I stood there growing more upset and embarrassed by the second. Finally, I passed her the glass of wine she’d asked for earlier, said “Sorry,” and walked away.

As I did so, the musician asked, “Do you know him?”

“Not really, he’s just someone I see occasionally,” Kayla replied. Her words cut through me, and I kept on walking right out of the building and into the chill of the night.

I’d made my way across town to my old pub and met up with a couple of old school mates. We’d got pleasantly hammered, and I’d ended up crashing on Tony’s couch.

I left Tony’s flat after his girlfriend had cooked me breakfast and headed home. I saw her as soon as I reached the top of the stairs leading to my lounge. She was curled up on my sofa, and it looked like she’d cried herself to sleep.

I wasn’t sure what I felt about her anymore. I covered her with the blanket she’d kicked off at some point and kissed the top of her head. I stood under the spray of the shower until the water ran cold, forcing me to retreat. Wrapping a towel around me, I went into the bedroom.

Kayla was sitting on the end of the bed. Her eyes red from the crying, dried tears streaking her cheeks.

“I don’t understand you,” I said. “Am I your boyfriend or am I a passing fancy?”

“I love you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it, and that wasn’t the question, are we a couple?”

“Of course we are, silly.”

“Then why don’t you act like we are?” I said exasperatedly. “Why do you ignore me when we are out, like last night.”

“But I don’t really...”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, what was it you said to the guy last night? ‘He’s just someone I see occasionally’. Do you know how much that hurt?”

“It didn’t mean anything; I just don’t want strangers and the press to know anything about our private life. So, if anyone asks about you, that’s what I say.”

It made no sense to me, and I said so.

She sobbed and said, “I won’t let them break us up. If they don’t know about you then they can’t.”

I sat down beside her and put my arm around her. “What aren’t you telling me, love? Why are you doing this to me?”

Her tale was both simple, and complex. She was scared that the press, who’d always been interested in her extended family of world-class musicians, were now growing interested in her. At first, I couldn’t see why this would be an issue

Her core reason to want to keep our relationship private was a gut reaction to the recent breakup of her Aunt Samantha’s marriage, and that breakup wasn’t the first her family had suffered recently. Samantha was fifteen years older than Kayla and a world-famous violinist.

Samantha’s ex-husband was a university lecturer. They were teenage sweethearts and he had travelled with her in the early days, when she was touring. As he consolidated his career, he couldn’t travel nearly as much.

As soon as Samantha began touring alone, the gutter press began speculating. Every time she was seen with another man in public, the world was informed that she was having an affair. Her husband just hadn’t been able to cope with the pressure the constant speculation created. Ultimately, it drove him into a severe bout of depression and they finally ended up divorced.

Kayla vowed that wouldn’t happen to us and the easiest way was to only let our closest friends and family know about our relationship. This was something about which she was adamant, I wasn’t as convinced, and felt that our relationship was strong enough to survive any spotlight we would be under. Kay disagreed, and since I loved her and was afraid of losing her, it was just easier for me to agree. Once I’d agreed, I forfeited the option of forcing her hand.

She created two personas: one private, for our very close friends and family, and a public one. To the press, the public and her fans, she was Kayla Ortiz, the rising star of the classical music scene, a single woman who was dedicated to her music.

For me, she was my lover Kay. Two years later, she became the even more private persona who was Kay Ryan, my wife. We were married in a very small and extremely private ceremony on a private island in the Maldives. As much as possible, at her continuing insistence, we kept the two personas from meeting.

As her star was rapidly rising, becoming a world-renowned pianist, mine was rising, too, slowly, very slowly. A year after we first met, I got an agent and she was able to sell my second novel, a romance inspired by Kayla, to a publisher for a small, but nice advance. My publisher also snapped up a heavily re-edited version of my first novel. That led to a five-book deal. I could go part-time at the paper and concentrate on writing almost full time. My books have never been blockbusters, but they do sell in real numbers and with wise investment, we will never be poor.

As I wrote in several different styles, I created a pen name for each one. I wrote romance stories as Marion Peters. Sylvia James was the name I used for my more erotic ones, and Ryan James for my adventure novels. I, like Kayla, was somewhat shy of publicity and media attention; it was only as Ryan James that I would turn up as for the book signing tours.

The next few years saw us both continuing in the same way. We were rarely in the public eye together; the only exceptions were the events our agency held.

We were both using the same management company. It was one that the son of a very close friend of Kay’s parents opened, with our help. His name was Stephen, and we were his first clients and silent partners. In fact, Kay and I owned sixty percent; we’d started out with seventy-five percent, but over the years, we’d let him buy more of the company.

Our current home was a penthouse apartment in New Orleans, leased in the agency’s name. If we were visiting the same city, the company would book us two adjoining interconnected rooms or suites, and they were always booked in the agency’s name.

To keep Kay happy, our secret relationship became a game with us. We were always asking each other the question, “could we meet in public without raising any suspicion we were more than nodding acquaintances?” The agency was notorious for the number of events it held or sponsored, and as their most valuable clients, we were, of course, invited.

Now that I know the consequences of our actions, I can’t believe that I let our games continue as long as I did.

So, fast-forward eight years from our first meeting, which brings us back to the almost empty bar at the hotel and Kayla’s arms wrapped around me. I passed her the glass of wine I’d ordered early.

“First things first,” she said expectantly and held out her hands. I pulled the rings from her right hand and placed them on the ring finger of her left hand. This was our ceremony, which we did every time we’d been away from each other and in public for a while.

“Married again,” she chirped, and pushed them home onto her finger

They were a continuing bone of contention between us. Both her wedding and engagement rings were made and designed by a close friend. They were very stylized, blending into each other, and could easily be mistaken for a piece of costume jewelry. I wanted her to wear them on the correct finger all the time, but she refused when she was in her Kayla Ortiz persona. I compromised and suggested that she wear them on the other when we were apart.

It took me a while to convince her. Oh, she was happy to wear them correctly when we were alone or with close friends, but not in her public persona. As a pianist, her fingers were long and elegant, but more importantly for me, both her fore, and ring, fingers on both hands were the same size, so, she agreed to wear our rings in the forefinger of her right hand when we were apart.

The act of transferring them from one finger to the other became a ritual when we got back together. It was her way of reaffirming her commitment to us. For me, it was a bittersweet moment.

She took a sip of her wine and grimaced as her phone buzzed. She’d placed it under her handbag and seemed reluctant to answer. She let it buzz several times before I went to pick it up. She picked it up first, looked at the screen and rejected the call.

“I told Laine not to call me tonight,” she said. Laine was her assistant.

“You sure, it’s late, and it might be important if she’s calling now.”

“It isn’t,” she said. Changing the subject, she asked, “So how come you managed to get in so early. I wasn’t expecting you until much later?”

I smiled and said, “My lunch time meeting was cancelled, so I was able to get an earlier flight. I thought I’d see if I could catch you with your lover. Which one is it supposed to be now, by the way?”

She gave me a mock punch and said, “I thought I’d entertain the violin section tonight. They have such a delicate touch.” She smiled at me as she said this, but for a moment, there was a flicker in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before.

“Are you okay?”

She shrugged off my concern, “I’m just tired; this has been a long tour, and I’m so glad tomorrow’s the last performance.”

That was the reason I had a ticket for tomorrow night, the final concert of what had been a full year of touring. We had decided that we were finally going to let the world know about our relationship. We were both going to take at least a year off, most likely two, and hopefully, start a family. Kayla would be thirty this year, and we had both agreed that we wanted children. She’d told me to expect a lot of demands on my body over the next few months.

The reception after the concert tomorrow was her last engagement of the tour, and I’d just finished the book signing tour for my last novel. We, or rather the agency, had bought a small country estate in Cornwall. Yes, we were coming out, but there was no reason to erect a neon sign for the paparazzi. We were due to be flying home to England in forty-eight hours.

We took our drinks over to a quiet corner, and she curled up against me. I pulled her close and stroked her long hair

Kayla Ortiz rested her head on my shoulder and then kissed me.

“I saw you in the audience,” she murmured.

“I thought you’d seen me at the end, I saw the glance.”

“No, I spotted you after the first piece; you know, when they raised the house lights for a moment when the conductor spoke a few words. I can always sense when you are watching me.”

I smiled; that was the point when the woman beside me had started passing me bits of gossip about my wife. The affair with her music teacher at the Royal Academy of music before we’d met was the only true thing she’d mentioned. That reminded me...

“She did say one thing that intrigued me; the gossip mongers are saying you have a new lover. Is there something you want to tell me?”

She gave a silly little laugh, “Christ you know what it’s like. I only have to be seen in someone’s company and he’s my new boyfriend.” She gave me another long kiss and then studied my face. “What about you. Who’s the new girl in your life I’ve heard about?”