When I wake, it's still dark. I have no idea how long I've slept. I stretch out beneath the duvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore. Jessica is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, staring out at the cityscape in front of me. There are fewer lights on amongst the skyscrapers, and there's a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear the music. The lilting notes of the piano, a sad, sweet lament.

Bach, I think, but I'm not sure.

I wrap the duvet round me and quietly pad down the corridor toward the big room.

Jessica is at the piano, completely lost in the music she's playing. Her expression is sad and forlorn, like the music. Her playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the entrance, I listen enraptured. She's such an accomplished musician. She sits , her body bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the rest of the large room in darkness, it's like she's in her own isolated little pool of light, untouch-able... lonely, in a bubble.

I pad quietly toward her, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. I'm mesmerized watching her long skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how those same fingers have expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the memory and press my thighs together. She glances up, her unfathomable hazel eyes bright, her expression unreadable.

"Sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

A frown flits across her face.

"Surely, I should be saying that to you," she murmurs. She finishes playing and puts her hands on her legs.

I notice now that she's wearing PJ pants. She runs her fingers through her hair and stands.

Her pants hang from her hips, in that way... oh my. My mouth goes dry as she casually strolls around the piano toward me. Her abdomi-nal muscles ripple as she walks. Jessica really is stunning.

"You should be in bed," she admonishes.

"That was a beautiful piece. Bach?"

"Transcription by Bach, but it's originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello."

"It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody."

Her lips quirk up in a half smile.

"Bed," she orders. "You'll be exhausted in the morning."

"I woke and you weren't there."

"I find it difficult to sleep, and I'm not used to sleeping with anyone," she murmurs. I can't fathom her mood. She seems a little despondent, but it's difficult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece she was playing. She puts her arm around me and gently walks me back to the bedroom.

"How long have you been playing? You play beautifully."

"Since I was six."

"Oh." Jessica as a six-year-old girl... my mind conjures an image of a beautiful, copper-haired little girl with hazel eyes and my heart melts - a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music.

"How are you feeling?" she asks when we are back in the room. She switches on a sidelight.

"I'm good."

We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There's blood on the sheets - evidence of my lost ity. I flush, embarrassed, pulling the duvet tighter around me.

"Well, that's going to give Mrs. White something to think about," Jessica mutters as she stands in front of me. She puts her hand under my chin and tips my head back, staring down at me. Her eyes are intense as she examines my face. I realize that I've not seen her chest before. Instinctively, I reach out to run my fingers on her chest to see how it feels. Immediately, she steps back out of my reach.