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But this bass wasn’t a decoration or a toy. It was a working musician’s bass, not a museum piece. It had been played—a lot.
Finn knew how to play bass. My fucking instrument.
It pissed me off. It made me feel like I had just met someone aside from Neal Watts who spoke my language—except that Finn had never bothered to tell me.
I wanted to hear him play it. I also wanted to kick his ass. I couldn’t tell which impulse was stronger.
I put down the Yamaha and went back upstairs. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, trailing my hand over the dark-wood railing. This house was big, and the effect was spacious, as if the ceilings were higher and the corridors wider than usual. It was spare without being cold. It wasn’t a mansion; it gave the feeling of a place you could become familiar with if you stayed here long enough, rooms you would use.
I remembered that Finn and Alistair’s father had lived here while he was sick. There would be enough room here for a sick family member, for privacy. I passed a guest bedroom, made up neatly, and wondered if that was where Finn’s father had stayed.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar, and the shower had stopped running. I didn’t bother knocking. I just walked in.
Finn was standing next to the bed. He had just pulled on a clean pair of jeans, and he was buckling his belt. He was bare-chested, and his hair was damp. He didn’t look up when I walked in.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re too late to see me naked.”
“You wish.” My vision went a little hazy. I let my gaze travel the small of his back, the line of his spine, his arms flexing as he tugged on the belt. He wasn’t bulky with muscle, but he was lean and trim, graceful for a man, made for action. I stared at his stomach, the hair curling damply at the back of his neck, his wrists. His fucking wrists. They looked strong and capable. Why was I thinking about his wrists?
“Enjoying the view?” He picked up a clean T-shirt from the bed, still without looking at me.
“You have a nice ass,” I said.
“And yet you sound mad about it,” he commented.
I narrowed my eyes, even though he wasn’t looking. “Do you play the Yamaha downstairs, or is it just for show?”
Finn pulled the shirt over his head and finally turned toward me. He looked like he was considering an argument, and then he shrugged instead. “I play.”
“Are you any good?”
“Good enough to play alone in my basement. Not as good as you.”
“Obviously.” I said this with so much scorn that it made him grin.
Without thinking, I grabbed his left hand and pulled it toward me, inspecting his fingertips for calluses. He had exactly the right ones.
Our gazes caught. Were his eyes blue or gray? It depended on the light and on what color he was wearing. What was I doing, thinking about this?
Finn detached his hand from mine and picked up a zip-up hoodie from the bed. “You’ve snooped through my bathroom and my music room. Do you want to ransack anywhere else before we go?”
I had the feeling that my snooping hadn’t surprised him, that he’d predicted it. That maybe he’d planned it. That my inspection was the reason we’d come here in the first place.
I looked around his bedroom. “So this is where you bring your groupies?”
That got a laugh out of him—a real one, unrehearsed, tumbling out of him in surprise. His voice was musical when he laughed. In the hype all of those years ago, no one had given Finn any credit for his rich, whiskey-toned voice, a God-given instrument made for singing. I could picture him sitting in his music room, making music, recording it. That was obviously what that room downstairs was for.
What did that music sound like? I wanted to know.
“Behold,” Finn said, making a sweeping gesture toward his bed. “The pile of money I sleep on.”
It was a queen-sized bed, neatly made. This bedroom had hardwood floors, a rustic dresser with a mirror, a large window with neat blinds, double doors to a closet, a door to an en suite. It had been cleaned, dusted, and tidied, most likely by a maid service, because Finn could afford one. There was nothing about it that said den of sin.
I had the urge to pull him down onto that bed and mess it up, make him forget every woman he’d ever had in it. But, standing in this room, I didn’t think there had been very many. Finn wouldn’t indulge when his sick father was down the hall.
Then again, his father had died three years ago. Plenty of time to get back in the game, so to speak. He was rich and—I could admit it—fucking gorgeous. Finn could have anyone he wanted.
My gut said he wasn’t a player. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. I had fooled myself before, plenty of times.
