Free After the Music by Diana Palmer Page A

her dwindling, finances. Or that the amateur competition she'd won had been won with an operatic aria. When the nightclub offer came, it was for quite a sum of money and she'd needed it too much to refuse. She thought about the $20,000 check Thorn had written out so carelessly and could have cried. It was nothing to him, but at one time that much money would have been her mother's salvation.
    "Hey, you're a million miles away," Al teased.
    "Sorry," she said, forcing a smile as she finished her dessert.
    Thorn was still watching her from his kingly position at the head of the table. She couldn't look at him. The luxury of letting her hungry eyes feast on his handsome features was too tempting. It made her remember how she'd felt when he'd kissed her. She'd been shocked by her wild response to him. He appealed to her senses in delicious ways. But he was the enemy, and she'd do well to remember it.
    "Our mother also performs on stage," Al volunteered, ignoring Thorn's glare. "She does character parts. Right now she's doing a play in London."
    Thorn set his cup down hard. "Al, I'd like to discuss that new field we're considering."
    Al's eyebrows shot up. "You couldn't possibly be asking my opinion," he chided. "You never have before; you always go ahead and do what you please."
    "You're coming into your majority next year," Thorn reminded. "It's time you took part in board decisions."
    "My God, I'll faint," Al said with a little sarcasm. His eyes narrowed as he studied the older man. "Are you serious?"
    "Always," Thorn said, with a pointed glance at Sabina. "In every way."
    He was reminding her that he'd warned her off Al. She lifted her cup in a mock salute and smiled at him challengingly.
    "Let's go," Thorn told his brother, rising. "You'll excuse us, Miss Cane? I'm sure you can find something with which to amuse yourself."
    She glared at his broad back as he led Al into the study and closed the door firmly.
    Old Juan, the man who kept house for Thorn, came to clear the table, and she offered to help. He smiled and shook his head. "No, senorita, but muchas gracias," he said charmingly. "Such work is not fit for such dainty hands. I will bring coffee and brandy to the living room, if you care to wait there."
    "Thank you," she said, smiling at the dark little man. She'd expected Thorn to have an older woman doing the cooking and cleaning, but it seemed he didn't like any women around him. He had definite prejudices in that direction.
    She wandered into the living room and stopped in the doorway to feast her eyes on the interior design. Like the den, it mirrored the personality of its owner. It was done in browns and tans with a burgundy leather couch and love seat and big sprawling armchairs in desert patterns. There was a huge Oriental rug by the ornate fireplace. Over the mantel was a portrait of a Hereford bull. On a nearby antique table stood an elegant chessboard and hand-painted wooden chess pieces. The drapes echoed the color schemes of the furniture, dark colors that gave the room a bold, masculine atmosphere.
    There was a piano beyond the chessboard, a Baldwin. Sabina was drawn to it irresistibly. She sat down on the bench, her back straight, and raised the lid over the ebony and ivory keys. There had been a piano at the orphanage, and one of the matrons had taught her painstakingly how to play it, taking pity on her fascination with the instrument. Her fingers touched the keys, trembling with wonder at its exquisite tone.
    Slowly, softly, she began to play Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto, a passionate piece of music that mirrored her own confused emotions. Her eyes closed as her fingers caressed the cool keys, and she drifted away in a cloud of music.
    She wasn't sure exactly when she became aware of eyes watching her. She stopped in the middle of a bar and stared nervously toward the doorway where Thorn was completely still, spellbound, with Al at his shoulder.
    "Don't stop," Thorn said quietly. He moved into the