Corinne wanted to look away, afraid he was capable of mesmerizing her, but instead she felt herself falling into the depths of his eyes. They were so beautiful, unlike any eyes she had ever seen. He was compelling her to answer him. She had to answer him because it was necessary to him. He made her feel that way. “You play absolutely beautifully. I’ve never heard anything like it. I want to hear you sing again.”
“You are C. J. Wentworth. You did not whisper a word about the famous C. J. who can make someone’s career with one of her songs.”
Color crept into her face again, and for a moment it was all he could do not to lean down and fasten his mouth to hers. She looked shy, yet so enticing he wanted to gather her to him and shelter her against his heart.
Corinne shrugged modestly. “I’ve had luck with my songs, but they’re nothing like the ones you and Desari compose. Your music and lyrics linger in the mind.”
“You have tapes of our gigs,” he accused, a faint grin stealing into his eyes.
She flashed a saucy little smirk at him. “They didn’t come cheap, either. I had to pay a fortune. The strange thing is, a few years ago I came across an old record. The band is called the Dark Troubadours, but the recording was made in the 1920s.” She studied his face, feature by feature. It was a handsome mask, giving nothing of his thoughts away. “Most of the dealers know I love rare recordings and that I’m willing to pay for them. When one of them sold me that record, I became obsessed with the music. Its different, incredibly beautiful, almost haunting. You should hear it, Dayan. When I first heard the name of your band, I thought there might be some connection and I had to hear your music. It took a long time and a great deal of money to acquire the black-market tapes. I know you aren’t the same band, but I swear, the similarities are amazing. The music is different, of course, of a different era, but the style, the way of playing is so like yours. I’ve listened to that record over and over, and I’d swear the musicians are the same. You know how you can listen and know who is playing just by the sound?” The words tumbled out of her in her excitement. She was speaking musician to musician.
He raked his hand through the dark silk of his hair, his intrigued gaze on her face, drinking her in. Devouring her with his eyes. That recording had been their one mistake. It had not occurred to them that technology would one day be able to identify individuals by voice. Fortunately, few of the records had been produced. They had quietly set about tracking down and destroying every copy. Obviously, they hadn’t succeeded. “Well, have you heard of them? Did you use their name deliberately?” Corinne demanded, the mystery uppermost in her mind. “You have to hear this recording, Dayan. I’ve studied music all my life and I have a great ear. I’d swear it was you playing lead guitar.”
“That’s because it is me,” he answered truthfully, allowing a mischievous smile to light the dark depths of his eyes.
Corinne blinked up at him. “So that would make you at least a hundred years old. You’re so very well preserved, Dayan.”
“Thank you.” He bowed slightly from the waist with a curiously Old World elegance that suited him.
“You’re welcome, although if you’re thinking of a relationship, I’m afraid it’s out of the question. I can’t possibly go out with a man who’s a hundred years old.”
His smile widened until his white teeth gleamed at her, taking her breath away. He reached out to brush a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, his fingertips lingering against her skin in a light caress. “When I look at you I can barely breathe,” he admitted starkly, melting her heart. “You are so beautiful.”
Corinne took a deep breath, trying hard not to allow the wild color to creep up her neck into her face. Someone had to be sensible. She tried not to look at him so she could think more clearly. “Dayan, I’m very pregnant.”