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“You have no tattoos,” he stated with the authority of a man who had seen every inch of her skin. “Why not?”
Because a tattoo was one of the few things her father had forbidden with an absoluteness that brooked no argument. Of course, his reasoning was as twisted as he was: In his world, easily identifiable features of any kind were to be avoided.
“I kept changing my mind about what image I would get,” she said with some truth. “Which led me to believe that something permanently etched on my skin wasn’t a good idea.”
What a contrast between the two of them. Gabriel’s roots were so deep that even if he left Caleva tomorrow and never came back, his dragon would still be perfect for him. She had no such touchstone.
“If I were holding a tattoo needle over your skin right now, what would you choose to have me draw?” He tapped her forehead gently with one finger. “The first thing that comes to mind.”
“A feather.”
“And why?”
“They’re pretty. Emily Dickinson said that hope is the thing with feathers.” She felt hokey saying that.
He was silent a moment. “I like your choice and your reason. You helped me find my hope again.”
Guilt jabbed at her with the reminder of why she was at the palace in the first place. Then he danced his fingers up and down her back, his touch light but sensual.
She lifted her head slightly. “Are you playing my spine?”
He pressed his fingertips firmly against her vertebrae, then pressed them again in a different pattern, and then changed their position again. “That’s the opening of ‘Leyenda’ by Albéniz.” He hummed the rapid, plaintive notes of a composition so famous that even Quinn recognized it.
“You didn’t play that tonight,” she said.
She felt a sudden stiffness in his body. “My technique isn’t yet adequate to handle the demands of that piece. I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”
“What I heard tonight was incredible.” She decided not to mention that it had gotten them into bed together. “Although I’m far from an expert, I think you will blow away…whoever you plan to ask for that second opinion.” She had almost said Alejo’s name before she remembered that Raul had told her about the tocaora. “But you can schedule your audition when you’ve had more time to practice your technique.”
“Dios! You sound like Raul.” Wasn’t that the truth? “I cannot wait any longer. I have already arranged to meet the great tocaora Marisela Alejo in New York in a couple of weeks.”
He turned them both so that they lay on their sides facing each other. “I had forgotten why I loved flamenco in the first place. It’s folk music, gypsy music. It’s meant to be sung and played and danced in cafés, not performed as an academic exercise. It should be felt.” He smoothed one hand over her hair. “I locked away my feelings after the kidnapping because I was afraid of their ugliness. But you can’t play flamenco without emotions. You gave me that again in more ways than one.” He kissed her with such reverence that she felt like a fraud.
“I heard nothing but beauty in your music.”
“Perhaps because I value it more now that I have experienced its opposite.” His mouth tightened. “Seeing Kodra face-to-face released something terrible that I can’t shove back in its cage. I need the guitar to wrestle it out of me.”
“Will Marisela Alejo judge you on your technique or your emotion?”
She felt the press of his chest against hers as he inhaled sharply. “I believe she will understand that emotion is more important. But I don’t know. That’s why I need to see her.”
“What if—” Quinn took his hand and cradled it against her shoulder. “What if she tells you that you aren’t good enough? Will you give up?”
His powerful fingers clenched convulsively around hers, nearly cutting off the circulation. “You are merciless.”
“Better to be prepared for the worst as well as the best. Then you usually get something in between.”
His grip eased, and the tightness around his mouth softened. “She won’t tell me that I should do a world tour the next day. I know that. If she says I’m not good enough, that my ear is gone, I suppose I will stop.”
“Why? Do you have to be the best tocaor in the world? Can’t you be good enough for your family and friends to enjoy? Doesn’t it mean something to bring a small group of people—people you care about—pleasure and joy?”
He pulled his hand free and flung himself onto his back, his gaze pointed toward the ornately carved and painted wooden ceiling. Maybe she’d pushed too hard.
The silence stretched. “I’m sor—” she began.
“No!” He held up one hand. “I need to answer that.” He found her other hand, interlacing their fingers and bringing it to rest on the hard plane of his chest. “My father is the keeper of our country’s past. My mother negotiates treaties and contracts to protect Caleva’s future. Mierda, my cousin is the next king. If I am going to refuse to go into the family business, I must have a compelling reason.”
He turned his head toward her, his gray eyes intense. “My father has fought my musical ambitions every step of the way. I found the strength to defy him only because I believed I could excel if I worked hard enough. If I cannot be one of the best in the world—” He shrugged, the movement making the sheet beneath him whisper. “I will not dishonor the crown by being mediocre.”
