The Shy Bride Read Free

raced through her mind.
    Would Neo Stamos himself be standing there, or his PA? Or maybe a bodyguard, or chauffeur? Did billionaires talk to their piano teachers, or keep underlings around to do that for them? Would she be expected to teach with others in the room? If he had them, where would his bodyguards and chauffeur wait during the lesson? Or his PA?
    The thought of several people she did not know converging on her home made Cass feel like hyperventilating. Shewas proud of herself for continuing down the narrow hall to the front door of her modest house.
    Maybe he was alone. If he’d driven himself, that opened another host of worries. Would he feel comfortable parking his expensive car in her all too normal neighborhood in west Seattle? Should she offer the use of her empty garage?
    The bell rang a third time just as she swung the door open. Mr. Stamos, who looked even more imposing than he did in his publicity photos, did not appear in the least embarrassed to be caught impatiently ringing it again.
    “Miss Cassandra Baker?” Green eyes, the rich color of summer leaves, set in a face almost overwhelmingly attractive in person, stared at her expectantly.
    She tilted her head back to meet the dark-haired tycoon’s gaze. “Yes.” Then she forced herself to make the offer she would have to any other student. “You may call me Cass.”
    “You look like a Cassandra, not a Cass.” His voice was deep, thrumming through her like a perfectly struck chord.
    “Cass is what my protégés call me.” Although referring to this man as a protégé struck her as decidedly off.
    As if he found the term as incongruous as she, his perfectly formed lips quirked at one side. Though it could not be called a true smile by any stretch. “I will call you Cassandra.”
    She stared at him, uncertain how to take his arrogance. He didn’t appear to mean anything by it. His expression said he believed it was simply his prerogative to call her by the name he felt suited her, rather than the one she used with the few people she had regular, ongoing communications.
    “I believe it will be easier to start the lesson if you let me inside.” His voice was tinged with impatience, but he did not frown.
    Nevertheless, he made her feel gauche and lacking in manners. “Of course, I…did you want to park your car in the garage?”
    He didn’t even bother to glance over his Armani-clad shoulder at the sleek Mercedes resting in her driveway before shaking his head, a single economical movement to each side. “That won’t be necessary.”
    “Okay, then. Let’s go inside.” She turned and led the way to the piano room.
    It had been the back parlor when the house was first built in the late nineteenth century. Now it served beautifully to house her Fazioli and practically nothing else. There was a single oversized Queen Anne-style armchair for the use of her rare guests, with a tiny round side table, but no other furniture cluttered the room.
    She indicated the wide, smooth piano bench, the same exact finish as the Fazioli. “Have a seat.”
    He did as she suggested, looking much more relaxed in front of the piano than she would have in his high-rise office.
    A few inches over six feet, he was tall for the bench, and yet he did not look awkward there.
    His body did not have the lithe grace or, conversely, the extra weight around the middle of most male pianists she knew, but was well-honed and very muscular. His hands were strong, with long but squared fingers bearing the wrong calluses for a pianist or a billionaire, if she were to guess it. His suit was more appropriate for a boardroom than her music room, and yet he did not look ill at ease in the least.
    Perhaps the sable-haired, superrich Adonis simply did not have the awkward gene like normal people.
    “Can I get you anything to drink before we begin?”
    “We have already spent several minutes of the hourallotted for this lesson, perhaps you would find it more efficient to dispense