Diamond in the Rough Read online

  Forbidden fruit never tasted this sweet…

  “Swoon-worthy, forbidden, and sexy, Liam North is my new obsession.”

  – New York Times bestselling author Claire Contreras

  The world knows Samantha Brooks as the violin prodigy. She guards her secret truth—the desire she harbors for her guardian.

  Liam North got custody of her six years ago. She’s all grown up now, but he still treats her like a child. No matter how much he wants her.

  No matter how bad he aches for one taste.

  Her sweet overtures break down the ex-soldier’s defenses, but there’s more at stake than her body. Every touch, every kiss, every night. The closer she gets, the more exposed his darkest secret. She’s one step away from finding out what happened the night she lost her family.

  One step away from leaving him forever.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Excerpt from Concerto

  Excerpt from Escort

  Books by Skye Warren

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Beethoven would count out exactly sixty coffee beans each time he had a cup.

  SAMANTHA

  The whir of the espresso machine lures me downstairs.

  I’m not naturally an early riser, especially on a Saturday, but Liam always waits for me. The food could get cold, but he’d still be there, with his newspaper and his endless patience and his deep green eyes.

  He gives me a small nod in greeting.

  Only the sound of foaming milk breaks the morning quiet. There’s avocado toast with walnut oil and fresh lemon juice at my place. On the other side of the table, scrambled egg whites and steamed broccoli. A ritual we’ve shared for the past six years…

  And it’s going to end in a matter of weeks when I graduate high school.

  When I turn eighteen. When I leave for the music tour that will take me around the country and across the globe… away from the man I’ve come to need more than I should.

  “The interviewer from Classical Notes should be here at noon,” he says, handing me a steaming mug with Earl Grey and lavender and a liberal splash of cream. He would never use anything as sweet and unnecessary as cream in his own drinks, but thankfully he’s never controlled what I eat. He only controls everything else.

  The reporter is doing a profile on me for the magazine. The famous child prodigy. Ugh. That’s the last thing a seventeen-year-old girl wants to be called—a child.

  I’m almost an adult now, but the label follows me around.

  I take a fortifying sip of the hot liquid, closing my eyes against the burn. When I open them again, Liam looks at me with a strange expression. That’s when I realize I let out a moan of pleasure. “Sounds good,” I say a little too brightly, trying to cover my embarrassment.

  He clears his throat and takes a seat at the head of the table. “Right. Well. I doubt the interview will take very long. I’ll let him know you need to practice.”

  A strange thrill moves through me. Defiance? Not exactly, but I feel energized all the same. He doesn’t have to protect me anymore. And soon he won’t have the right. The tour is going to change everything for me—and between us. I look forward to it as much as I dread it. “I do need to practice, but you don’t have to rush the interview.”

  “Remember,” he says as if I hadn’t spoken. “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t like. If a question gets too personal, I’ll step in.”

  My cheeks heat. Of course I know why he’s being so protective. There were some disastrous interviews when I was six, seven, eight years old. Daddy didn’t care to be in the room with me. Some of the questions would be inappropriate or downright aggressive. The classical music world is basically a viper’s nest, and child prodigies are regarded with a mixture of awe and distrust.

  And then there was the interviewer from a national newspaper. He had been ushered into the drawing room and left alone with me for thirty uncomfortable minutes, where he coaxed me to sit on his lap and nuzzled my neck. Daddy’s aide found me crying in a closet hours later.

  All of that is in the past. I’m no longer a scared little girl.

  I shrug as if it doesn’t bother me. “These classical music reporters ask the same questions. Who’s my favorite composer? Who do I want to play with in the future?”

  Liam’s stern expression doesn’t waver. No doubt he remembers how I had trembled before the first interview, shortly after he got custody of me. I’d brokenly shared the story with him. At the time I was too afraid that he would give me away if I didn’t tell the truth, to make anything up. So I told him about the reporter who held me on his lap. From that moment on I never did an interview alone. Liam is always there, always protecting me.

  “Who do you want to play with?” he asks, his tone mild. As if he hasn’t heard me wax poetic about my favorite violinists and maestros for years.

  “I should say Harry March.” He’s the celebrity tenor headlining the tour. The rest of us have notoriety only in the classical music world. Harry March, with his crossover pop songs and playboy lifestyle, is basically a household name.

  “You should say whatever’s the truth,” Liam counters.

  “Well, I am excited about the tour.” And I’m aware that the only reason I got the soloist spot is because the famous solo cellist on the Billboard Top 100 was Harry March’s lover—until their dramatic breakup that was covered by TMZ. “It’s an incredible opportunity, especially considering I haven’t been touring.”

  My cheeks flush because I hadn’t meant to say that. It sounds like an accusation, even though it isn’t. Well, not exactly.

  Liam is the reason I haven’t been touring.

  “Because you wanted a well-rounded education,” he says.

  “Right.” The word comes out hollow because it doesn’t really matter what I think. Or at least it didn’t matter for a long time. If Liam had said I wanted to be a circus clown, I would have gone along with it as a scared twelve-year-old girl. All I’d wanted was a place to call home.

  Liam gave me that, which means more than he can ever know.

  Soon I’m graduating from that well-rounded education. I’m going to turn eighteen. And then I’ll leave on the tour, walking away from the only home I’ve ever known.

  LIAM

  The doorbell rings at exactly noon. I like punctuality, but I’d like it even better if members of the press never spoke to Samantha Brooks again. I’ve limited their access to her greatly—maybe even to her detriment, considering press helps her get concert invitations and recording contracts.

  I never planned to have children, and at the age of twenty-eight I had hardly been in a position to be the father of a twelve-year-old girl. That’s exactly what happened when a judge signed the papers giving me guardianship of Samantha. Her mother h
ad been long gone. Her father had just died. Her brother had no interest in a sister he’d never known.

  Somehow the two of us, complete and utter strangers, became a family.

  The sweet strains of the violin follow me downstairs. She practices every day before school. Every day after school. Every weekend. It’s become the dew that coats every part of my life, a fresh breath of daylight in a world of dark.

  It’s hard to believe that in only a few weeks the house will be silent. I steel my expression into remoteness. It isn’t the stodgy old reporter’s fault that I resent the tour that will take Samantha away from me—and the press that’s naturally a part of it.

  “Hello.” A woman in a sleek suit gives me a slow smile. “You must be Liam North.”

  My eyebrows rise. This isn’t an aging gentleman with white hair and a plaid sweater vest. Maybe the magazine thought a woman would be able to connect better with Samantha. The thought gives me pause. Maybe she’s been missing a female influence in her life.

  Dating has been the last thing on my mind the past six years.

  “That’s me.” I shake her hand. “I’m going to sit in on the interview.”

  She purses ruby-red lips. “Why?”

  Already this interview is going differently than the last one. The older gentleman had spent more time reminiscing about meeting Fritz Kreisler to ask too many questions. When he remembered to do the actual interview, he asked the kinds of standard questions Samantha remembered at breakfast. What routine do you have to warm up? What’s the hardest piece you’ve played?

  The man hardly noticed that I was in the room except to send me a reproving glance when he asked about her schooling. Why not attend a performing arts school? Did she want to move to New York City or London where she could have more exposure to professional musicians?

  “Because I’m her legal guardian,” I say, not bothering to hide the steel beneath the words.

  “Does that mean she isn’t allowed to speak her mind?”

  Christ. I have half a mind to slam the door on this reporter’s face. I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her. If this were six years ago, I would do just that.

  It could risk Samantha’s involvement in the tour, though. She earned the right to do this. I may be her legal guardian, but not for much longer.

  “It means it’s my job to protect her from members of the press who are more interested in a juicy story than the privacy of an underage young woman.” I keep my voice level, but there’s no mistaking my meaning. If she tries to pull anything in front of Samantha, she’s gone.

  The reporter smiles. “I’ll be on my best behavior then. And if I step out of line, maybe we can meet up after and you can teach me a lesson I won’t forget.”

  I stare after her as she heads into the house, following the sound of the violin without knowing the way. That’s how rusty I am at dating—that it takes me a second to realize she was flirting with me. I have a feeling it’s more than flirting. An offer. She would be in my bed tonight if I wanted her.

  So why don’t I want her? She’s a beautiful woman, there’s no doubt. And it’s not like I have an abundance of options spending my days here at the compound. I don’t date any of my employees or anyone who lives in Kingston. It might lead to complications. Come to think of it, I’m in the middle of a dry spell that’s pretty damn long.

  I already know that I’m not going to take the pretty reporter up on her offer. It has something to do with the violinist she’s here to interview. Because I don’t want anything to distract from my duties as her guardian. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  Samantha’s face in rapture as she takes the first sip of her hot tea flashes through my mind. I’m afraid my reasons for abstaining may be something far more base.

  No, that can’t be right. Samantha is my responsibility. I’m sixteen years older than her and in a position of power. I absolutely cannot think of the small moan she made.

  My body reacted to the sound with instant carnal hunger.

  I grit my teeth and follow the reporter to the music room because I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this interview get out of hand. Something tells me this reporter is eager enough to push her luck. No one messes with Samantha Brooks—not even me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A single violin is made from over seventy individual pieces of wood.

  SAMANTHA

  I can tell from the moment the reporter steps into the room that everything will be different. She has hair so glossy and curled—I didn’t know it could look that way outside of a magazine. Her eyebrows belong in some kind of YouTube tutorial. And she’s dressed like we’re in a New York City high-rise instead of a small-town ex-military compound. The house is large and expensive, with marble floors and crown molding—but it’s clearly designed to hold men.

  Lots of men. Everything large and solid. Very few women ever walk through these rooms. There are some women who work for North Security. My friend Laney’s mom is on the Red Team, for example. They’re rare. And when they do come around, they dress and act as tough as the men—tougher, because they need to be tougher to survive in what’s still mostly a man’s world. A housekeeping service comes once a week, but they wear uniforms and comfortable, sturdy tennis shoes.

  Nothing like the blush heels she wears.

  She gives me a warm smile. “You must be Samantha. I’m Kimberly Cox. Of course I’ve read all about you. And that sounded absolutely lovely. I can see why everyone loves you.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks turn warm. “Thank you. I’m not sure everyone loves me.”

  “When I spoke with Harry March a couple weeks ago, he said he was dying to meet you.”

  A startled laugh bursts out of me, embarrassing because it’s so inappropriate. She must be exaggerating. Maybe she wants some kind of reaction? A lot of girls have crushes on Harry March. A lot of boys, too. “Well, that’s very kind of him. I’m really excited to meet him, too.”

  She pauses, glancing around the room. “So this is where the magic happens.”

  “I don’t like much distraction,” I say, feeling as if I have to make excuses for the bare walls. The room is large enough for a whole orchestra to play in, almost a full ballroom, but there’s only me. A single chair, not even cushioned. A stand for sheet music and my phone.

  Liam appears in the doorway behind her, looking stern and… strange, somehow. His eyes have turned almost olive, a haunting color. He must have noticed that Kimberly Cox is nothing like the other classical music journalists we’ve met. Does he like the way she looks? Of course he likes the way she looks.

  She’s beautiful, and his eyes work just fine.

  He doesn’t say anything, only leans back against the doorframe—watching. Probably watching her. He’s already seen me. I’m not the one with flawless eyeliner and amazing calf muscles.

  Something dark and a little green stirs in my center. Is this jealousy? Oh my God, I’m jealous of this woman and the way that Liam North must think of her. Sexually, that’s how he must think of her. As a grown woman. Not a child.

  “There’s a speaker system,” I say, nervous energy making me speak. I pull up my phone and play Schubert. “Der Erlkönig” streams in perfect, terrible angst from all corners of the room. “That’s how I practice accompaniments.”

  She cocks her head, listening. “This piece was based on a poem, wasn’t it?”

  “A child was taken by a monster in the woods.” The high-pitched notes are the child’s cries, and in response the father replies in low, placating reassurance.

  It turns out to be an empty promise. The poem doesn’t end happily. I press the Pause button on the app to stop the music. Silence reverberates in the room.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” Kimberly asks, glancing around at the empty room, where there are no other chairs except mine.

  “My office,” Liam says, striding between us and pushing open the door that separates the two rooms. His office is just as large as the music r
oom, with a sitting area in front of gleaming walnut bookcases.

  I take one of the armchairs while Kimberly takes the other.

  Liam starts to close the doors, with him inside.

  The reporter clears her throat. “Actually I was hoping to have a moment alone to interview Ms. Brooks. I know you’re concerned about her, but she seems more than capable of speaking for herself.”

  A shadow passes over Liam’s green eyes, turning them moss. “I made it clear that the answer to that is no. If you don’t follow the rules, you’ll have to leave.”

  Kimberly doesn’t look surprised or taken aback by his hard tone. “Don’t you think Samantha can make that decision? There will be lots of interviews on the tour, and you won’t be there, will you?”

  My stomach clenches because she’s right. For so long I’ve done my best to be the good, obedient girl. If you don’t follow the rules, you’ll have to leave. That’s been my greatest fear. Except I did follow the rules, all of them, and I’m still going to graduate and turn eighteen.

  I still have to leave.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, my voice soft.

  Liam turns to me. “No, Samantha. She doesn’t get to dictate what happens in this house.”

  No, I think, only you get to do that. “I’ll think of it like practice,” I say instead. “There will be lots of press stops on the tour, and I should be able to do this.”

  He frowns, and I think for a moment he might refuse. “I’ll be right outside,” he says, his voice dark. There’s no question that I could have this woman off the property. The part of me that’s small and jealous wants her gone, where Liam can’t see her. Where he can’t get turned on and think about sex and maybe even ask her out on a date.

  The bigger part of me knows that she has nothing to do with it. There are beautiful women all over the world, and Liam North has no doubt dated many of them. He’s always been careful to keep that part of his life hidden from me, part of his iron control and discipline, but that doesn’t mean he’s a monk. Does it?

  I’m desperate to know something, anything about Liam’s sex life.