by Skye Warren
“You’re the one with the photos?”
That same slight smile. “Let me get you a drink.”
I narrow my eyes. I’m the one who’s going to be giving him money tonight, not the other way around. “Are you the person I’m looking for or not?”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Not as far as I could throw you.”
He laughs. “Smart girl.”
I glance back at the platform, but I can only see a flash of Laney’s dark hair. She’s clearly enjoying herself, and I have no desire to put a damper on that. Besides, I don’t need her to make this exchange. I can do this and prove that I’m an adult. That I don’t need Liam North. Knots tighten in my stomach, because he would be furious if he knew I was here right now.
Which is exactly why I need to do this. My imagination may not stretch that far, but I need to solve my own problems. Maybe then I’ll be able to move past this completely inappropriate and unrequited crush. Then I can move on to a quiet, boring life of endless practice, alone, alone, alone, playing the violin until my fingers fall off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Baritone Leonard Warren died onstage at the Met in 1960 just as he had finished singing Verdi’s “Morir, Tremenda Cosi,” which means “To Die, a Momentous Thing.”
LIAM
Once I hit the ground, it takes twenty minutes to get to the drop point.
A row of luxury cars stands at attention—an orange McLaren, a red Ferrari, a yellow Lamborghini. Hassan is already there, holding up a dollar bill and grinning at me. His smile slips when he sees my expression.
“Something happen, boss?”
He means did something happen with the Red Team or one of the other men. Something life or death. Samantha sneaking out at night doesn’t qualify, even if it feels that way in the heavy beat in my chest. “No, but I’m going to head out before the rest of the guys make it. I’ll catch up with you tonight.”
He still looks concerned. “You sure?”
“Positive.” I don’t want to disrupt the bachelor party any more than I will by leaving early. More than that, I don’t want any witnesses for what’s going to happen next.
Mostly because I have no idea what’s going to happen next. I’m a man who makes a plan and sticks to it. There are contingencies built in at every step. No surprises.
And somehow, somehow I’m fucking surprised.
I decide to take a rebuilt silver Rolls-Royce Phantom because it’s the least ostentatious of the group, which isn’t saying much. The keys are hidden under the back wheel in a little case I know to be fireproof and highly secure. Luckily I already know the combination—I study the shape of the back; 1956, the year this car was manufactured, though not the year it was sold.
That’s what Josh would pick.
Sure enough, the case opens to a plain silver key.
I’m driving down the dirt road when Josh and another man make it over the crest, their silhouettes in my rearview mirror. Hassan will let them know that I’ve tapped out, and I have no doubt that they’ll enjoy the evening on North Security’s corporate credit card.
Cody answers the phone in two rings. There’s a pause. Then, “Yes, sir?”
He’s not officially under my command, not the way the ex-military men and women are on payroll. He does work for the company after school. Mostly he purchases supplies for the house and helps me build the training courses.
So there’s no reason he needs to call me sir, but he does anyway.
I’ve always found it endearing.
Now I have to grit my teeth against the urge to swear at him.
“Where are you?” I ask instead.
A pause. “Sir?”
“I assume you’re still with them. I know that even if you were stupid enough to sneak the girls off the compound, you would never leave them alone where anything could happen. Right, Cody?”
A longer pause this time, one I imagine he’s going to break by blaming the girls for making him help them or try to play it off like it’s no big deal. Stronger men than him have cried when I use this tone. Give me the right answer or they’ll never find the body, that’s what this tone means.
“No, sir,” he says slowly, and I have to give him credit. He sounds resigned to his fate, but he isn’t buckling. “I’m right here waiting for them, outside Club Melody.”
“Don’t move,” I tell him before hanging up. “Not an inch.”
He can follow an order, at the very least. He’s parked on the other side of the street from the club. Laney’s sitting on the back of his truck, legs dangling over. Both of them have a worried expression, which kicks my latent panic into high gear. I’ve been trying to reassure myself that teenagers go out at night all the damn time.
But the solemn expressions of Cody and Laney make me want to radio in every single team under my command and declare a fucking war.
“Where is she?”
Cody swallows. “Inside the club. At least I’m pretty sure.”
“It’s my fault,” Laney says, putting her hand on his arm. “I’m the one who wanted to go out, who convinced Samantha to come with me. And she was right there. We were dancing in the back, the VIP section. She took a break. I thought she was going to get a drink or something.”
“She’s not old enough.”
“I know.” Laney wrings her hands together. “Cody called and told me you were coming, and I looked for her so we could meet you outside. But she wasn’t by the bar or in the bathroom. I tried asking around, but people could barely hear me, and I don’t know where she went.”
The girl seems near tears, and Cody puts his arm around her shoulders, managing a glare at me—which really takes some balls, under the circumstances. “Take her back to the compound,” I tell him, my voice hard. “You and I will have a talk when I get back.”
His brows draw together. “But Samantha—”
“I’ll find her and bring her myself.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
In 800 BCE the first recovered piece of recorded music was found. It was written in cuneiform and was a religious hymn. It should be noted that cuneiform is not a type of musical notation.
SAMANTHA
The man leads me to a back room in the club. I’m expecting a supply closet or a bathroom—something secret and genuinely illicit. This is an office, a little messy but clearly used by someone with authority. Framed vinyl records line the walls.
He reclines on a file cabinet, his posture relaxed.
“Do you work here?”
“You could say that. I also own the place.”
I reach for my clutch, which contains the envelope. “Then why do you need money selling photographs of sleazy coaches?”
A low laugh. “How do you think we afford strobe lights around here? My business is information, and you want to buy information.”
“Fine. Show me the video, and I’ll give you the money.”
He gives me a slow grin. “What’s the hurry? I saw you dancing out there, sweetheart. Wouldn’t mind getting to know you a little better.”
I swallow hard. “Not interested.”
The sound of a scuffle in the hallway catches my attention. The door slams open, revealing Liam North in sharp relief, his eyes a brilliant, burning emerald.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
If Liam finds out what we’re doing here, everything is going to be ruined. Luckily the man seems to know that as well as I do. He takes a step back as if he’d just been touching me, as if he’s just been caught in the act. “Christ. You underage?”
“Out,” Liam says, and the man gives him a nervous look before leaving.
I stare at Liam. “Oh my God. You followed me here?”
He stalks into the room. “That’s what you’re going to say right now? How about, I’m sorry I snuck out of the house at night and gave you a heart attack, Liam?”
Pretend you came here to make out with a guy. “I’m not going to apologize.”
A low growl fills the room. �
�You followed a man to a back room without even telling Laney where you went. I ought to lock you in your damn room and throw away the key.”
“Hey, what happened to, ‘it’s your decision what you do with your body?’”
“I take it back.”
“You don’t get to take it back. I’m almost eighteen. You won’t have custody of me anymore.”
“You aren’t eighteen yet. Almost doesn’t count.”
Something occurs to me. “You can’t be mad at Cody for this. Don’t fire him or make him do a thousand push-ups or anything. I made him go. Laney, too.”
“So all of you are fucking Spartacus?”
“Huh?”
“All of you are trying to take the blame.”
“Oh.”
He closes the door behind him. And locks it. “You might understand more references if you actually watched a movie once in a while. Or TV.”
My pulse races. We’re alone right now. Very alone. “I prefer music.”
A glance at the carved vinyl records. They don’t hold his attention very long. His gaze locks on mine. “Since when did I get cast as the Roman general in this little drama?”
I glance at his fists. “Did you hurt a bouncer on your way inside?”
“In my defense, they were standing in my way. I don’t take very kindly to people who get between me and my family. Besides, they don’t have to be hospitalized. Pretty sure.”
My throat feels tight. “Your family.”
“That’s you, Samantha.”
I look away, hiding how much pleasure the word gives me. “Does that mean you’ll keep in touch with me when I go on tour? Will you come see me play?”
His expression darkens. “We’re not going to be pen pals, if that’s what you’re asking.”
It’s a physical blow to my stomach, the dismissal in his words. My instinct is to deny it. He couldn’t have meant it. He couldn’t have meant it to hurt this much. Then the moment passes and I’m left feeling sick, about to vomit all over the office. “Pen pals?”
Something in his eyes softens. He doesn’t look warm exactly, but he doesn’t look quite so pissed anymore. “I didn’t realize you would want to keep in touch after you left.”
The memory of our last talk heats the air between us—about condoms and sex. And the way he walked in on me when I moaned his name. God. I’m not sure I can stand another talk like that. “I’m not naive, Liam. I know you took me in because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That wasn’t exactly the reason. And even though I didn’t know you before I took custody, I’ve grown to care about you over the years. If I didn’t state it clearly enough, then the fault lies with me. I wasn’t raised to show… affection.”
I stare at him, incredulous. Affection? It’s a cold comfort to a girl who’s always wanted the surety of forever. And the word might as well be alien to a man like him. “I’m going to tour the country. The world. I’m leaving, Liam.”
He looks away. “Christ.”
Unease moves through me. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come back?”
“I don’t know why you would want to.”
“Because I care about you.” Liam is six feet of pure muscle and hard will. There’s no way someone like me could go up against him and win. Except that when I take a step closer, he tenses. Another step and he goes still as stone. It gives me a sense of power, enough that I take the final step. “I care about you even though you’re controlling.”
There’s only an inch between the ruffle of my blouse and the flat of his abs.
“You think I’m going to apologize for keeping you safe?” he mutters. “You think I give a damn that you’re mad at me as long as you’re in one piece? That’s the only thing that matters.”
“Because you think of me like a daughter?”
He shakes his head slowly, not breaking eye contact. “No.”
“No?” I whisper.
“When I walked in on you…” His voice is hoarse. “I didn’t think of you like a daughter.”
I should probably be horrified that he would think about me in any way other than family, except I’m the one who started it. I take a step closer, and there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s already backed up against the wall. This big, strong man who could probably make a whole army quake—or at least a battalion. And he’s cornered by me.
This close I can see the green of his eyes, so dark they’re almost emerald, flecked with gold. A scar bisects one dark eyebrow, probably a scar from something terrifying and deadly.
“How did you think of me?” I’m afraid to know the answer, but I’m even more terrified of never knowing. Of being a nameless, faceless body in that writhing crowd, hooking up with a stranger when the man I really want is standing right in front of me, inches away, his breath a feather-touch on my forehead.
A small shake of his head. “It’s not right.”
I’m not sure what right and wrong mean when it comes to us, but I know what it means for music. Someone can play a piece with perfect timing and notation. They can hit every single note, but it still won’t have passion. That part comes from inside. “Then be wrong with me. Don’t make me do it alone.”
I push up on my toes, pressing my lips against his in a blind, artless kiss. I’m off center of his mouth, kissing the corner. He stands still as a statue, letting me wobble on my heels, letting me fall against him, only my broken kiss to balance me.
Grief beats against my ribs. He’s going to make me do it alone. Of course he is. I’m always alone. A small sound escapes me. Loneliness. Pain. It vibrates against his mouth, sound made real.
He jolts as if I’ve shocked him. Something unspools inside him. I feel it in the inch of air between us. And then I feel it in my lips. He takes over the kiss with shocking possession, his hand behind my head, his body turning us so I’m against the wall. He looms in front of me, blocking out the view. There are no vinyl records on the wall, no bass thrumming through concrete and steel. There’s only him, only this. How is it possible that only a few minutes ago I felt powerful? I didn’t know what this would be. I couldn’t know the way I’d revel in surrender.
His tongue touches the seam of my lips, a pure electric sensation that makes me jump. I part my lips in surprise, pulling in the scent of him—man and earth, salt and sea. He tastes elemental. His tongue swipes the tender inside of my bottom lip. It’s more sensitive there than I could have imagined. I feel the slickness of the caress all the way in my core. My thighs clench together.
So careful. So wary. I touch my tongue against his. He’s the one who groans.
His hand fists in my hair, creating a delicious little ache. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he breathes, and I try to shake my head; it only makes him pull harder.
“Liam… I need…” It’s like the bedroom when he walked in on me, my hips rocking, mindless, hungry. Worse than that. My whole body is moving restlessly against him.
He tears himself away with a hard sound. Only an inch away. A rough tremor runs through him. It’s a small comfort, knowing that I’ve moved this man. Knowing how much control he has, knowing it’s eroded. But only a small comfort. He still leaves me panting against the door.
“I’m supposed to protect you,” he says, his voice taut with guilt.
“Against people like that?”
“Yes, against people like that. He’s more than a club owner, Samantha. At least that’s not all he is. He’s a loan shark. The dangerous kind. One who makes sure his debts are paid with money or with blood. He doesn’t give a shit about doing the right thing.”
A shiver runs through me. “How do you know him?”
“I run a security firm. It’s my job to know these things.” He cups my jaw. “Even if it wasn’t, I would make sure to know every single danger within a hundred-mile radius. You’re too important to risk.”
Determination hardens my tone. “You tell me you want me to make my own decisions as a woman, a
nd then you take them away.”
He pulls back, and cool air rushes into the space between us. “Because you lied to me, Samantha. Something could have happened to you, and there’d be no one to protect you, no one to even know where you went. That’s not a grown-up decision.”
I look down where he’s holding my hips in place. It’s like prying metal, watching him lift his fingers one by one. Each loss feels like a chain link snapped.
He pulls his hands away with an audible groan. “I’m not going to touch you again.”
Hurt licks against my skin like flames, but I try to act casual. “Right.”
“If you want to go out, of course you can. I’ll send Josh with you.”
“Is that an order?”
“Absolutely,” he says with burning green eyes.
Despite the hunger in his voice, there’s no trace of vulnerability in his expression. He’s made of stone and water, as unconcerned as air. Gone is the man incandescent with desire. How am I supposed to be interested in the boys who are dancing in clubs when this man has kissed me? How can I be satisfied with warmth when I know how it feels to burn?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Violinist Lindsey Stirling has over 10.5 million subscribers on YouTube.
SAMANTHA
A message blinks on my phone when I get home from school.
The picture shows a mane of wild red curls, the kind I would have happily traded for my ordinary brown hair. I met Beatrix Cartwright many years ago, back when we were both children.
Our upbringings couldn’t have been more different.
She came from a wealthy family, her mother a famous pianist, her father a tech industrialist who doted on his family. Meanwhile my father had to be reminded that my Sergio Peresson violin was on loan from a music society, and we couldn’t sell it because they knew who had it. That didn’t stop him from threatening to whenever he was particularly broke.
Her parents invested in her musical education and were supremely interested in her feelings. My father only agreed to let me play in the London concert because the queen herself would be in attendance. He spent most of the concert on the phone in the lobby, coming up for air only to glad hand during the reception.