Part 173 (1/2)

Then there was her father's custom-made Gibson. The absolutely plain,

working man's guitar with its simple black strap. Not a frill, not a

flash. But the wood gleamed, pale gold. And when the strings were

plucked it had a tone that brought tears to your eyes.

Lowering her camera, Emma stroked a gentle hand down the neck.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed it back quickly when she heard the music. For an instant,

she'd thought her touch had brought the guitar to life. Feeling

foolish, she glanced stage left. There was music, and it did indeed

sound like magic.

Quietly, she crossed the stage, and followed it.

She saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor outside a dressing room.

The music echoed, haunted the hallway. His long elegant fingers

caressed the strings, slid over them like a lover while he sang softly,

for himself ”While you slept I lay awake / Moonlight streamed across

your face, played in your angel hair / While I watched you sighed my

name and wishes did I make / That I could creep into your dreams, stay

forever with you there.”

His voice was warm and soft. As he bent over his guitar, his dark blond

hair dipped to hide most of his face. She didn't speak, afraid to

disturb him, but she crouched and lifted her camera. When he glanced up

at the click of the shutter, she lowered it.

”I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

His eyes were gold, like his hair. They met hers, and held. His face

suited his voice. It was poetically pale, smooth, the gold eyes longly

lashed. His full, sculpted lips curved, shyly, she thought.

”No man's going to think of you as an interruption.” He continued to