FascinatingRhythm Read online

  Fascinating Rhythm

  Lynne Connolly

  Nightstar, Book 4

  Hunter wants Sabina as much as ever. One night together six years ago made him want more but he walked away and she couldn’t come with him. Hot, sweaty sex to gentle, intense lovemaking, it’s all fantastic with her. Watching her as she moves against him only makes him hotter.

  Sabina tried to forget Hunter and that magical, sex-soaked night when he’d spoiled her for other men. When she’s offered an experimental operation to restore her hearing, Sabina might lose everything else—her job, friends and lifestyle—but she can’t live without the chance to hear what took Hunter away from her. Murder City Ravens, the band he loves so much. Wanting to get him out of her system, she sleeps with him again, but it only makes her want him more.

  A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Fascinating Rhythm

  Lynne Connolly

  Chapter One

  Strange to be home. As Hunter stepped out of his rented car onto the gravel of the drive outside his mother’s home, he paused and breathed in. Stockholm smelled like nowhere else. For him it had the aroma of happiness and grief, of uncertainty and confidence. If anyone wanted to know what that smelled like, he’d tell them crisp, clean, with an overtone of tar and for some reason, the tang of fish.

  Apprehension rose up and clutched his throat. He tipped back his head and breathed in deep. He needed to project contentment, confidence and power. In any case, he was only visiting for a few days. Not enough time for this place to get to him. He had to be in Malmö soon, so he could just say hello and leave.

  Reassured, he strode into the entrance hall, the black-and-white tiles a reminder of the many times he’d crossed them at various stages in his life. He’d thought of the place as timeless, but the comfortably sized house had seen some changes since he was last here. He’d noticed a new conservatory at the side when he’d driven up. Presumably the old one had finally fallen apart, or his mother had wanted a change.

  In the hall, someone had replaced the oak furniture with lighter wood pieces, probably beech. A low chest stood at the end with a full-length mirror to one side and a chair to the other. The stairs arched up, their graceful curve enhanced by the skylight above.

  He wasn’t alone.

  A woman stood with her back to him, black hair swinging down to her shoulders in a silky wave, light bouncing off the surface. She was about five feet seven, with a slender figure currently clad in a neat black dress. Legs apart, she bent over a table, intent on a book that lay open there. Very inviting.

  She hadn’t heard his approach. Not surprising in this house, but she might have felt the vibrations as he entered and decided to ignore him.

  Hunter waited, remembering the etiquette from his youth to give the other person a minute and not approach too close. His old self slid back so easily it almost frightened him. He stayed, enjoying the enticing sight.

  She stretched, reached above her head and that movement confirmed the sneaking suspicion in his mind that he knew her identity. What was she doing here? The last he heard, she’d been heading home to Iceland. He’d never expected to see her again, but he felt the familiar jolt in the region of his heart that said it was her. Or was that his groin? Fuck, everywhere.

  It couldn’t be her.

  She turned around.

  It was her.

  Her dark eyes widened in shock, giving Hunter a chance to pull himself together. He greeted her with an easy smile. “Sabina. Good to see you. Did my mother tell you I was coming?”

  She shook her head, her hair rippling around her face. One night he’d touched it, held it in his hand and dragged her to him for kisses. A suspicion crossed his mind, one that sent Mr. Happy into overdrive. Would she like to have an affair for a few days? Impossible to say. They hadn’t kept in touch and his exit from this house had hardly been dignified.

  She lifted her hands, her movements elegant and rapid. “It isn’t in her diary,” she signed.

  He spoke aloud. “She isn’t expecting me?” Sabina could lip-read, and she used to prefer it.

  She frowned. “You should sign.” She spoke with her hands and expressions, using Swedish Sign Language. She could use American Sign Language, French, Spanish, Italian and SEE, the simplified language many mixed families used. It was her particular skill. Interpreter.

  He sighed, not yet giving in. Still speaking aloud. “Why?”

  “You know why. Your mother prefers it.” She could speak too, but few people verbalized in this house. He wanted to hear her voice again.

  He’d renewed his acquaintance with ASL and SSL before he’d driven up here. The guys in the band thought he was mad until he told them what he was doing, then they’d asked him to teach them. Riku and Zazz in particular had watched him with fascination. Pity they weren’t here now to see how an expert did it, and he didn’t mean himself. He gave in, lifting his hands to communicate in the way of the house. “I’ll do it out of courtesy to her. Do you speak verbally still?”

  She shook her head again, her hair flying then settling back into place like magic. “Not in this house.”

  “Anywhere?”

  She bit her lip. “Sometimes.”

  He took a step toward her. She flinched back but regained her poise almost at once so he stayed where he was to sign. He detested that flinch. “I’d like to take you somewhere you can talk. I like your voice.” He paused, not sure what to sign next. Should he admit that he wanted her, that the sight of her small, exquisite breasts pushing under the fabric of her dress made him long to touch and taste? Probably not. But his cock stirred at the sight of her, and he was too honest with himself to refuse to admit it.

  This close he could see the glimmer in her eyes, their true color obscured by the shadow of the stairs. She raised her hand and shoved back her hair, lifting her chin to meet his gaze directly.

  Dark brown, sparks of gold lighting them, eyes like he’d never seen before on anyone else. “I will take you to her.”

  He refused to hide his renewed feelings for her any longer. “I missed you, Sabina. You were the only regret I had when I left.” He was signing faster now as the skill returned. Signing with someone was a different experience from doing it alone.

  The corner of her mouth flickered. A smile, he’d nearly made her smile. She appeared so taut, under a tension he didn’t understand. “I missed you too. Someone to talk to.” She lost the smile. “But you didn’t write.”

  “I thought you deserved a fresh start.”

  “You mean you did,” she shot back, fingers flying.

  His turn to shake his head. “No, I swear it. I—” He dropped his hands. How did he tell her how he’d felt when he fled this house? He couldn’t because he’d never worked it out properly himself. He’d run from it for years.

  Maybe this time he’d face his own fears. Or perhaps it didn’t matter anymore. He tried again. “I wanted to do something for myself. I’m sorry, I can’t explain it more. Not now.”

  She tilted her head to one side speculatively. “Perhaps being the only hearing person in the community made you feel bad.”

  She’d understood that part then. “That was part of it,” he signed back. He’d always had that sense of guilt, the only person who could hear the traffic or the sound of the sea. Until Sabina arrived. She could hear a little but her range was extremely limited and she was classified as deaf.

  He didn’t want to talk about why he left. “Is my mother at home?”

  “Did you tell her when you were coming?” Her hands slapped as she signed.

  “I couldn’t tell her the precise time. We flew in to Malmö and I have to go back there in a day or two. We’re doing a concert. The band.
Murder City Ravens.”

  “I know.” Now she smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile. “You made it. You’re a success.”

  Her smile touched him deep inside, in a place he usually kept clear of emotion. “I am. Thank you.”

  “And you have friends?” That query, with the raised brows. He remembered her expression so well.

  Few people would ask him that, or understand what it meant to him to have friends he didn’t have to explain anything to. They just accepted him as he was. “Yes I do. Good friends.” He’d started to make them when he’d arrived in London. Friends who understood and encouraged his passion for percussion. Unlike his family.

  She lost the smile. “Come to the office. I’ll see if she is there.”

  “Thank you.”

  The notion of meeting his mother made Hunter nervous. She’d always had that effect, but he thought he’d grown out of it long ago. It appeared not. He’d written from time to time, got letters and then emails back from her, but they’d kept it distant, hadn’t exchanged feelings and emotions, just dry records of events. Duty on both sides.

  He followed Sabina through a door on the right, to the wing that served as his mother’s offices and administration center. The sound of machinery greeted him, the hum of computers, the tapping of fingers on keyboards, the occasional ring of a telephone. The telephone was accompanied by a flashing light. No spoken conversation broke the hushed atmosphere. Nobody used their vocal cords here, even if they could. Respect, his mother called it.

  At one time he’d called it oppression, but he’d come to think differently. Making everyone sign meant everyone was on the same level, the hard of hearing, the stone deaf and the partially hearing. But not the hearing. Signing excluded most of them, like speaking Swedish in America.

  The three people in the outer office glanced up and then returned to their work. They didn’t know him, and why should they? They hadn’t been here when he left home six years ago, and he belonged to a world they could never inhabit. A world where sound came first.

  He wondered what would happen if he shouted something and splintered the silence. A childish impulse, and not one he was likely to indulge. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it either. He’d grown up in this house an only child, and sometimes wanted to hear himself, for want of anyone else.

  The room had several gleaming laptops and a PC tower in one corner. Modern computers had revolutionized the lives of the deaf.

  Hunter straightened his shoulders as Sabina led him to the inner sanctum, through another office that had an empty desk and a closed laptop reposing on it. He caught Sabina’s attention by waving. She turned around. “Yours?” he asked.

  She nodded and turned back. He should have known. The minute he’d entered the small but efficient office he’d sensed her perfume. She still used the same scent, light and slightly flowery, sweet without being cloying. He’d come across it in a few places, department stores and on other women, but Sabina made it her own. Her own feminine perfume made it intoxicating and endlessly seductive.

  He savored the gentle sway of her hips as she crossed to the door at the other end of the room. Standing back, he waited until she’d pressed the button that he knew operated a light next door.

  A white light flashed on the desk once, twice. Sabina glanced back and raised her hands. “Wait here.” She went in.

  After a minute, maybe two, she returned and left the door open. She beckoned to him. “She will see you now.”

  He held the door open for Sabina, inviting her in with him. He didn’t want to face his formidable mother alone.

  She was waiting, all five foot three of her, in front of her desk. Without hesitating, Hunter stepped forward and embraced her, planting a kiss on her powdered cheek. That scent took him right back to his childhood, when she’d come in to see him in her evening finery before going to some function or other. He seemed particularly fixated on scents today, or maybe two reminiscent ones had sharpened his faculties.

  He stepped back to give them both room to sign and addressed her in SSL. “It’s good to see you looking well, Mother.”

  She replied in her firm, no-nonsense style, her fingers moving only the necessary amount, her facial expressions slight but noticeable. “It is good to see you too, my son. How long are you staying?”

  “Two days, maybe less. I have to be in Malmö for a concert.”

  “Ah yes, your group. It is doing well?”

  “Very well.” He debated whether to tell her exactly how well and decided on it. She’d probably looked him up anyway. He didn’t tell her in his letters—it felt too much like boasting. He didn’t want to get into stupid competition with her, to see who was the best at something. “Murder City Ravens is one of the biggest bands in the world right now. We’re playing the largest stadiums on this world tour and filling them to capacity.” Not boasting. Fact.

  She frowned. “But how is your music going?” She’d never asked him that before, and he didn’t believe she really cared.

  “Well. Our new members have brought something different to our music. It’s very exciting. My trap is getting more elaborate.”

  “Trap?” She frowned as if he’d used the wrong sign for the word. Did she think he’d forgotten that quickly? After spending most of his life communicating that way, not a chance.

  “Drum kit. Only mine includes gongs, electronic equipment, maracas and other percussive instruments.”

  She gave a brief smile. “Well done.” That was it, dismissal. “I might come to see you this time.”

  He didn’t believe her now any more than he had in the past. Something more important always turned up. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with the hearing.”

  “It’s different. You will have a press conference, yes? It would be good for us to be seen together. I need more funding and I need to get people to understand that we are here and we’re not going away.” “We” being the deaf and hard of hearing.

  Campaigning already. It hadn’t taken long. Hunter felt mean for thinking that, but his mother effortlessly brought back the anger and the subsequent wave of guilt she always invoked in him. A complex circle, starting with her emphasis on her cause and her campaigns, going to anger that she wasn’t more attentive to him, followed by anger with himself for feeling it. And of course guilt. Guilt that he wasn’t deaf, guilt that he was taking his mother away from valuable work, guilt that he ever considered his own needs over that of others.

  He’d imagined the circle would go away once he’d grown up, but here he was, twenty-eight years old and feeling just the same. Like a child dragged in to explain his latest bout of bad behavior. “So you know how well the band is doing?” She must, to make that remark. Murder City Ravens had gone from moderately famous with a solid career in theaters and clubs to an arena band, top of the tree, world famous. Not all of that was welcomed by the members of the band but it did give them absolute freedom in what they chose to write and play and they were currently experimenting, preparing for their fifth album.

  Hunter played drums, sat at the back, his hair obscuring his face for much of the performance. When he removed his shirt, he did it so the audience could look at his chest and hopefully not at his face, but the tricks weren’t working anymore. People recognized him in the street sometimes, although not with the regularity that Riku, Jace and Zazz, the front men, were regularly mobbed. Their sax player, V, being a woman, could disguise herself more effectively.

  His mother smiled slightly and gestured with her efficient hands, nails trimmed short, blunt-ended. “It’s hard to miss it. Your concert was on the TV news yesterday.”

  Indicating that she hadn’t watched it specially. Despite his age and how hard he’d worked for his independence, a shard of pain sliced through him cleanly, leaving only a slight ache behind.

  He turned his head when he felt a touch. Sabina was standing next to him, and as he glanced down at where her hand had just brushed hi
s, he sensed she was looking back at him. He barely snagged her gaze before she returned her attention to his mother.

  “I would like to take you to dinner tonight, Mother.” He had no hope of her agreeing. And so it proved to be.

  She gave an exasperated shrug. “I cannot. I have much to do before the concert.”

  “Another night.” Signing had come back to him as if he’d never stopped, his fingers moving fluently. A little hesitation when he’d first arrived, but after that, it was as if he’d never left. Strange. He’d spent all his life bilingual, and for most of it trilingual, because he spoke English and American Sign Language too. A little Finnish, some French. He could only sign in Swedish and English. “I have had calls from journalists wanting to interview me because of you. I told them I must have equal space for the deaf separatist party, but so far they have not accepted. If you told them you would not speak to them unless they discussed the topic, that would help.”

  As usual, she’d put him in an impossible position. “I can’t, Mother.” Wouldn’t. “We have agreed to interview as a band, we rarely do it separately.” He took a breath. She wouldn’t like what he was about to tell her. “I will not ally the band to a particular political campaign. I will speak out for the rights of the deaf, but you know I don’t agree with deaf separatism.”

  “Why not?”

  This time he wouldn’t argue. She’d spend hours trying to persuade him. He fixed his gaze on her pearl necklace. “I think all people should try to live together. Not apart.”

  His mother smiled but her blue eyes remained devoid of humor. “I didn’t know I’d reared a hippie. Face reality, my son. The world is not fair and all we can do is try to make it equal. Or better.”

  “I understand. Call me.”

  “You mean text.”

  “Indeed.” She could call, she had the best technology money could buy, but this was another example of the separatism that she’d gradually adopted over the years. Hunter was, as ever, conflicted. A hearing man in a deaf world, he’d always seen both sides, but neither side thanked him for that. He’d also learned to keep his mouth shut.