All works Copyright Ann Regentin

The Dream Ring - Buy Now

Achim ran. It was how he started every day, wearing out the leather of his shoes in the fastest pace he could sustain, covering miles of ground before he circled back to home, wherever home happened to be at the time. Then his real training began, daily rehearsals of punishing physical routines, pushing himself as close to perfection as it was humanly possible to get.

Achim's body was his livelihood. He was performer, his job was to thrill, to make the impossible real, and he needed his body to be as strong and quick as possible. For a man in his profession, he was getting old, and he fought it hard with his daily runs, keeping top form so that when night fell, his routines were easy.

He had never imagined that he could love something so much. Raised to see affection of any kind as a weakness, he was astonished when he fell into work that felt like play. He had not run away to join the circus, as so many boys apparently dreamed of, but when the circus found him, he knew he'd found his true home. Anything the troupe master would teach him, he learned in record time and the routines he developed on his own had helped make them famous. He was living life drunk on it, and he didn't want anything to change that.

So he ran harder, trying to clear the fog in his mind. He didn't need it. He couldn't afford it. It was about the worst thing he could think of to have happen, but there didn't seem to be much he could do about it except scale back ever so slightly. So far, nobody had said anything but if it went on much longer, people would start to notice. That could not happen.

The problem was that Achim could not sleep, not enough at least, he kept having dreams of a girl with midnight hair and eyes the color of spring leaves. She was always bent over a loom, weaving. It was an incredible piece of machinery, her loom, larger and more complex than he'd ever imagined they were. For that matter, he'd never given much thought to the clothes he wore, to how they were made, and watching her fascinated him. It was like dancing. Her entire body moved with it, from head to toe, and she knew every pedal and every thread she used, going from one thing to another without having to look or think. She even sang under her breath, a soft, soprano chant in time with the movements of her hands and feet, and he felt good watching her, watching this slip of a girl with this great device, watching the pale satin grow under her graceful hands. Ordinarily he just watched like that until the dream faded, but that night, she looked up and everything changed. She saw him, really saw him, her eyes widened with confusion and surprise.

Aural Sex - Buy Now

Max Schwarz put his fingers on automatic pilot while his eyes wandered over the orchestra. In three days, he'd be playing a concert with these people, his fourth in America, and this was his way of getting to know them. Mostly it consisted of snap judgments based on how they played in rehearsal.

Or conducted. Chicago's conductor wielded the baton as if he were fending off wasps, swatting each beat out of the air as he braced for the one that would follow. He gave his cues as if he were stabbing attacking bears, jabbing right into the heart of the section so no mistake could be made as to who was supposed to be playing when. Max actually flinched the first time he was on the receiving end of this, and had to remind himself that it wasn't him, it wasn't personal. The orchestra simply went on playing, and Max wasn't sure if they couldn't have cared less or if they understood that the music was master and not the man with the baton.

The orchestra. The first flute reminded him of his ex-wife. The first violin hated him, but that was natural. Second cello was paying no attention to him whatsoever. Her eyes were glued to the conductor. Sleeping with him? Probably.

Second bassoon. Hmmm. Round face, pointed chin, hair pulled back, lips wrapped tight around her reeds. She really felt what she was playing and he wondered why she was second to a man who looked like he was playing a two-by-four. He watched her for a few minutes, then something in the back of his mind let him know that he had a solo.

He turned his brain back on, but he kept an eye on the bassoon player. She was watching him over her stand, listening, smiling. She liked the music at least. Maybe she liked him, too. He certainly liked her, but he wasn't sure what to do about it, or even if he should do anything. He'd be in Chicago for only two more nights.

After rehearsal, the conductor took his hand. "Well done," he said, sounding surprised, as if he hadn't heard the CD of Max playing this very piece live in Vienna. Whether because of Lucas, Max's manager for this tour, or his own innate caution, the conductor had chosen music that he knew Max could play in his sleep. This would be a good show at any cost. "A few of us are having drinks," the man added. "Would you and Lucas like to join us?"

"I'd love to. I don't know about Lucas." He hoped not. He and his manager had taken an instant dislike to each other that seemed to get worse with every passing day.

"I'll ask him. You can ride with me."

"Thanks."

Lucas did want to go but so did a fair number of others, so Max was able to dodge the man by surrounding himself with fellow musicians. He'd been right, at least, about the second cello. She hung happily on the conductor's arm and on his every word, but the best part was ending up next to the second bassoon. Up close, she was even more appealing. Her jeans hugged her hips and accentuated her small waist. Auburn wisps and curls framed her face, a sprinkling of freckles spilled over her nose, and her eyes were a deep, startling violet. The tympani player sat on the other side of her, a bit protective perhaps, but she turned toward Max instead and offered her hand. "I'm Bianca," she said. "It's an honor and a pleasure to play with you."

"Thanks," he said. Her hand felt just right in his, soft and warm. "It's an honor to be here."

"Have you been to America before?"

"No," he said.

"How do you like it?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I've been too busy to see much of it."

"That's a shame," she said. "Where have you been so far?"

"Boston, Philadelphia and Detroit," he said.

"I've never been to any of those places, so I can't tell you what you're missing."

"What am I missing here?" he asked.

"Lots," she said. "There are loads of museums and a great aquarium." Then she grinned. "We even have a German U-boat."

"You do?" That was news. Then again, he was no historian.

"Yes. U505. It was brought here after the war."

"I didn't know that," he said.

"I took my son to see it when he was younger."

"You have a son?" He hadn't seen a ring on her finger.

"Yes, Ben. He's fourteen and just starting his first year at boarding school."

"Boarding school?"

"An arts academy in Michigan. He was on tenterhooks before he got his acceptance."

"Is he a musician?"

"No, an actor."

"Do you have a picture of him?"

"Yes." She dug through her purse for her wallet and pulled out a small photo of a strikingly handsome boy in an elf costume. "That's from A Midsummer Night's Dream last summer. He played Puck."

"That's quite a big role," Max said, impressed.

"His biggest so far," she said. "He's been acting since he was six, when he got a bit part in a community production of Oliver Twist . He has his eye on Juilliard."

"Will he make it?"

"He'll die trying. Do you have kids?"

"Yes," he said. "Two."

"Are they boys, or girls, or one of each?"

"One of each." They suddenly sounded boring and spoiled compared to Bianca's son.

"Do you have pictures?"

He got out his wallet. "That's Angelika and Leo."

"Oh, she's lovely! She looks just like you." Bianca leaned into Max as she peered over his arm and he smiled at the compliment and the touch. "How old is she?"

"Angelika is twelve. Leo is fifteen."

"He looks a bit like Heathcliffe," she said. "I bet the girls just love him. Are you married then?"

"Divorced."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you," he said. Actually, it was nice to be with someone who didn't know all the gory details. "It was a few years ago. And you?"

"Ben's father and I split up when I was pregnant," she said. "I've been more or less on my own ever since."

"So long?" he asked, surprised.

She grinned. "More or less. I've been a little busy."

"Don't you get lonely?" That seemed like an eternity to Max.

"Sometimes. But being with Ben's father taught me that it's better to be alone than to be with the wrong person."

For a moment, Max had nothing to say. He'd known so many women who were looking for Mr. Right-Now that the idea of one who didn't want or need that surprised him. Was she frigid, or maybe afraid of men? He wouldn't have thought so. Her smile was wide and warm and her eyes sparkled with hidden mischief. Too attached to her son? No, he was in boarding school. Could she really be what she appeared? He barely dared to hope. "Do you like your life?" he asked, then felt his face go hot. This wasn't normal German honesty. It was tactless past the point of rude, but he needed to know more than he needed anything else.

"Yes," she said softly, and when she looked at him, her eyes were wide with wonder and even a trace of pity. "I have a good life. I like it very much."

Those few sentences opened a door into her that he both wanted to fling wide and slam shut. He could see, as if on a movie screen, everywhere she had been, everything she had done and that had been done to her, good and bad. Part of him, the protective chivalrous part, was dead certain that if he opened his arms to her, she would come to him and let him soothe away the rough edges. Another part, the mean cowardly part, knew that if he did, she would see into him the way he now saw into her, and he wasn't sure he wanted that. He wanted to be better for her than he thought he was.

He would leave Chicago in a few days and never see her again. He blew hot and cold on that thought until closing time.