Page 12 of The Devil’s Feather

“I take it you don’t ever plan to sell.”

“Someday my desiccated corpse will be found huddled over my piano.” He curled his long fingers into claws, raising them to his face, and I laughed. “It took years of research, labor, and far more money than it should have, but I am grateful I acquired this place before Art Levenson could defile it in the name of progress and sell it to the fucking Livelys.”

“Yeah, he would have ruined it for sure.”

Art Levenson was the developer responsible for the modernization of far too many gorgeous old homes and buildings; stripping them of all their personality. Strict historical building codes kept the outer facades intact, but the insides were fair game for the predation of tech bros trying to impress each other with their boring lack of taste.

Rafael set his empty glass down and gestured to the side table on my right. “Your book is interesting.”

A paper pad and pens rested there. Next to my book. Which was extensively tabbed. How had I missed that?

“Oh, fuck.” It slipped out of my mouth. “I’m scared of that much annotation.”

“Relax, I very much enjoyed this window into your psyche.” He smiled. “There is a ferocity in you crying out to be expressed. Confidence you do not carry on the surface. And a darkness you seem almost afraid to embrace, so you project it onto the dragon character.”

“Damn. Talk about reading. Nobody’s ever clocked me like this before.” I squirmed in my seat.

“I knew you had hidden depths. The book only confirms my suspicions.” That eagle-eyed stare pierced straight into my soul. “I like your sense of humor and your creative depravity. The notes are on the parts I enjoyed, and only for you. I remember everything.”

Everything?

Rafael’s face hardened. “You are considering testing me. Asking for a page number.”

“I…was, but I have a feeling that’s like the height question. You get it a lot, and it’s annoying. I’ll just trust you on your memory.”

His expression brightened with relief. “I knew I liked you, Elaine.”

“Did I pass another test?” My fingers itched, but I didn’t pick up the book. “Am I allowed to ask how your memory works? Is it photographic?”

“I have very strong recall, but my echoic memory—sound memory—is distinct. I read your book aloud to store it away.”

That beautiful voice read all my words aloud? Oh no, holy shit, that means he read the smut out loud too. My ‘creative depravity’. I made an impressed noise while internally freaking out.

“You blush easily. How charming.”

Between the amusement in his eyes and that sensual bass curling around me, I wanted to slide off the sofa into a puddle on the floor, but I stammered out, “I’d make a terrible poker player.”

He would be excellent at poker. I have no fucking idea what he’s thinking.

Rafael gave me that secretive cat smile. “Speaking of playing; may I play something for you?”

“Is this real life? Yes, always!”

He stood. Damn, I kept forgetting how tall he was.

“I know I invited you for drinks, but I wanted to give you this part of the tour first. I do not allow liquids around my instruments ever since one dumbass ruined my vintage Martin with his cheap beer.”

“Will I hear his beating heart under the floorboards if I listen carefully?”

“No, I bricked him into the cellar.” Rafael’s quick literary references thrilled my bookworm heart. “If you want wine, I will open it now so it may breathe.”

“Wine is great! Red, please. And I don’t blame you. My dad used to call me ‘Grace’ as a joke. Everything I own has a coffee stain on it somewhere.”

He took the tea glasses and disappeared, returning momentarily to lead me down a flight of stairs to a large, brightly lit room loaded with musical instruments. An unusually tall Steinway, festooned with microphones, dominated a corner beside the windows. Stringed instruments of all kinds hung from pegs on the wall or rested in stands.

“You play the violin?” It seemed way too small for him.

“Strings are like Romance languages.”