All the Way

He still raised his fingers to his nose and swore he caught her scent. Musk.



Spice. Honey. Heaven.



She’d begun having lunch with him at Mia Casa. A few hours in public gave her the security she needed, and kept him from trying to drag her into bed.



They shared food, work talk, and caught up on their past. A bond began to strengthen, until he’d find them staring at one another as if they wanted to both jump across the table. But he didn’t want to blow it.



The more time he spent with Miranda, the more he realized she was the woman to complete his soul. But Pop was right.



And Frank, of course.



No love confessions until he was ready to put a ring on it.



Or was that Beyonce? Too exhausted and confused to do anything else, Gavin nodded and walked out of the bar.



… The courier delivered the box at exactly five o’clock.



The message was simple: I’ll pick you up at seven.



Wear this.



Even as she curiously tugged off the top of the box, Miranda raged at his arrogance. A last minute command on a Saturday night? She could’ve had a food outing.



A date.



Anything.



What man assumed a woman was waiting for him to send her a box and a note stating to be ready in two hours? She stopped grumbling the moment she parted the paper.



The dress was magnificent. A deep velvet merlot, with a plunging neckline, she touched the heavy folds in hushed awe.



Her fingers trembled over the Gucci label. When she pulled it free from the box, it tumbled to the floor with an elegant train, the color bold and rich in the light. A sparkle caught her eye.



She lifted out a pair of diamond and ruby-studded shoes. Four-inch stilettos, perfectly matching the dress. Miranda sucked in her breath. The room swayed. How was this possible? Had he gone nuts? The smaller fabric box was the last item inside. She snapped open the cover and revealed a ruby drop necklace, flashing fire and ice in full- blown glory.



Miranda had died and gone to female heaven.



She sat on the floor amidst the box and its contents for a long time.



Did she send it back? Call him and yell? Call him and be polite? Or just go? Go.



Her adventure lay before her. She was still in control, and he hadn’t pushed the terms of their relationship since their physical encounter on the bar. He’d been the perfect, charming companion this week, inviting her to lunch every day and serving her with a quiet satisfaction she’d never experienced.



Amazingly, she’d find a few hours had crept by over a bottle of wine and she craved more. More of his wolfish grin, and sharp wit, and engaging dialogue. For the first time, he allowed her access to both his family and his inner soul.



He shared his teachings from India and talked of his work. Then he politely walked her to the door, kissed her cheek, and let her go.



A shiver of excitement ran down her spine. She’d wear the dress and the shoes and the jewels and then send them back.



Miranda ran off to get dressed.



Two hours later, she answered the knock on her door.



Gavin stood in the hallway dressed in a black tuxedo. Casually elegant, and comfortable in evening clothes, he cut a figure that made her mouth dry up and her heart slam against her chest. The man was a walking, talking sex God. Strands of hair were tamed neatly back, emphasizing the slant of his cheekbones, the dominant thrust of his nose, the sensual curve of his mouth. The scent of his cologne drifted around her like Opium and made her knees weaken. He smiled, his gaze probing every inch of her outfit, from the expanse of cleavage, to the wickedly high heels that allowed her to reach past his chin.



“My God. I don’t think I’ll get through this night in one piece.



You’re beautiful.”



His simple words hit hard. She smiled back, giddy at the pleasure carved on his face. “Thank you. I feel the same about you.”



He walked in while she grabbed a shawl and arranged it over her shoulders. “Did I get it right?”



Miranda swiveled her head and frowned. “Get what right? I still don’t know where we’re going.”



Disappointment gleamed in his blue eyes. “I’m sorry, I must have missed something. I wanted to re- create the evening for you.



The movie.”



“What movie?”



He shifted his feet in discomfort.



“Um, Moonstruck.



Remember you told me your grandmother loved that movie? Cher wore a red dress when she met Nicholas Cage at the opera.” He gave a half laugh. “Sorry, I suck at this. I’m taking you to the Met. To see Pagliacci.”



The world rumbled beneath her feet. She stared at him, helpless to move, the truth crashing down on her. “You did this for me?” she whispered.



“You watched Moonstruck for me?”



He pushed a hand through his hair.



“Uh, yeah, but it’s no big deal, Miranda. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Let’s go.”



He turned to go. With two quick strides, Miranda closed the distance and pulled his head down to hers.



She kissed him hungrily, starved for his taste and his touch and his hands over her.



He growled deep in his throat and kissed her back, his tongue plunging into her mouth and taking what she so freely offered. Slowly, he eased the pressure and pulled away. His voice came out ragged. “What was that for?”



She traced the line of his lips with her index finger.



“For the beautiful dress.



And shoes. And necklace.



For watching a girlie movie to make me happy.”



He grinned. “Man, that was worth it.”



She laughed and linked her hands within his.



The Metropolitan beckoned and wrapped around her like an old friend, its lush elegance and soaring architecture part of a dream. The massive fountain bubbled up multiple streams of golden water as if lit from within, and glass windows from sky to sidewalk tempted the onlookers with the illuminated crystal chandelier hanging front and center in the main lobby. The moon hung heavy and ripe, and the crowd lingered in the frosty air. They made their way into the lobby, mingling with the crowds dressed in beautiful long dresses and elegant suit jackets. Up the stairs to their own private box, glasses of champagne waiting for them behind the lush curtains.



Miranda shivered with excitement, her gaze greedily drinking in the huge vast space, with its famous domed ceiling clad in rich gold and red.



Carved figures hung with angelic grace, as if waiting to hear the music and come alive. Anticipation hummed through the crowd, and she savored the rush of adrenalin before a big performance.



“I’m not sure if you’ll like this opera as much as La Traviata,”



Gavin said, handing her a crystal flute.



“It’s not as classic as Rigoletto or Madame Butterfly.”



She took a sip and enjoyed the crisp bite of fruit and spark on her tongue. “To be honest, it’s one of my favorite operas.”



She smiled at his surprised look. “After you introduced me to Traviata, I began studying. When I got back from the Culinary and began working in the city, I became a member and saw every opera in the s e a s o n . Pagliacci resonated with me.”



“Why?”



His gaze shredded past the surface and probed deep. Miranda stared at the empty stage and tried to find the words. “It’s a rough, clumsy story, an opera within an opera.



When the Players come on stage and we first meet Nedda, there is an exuberance beating on the surface. But we begin to see past the gaiety, into her heart.



She is tormented—mad for her lover but terrified of her husband. A simple peasant girl, she’s raw and real, one of us, and not separated by the higher power of royalty. She’s stuck, and not brave enough to make a choice.



“She does not reveal her lover’s name,” he said.



“Even with her husband threatening her with a knife, within his own helpless rage, she protects the man she loves.”



“Yes,”



Miranda said slowly. “But in a way, she makes no choice at all.



She only calls his name as death nears. Does she die for him—for love? Or does she die out of fear, afraid to make the final leap?”



Her heart beat madly from his intense questions, sensing they spoke about something deeper beyond the opera. “Would you have chosen differently?”



he asked. “Run off with your lover and abandoned a loveless marriage?”



Sadness crept into her voice. “Three years ago, I would have said yes. I would’ve given it all up for love. Now, I’m afraid I understand Nedda so much better. I’d stay.”



“Because of your loyalty or your fear?”



She turned her head. His gaze snagged hers.



“Because I wouldn’t have made any choice.”



He didn’t answer.



Darkness descended and the theater quieted. The first strains of the music floated upward and filled every empty space.



Miranda sat back and let go.



The first half of the opera was a joyous clamor of instruments and singing and clumsy laughter. But a bigger story seethed in the background, the triangle of the young Nedda, the arrogant, enraged Canio, and her secret lover Silvio.



By the time Canio discovered his wife’s betrayal, Nedda refused to give up her lover’s name, even from his threats. The emotional intensity between Nedda and Canio built with each level of music, and Miranda leaned forward in her seat, waiting for the unstoppable conclusion. Canio’s final arietta rung true and clear through the theater, his voice rich with husky overtones, booming in madness and fury. He stabbed Nedda, who fell onto the ground, and who finally called out her lover’s real name with her dying breath. As Silvio rushed through the crowd, the knife lifted again, and Silvio fell to the floor next to his lover.



In the stunning silence of realization, Tonio, the friend who had set the whole chain of events into play, rips out the final line: “La Commedia e’ finita!”



The play is over! The curtain crashed down.



Emotions rioted and pounded for release, but she tamped down hard.



She would not cry, not with Gavin. Her promise to always try and remain in control stayed true. Using her breath, she steadied herself, the roaring notes of the music echoing in her head. The lights slowly came up, and she forced a smile.



“Magnificent. Everything I hoped it would be.”



He reached out and dragged a finger down her cheek. “But no tears.”



Her lips tightened. “No.



Not anymore.” Maybe with Andy, in the dark, at the opera. But not in Gavin’s presence. Never again.



Gavin nodded, a gleam of grief piercing bright blue eyes. She didn’t have time to ponder the startling emotion. He stood and donned his coat. Tucked her arm within his. And led her out of the theater.



He remained quiet as he guided her to the parking lot and retrieved the car.



The Mercedes pulled smoothly into traffic while they made their way back to her apartment. Miranda glanced over and studied Gavin from under heavy- lidded eyes.



Muscular thighs shifted in the seat as he pressed on the gas and dodged between the bulleting vehicles.



He drove with the same unconscious arrogance he brought to every action, guiding the black luxury car through a variety of traffic disasters with an easy grace.



Blunt fingertips wrapped around the steering wheel.



Miranda remembered those hands on her skin, remembered how he’d use all that intense concentration to make a woman experience earth- shattering pleasure.