Page 129 of Gabriel: Duke of Bencalor

Her ex­pres­sion had turned se­ri­ous. “When it comes to your mu­sic, you give too much weight to the opin­ions of other peo­ple.”

“Only the ones I re­spect.”

“Are you play­ing for them or for peo­ple like me?” Quinn asked. “I don’t care what Marisela Alejo thinks about your pi­cado. I want to be wrapped in the beauty of your mu­sic.”

There it was. What he kept for­get­ting no mat­ter how of­ten she re­minded him. When he played for Quinn, her body moved with the emo­tions he evoked. His un­cle, a man who needed a respite more than most, re­laxed into the sound of Gabriel’s gui­tar. He’d seen tears run down his mother’s cheeks when he played a song about love lost.

But he needed more.

He twisted un­der the seat belt so he could face her. “I will use my ti­tle and po­si­tion to per­suade stars to come to Cal­eva with­out a qualm. But when I am on­stage my­self, I want to be so good that no one ever says I’m only there be­cause I’m a royal duke.”

She sat silent for a long mo­ment be­fore she nod­ded. “I get that.” Her dark eyes turned vel­vet-soft. “But petty peo­ple will al­ways say ugly things, whether they’re true or not. You are the only per­son who can de­cide you’re that good.” She laid her palm over his heart. “You have to find that be­lief in­side you. No one else can put it there for you.”

She was right. He had caught flashes of his old con­fi­dence, mo­ments when he wanted to play no mat­ter what any­one thought, but they would slip away be­fore he could root them in his soul.

He cupped his hand over her lit­tle one, feel­ing the bumps of her knuck­les and the smooth satin of her skin. “When I was fif­teen, I per­formed a duet with Marisela at a char­ity event. Play­ing with her lifted me to a dif­fer­ent level, al­most to bril­liance, and for a brief, mirac­u­lous mo­ment, I saw what I might be­come.” He closed his eyes, con­jur­ing up the surge of re­mem­bered ex­hil­a­ra­tion. “I want to feel that again. I hope to feel that again. She is not my judge, as you think. She is my guide.”

“Does she know that?” Quinn asked.

“It doesn’t mat­ter.” He shook his head. “Don’t look so wor­ried, car­iño mío.”

Her gaze swept over his face like a search­light. “You are giv­ing a lot of power to one per­son you barely know.”

“Some­times you have to trust, as I have done with you.” He lifted her hand to press a kiss into the palm. “You have far more power over me than Marisela Alejo does.”

She yanked her hand out of his grasp. “You’re crazy. I’m a no­body.”

What made her pull away from him when he told her the truth? Was it fear that threw shad­ows over her face or guilt? He couldn’t tell, but he wanted it gone. “Let me show you how you rule me.”

He curled his hand around the warm, frag­ile skin of her neck, slid­ing his fin­gers into the soft hair at her nape so he could tilt her head up to him. Then he low­ered his mouth to hers.

Re­lief surged through Quinn when Gabriel stopped say­ing those won­der­ful, ter­ri­ble things about her and kissed her in­stead. She twisted un­der the seat belt so she could get closer to him, open­ing her mouth as his tongue teased along the seam of her lips.

“You may un­fas­ten your seat belts now.” The pi­lot’s mod­u­lated voice came through the speaker.

Quinn yanked open the buckle just as some­one loudly cleared his throat. She jerked away from Gabriel to find the stew­ard, Isaac, hov­er­ing just be­yond their seats. A flush climbed her cheeks even as she no­ticed the de­li­cious aroma of ba­con waft­ing through the cabin.

“Dis­culpe, ex­cuse me,” Isaac said, his tone care­fully neu­tral. “I won­dered if you would like to have break­fast now, Don Gabriel, Señorita Pier­son.”

Gabriel ap­peared un­both­ered by be­ing in­ter­rupted mid-em­brace. He’d prob­a­bly had it hap­pen so of­ten in his ser­vant-en­gulfed life that he didn’t even no­tice it. “Not right now, Isaac,” he said. “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

Isaac gave a lit­tle bow. “Of course, Duque.” He turned and walked to­ward the front of the plane.

Gabriel stood and of­fered his hand to Quinn, his eyes lit with the same lust that had seared through her be­fore Isaac showed up. “Would you care to ac­com­pany me to the tail? There’s a very com­fort­able bed there.”

She glanced in the di­rec­tion Isaac had walked to see that he had dis­creetly dis­ap­peared.

“With a bed­room door that locks,” Gabriel added.

She set aside her ner­vous­ness. “I’ve al­ways wanted to join the mile-high club.”

“I will be hon­ored to ini­ti­ate you.” His voice had dropped to a vel­vet bass of pure se­duc­tion.

Plac­ing her hand in Gabriel’s, she rev­eled in the power of his grasp as he pulled her up­right. He stepped back and ges­tured for her to pre­cede him down the aisle. A thrill of an­tic­i­pa­tion zinged through her as she walked past the big leather seats ar­rayed along the cabin, two of which had gui­tar cases buck­led se­curely into them.

When they reached the bed­room door, he twisted the han­dle and pushed the door open. She stepped into a small but lux­u­ri­ous space pan­eled in blond bird’s-eye maple and car­peted in swirls of var­i­ous greens. A sleek, mod­ern ver­sion of a sleigh bed dom­i­nated the room, but what drew her gaze was the royal coat of arms painted on a large plaque that hung above the head­board.

“Oh. My. God,” she breathed. “The king has slept in this bed, hasn’t he?”

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