Sonata Page 3

  Her talent is rare and powerful, but it doesn’t define her.

  “No,” she says, sounding faint. “We’re already heading to Paris.”

  The venue is in Paris? Then it must be the Palais Garnier. That’s the only one she played as a child. An important opera house that should give an even greater boost to the tour’s re-opening. It’s also the perfect setting to lay a trap. My stomach tightens.

  I don’t want to use her as bait, but we’ve run out of options.

  She promises to look for an email from her agent and ends the call. Her expression isn’t overjoyed the way some musicians might be. Neither does she look nervous at the prospect of having thousands of theatergoers watching her play. Instead she looks pensive. Maybe even sad.

  “I won’t let you get hurt.” The wound in my chest aches, as if to emphasize the lengths I’ll go to keep her from harm. The bullet was meant for her. I would take a hundred of them.

  A shadow passes over her face. “You may not have a choice.”

  Because I might not be able to protect her. New York City was too close. Fear churns my stomach. If I had been one second later crossing that stage… “Samantha.”

  Her eyes search mine. “Don’t feel guilty. That’s not what I want from you.”

  “Then what is it you want?”

  “Love,” she whispers.

  I try not to flinch. And fail. Because the one thing she wants is the thing I can’t give her. Not the way she wants it. “I do.”

  “You love me as a daughter. As a guardian does a ward.”

  Frustration burns all the way down. “Does it matter the way I love you?”

  “Yes.”

  A low growl. “Maybe I love you the way you want. How the hell would I know the difference? I’m not someone who was made to understand love. All I know is that I want you. I know the taste of you in my sleep.”

  “Look me in the eyes. Say, I love you, Samantha Brooks.”

  Fuck. She doesn’t know what she’s asking for. Or maybe she does. It’s like the bottle of rubbing alcohol pouring over an open wound. “Love is a word. It’s a weakness. I protect you. That’s all that matters.”

  “What’s so wrong with loving someone?”

  Because you’re going to leave. It’s something I could never explain to her. It’s something she wouldn’t understand. A bone-deep certainty. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

  Even as I say the words, someone enters.

  The heavy breath of the train mutes the sound of the sliding door and the steps of this woman. She might be passing through, except the only thing past us is more empty first-class cars. My mind catalogs anything noteworthy about her:

  1) She was in the dining car when I got our drinks

  2) She holds a canvas bag from a bookstore in Paris

  3) Now that I see her face, she looks vaguely familiar.

  Other people might be inclined to discount her as a threat due to her age. Old women aren’t usually seen as dangerous. Sometimes appearances are deceiving. I’ve seen children detonate bombs. I’ve seen old women smuggle cocaine. There is no one I would not consider protecting against.

  Samantha offers a small smile. “When is the time? Where is the place?”

  “Not a goddamn train,” I manage to growl, even as my eyesight narrows. It’s something that happens in battle. My heartbeat slows, so that my finger can pull the trigger at the second I want. It starts happening here, now, before my conscious mind knows the danger.

  The woman stumbles over an uneven patch of carpeting.

  The tray flies. Liquid launches into the air. A goddamn gun won’t help me now. A strangled shout of surprised pain. Hot tea spreads across Samantha’s white T-shirt, staining it to a pale beige. The woman drops her tote bag filled with books and papers.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman says in English. She does sound horrified. Her hands fly to the napkins, grasping, grasping. “Let me help you.”

  I take her forearm in my fist. “Don’t touch her.”

  My mind works through calculations. Did she come into this car with ill intent? Did she spill the tea on purpose? I’m worried about the hot liquid against Samantha’s tender skin, but not so much that I’ll loosen my hold on this intruder before I’m sure she poses no danger.

  A man appears behind her, one wearing a sharp suit. The same one I saw in the dining car a moment ago. My brother. “I’ll question her.”

  I give my thanks in a nod, nudging her into his custody. Josh and I have our disagreements, but I know I can trust him to interrogate her. Her name. Her purpose. Her deepest fears. He can ferret it out of people without a single overt threat. That leaves me free to drag Samantha forward to the lavatory. She squeaks in either alarm or pain as I close the door, imprisoning us both inside.

  My hands are trembling as I pull her T-shirt over her head. So much for a soldier’s calm. So much for a goddamn smooth trigger finger. Her skin is red, but the burn doesn’t look severe. Thank fuck for the lukewarm water and weak tea. It’s soaked her bra, a simple white lace, and I reach around to unhook it. Then she’s standing there naked, a half-foot away from me, her nipples hard, her skin pebbling beneath the cool air and my searing gaze. I smooth my palm over her skin, reassuring myself that she’s fine, that she’s safe, that she’s warm in my embrace.

  Samantha

  I’m naked.

  Half-naked, technically. I’m still wearing my jeans. Definitely more naked than I ever thought to be in a public restroom. The mirror shows my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach. The view stops there, to make way for a small sink. The sting of the warm tea is long forgotten, erased by the feel of cool air and a hot touch.

  Liam dampens a handful of napkins and runs it over my skin. I suck in a breath at the feel of coarse paper over my skin, the brush of his fingertips across my nipples. He doesn’t even seem to notice my nudity. His expression is that of a soldier during battle, severe and intimidating.

  “Are you hurt?” His voice comes out gravelly.

  “No,” I say, feeling breathless. “Not really.” It did hurt at the time. Or maybe it just shocked me. Finding myself half-naked and in a tiny enclosed space shocked me more than that. There isn’t enough room for both of us. There isn’t enough oxygen either. The lack makes me breathe more deeply. My breasts move almost enough to brush his shirt.

  He dampens another napkin and brushes my skin. “We’ll tell the train there’s a medical emergency. At the very least you’ll need painkillers.”

  “Please. No. It really doesn’t hurt that bad. It mostly took me by surprise.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, his green eyes piercing.

  A flush rises to my skin that has nothing to do with the hot liquid or the cool napkins. Shivers wrack my body. He said he wouldn’t touch me until I played the violin. “You’re touching me, you know.”

  “Only to make sure you’re okay.” He reaches down to the hem of his own T-shirt, a worn green henley. I can only stare as he yanks it over his head. With no ceremony or warning he pulls it over my head. Then I’m draped in fabric much too large for me, my nipples pressing against the thin cloth. It’s almost worse than being exposed, feeling the warm fabric, being surrounded by the masculine scent of him. Now he’s the one half-naked.

  He turns gruff. “That should keep you warm.”

  Broad shoulders rest atop a muscled chest. Abs stack down to the waist of his jeans. A dusting of gold-tinted hair covers his skin, lighter than what’s on his head. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him naked. Only a few days ago I poured rubbing alcohol over his wound, but it’s not the same when I’m tending to him. Not the same when he’s tending to me. We can treat each other’s wounds with pure determination. Even now my gaze goes to the white bandage, still in place despite the flurry of action.

  “What about you?” I ask, worried now. “Did you hurt—”

  He makes an exasperated sound. “I’m fine.”

  From a deep, unseen spring, amusement bubbles
up. “We make a fine pair, don’t we? Both of us hurting, both of us pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

  Humor forms emerald lights. Then he sobers. His fingers brush my cheek. “This may not be the time or the place, but I do love you, Samantha Brooks.”

  A gasp sounds far away. It comes from me. A poignant ache fills me, much more painful than any spill could be. It feels like hope. Words, words, words. I’ve never been good with them. If I could play him a song with my bow and violin it would be answer enough. Instead I use my fingers a different way. I run them up his biceps, playing an opening chord. And then across his pecs.

  His lids dip lower. “What are you doing?”

  “This isn’t the time or the place,” I whisper, leaning forward to kiss his chest. The springy hair tickles my nose. His masculine scent begins a heavy beat in my center.

  “It’s not,” he agrees, but he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t leave. Instead he dips his head. His lips nudge mine. I open in explicit invitation. He sweeps his tongue inside, tasting me. “Tea,” he mutters. “You taste like tea. You’ll never be able to sleep tonight if you have more.”

  My lips curve beneath his onslaught. “One more cup.”

  With reluctance he sets me away from him. He opens the door and pulls me after him. There’s no sign of the woman or the spilled cup of tea. Josh lounges in one of the empty seats across the aisle. My surprise at seeing him earlier rears again. “You’re in France?”

  “Apparently,” he says with his casual insouciance.

  Liam reaches overhead to dig through the luggage. I work hard to ignore the way it makes his back muscles flex. He pulls out a shirt and puts it on. “What did you find out?”

  A shrug from Josh. “Her name and address.”

  That makes Liam glare. “Did she lie to you?”

  “I saw her passport. It looks legit.”

  “It was probably just an accident,” I say, mostly because I don’t want Liam to worry. Also because I don’t want to worry, myself. We’ve only come out of hiding for a few hours. They can’t have found me that quickly, can they? Nerves churn in my stomach.

  Liam doesn’t look convinced. “You said her passport was real?”

  “I said it looked legit. Actually, I think it was a fake. A very good one. I already put a tail on her, so we’ll see what we find out. Welcome back to the land of living, where there are a disturbing number of people who want you dead.”

  Liam

  I gave Samantha hell for putting down her violin, even for a few months. I berated her for it, resented her, but I can’t deny it was effective. Hiding kept her safe. Safe even though I was weakened. Safe enough that it tempted me to stay there forever. Only minutes into Paris there are a thousand eyes upon us. There’s a target on her back. Perhaps not this very second, in a crowded train station. Soon. The soldier’s instincts tell me that much. It will only take two well-placed bullets to accomplish their tasks. One to take me down, the second for her. They can only touch her over my dead body, but the lingering ache in my side proves that it’s possible.

  Samantha and I exit the train without my brother, leaving him without a word like the strangers we were when we stepped on board. A mercenary who’s done work for North Security meets us with a black SUV. A car leads the way and follows behind.

  I lift my wrist to do a security check. “Report. Webb.”

  “Clear.”

  “Rogers.”

  “Clear.”

  “North.”

  “Clear,” Josh says. I pretend not to notice the sarcasm in his voice. He thinks this is overkill. There are six more checks. All clear. Yes, there are diplomats who don’t have such protection. We may have given up anonymity, but at least now I can deploy my full resources. There has to be some compensation.

  The place we’re going isn’t my safe house. Not specifically, but it’s as safe as any place we’ve ever fortified. Frans has been a friend for years. His two-hundred-year-old chateau is outfitted with the latest technology, thanks to North Security. I contacted him when we first crossed from Germany. We could have stayed in the servants’ quarters, the grounds large enough that he wouldn’t even know we were there, but he extended a formal invitation instead.

  He greets us in the foyer with a young woman I’ve never met. “Fransisco,” I say, clasping his hand. “I heard congratulations were in order, but I didn’t believe it.”

  A slight smile. “Thank you. My bride, Isabella Marie Castille.”

  Mischievous lights twinkle in her dark eyes. Despite her very Spanish name, her manner and accent marks her as American. “Nice to meet you, Mr. North. Fransisco has told me nothing about you. I think he likes to be mysterious.”

  It’s hard to reconcile the playfulness of this Isabella with the strict formality of Frans. He comes from an old aristocratic family. His ancestor was exiled from Spain due to a gentleman’s disagreement over a lady a hundred years ago. The title passed to Frans’s grandfather during the Spanish civil war. He refuses to take residence in the family property in Catalonia for reasons he’s never shared with me. Instead he maintains this home in France, a little bit of irony that a nobleman has found refuge in the land that once beheaded everyone with a title.

  “You must be Samantha Brooks,” Frans says, bowing over her hand.

  Samantha doesn’t quite swoon, but it’s close. I think it’s the suit. Who wears a suit on a Saturday morning? I wear them during certain assignments and formal meetings with our clients, out of necessity more than preference. It’s a uniform—the same way fatigues would be during a battle.

  Is that a blush staining her cheeks? On the drive she seemed exhausted from the travel. Her eyes are still a little glassy, proving she needs rest more than anything. “Thank you for having us in your home,” she says, sounding a little shy. “It’s beautiful.”

  More beautiful than the cold, utilitarian compound I keep in the Texas Hill Country.

  Hell, she’s turning me into an ass. I’m not the kind of bastard to get jealous because someone pays her attention. It’s always been like this, her presence turning me into someone else. And it’s getting worse. I have the urge to brush the pink from her cheeks, to shield her from Frans’s eyes, despite the fact that he clearly has a pretty young bride. I want to hide her away, as if we’re wolves, as if I can drag her by her nape into a cave where only I get to see her, smell her, taste her.

  Isabella drops a curtsey that seems to mock the politeness more than respect it. Her smile implies we’re in on the joke with her. “You must be tired from the trip. Call me Isa.” She glances at me. “Let me show Samantha her rooms.”

  Samantha starts to follow her, and I put my hand on her arm. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Do you think I’m going to spirit her away?” Isabella asks with fake severity.

  Samantha looks back at me, her beautiful brown eyes soft. She’s asking me to let her go, and I realize she wants to be alone with Isabella. Because she hasn’t had anyone but me for company for two months. And I’ve been a surly bastard. The realization makes my chest squeeze. Of course she wants to spend time with someone her own age. Someone who doesn’t blame her for giving up the violin for a short while. She only did it for me, but that made it worse.

  It takes effort to remove my hand and give a curt nod. Permission.

  The two women practically skip off, looking so young and innocent that my throat clenches. What the hell am I doing with her? I’m dragging her around the world to slake my lust.

  “I know,” Frans says, his voice dry. “I must appear the same way when I look at Isa walking away. Like I’ve been hit over the head with something very heavy.”

  “Marriage?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow. I’m not the only one slaking my lust.

  “It was time. Responsibilities to the title.”

  “You don’t give a fuck about your responsibility to the title.”

  “Oh yes,” he says blandly. “You’re right. I’d forgotten about that. How about you and I drink a gl
ass of port while the women talk about us? You can tell me how you almost died and I can tell you how I got married, and we can compare battle scars.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rich classical music phrases, lasting 10 seconds long, cause the heart rate and other parts of the cardiovascular system to synchronize with the music.

  Samantha

  Isa shows me to a large set of rooms that looks like it belongs in a period drama. There’s plush oriental rugs and gilt furniture. I don’t have a single bedroom, the way I expected. Instead there’s an actual apartment—a sitting room, a dressing room, and a large bedroom. Velvet drapes surround the bed, revealing a white lace counterpane.

  “This is too much,” I tell her, twirling in a circle. It makes me feel like a princess.

  “I told Frans you might be more comfortable in a smaller room.” Her smile turns sly. “He thought you’d want to be near Liam, though. His apartments are through there.”

  A door stands open, revealing a similar sitting room with more masculine tones. “Oh, I mean probably. For safety reasons. We aren’t together.”

  Even as I say the words the memory of his bare chest in the train restroom flashes across my consciousness. I can see the ripple of strength, scent the musk of salt and man. We aren’t together, but we really aren’t apart either.

  Isa makes a disappointed face. “He’s so handsome.”

  I have to laugh. “Probably a happy new bride thinks everyone should be in love.”

  “Ohhh.” She wanders away, turning back to glance at me over my shoulder. “It wasn’t a love match.”

  That makes me blink. I can only stare at her. Not a love match? What other kind of match is there? She seems to be referencing something like an arranged marriage, but it’s the twenty-first century. People don’t do that, do they? Then again, this place is drenched in old-world formality.