Excerpt of Ariadne?s Thread by Marie Treanor

Abandoning Beethoven, she began the most difficult piece she had ever played, Christopher Maxwell's "Sonata in F".

It was a beautiful, evocative piece that made her think of bubbling streams and high mountains, the sort of wild nature you didn't get in the city. It had brought her peace in the past, along with fresh excitement in life, and powerful, reasonless happiness. In this particular situation, she hardly lost herself in the music. She was in the house of people she was helping to rob. She had to play extremely quietly while listening for sounds of approach. Her nerves jangled, and she had to ignore the creepy, guilty feeling of being observed that had freaked her when she first sat down. Besides which, she'd forgotten some of it and had to improvise.

With a frustrated gasp, she dragged her hands upwards off the keys as if they'd been burned. Enough of this, Ariadne!

Twirling round on the stool, she leapt to her feet--and faced the man standing in the open doorway.

"Fuck!" she uttered before she could prevent it.

It wasn't Jim, or even Shug. Dimly lit from behind as well as from the piano lamp, she had only the impression of a large man in a kilt, arms folded as he leaned against the doorframe to watch her.

"Before we've been introduced?" he enquired.

His voice was Scottish, but only just. The sort that would be considered English where she came from. Worse, it was deep and low, with a devastating timbre that vibrated right to the bits you didn't want to think about while trespassing with criminal intent.

To her alarm, he pushed himself off the wooden frame and came toward her. His kilt swung round good, strong legs--stop looking at his legs!--as he walked, leisurely and graceful as a big cat. He was tall, rumpled as you'd expect of any self-respecting New Year reveler, tieless, his kilt and unbuttoned jacket crushed, shirt open askew at the throat, his dark, curly hair falling in wild disorder across his forehead. Black eyebrows stretched upwards in straight, dramatic lines from the bridge of his nose--devil's eyebrows--and beneath them, intense, unquiet brown eyes regarded her without blinking. Shadows lurked beguilingly below finely sculpted cheekbones. His nose was slightly hooked, adding a predatory air to already Byronic good looks.

He didn't look happy.

It was only willpower that prevented her climbing backwards across the stool to get away from him.

Releasing her gaze, his dropped to the region of her lips, flickered lower across her body and back up to her face. Surely that wasn't a lustful gleam in his eyes now? Trick of the light… In fact, he looked thoroughly pissed off.

"Or have we?" he asked sardonically.

Addie found her voice at last. "Have we what?" she demanded with more aggression than she'd intended.

"Been introduced."

Christ, I hope not!