Sonata Page 7

  “It’s privately owned?”

  “No, but they lease the space to our production company. In other words, we carry the risk if a performance should flop. The Paris Opera gets paid either way.”

  “Well,” I say with a nervous laugh. “We’ll try not to flop then.”

  Of course, that probably means I’ll have to play the violin. Yes, that’s almost certainly going to be required for any sort of concert. Acid burns my stomach. If only we had stayed in Nantes another week. Another month. Another year. I never wanted to return to the real world.

  Liam

  She looks like a princess in the center of the ballroom. And the fucker holding her? He looks like a prince. I can’t ignore who that makes me in this story. The villain. The one who wants to drag her down to the basement where no one can touch her. Only me.

  The veneer of respectability wears thin. I’m bursting with primal impulse, with violent lust. I want to howl at the goddamn moon. Instead I cross the ballroom and tap his shoulder.

  “May I cut in?” I ask, with regular words. Congratulations, I tell myself, mocking the impulse that brought me here, you didn’t snarl or snap at the other male trying to mate her.

  He looks reluctant, but there’s no way for him to politely refuse. That’s his first mistake, favoring politeness over this woman. She’s worth rudeness. She’s worth everything.

  Then she’s in my arms, and I sweep her away.

  Her brown eyes examine me. “You know how to waltz?”

  I glance down at my tux, my shined shoes, the neat steps that lead her through the dance. “I know how to do many things that make me fit into places like this.”

  “Places like a fancy ball? Or places that aren’t battlefields?”

  Damn her for seeing more than she should. “I told you how I was raised.”

  “Bullshit.”

  A hesitation in my step. I don’t trip, but it’s a close thing. I can count the number of times she’s used swear words on one hand, most of them when Josh tried to teach her to swear. “Pardon?”

  “I called bullshit. You came from a place infested with fleas, but that’s not who you’ve been for years. For decades. So why do you use that as an excuse?” Dark lashes drop to pale white cheeks. “Unless you think that I’m nothing more than I was. Unless I’m still the girl in that orphanage.”

  “You were only there for two weeks.” The words are out before I can stop them. Too much history. Too much guilt. The ordinary amount of guilt is heavy enough, the weight of wanting to fuck her pretty red lips when I should be protecting her.

  Her gaze meets mine. “You never told me why.”

  “Why I adopted you?”

  “Why you waited two weeks to do it.”

  Hell. The ballroom becomes a minefield. If I take a wrong step, she’s the one who blows up. “I wasn’t sure what would happen to you. I thought someone else might take custody of you.”

  She seems to accept that without further question. Relief is a faint vibration. I won’t know it fully until the song ends. “And then you realized no one else was coming.”

  Sadness colors her words. Maybe embarrassment. Better those feelings than if she knew the truth. “I knew I could never be a decent guardian for you, that I could never provide a real family. You were so young. So strong. I had to try anyway.”

  “Because you killed my father. And almost killed me.”

  I glance at the couple dancing near us. Thankfully they haven’t heard. It wouldn’t be ideal for my rogue actions as a former US agent to be broadcast to French society. Her safety is the primary concern. More than the fact that I want to fuck her.

  More than whether or not she likes that young man she danced with before me.

  “Tomorrow we’ll record the songs he made you memorize.” Our hiding was complete enough that she couldn’t play the violin. Her skill would have been too remarkable. So would visiting a recording studio. “That will allow us to run them through some algorithms. And it will also be used—”

  She appears calm. “In case I die before we solve the mystery?”

  “No. I’m not planning for that.” Every cell in my body rebels against the idea. The soldier in me understands collateral damages. It understands statistics. The man wants to hold Samantha close. I’ll burn down the world before I let it singe her. “It will be used as an insurance policy.”

  “I already wrote down the sheet music.”

  I’m distracted by the feel of her slender waist, by the warmth of her small hand on my arm. It’s enough that I almost miss the tremor in her voice. “The music may have some nuance the notes miss. We’ll be able to run it through some databases once it’s digitized.”

  She doesn’t answer, but I feel a stiffness in her body. I want to soothe it in the most primal way, to stroke her, caress her, until she surrenders to safety.

  “I thought you’d want to play, anyway. It’s been months.”

  “Not that.”

  No, she wouldn’t have good memories attached to that song. I hate that her original composition started with that melody. As if he taints everything about her, even her inspiration. Even her mind. The composition strays from the notes he gave her, but it doesn’t erase the way it starts. I suppose it’s like she said. Unless you think that I’m nothing more than I was. She is more than a frightened girl under her father’s control, but it always starts with that.

  She turns her face toward the orchestra, her natural instinct toward the music. In the profile her expression looks haunted. I study her full lips, her upturned nose, struck by a feeling of déjà vu.

  “Are you afraid?” That’s how she looks—afraid. Of the violins? Of the music?

  That earns me a hollow laugh. “Of course not. How can I be afraid with my own private army following me everywhere. You even brought Josh on the train. I thought that poor woman would have a heart attack when he insisted on questioning her.”

  “The woman.” The dancers around me slow down. Maybe it’s just my heartbeat.

  “She felt bad for spilling the tea.”

  “It wasn’t an accident.” My mind has been running the tape of that moment enough times to be certain of that, even before Josh spoke earlier. “Her passport was fake. Did you recognize her?”

  Samantha gives me a strange look. “Of course not. I would have said something if I knew who she was. But I did think… she looked familiar. Is that weird?”

  Not weird. Too much of a coincidence considering I felt the same thing.

  The quartet builds a crescendo. The floor around us clears for a second. I take the opportunity to spin her in my arms. It’s a pretense of romance. A moment of imagining she’s mine. The villain doesn’t get to keep the princess. Her dark hair flies around her, and she laughs. Oomph. She lands against my chest. I’m standing still in a ballroom full of movement. She’s clasped to my body.

  They’ve done something smoky to her eyes. They’re more black than brown tonight. A galaxy inside this woman. A universe. I want to kiss her, but not here—in private. These people don’t matter. I dip my head and press an almost-chaste kiss to her lips.

  She doesn’t return the kiss. “Is she still alive? You said it wouldn’t be a sweet reunion, as if she’s still alive. You must know that much. You must have checked.”

  A fire-burnished poker could not have burned me more. It steals my breath. “Yes. The last time I checked she was still alive. She started a new family.”

  I need her to kiss me back, so I bite her lower lip. She gasps into my mouth. That gives me the opening. I sweep my tongue against hers. A faint moan. It might as well be an orchestra, that’s how keenly I hear the sound she makes. Her whole body sighs into my embrace.

  Ruthless. That’s what I am to distract her this way.

  My head lifts. I study her half-closed eyes, her high cheekbones, her chin. It’s like I’m looking at her for the very first time. Adding thirty years to her features. Comparing her to a woman on the train.

  Shock tighten
s my hold on her arms, until she squirms.

  Her eyes widen. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say, but it’s too damn late.

  Suspicion makes her eyes glisten. “Who did you think was coming to get me after my father died? Why did you wait two weeks, Liam? Tell me the truth.”

  When you step on a land mine, you hold down the trigger. You can stand there as long as you want. Completely still. That’s how long you stay alive. As soon as you move, the bomb goes off. “Your mother. I knew she was still alive. I thought she’d come for you when your father died.”

  A blast of both force and fire. She blinks. “The woman on the train. That was her?”

  “We don’t know that.”

  Emotions pass over her beautiful face—heartbreak and confusion. Pain and a deep well of betrayal. That the woman who gave birth to her left her to that cold orphanage. That the woman had left her a long time before that. At least my mother escaped a living hell when she abandoned us. Samantha’s mother doesn’t have that excuse. I would kill to spare her this hurt. Ironic that I’m the one who caused it.

  She pulls away from me. I catch her wrist. Disillusionment makes her eyes look wide open, broken so that I can see the tender space inside her. “I need to be alone,” she says.

  Yes, I understand. I hate it, but I understand. I’ve made an entire life so that I could be alone. If your own mother doesn’t want you, how can you ever believe anyone else would? Safer to hold everyone at arm’s length. Safer to flee the ballroom, tears in your eyes, dark curls flying behind her. It might not make sense to other people, but people who’ve been abandoned this way understand. It cracks the foundation of a person. It leaves a fissure that only deepens with time. I want to go after her, to insist that she accept comfort, to hold her down until she understands that she’s worthy. Love doesn’t really work like that. Nor is my comfort worth much, in the end. It’s the princes of the world who can give her the security she really needs—the wholesome happy ending.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The piano was originally called the pianoforte because of its ability to play notes both quietly (piano) and loudly (forte). The harpsichords that came before were only able to play softly.

  Samantha

  Away. I don’t know where I’m running, except away.

  When I’m far enough from the buzz of the crowd I turn down a hallway. At the end there are double doors that lead onto a patio. Do I want fresh air? No. There might be people outside.

  Instead I duck into a dark room. My back to the wall, I heave deep breaths, struggling not to cry. I don’t want her to have that power over me, this person who did not care enough to stay with me. Liam cares about me. I know that. He must be hurt by the way I left him standing there, but I couldn’t bear the comfort of his embrace another second.

  I press a hand to my stomach, where the bodice of the ballgown meets the wide skirts. Good luck. That’s what the ladybug is supposed to mean. I’m not sure the symbolism applies.

  Large shadows fill the room I’m in. My eyes adjust. Familiar shadows.

  A laugh finds me. Fatalism. Is that what it’s called? Of course I would end up in the music room, of all places. Definitely bad luck, but probably unavoidable. Instruments are the iron fillings, and I’m the magnet. They end up around me, no matter where I go.

  It’s a large music room, befitting the large chateau. There’s a violin case next to a stand. The instrument inside is probably of good quality. Some violinists are particular about only playing their own instruments. I’m not usually, but the thought of playing any violin makes me cringe.

  There was a grand piano in the ballroom, but there’s an upright here. More modest. I sit down on the bench and run my fingers along the smooth curve of the lid. Do I dare play? I don’t have permission but I can’t really imagine Isa objecting.

  Then again, it would be Fransisco who might.

  I lift the lid. The white keys gleam in the low light. I touch the ivory lightly, not making a sound. It’s like saying hello to the instrument. The instrument says hello back in indescribable ways, as if it’s giving me permission to play. I’m still not sure I want to. That night, it was more than Liam getting shot. It was the death of a dream. It was the certainty that music would never have its way.

  I press down the C at the center. Strong. Clear. Well-tuned, of course.

  Another note. There’s a feeling like relief, as if I’ve been holding on to bars above shark-infested waters. And suddenly I’ve let go. I’ll be torn to bits but, in this moment, it feels too good to worry. My mind doesn’t form the music. The music forms me. My fingers have no choice but to follow. The song starts quiet and careful, then grows louder, louder, louder. I sweep my hands across the keys in a complicated crescendo. God. God. My mother was alive this whole time. She didn’t want me. No one wants you. Black and white blur together. I can’t see the keys. A hot tear drops to the back of my hand. Even without my sight I can hit the notes unerringly. The final refrain.

  And then silence in the room. I’m no longer alone here.

  He crosses the room to stand behind me. “That was beautiful,” he says, his voice low.

  Not Liam. Alarm spikes through me before I recognize the voice. Alexander Fox. Did he follow me here? I’m surprised Liam let him. The thought comes only after I realize Liam would have followed me too. I don’t know how I’m sure, except that he knows I’m upset.

  He wouldn’t let me come to harm in my grief.

  “What was it?” Alexander asks, sitting beside me on the small bench.

  I’m immediately aware of his size, his physicality. He isn’t as hard-hewn as Liam, but he’s strong all the same. A stable kind of strength. The sort I could lean on, even though I sit very straight, not touching. “This? Nothing. A little something I made up.”

  Or is it? I’ll never be able to trust my own mind. Is it something that I wrote? Is it something my father made me memorize? How depressing to realize that I’m not even safe in my head.

  Alexander rests his right hand on the piano. His fingers look very strong compared to my slender ones. Darker, too, as if his skin has tanned from work outdoors instead of playing instruments inside. He plays a few notes that I had done, an echo, a callback. I give him a sideways glance. He has a decent ear, but then they would hardly put him in charge of the concert at Palais Garnier if he didn’t.

  I play a few more notes, a continuation. He pauses for only a beat before playing them back to me at a lower scale. It makes me laugh, so I play a more complicated arrangement for a longer beat.

  “Ah, you surpass me without even breaking a sweat,” he says, looking charmed.

  My heart flutters at the look in his eyes—intense and a little romantic. It’s enough to distract from the pain in my heart. The realization that I’m fully alone. Am I, though? There’s a handsome man sitting on the piano bench with me. Someone who understands my passion for music the way someone else never could. The way Liam never could. The idea feels disloyal but still true.

  I touch the keys without pressing them down. “What would you say if I never played the violin again? Would I still be Samantha Brooks? Or would I be someone else?”

  His eyes search mine. Concern tightens his expression. “Is that what you want?”

  What a funny idea. Is that what you want? My future has been foretold for so long I’m not even sure I know how to want. Unless base human desires count as wanting. I want to be held, to be kissed, to be safe. Is that what he means? The violin gives me none of those things—and all of them, because men are only in my life because of my skill.

  Alexander’s close enough that I can see the brown flecks in his eyes. Close enough I feel the warmth of his breath. “Stop me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs, before his lips glance mine.

  There would be no time to stop him, but I don’t really want to. Isn’t that what human touch is about? Knowing that we aren’t floating helplessly through space and time? His mouth is warm over mine, comfo
rting. This is courting, I realize. He presses more firmly but doesn’t put his tongue in my mouth. He doesn’t grab my breast over my dress. This isn’t about sex. It’s about… affection.

  He pulls back slightly, and I breathe in the moment between us.

  My eyes open slowly. A light burns in his eyes, and I realize I’ve misread this. I’ve misread everything. Maybe it comes from growing up overprotected. What would have happened at a middle school dance? What would have happened if there’d been a boy’s basement? Alexander feels lust, even if the only thing I feel for him is a kindness, a yearning. For what? For innocence.

  “Did I move too fast?” he asks, his lids dropping low.

  He respects me enough to wait. I don’t want him to. Prove that I can want someone else. Prove that I can desire another man. I reach up to grasp his neck. He feels different here. Softer. His hair a little longer at the back, curling over his collar. He obeys my silent command, giving me a deeper kiss that steals my breath in its intimacy. His tongue touches mine in question. He tastes different.

  He tastes different. As if there’s one right way to taste. The Liam North flavor. The feel of his body. He’s the standard by which I measure every other man. No one else will live up.

  I tear myself away, breathing hard.

  “Sorry,” he says, a little breathless. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I was the one who—” I was the one who wanted to see how fully my body had imprinted on Liam. Like those musicians who can only play one instrument. My particular instrument is hard and gruff and wounded, but it’s mine.

  Arousal makes Alexander more stern. More handsome. There is some woman who would swoon for him. That woman isn’t me. “I’d like to see you again,” he says. “Outside the concert.”

  My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. No polite refusals. No explanations.

  He glances towards the door. “Are you thinking of Liam North?”