reaches for another Bourbon.
“Hmph, your brother obviously doesn’t know you very well. If he knew where your interests really lay he’d have bought you whips and a set of handcuffs. Don’t you two get on?” The words slip out before I realise what I’m saying, and I look up tentatively.
To my relief Nathan is still smiling, leaning forward to pick up his mug. He takes a sip. “Me and my brother get on just fine, Miss Byrne, and I suspect Daniel has an idea regarding my ‘interests’ as you put it. I rather suspect he shares them—sort of a family failing you might say. But I already have lots of whips and handcuffs, as you well know. And now I have a guitar too. Which would you prefer to play with this afternoon?”
“Does he know about your whips and chains? Daniel?”
“I’m sure he does. And, Miss Byrne, it’s handcuffs, not chains. Although I prefer a nice piece of rope personally. You seem very determined to discuss my other toys. Should I fetch a pair of handcuffs for you, demonstrate how they work? Or would you rather play me another tune?”
In response I grip the guitar neck and bend over it again. Feeling a little of the same challenge I felt that first night at Black Combe I’m determined to use this opportunity to show off my skills, my talents. And quite consciously to manipulate the situation, if only to prove to myself I can. I want to play something sensual, sexy, arousing, and after a moment or two’s thought I settle for an acoustic version of Something , by George Harrison.
I have Nathan’s complete attention, as before. He leans back in the settee, his eyes never leaving me. Even though I never look up from the instrument I can feel his dark, brooding gaze on my bent head as I stretch my fingers across the neck of the guitar to form the chords, strumming softly. Eventually the soft melody ends and the last strains die away. Neither of us makes a move. Not wanting to discuss whips and handcuffs again, at least not for a while, I decide to try something a little more ambitious. This is a lovely instrument, responsive. I’ve become attuned to it, this might work.
I lean over the guitar again and start another piece, this time a classical melody but one made famous as a film soundtrack, as so many are. This piece is written for classical guitar and sounds superb when played unplugged. Under my fingers the sensuous, romantic, melody of Cavatina by Stanley Myers floats into the room, haunting, atmospheric. And it seems to fit the mood today quite well.
Nathan is listening idly, obviously content to let me strum away, but he comes to attention as I start this last piece, as he recognises it. His eyes are on me, I can feel them, intense, burning, even though I never take mine off the neck of the guitar where I’m carefully working the steel strings with my fingers. The fingering is complicated, and I’m playing pretty much by ear—I need to concentrate. The lovely, haunting melody fills the room, soars around us, caresses us. The passion and tragedy within the piece is drawn out by the nakedness of the delivery, just as it was intended. No frills, no fancy electronic treatment. Just me, a guitar and a beautiful piece of music.
“I recognise that, I’ve heard it before somewhere.” Nathan’s words are murmured softly as the last strains die away. I glance up, meet his eyes, which are dark, almost black. This time we’re alone, and I know what comes next.
“That was superb, again, Eva. What was it?” The question is voiced softly, Nathan leaning forward to gaze at me.
“ Cavatina , by Stanley Myers.” His blank look tells me he needs more. “It was the theme tune to The Deer Hunter .”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. A lovely piece, and played so beautifully. And deliberately? I think you know the effect it had on me, and what happens next?” I do, but still he makes no move. And then, “Is that how you think of me, Eva? As a hunter? A predator? Have I caught you?” The
“Hmph, your brother obviously doesn’t know you very well. If he knew where your interests really lay he’d have bought you whips and a set of handcuffs. Don’t you two get on?” The words slip out before I realise what I’m saying, and I look up tentatively.
To my relief Nathan is still smiling, leaning forward to pick up his mug. He takes a sip. “Me and my brother get on just fine, Miss Byrne, and I suspect Daniel has an idea regarding my ‘interests’ as you put it. I rather suspect he shares them—sort of a family failing you might say. But I already have lots of whips and handcuffs, as you well know. And now I have a guitar too. Which would you prefer to play with this afternoon?”
“Does he know about your whips and chains? Daniel?”
“I’m sure he does. And, Miss Byrne, it’s handcuffs, not chains. Although I prefer a nice piece of rope personally. You seem very determined to discuss my other toys. Should I fetch a pair of handcuffs for you, demonstrate how they work? Or would you rather play me another tune?”
In response I grip the guitar neck and bend over it again. Feeling a little of the same challenge I felt that first night at Black Combe I’m determined to use this opportunity to show off my skills, my talents. And quite consciously to manipulate the situation, if only to prove to myself I can. I want to play something sensual, sexy, arousing, and after a moment or two’s thought I settle for an acoustic version of Something , by George Harrison.
I have Nathan’s complete attention, as before. He leans back in the settee, his eyes never leaving me. Even though I never look up from the instrument I can feel his dark, brooding gaze on my bent head as I stretch my fingers across the neck of the guitar to form the chords, strumming softly. Eventually the soft melody ends and the last strains die away. Neither of us makes a move. Not wanting to discuss whips and handcuffs again, at least not for a while, I decide to try something a little more ambitious. This is a lovely instrument, responsive. I’ve become attuned to it, this might work.
I lean over the guitar again and start another piece, this time a classical melody but one made famous as a film soundtrack, as so many are. This piece is written for classical guitar and sounds superb when played unplugged. Under my fingers the sensuous, romantic, melody of Cavatina by Stanley Myers floats into the room, haunting, atmospheric. And it seems to fit the mood today quite well.
Nathan is listening idly, obviously content to let me strum away, but he comes to attention as I start this last piece, as he recognises it. His eyes are on me, I can feel them, intense, burning, even though I never take mine off the neck of the guitar where I’m carefully working the steel strings with my fingers. The fingering is complicated, and I’m playing pretty much by ear—I need to concentrate. The lovely, haunting melody fills the room, soars around us, caresses us. The passion and tragedy within the piece is drawn out by the nakedness of the delivery, just as it was intended. No frills, no fancy electronic treatment. Just me, a guitar and a beautiful piece of music.
“I recognise that, I’ve heard it before somewhere.” Nathan’s words are murmured softly as the last strains die away. I glance up, meet his eyes, which are dark, almost black. This time we’re alone, and I know what comes next.
“That was superb, again, Eva. What was it?” The question is voiced softly, Nathan leaning forward to gaze at me.
“ Cavatina , by Stanley Myers.” His blank look tells me he needs more. “It was the theme tune to The Deer Hunter .”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. A lovely piece, and played so beautifully. And deliberately? I think you know the effect it had on me, and what happens next?” I do, but still he makes no move. And then, “Is that how you think of me, Eva? As a hunter? A predator? Have I caught you?” The
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