A Reckless Note
Page 1
Table of Contents
PLAYLIST
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHPATER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE SAVAGE TRILOGY
ALSO BY LISA RENEE JONES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the supplier and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at lisareneejones.com/contact
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.lisareneejones.com.
A RECKLESS NOTE
The Brilliance Trilogy book one
LISA RENEE JONES
Dear Reader,
I’m excited to take The Brilliance Trilogy journey with you. A few things I want to point out: Much of the history about the Stradivarius violin you’ll read in the story, and even that of Antonio Stradivari, is real, but I did throw in a large dose of fiction. Also, if you’re interested, I’m a big David Garrett fan and he inspired my creation of Kace August, though Kace is fictional and not meant to be a duplication of the real David Garrett’s life. However, you might find it fun to look up David Garrett and discover a real rock star who is ever so talented :)
I hope you enjoy the story!
Lisa
PLAYLIST
Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve
The Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi
Love on the Brain by Rhianna
Bitter by Fletcher (with Kito)
Purple Rain by Prince
Secrets by OneRepublic
Carmina Burana by Carl Orff
Into You by Fabolous (feat. Tamia)
I Need a Doctor by Dr. Dre (feat. Eminem and Skylar Grey)
PROLOGUE
Gio—
When you touch me, I tremble. When I close my eyes and you’re not here, I remember your touch, your hands on my body, your tongue on my skin. And when you kiss me, as silly as it might sound, I melt. I go places with you, do things with you, that I never knew I could welcome in my life. But it’s all about you. It’s all about what you make me feel.
I know you feel that I’ve become your “reckless note” in the never-ending pursuit of a story you cannot leave without a proper ending. But that’s just it. I’m part of this story now. I’m part of your story. And I never meant for any of this to happen. I couldn’t know that we’d meet and the world would spin beneath my feet, and somehow ignite a million shades of beauty in my life. I couldn’t know that I’d change how you saw, well, everything.
Please don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.
I don’t know who I am without you anymore.
We will find the answers you need together. We will find your family “recipe.” I wasn’t lying. The answers you need can be found with me and at the Riptide Auction House. I promise you. Come see me. I won’t keep secrets any longer. I’m done with secrets.
Love forever,
Sofia
CHAPTER ONE
One reckless note can change everything.
My mother used to say that to me and my brother, Gio, and even in the years since she passed, the words echo in my mind, as I know they must in my brother’s. After all, we heard those words on nearly a daily basis from the moment our father disappeared until the moment our mother died seven years later. I’d been eleven when my father disappeared and eighteen when my mother was murdered. Now, I’m twenty-eight and the only person I have left in this world is also missing. Gio forgot that saying, he forgot that a reckless note can also be deadly when you’re born into our family. I’ve known for months that he forgot, but that letter from Sofia, whoever she is, confirms that his promises to stay away from our family secrets were not kept. And now I have to find him before it’s too late, the way it was for mom and dad. I refuse to believe Gio is dead. He’s protecting me. It’s the only acceptable answer.
It’s a mild October late afternoon, with the hot eighties temperatures finally breaking into the low sixties windy day as I approach the double glass doors of the world-renowned Riptide Auction House. Nerves flutter in my belly with the idea that I’m about to do everything my mother warned me never to do—I’m about to place myself in the middle of the world that destroyed our family. But I’m also trying to save the only family I have left. A security guard opens the door for me and I quickly smooth down my wind-blown, long, dark hair.
“Welcome,” he greets.
“Thank you,” I say, shifting the Louis Vuitton briefcase my mother had given me for my high school graduation. She’d gotten it from a thrift shop and validated its authenticity. I didn’t care where it came from. It’s Louis Vuitton, a luxury I’d never known, though she had. We’d had money in Italy before we’d fled after my father’s disappearance, and did so with nothing. Unfortunately, the briefcase is the only thing I’m wearing that is a recognizable brand, but at least it pops against my basic black skirt and matching black silk blouse. Though as I walk under the extravagant chandelier that seems to have hundreds of dangling diamonds, and across floors so glossy white I need sunglasses, it doesn’t seem quite enough.
The receptionist desk is to the right, a long white number that shines like the floors, so shiny that I imagine this is the kind of desk heaven might have. The Italian in me clings to religion, and the idea of heaven right now, but I reject the idea of Gio being there with our parents, not here with me. He can’t leave me. I won’t let him leave me here alone.
There are three people spread out behind that fancy desk and I choose the friendly-looking redhead with a splatter of freckles on her button nose.
“Hi,” she greets. “I’m Amber. Can I help you?”
“Hi, yes.” I slide a card on the counter. “I’m Aria Alard,” I say, speaking my mother’s maiden name with the confidence she meant it to give me. No one here has to know who I really am. Ever. They can never know. We disappeared with my father, our historic bloodline ended forever. That’s what we let the world believe of my entire family. “I’m with Accent Collectibles,” I add. “Is Sofia here?”
Her brows furrow. “Sofia?”
“I was told she works here.”
Her brow crinkles and she says, “No. There’s no Sofia here.”
Disappointment stabs at me. “I must have the name wrong. I’m interested in attending one of your auctions.”
“Of course.” She slides a piece of paper in front of me and presents me with a list. “These are the upcoming auctions.”
I scan a summary list of the hot ticket items I’m hoping for, but the list is long. “I’m looking for a violin I was informed you’d be auctioning off.”
“Let me check for you.” She punches keys on her keyboard and then frowns. “I don’t see anything about a violin.” She glances over at her co-worker. “Brenda, is there a violin being auctioned off?”
“I do believe there is,” she says, “but that’s for the VIP event. It’s closed to the public, invitation only.”
Another female employee steps to Amber’s side, and glances at me. “Apologies. I’ll be just one moment.” She lowers her voice and speaks to Amber. “Where did Mr. Compton go for lunch? I have a document he told me to rush over to him and I—well, I forgot the restaurant’s name.”
“Monroe’s,” Amber replies.
The other woman thanks her, apologizes to me again, and then leaves. Amber refocuses on me. “I’m sorry. You would have to have an invitation from Mr. Compton himself.”
“How do I meet Mr. Compton?”
“You can try attending the auction Friday night. I know he’ll be there.”
It’s Tuesday. Friday night is forever away when my brother’s missing and that violin is absolutely what my brother was after. “Do you happen to have any details about the violin?”
Amber eyes Brenda. Brenda replies, “We’re not at liberty to release any information for the VIP event, and honestly, I’ve said too much as it is.”
Defeat threatens, but I reject it. “Thank you,” I say, turning away and stuffing the auction schedule into my briefcase. I’m already googling Monroe’s before I even step outside the building.
I pause just outside as I pull up an address only a few blocks away. My brother is looking for a violin. He has to believe this one is special, perhaps one of the three our father owned, one of which our mother claimed hid a secret—the “recipe,” as Sofia had said, writing in obvious code, to make the renowned Stradivarius violin worth tens of millions of dollars. But I don’t care about the recipe. I care about finding my brother.
I hurry down the street and into the crush of the New York City sidewalk, the scent of roasting nuts from a street vendor teasing my hungry belly. Eating hasn’t exactly been on the top of my priority list the past few days but there is no time to stop now. I need to catch Mark before he departs from the restaurant. The walk is short and I quickly reach my destination, but I’m forced to step sharply behind a concrete column as the woman from the gallery exits the restaurant. Once I spy her heading down the sidewalk, I close the space between me and the dining spot but pause at the door to do my best to hand brush my hair into decent form.
Giving up, I decide I just have to do this. I enter the restaurant, and since I’ve read the Riptide website in detail, I scan for Mark Compton, based on his photo.
The hostess greets me. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I do,” I say. “I’m with Mark Compton, but I’ll find him. I just need to head to the ladies’ room first.”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s to the far-right and so is his table.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Thank you.”
I inhale and force my nerves down hard and fast, pulling forward the courage my mother showed when she raised us and protected us. I can do this. I will do this. For my brother.
CHAPTER TWO
The restaurant is dimly lit, with a navy-blue theme that carries through to chairs, square lights hanging from the ceiling, and apparently, even to the glassware. I’m fairly certain based on the level of fluff, that a lunch plate would cost my weekly grocery money, but my belly doesn’t care. It rumbles loudly and the idea of my roasted nuts promises relief. For now, I weave through tables, forcing away a need for sustenance for a much more pressing matter: finding Gio.
I spy Mark, a good-looking man with classic looks, in the corner booth sitting in the center of two other men I can’t make out. I close the space between me and him, noting his refined appearance. His blond hair is trimmed neatly, his features aristocratic, square and strong. And the man’s blue suit is far more expensive than my purse. I have a last-minute fluttery moment of doubt that erupts inside my chest, but I push it down and away.
Stepping right in front of his table, I’m suddenly in the spotlight of not one, but three men, though I don’t look at anyone but Mark. He’s my path to answers. He’s who matters. “Mr. Compton?”
He arches an incredibly practiced arrogant brow. “And you would be?”
“Aria Alard, with Accent Collectibles. I’m sorry to bother you, but I recognized you from your photo and I couldn’t miss the chance to introduce myself. I have a wealthy buyer with a high seven figures to spend. I’m requesting a spot to bid in your VIP auction.”
“Well, Ms. Alard,” he says tightly, “who’s the buyer?”
“Me,” I say. “The buyer wishes to remain anonymous.”
“That’s not good enough,” he replies. “Not when I have VIPs I’m protecting.”
“In case you’re wondering,” the man to his left says, “he’s always this arrogant.”
I glance in his direction and he’s a gorgeous man with longish blond hair and a brightly inked tattoo down his arm, who doesn’t read as arrogant. Just powerful, and that power is the only reason he fits at this table with Mark. “Just push through it,” he adds. “Or go around him and talk to his wife.”
Mark’s jaw sets hard and he glances at the other man. “You don’t know your limits, Chris.”
“I know my limits,” he assures him. “You just don’t like that I know yours.”
Mark dismisses him and fixes his gray eyes on me. “What are you seeking?”
“A violin,” I say, thankful to this Chris person for the pressure that seems to have made Mark ask for more information.
“Your buyer likes music, does he?”
The words spoken by the man to Mark’s right draws my gaze and I blink into brilliant blue eyes framed by thick, longish dark hair and rugged, handsome features. I blanch with the knowledge of who this is. I’m standing across from the thirty-four-year-old rock star of violins. A man who uses his good looks, denim, leather, and arms tatted up with random colored musical notes to create an image. That along with his re-mixed versions of hot new pop hits has done what many believe impossible—he’s made the violin cool and sexy.
“You’re,” I swallow hard and force myself not to act starstruck, which would certainly ensure I don’t make it into the VIP room. I regroup and instead of saying Kace August, I say, “accurate.”
His eyes, those famously blue eyes, narrow and his lips quirk slightly. Mark jumps in then and lifts a finger. “What song is playing right now?”
Ironically, there’s a violin playing in the restaurant right now, and the question is a test, of course. Do I know enough to be worthy of this auction? To win his respect defies my mother’s insistence that I deny my roots. This is not a work just anyone would know. But to fail could cost me the opportunity to find my brother. “‘The Four Seasons,’ Antonio Vivaldi.”
Mark glances over at Kace. “Is she right?”
“She is absolutely accurate,” he says using my own word, which I do not believe is an accident. His eyes warm on my face, ripe with surprise, but there is more. He’s pleased, I think. He likes that I know his world. I am drowning in this man’s blue eyes, and before I’m too far under to recover, I jerk my gaze to Mark. “Can I at least get a private viewing of the violin?”
“Leave your card and show up to Friday night’s event. Buy something. That’s the best way to show intent.”
Buy something, with all the money I do not have, I think, acid biting at my belly. I reach into my bag and pull out my ca
rd, setting it on the table in front of him. I can feel Kace’s eyes on my face, burning through me. That’s when he shocks me and speaks to me in Italian: “Cambiano i suonatori, ma la musica è sempre quella.”
It means, “the melody changes, but the song remains the same,” but directly translated it’s: “the players change, but the music is always the same.”
I look at him and I know I shouldn’t respond, I shouldn’t connect myself to Italy with this man, but translation services are on my card. “No,” I answer in English. “The musician, the player, makes all the difference, which is why he should have an instrument worthy of him.” It’s what my ancestor who created the Stradivarius violin believed. It’s why he made the Stradivarius.
I glance back at Mark. “I’ll be there Friday night.”
And with that, I turn and start walking toward the exit.
CHAPTER THREE
The sun is setting when I arrive back at Accent Collectibles, which is also where Gio and I both live in separate apartments. I quickly unlock the door and flip on the light to find our mail shoved under the door. I grab it, lock up and turn on the security system and then drop the mail on the counter to the right. The building is old, rumored to be haunted, but it was a steal when we bought it five years ago with our pooled funds. Stories of ghosts normally make me laugh, and thankfully thus far have proven to be myth, but tonight a creak from the upstairs has my nerves standing on edge.
I grab our leather-bound book where we log our customers’ special requests, and hurry forward, walking past rows of books and trinkets that don’t move fast enough to pay the bills. We count on being contracted to locate high-end collectibles. My translation services have helped during a few random large projects, but that work isn’t steady.
Passing two offices, mine on the left, and Gio’s on the right, I pause at the wooden stairs that lead to two separate apartments we had built when we bought the place, and I hesitate, listening for another creak. It doesn’t come, but then suddenly I wonder if Gio is back. I rush up the stairs, drop my bag by my door, and knock on his. When he doesn’t answer, I grab my keys and open his door, pushing it open to reveal his studio. I scan the room and the oversized brown leather couch and chairs that eat up the space. He’s not immediately in view, and when my gaze lifts to the stairs leading to his bed, that space is empty.