Free Wanted by Mila McClung

 
    CHAPTER ONE
     
    She thought
maybe she loved him. She knew she loved the way his fingers danced over the
piano keys as he played Chopin. It was the same way they danced over her skin
when he made love to her.
    Tierney Evans
didn’t know much about love. Her parents had never loved her. She was just a
shiny toy they held up to their friends and said: “Look, see what she can do!”
like they would a trained poodle. At first, their big dream was to turn her
into an Olympic champion swimmer like her mother, Betsy. But Tierney soon proved
to be a disappointment, crying and throwing tantrums whenever they dragged her
out to the lap pool. Then they decided she should be a ballerina but her feet
were too big and clumsy to do a pirouette. After that came riding lessons – but
she was allergic to horses – and now, at the age when most girls were starting
college - she was practicing to become the next piano virtuoso. She was also
the star of her own reality show, Taming Tierney, produced by her billionaire
dad’s sports clothing company, Aram Evans LTD.
    And she was
sleeping with Istvan Rader, her piano teacher. The grungy cameramen followed
them around as if they were Brad and Angelina, immortalizing every chipped
fingernail and cranky diatribe, every good morning kiss and
goodnight/goodbye/good riddance – which happened quite a lot. Tierney loved her
loving but she still wasn’t sure she actually loved Istvan.
    Oh, he was
handsome enough with his fierce blue eyes, chestnut hair down to his shoulders
and a body worthy of sculpting for posterity but he had too many flaws. He was
arrogant, in his lovemaking, and his music, always made her feel she was
lacking in both. He humiliated her in front of the cameras, once went so far as
to throw a glass of vodka – with ice – in her face! The creepy producer, Bill
Weathering, welcomed the pianist’s bad behavior – knowing it would bring the
show those oh so high ratings he lived for. But Tierney fought him, threatening
to walk out until he had the footage removed. She was weary of being her
lover’s whipping post, and Weathering’s golden goose.
    “Can you hear
the perfection?” Istvan asked her in his smooth, deep accent. He was Hungarian,
born in Budapest . His life from the age of five had been about
the piano. He seemed to resent her for thinking she could start training at the
age of nineteen. Which wasn’t her idea, anyway - it was those damned selfish
parents of hers, needing to have a reason to be proud of her. You’d think her
being their one and only daughter was reason enough.
    “I hear it,”
she sighed, unimpressed.
    “You’re not
really listening. Where is your mind, Tierney?”
    “Someplace far
from here. Istvan, let’s grab Daddy’s jet and take off for some warm, wonderful
place! Just the two of us. If we could be alone, without the cameras and the
paparazzi maybe this relationship would grow into something good.”
    He stopped
playing. “It’s good now.”
    “For you,
maybe. Not for me.”
    “You just need
a good lay, Tierney. That always sets you right.”
    “Not this
time.”
    “Sure, this
time and every time. I know you too well.”
    She leaned back
into a soft purple sofa, rolled her green eyes. She was wearing a denim
miniskirt and an elegant but unadorned satin blouse, her shoes bright blue and
dangerously heeled. It was true, any other time she’d be naked and ready for
him in the blink of an eye – but something was different now. Some minute shift
had occurred in her universe – some change was on its way - and it had nothing
to do with Istvan – she could feel it. And it made her tingle all over with
fear and excitement, too.
    The midday sun was streaking through the beige linen curtains on the bay window,
highlighting the colorful modern furnishings and rich wooden floors of the Beverly
Hills bungalow they shared. Tierney had first made love to Istvan on
that sofa a year before. She met him at a crazy party in the Valley,