(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief Read Online Free PDF

there? It was everything to him, his music. Without it, what was he? Cary brushed the thought away, as he had done earlier.
    “If there is something I can do for you, please let me know.” Antonio looked genuinely concerned.
    “I’ll be fine. Really.” Antonio squeezed his shoulder, and Cary wished he could fall into those powerful arms. He imagined what it might feel like to bury his face in Antonio’s chest, to feel that body pressed against his own….
    Antonio pulled his hand away far sooner than Cary wanted, and stood up again, pillow in hand. “You need to get some rest,” he said.
    “Good night, Antonio. And thanks,” Cary added in a serious tone, “for saving my ass.”
    “ Sogni d’oro , Connor.” Antonio closed the door behind him.
     
     
    “ Z UMMM, zummm, zummm….” The sound grated on Cary’s ears, and he pulled an extra pillow over his head. He had been dreaming about something really nice, and…. He felt the sharp pain in his wrist and realized he had completely forgotten about the events of two nights before.
    “Zummm, zummm, zummm….”
    “What the hell?” he snapped in English as he threw the pillow off the bed with his good arm.
    From under heavy eyelids, he focused on a small metal airplane about three inches from his nose. The eyes that met his were a vivid blue—not Antonio’s, although the similarity in color was quite remarkable—and belonged to a child of four or five.
    “Who are you?” Cary demanded in Italian. He hated kids almost as much as he hated being woken up from a good dream, and this particular dream had prominently featured a certain blond Italian.
    The hand began to move again, making the toy airplane glide and bank. “Zummm, zummm, zummm….” The little boy, whose long blond curls ended at his shoulders, smiled at him.
    “Who are you?” Cary repeated, long past the end of his patience.
    “Who are you ?” the boy countered. Then, as if putting the pieces of a particularly complicated puzzle together, he said, “Oh. You’re Papà’s guest !”
    Papà?
    The kid was giggling now. “Is your name Corrie? No,” he said as he chewed his bottom lip. “Papà told me, but I forgot—”
    “Connor,” Cary supplied. Anything to get that high, squeaky voice out of his I’m-grumpy-don’t-mess-with-me-in-the-morning ears.
    “Connore! That’s it! Connore!”
    “Connor.”
    “Connore,” the boy repeated, again adding the final e . His face was screwed up in a frown, as if he were challenging Cary to correct him one more time.
    “Fine.” Who was he to argue with a bratty kid at eight in the morning?
    “I’m Massimo,” he announced with his chin held high. “Massimo Bianchi. I’m five years old. Almost six.”
    “Nice to meet you,” Cary answered, more out of resignation than politeness.
    “Daddy said you spoke Italian.” Massimo didn’t seem convinced. “He said you were American. I don’t think they speak Italian in America.” The expression on his face was defiant.
    “They don’t. I learned to speak it here, in Italy.”
    This seemed to appease Massimo. He shrugged and went back to buzzing Cary’s head again with the airplane.
    “Would you stop that?”
    “You didn’t say ‘please’,” Massimo said with an expression of calm irritation that immediately called to mind Antonio.
    “Would you please stop that?” Little brat.
    Massimo appeared to consider the question. Then, apparently deciding he was having too much fun to stop, he dive-bombed Cary’s face.
    “Massimo?” a woman’s voice called from outside the bedroom.
    “Don’t tell her I woke you up.” Massimo raised his eyebrows and bit his lip.
    “You didn’t say ‘please’,” Cary said with satisfaction. Chalk one up for the grown-up!
    “ Please , Connore, don’t tell her I woke you up.”
    The door to the bedroom opened, and a woman peered inside. “Oh,” she gasped, shooting a look of reproach at the little boy, “he woke you up, didn’t he?”
    “No,”