CHAPTER ONE
She thought maybe she loved him. She
knew she loved the way his fingers danced over the piano keys as he played
Chopin. It was the same way they danced over her skin when he made love to her.
Tierney Evans didn’t know much about
love. Her parents had never loved her. She was just a shiny toy they held up to
their friends and said: “Look, see what she can do!” like they would a trained
poodle. At first, their big dream was to turn her into an Olympic champion
swimmer like her mother, Betsy. But Tierney soon proved to be a disappointment,
crying and throwing tantrums whenever they dragged her out to the lap pool.
Then they decided she should be a ballerina but her feet were too big and
clumsy to do a pirouette. After that came riding lessons – but she was allergic
to horses – and now, at the age when most girls were starting college - she was
practicing to become the next piano virtuoso. She was also the star of her own
reality show, Taming Tierney , produced by her billionaire dad’s sports
clothing company, Aram Evans LTD.
And she was sleeping with Istvan Rader, her piano teacher. The grungy cameramen
followed them around as if they were Brad and Angelina, immortalizing every
chipped fingernail and cranky diatribe, every good morning kiss and
goodnight/goodbye/good riddance – which happened quite a lot. Tierney loved her
loving but she still wasn’t sure she actually loved Istvan .
Oh, he was handsome enough with his
fierce blue eyes, chestnut hair down to his shoulders and a body worthy of
sculpting for posterity but he had too many flaws. He was arrogant, in his
lovemaking, and his music, always made her feel she was lacking in both. He
humiliated her in front of the cameras, once went so far as to throw a glass of
vodka – with ice – in her face! The creepy producer, Bill Weathering, welcomed
the pianist’s bad behavior – knowing it would bring the show those oh so high
ratings he lived for. But Tierney fought him, threatening to walk out until he
had the footage removed. She was weary of being her lover’s whipping post, and Weathering’s golden goose.
“Can you hear the perfection?” Istvan asked her in his smooth, deep accent. He was
Hungarian, born in Budapest . His life from the age of five had
been about the piano. He seemed to resent her for thinking she could start
training at the age of nineteen. Which wasn’t her idea, anyway - it was those
damned selfish parents of hers, needing to have a reason to be proud of her.
You’d think her being their one and only daughter was reason enough.
“I hear it,” she sighed, unimpressed.
“You’re not really listening. Where
is your mind, Tierney?”
“Someplace far from here. Istvan ,
let’s grab Daddy’s jet and take off for some warm, wonderful place! Just the two of us. If we could be alone, without the
cameras and the paparazzi maybe this relationship would grow into something
good.”
He stopped playing. “It’s good now.”
“For you, maybe. Not for me.”
“You just need a good lay, Tierney.
That always sets you right.”
“Not this time.”
“Sure, this time and every time. I know you too well.”
She leaned back into a soft purple
sofa, rolled her green eyes. She was wearing a denim miniskirt and an elegant
but unadorned satin blouse, her shoes bright blue and dangerously heeled. It
was true, any other time she’d be naked and ready for him in the blink of an
eye – but something was different now. Some minute shift had occurred in her
universe – some change was on its way - and it had nothing to do with Istvan – she could feel it. And it made her tingle all over
with fear and excitement, too.
The midday sun was streaking through the beige
linen curtains on the bay window, highlighting the colorful modern furnishings
and rich wooden floors of the Beverly Hills bungalow they shared. Tierney had
first made love to Istvan on that sofa a year before.
She met him at a crazy party in the Valley,
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