“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 had 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 room, 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.
Kimberly gives me a rueful smile as the door closes behind him. “I don’t think I made a new friend with him. He sounded pretty strict about staying in the room with you.”
“He’s just protective,” I say, feeling defensive of him, even though it would probably be better if she thinks he’s an asshole. “You never really know what you’re getting with reporters.”
For example, sometimes they show up thirty years younger than you think.
She leans closer and gives me a conspiratorial smile. “All the more reason for him to be gone while we talk about your personal life.”
“Oh.” I blink, trying to make sense of her words. “I thought you… well, I thought you’d ask me about my favorite composer and who I want to work with.”
“I’m assuming your favorite composer hasn’t changed from the interview you did for BBC last year. As for who you want to work with, you should probably say Harry March even if that’s not true.”
A huff of laughter escapes me. “Okay, so what do you want to ask me?”
“My readers want to know the person behind the violin. They already know they’re going to get your best when they buy a ticket. They want to know something they can’t see onstage. What do you love about your best friend? Who’s the last boy you kissed?”
Unease moves inside me. “I’m not dating anyone.”
“Oh, come now,” she says, coaxing. “There must be someone you’re interested in. I know that you attend St. Agnes. That must give you even more opportunity to meet boys than if you only had tutors.”
There is someone I’m interested in, but it’s wholly inappropriate. Wrong on every level. Completely forbidden. I barely even let myself think it, but Liam is the only person that comes to mind when I dream about kissing or sex. “It’s really just me and my violin,” I say, trying to sound breezy.
I think that’s how a woman of the world should sound. Someone who doesn’t have a crush on the man who’s been her guardian for the past six years. That crush feels painfully childish with this woman sitting in front of me, everything about her sexy and grown-up.
Thankfully she moves on to asking about friends and about school. Safe questions.
When she’s done, she closes her notebook with a brusque snap. “Thank you so much for talking with me, Samantha. I appreciate your time and your candor.”
My gaze hits the floor because I wasn’t completely honest. It’s not that I feel guilty about that exactly. I don’t owe a random reporter my deepest secrets. But I do feel guilty about having the secret, about having a crush on the man who’s only ever protected me.
That man waits in the hallway when Kimberly opens the door. “Just the person I wanted to see,” she says. “The rest of my questions are for you.”
Chapter Three
The smallest violin comes in size 1/64th, perfect for children aged two and three
LIAM
Christ.
Samantha stands behind the reporter, her eyes wide with curiosity. And something else. Betrayal? “Questions for me?” I ask, keeping my expression blank. I sure as hell hope she isn’t coming on to me with my ward in the same room.
Kimberly gives me a wry smile. “Part of my interview process. I like to speak to the important people in the musician’s lives, get their perspectives.”
I’ve been an important person in Samantha’s life for the past six years. It wasn’t a role I particularly wanted, but now that I’m here—the thought of her leaving makes me feel hollow. “I see.”
“We can use your office,” the reporter prompts.
“Right,” I say, hiding my reluctance. I don’t want to discuss my feelings for Samantha with anyone. They cut too deep for words. I don’t want to hinder her press opportunity. The way she stood up to me when she asked to speak to the reporter
alone—it was a small thing, but it was new. God, she’s going to be eighteen in a few weeks. I can support her independence… even if it kills me.
I stand aside to hold the door open for Samantha to leave. The last thing I need is her watching me while I talk about… what, exactly? My perspective, whatever that means. There’s a dark undercurrent to my thoughts about her. Like the way I keep thinking of her expression as she moaned.
The betrayal in her wide brown eyes gets deeper as she passes by me on her way to the hallway. She’s hurt because I’m kicking her out of the room. She’d be hurt a lot more if she knew these thoughts I have about her. That’s why I plan on tamping them down—way down.
I close the door and glare at a knot in the wood. Get your shit together, North.
I’ve done some limited press for my company, making formal comments on the security for a high-profile client when it’s required. More than that, I’m on conference calls with some of the highest-ranking politicians in the country. Nothing rattles me.
The look of betrayal in Samantha’s eyes—that rattles me.
I don’t join the reporter at the armchairs. Instead I take a seat behind my desk, leaving her to sit on the other side. “Your questions?” I ask, my tone brusque.
She sits down in a businesslike manner. “Thanks for taking the time, Mr. North. I understand that you’ve had custody of Samantha Brooks for six years.”
“That’s right.”
“How is it that you became her guardian?”
“Her father passed away in—”
“Of course, the death of Ambassador Brooks is a matter of public record. I’m referring to the fact that you aren’t related to Samantha through either blood or marriage.”
The question hits me like a sledgehammer. I should have seen it coming. Years of military strategy should have prepared me for this, but I’m blindsided. For six years no one has asked me this question beyond the perfunctory reason that her father died. Her school, the society that awarded her a grant. I suppose it’s alarming that someone could so easily take custody of a child that isn’t theirs. A well-placed donation to a cause and a back-room deal with lawyers.
Falling For The Forbidden Page 38
