Why doesn’t he say something? Oh, it must be my turn to talk.

“That was mediocre. It’s my audition piece for Juilliard, but I’m waffling and I think I should play Kodaly’s Sonata for Solo Cello Opus Eight. Bach seems just a little too predictable. What do you think?”

OK, that was rotten. This guy probably doesn’t know Bach from Bon Jovi.

“The Bach. It suits you. The Kodaly I think too dark, too dramatic, too aggressive for you. Stay with the Bach.”

Jeez, it’s a sexy voice. British and raspy. I don’t recognize the voice. Who is this guy? I struggle to pick out more detail of my companion. He rises, and I can see that he tall, muscled, and graceful of movement. I wish I could see his face.

“Close your eyes,” says the voice on the intercom.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

I close my eyes. There is something so imperative about his manner that disobeying doesn’t seem an option. The studio door opens. There is the sound of bare feet against floor. The warm presence of a body moves into me.

“Don’t open your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you and if you open your eyes this will do you no good.”

“It won’t?”

My fingers tighten around the neck of the cello.

“No.” I feel the displacement of air that follows movement and then the heat of him even closer. “You are a very beautiful girl.”

“What?” I don’t know what to say to that.

I start to ease back but he stops me. “You are a very talented girl,” he whispers. “You are going to be remarkable at your audition. And you should most definitely play the Bach. It was flawless.”

I try to speak. His fingers touch across my lips to silence me. He leans forward and I am paralyzed just feeling his body near me. I haven’t even seen his face and I’m wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. His voice is a seduction. His words. The way he turns them on his lips.

He takes a deep breath. On my cheek there is the whispering touch of a fingertip. The skin is rough and hardened. The kind of harshness you get from years of working the metal strings of a guitar. But somehow he knows how to touch with them so they are like a velvet seduction. Like his voice. A little raspy. A little rough. A velvet seduction. His touch moves down my face to trace my lower lip. The play of him leaves me frantic and weak. He puts a light kiss on my forehead and then I feel him moving away.

NO! That’s wrong. All that just to kiss me on the forehead?

“Open your eyes. Don’t hit me. It was a kiss for luck.”

“I wasn’t going to hit you. It was a peck, not a kiss. Downright…”

Oh my god! He is crouched down in front of me and only inches from me is a face I’ve seen a thousand times from a poster hanging on my wall in my dorm room. He doesn’t look at all like he does in his music videos, and stepping out of the TV definitely improves him. I like him better this way: simple jeans, a loose fitting t-shirt and what is surely one of Jack’s worn long-sleeve flannels. Even if I didn’t own every scrap of music he’s ever recorded, even if I hadn’t seen every video, I would have been blown away just looking at his face.

Alan Manzone is beautiful. He has lustrous black, unkempt shoulder length hair. I don’t really like long hair on guys, but oh, on this guy it is perfect. It frames his face and softens the features that would have been too strongly carved without it, especially with those dangerously intense black eyes. God, they are true black. I’ve never seen such a thing before, and they’ve got giant iridescent irises flecked with shimmers.

He doesn’t move. I don’t move. He doesn’t speak. I don’t speak. OK, whatever game this is it is working very well.

I fight to recover from the shock of finding him, and realize he’s watching me and expecting some kind of reaction. He knows exactly what he is doing to me with his little drama and he’s enjoying it. His smugness reminds me of Neil and that makes my temper flare. Oh no, Mr. Sexy British Rocker, I am not going to play your game and make a fool of myself. Some other guy has already made a fool of me tonight.

I adjust my cello in front of me as I fight for something to say. It’s not easy. Those intense black eyes make it nearly impossible to string together words. “Well, well, well. Not what I expected. The voice was hard to read, but the kiss. Definitely confusing. It made me think you were old. But you are a surprise.”

“A good surprise?”

My heartbeat quickens. “I don’t know. We just met.”

Alan remains crouched before me. “Why are you so nervous about your audition for Juilliard? You must know that you are extraordinary.”

Am I really in my dad’s studio with Alan Manzone telling me I’m extraordinary? I swallow nervously and I think he is suppressing a smile.

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Just life jitters. I’m not sure of what I want to do. I’m not sure if I want to go to Juilliard. I’m not sure about anything. Today, I’m not even sure about the cello and it is my favorite instrument.”

“Well, you should be certain about the cello. You are remarkable.”

I blink at him, unsure what to say. There is something in his voice I can’t decipher at all. Is he being gracious, or mocking me? Toying with me or just making small talk?

I swallow as I stare into his gorgeous face. I search for words and then smile at him. “Are you an actor?”

Something flashes in his eyes too quickly for me to be certain of his reaction.

“Why?”

“This has all been very theatrical. You seem like an actor.”

His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disconcerted. “Sorry about the theatrical. I’m working on getting rid of that.”

“I didn’t suggest you should. Especially not if you’re an actor. I would think that would hurt your craft.”

“You can set aside your worry. Not an actor. A musician.”

I set the cello down in the case and hold out my hand. “How do you do? I’m Christian Parker.”

“The introduction is unnecessary. You look just like your dad. He likes to brag about you, in case you don’t know that.”

It’s just a lie, but it makes me happy that he went to the effort of giving me that. “You are not doing well getting rid of the theatrical. You seem almost committed to continuing it. When one introduces themselves the other usually does the same. Introductions are generally considered polite. Would you like to try again?”

He laughs. “I’m British. You do realize the absurdity of lecturing me about politeness?”

“Sure I do, Mr. Whoever You Are. But I don’t know who you are,” I lie.

“Really?”

His reaction is very odd. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.

I nod and struggle to maintain a deadpan expression. “Really. Nothing personal, but I’ve been locked away in a dark cell for eight years.”

“Prison?”

“Worse. Boarding school. I only get parole three times a year. Two months in summer, one month Christmas, three weeks Spring. It makes it really hard to keep up with the world. The last time I was out Reagan was President.”

“You haven’t missed anything. Not much has changed.”

I smile. “That’s good to know. I like Reagan. I’m going to miss him.”

“Well, any friend of Maggie’s is a friend of mine.”

“Maggie?”

“Margaret Thatcher. A great lady.”

“A great lady, but you shouldn’t say that in front of Jack. I don’t think I’ve heard any of my dad’s friends compliment Thatcher and Reagan on the same day. Interesting. And you must be someone to be sitting in with Jack’s gang on the patio.”

He shrugs and extends a hand. “I’m Alan Manzone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Well, Alan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. So what instrument are you extraordinary with?”

“Guitar. With this gang I play the drums. I don’t know if I’m extraordinary. I was just here when this started. No drummer. I was here.”

“Are you naturally self-effacing or is it just being British?”