“That’s one.”

“If you can do one, you can do another.” To prove it he pushed the bellows in and made a different note. “It just takes the wanting, and the practice.”

Experimentally she shifted some fingers around and winced at the clash of notes. “I think it might take some talent.” Then she was laughing again as he played his fingers over hers and made the instrument come to life. “And quick hands. How can you see what you’re playing?”

With the laugh still in her eyes, she shook back her hair and turned her face to his. The jolt around her heart was as lively as the tune, and not nearly as pleasant.

“It’s a matter of feeling.” Though her fingers had gone still, he moved his around them, changing the mood of the music yet again. Wistful and romantic. “What do you feel?”

“Like I’m being played every bit as cleverly as this little box.” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she studied him. Somehow their positions had shifted just enough to be considered an embrace. The hands, those hard-palmed, limber hands, were unquestionably possessive over hers. “You have some very smooth moves, Murphy.”

“It occurs to me you don’t mean that as a compliment.”

“I don’t. It’s an observation.” It was shocking to realize the pulse in her throat was hammering. His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered so that she could feel the heat, and his intention as a tangible thing. “No,” she said very quietly, very firmly.

“As you please.” His eyes came back to hers, and there was a subtle and simple power in them that challenged. “I’d rather kiss you the first time in a more private place myself. Where I could take my time about it.”

She thought he would—take his time, that is. He might not have been the slow man she’d originally perceived. But she had a feeling he was thorough. “I’d say that completes the lesson.” Determined to find some distance, she tugged her hands from under his.

“We’ll have another, whenever you’ve a mind to.” And indeed taking his time, he lifted his arm from around her, then set down the concertina to drink the last of his beer. “You’ve got music in you, Shannon. You just haven’t let yourself play it yet.”

“I think I’ll stick to the radio, thanks.” More agitated than she cared to admit, she rose. “Excuse me.” She went off in search of the rest room, and time to settle down.

Murphy was smiling to himself when he set his empty glass down. His brow lifted when he caught Maggie’s frowning stare.

“What are you about, Murphy?” she demanded.

“I’m about to have another beer—once Rogan gets back with it.”

“Don’t play games with me, boy-o.” She wasn’t sure herself if it was temper or worry brewing in her, but neither was comforting. “I know you’ve an eye for the ladies, but I’ve never seen that look in them before.”

“Haven’t you?”