Seduced

by Cari Quinn

  Violin Girl.

  That scent had been driving him crazy all week. As elusive as the brunette had been since his first day in the studio. He’d watched her play her purple violin a few times, but she always disappeared before he could talk to her again.

  “Ah, Margo. There you are.”

  Simon shifted into the corner of the couch, swinging his legs up so he could sprawl out and enjoy the scenery. So, her name was Margo. He’d been too preoccupied with his less than stellar results in the recording booth to remember to ask around for her name. But since he didn’t want to think about just how much he sucked, he focused on the delectable Margo instead.

  She wore a skirt today, high-waisted with a tiny ruffled slit at the back of her knee. Combined with black stockings and boring black flats, the outfit shouldn’t have been appealing. Sky high black heels or boots—that would be his usual style. And still, he wanted to drag his knuckle over that little hollow behind her knee. To see if he could coax a reaction out of her deep dark eyes.

  She wore another one of her crisp white blouses. Honestly, didn’t she have another color in her wardrobe? He was having a helluva time focusing on anything but her long neck when she was in the room. Today, he had an extra treat. A hint of her collarbone peeked from the single button she’d left open. She stood motionless, listening to Nelson give her a few directions about Nick’s song.

  Nelson waved to Nick to start again. She slid silently into to the rolling chair that Blitz had vacated to pace around the room. As if ingrained, she slipped one ankle behind the other, keeping her knees tight together and her spine straight as a schoolteacher.

  God, would she sit just as straight if she straddled him?

  He shifted on the couch and she quickly turned her head. In profile, she was striking. Perfectly elegant and lovely with her high cheekbones and sweep of bangs framing her dark eyes. Too lovely. He wanted to rip the clip out of her chocolate-colored hair and see if the strands were as perfect and straight as her spine or a riot of fistable curls.

  Her eyes skimmed his body, but he couldn’t tell if the ripped to shit jeans he wore were her to liking or not. She hid her reaction beneath heavy lashes and an impassive face.

  When Nick started up again, she turned her attention to the recording room. Simon stood and moved behind Margo. If it was at all possible, her spine snapped straighter. In an effort not to unbind her hair—seriously, he wanted at that clip—he dipped his hands into his pockets. The spicy undertones to her scent were going to end him.

  Determined not to get a hard-on behind her, he focused on Nick. Today they were using a smaller room. The orchestra had partitioned off the larger side for practice. The versatility of this studio continued to astound him as much as it made his balls shrink up with nerves. Session chairs were scattered in a messy trio. Nick’s blond head bowed over his guitar again as his fingers slowly climbed the fret board. He flicked dials and tapped his pedalboard to fracture the echoing notes.

  The neck tingle was back and stronger than ever.

  Where the frig had Nick been hiding this song? Simon cracked his neck and paced to the back of the room. Nothing for months. Nothing with him anyway, and then Nick pulls this out of his ass on his own.

  Phenomenal, but not the band—yet again.

  Solo crap.

  Nothing cohesive to pull them in as a unit. Deak and Gray versus Nick. On the plus side, they’d finally realized Simon was the singer, not Gray, even if he was singing everyone else’s songs but his own since they’d stepped foot in the studio. Oh, they’d tried a few Oblivion songs, but they’d gotten one take down before the producer had dismissed it as unworthy of his time.

  But this was different. Simon could see the interest lighting Nelson’s eyes and Blitz was tapping along happily with a huge smile on his crinkly face. At least Simon assumed it was a smile twitching his huge handle bar mustache.

  “Think you can play with him?”

  Simon glanced at Nelson, but it was obvious he was talking to Margo.

  She nodded and picked up the case that sat at her feet. “I can wing it.”

  “Excellent. I knew you were the right choice to help out. I need you to do another track too.”

  Margo pulled sheet music out of her case. “I learned ‘The Becoming’ this morning.”

  “Good, I want your electric violin as another layer.” Nelson turned to Simon. “And you are in the booth again tonight.”

  Simon’s jaw clenched. Again being the operative word. He’d been in the booth every single day this week—except when they’d decided to try out Gray in his place—and not a single track was usable.

  “Simon, I really need a good session tonight. Or we’re going to have to go with Deacon and Grayson’s vocals.”

  Simon nodded, sparing a look at Margo. Her attention was on her instrument, not the fact that he’d been dressed down by the producer in front of the very professional, very hot chick. Well, at least that was one thing in his favor.

  Then she looked up and he saw a flash of pity in her dark eyes before they went carefully cool again. She stood and slipped through the door to the recording room. A few minutes later, the haunting tones of Margo’s violin sliced through his chest.

  Simon crossed the room and headed out the heavy door, then continued down the hall to the empty lobby. The front desk was unmanned and there were no minions running around. A red light pulsed from the back studio, but otherwise the world had hung it up for the night.

  And he was just beginning.

  Crashing out the front door, he dragged in a breath he hadn’t realize he needed. He stripped off the loose fitting button-down shirt he wore. Even that felt too tight. Crouching down, he dragged in another deep breath. The cool spring air tightened his lungs.

  Is this how Nick felt on stage before they started? Like a vise around his chest restricted the very air he breathed? Forget a vise, it felt more like a steel cage.

  “You’re going to hyperventilate if you don’t calm down.”

  Simon swore and fell on his ass. He looked up to see a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen staring down at him.

  She lowered herself to the pavement, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “I’m Lex.”

  “Of course you are.” Simon sucked in another shard-riddled breath. He couldn’t even freak out in peace.

  “In through your nose—”

  Black dots danced around his vision. “Look, kid, I’m sure you’re sweet and all, but—”

  “Singer or instrument?”

  Simon frowned at her. “Singer.”

  “Me too.” She pressed a hand to her belly and dragged in a breath through her nose.

  He tightened his jaw, but did as she said. The black dots faded and a few more breaths had him sitting upright to mirror her.

  “Didn’t your voice coach teach you this?”

  “What voice coach?”

  She shook her head, a dimpled grin curving her mouth. “If you were working with Blitz, you have a vocal coach.”

  Simon shrugged. “He gave up.” More like the guy thought he was a lost cause and not worth his time.

  Lex narrowed her eyes at him. “Never been in a studio?”

  “Virgin in a box all over again.” He winced, realizing too late that she was way too young for that kind of comment.

  Her huge blue eyes sparkled. “You have to ignore the room, ignore the people and ignore the need to show off. Pretend you’re in a shower, just warming up your chords.”

  “If I could ignore my surroundings, I wouldn’t have a problem.”

  Her small hands covered his and pressed them into his knees. “The producers can fix anything, but then again you don’t want just a slick American Idol song, do you?”

  “Fuck no. Dammit. I mean—” God, just shut up.

  “I’ve been in the studio since I was twelve.”

  “And what, you’re fourteen now?”

  “Sixteen next week.”

  “Color me impressed.”r />
  She shrugged. “I do voice work for cartoons and television.”

  “Why?”

  Lex grinned. “Why not? It’s good money and will put me through Berkeley.”

  “Do you play an instrument?”

  “Violin,” she said with a sigh.

  Simon’s gut twisted. Violin Girl. “You know Margo?”

  Lex’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, Margo Reece she’s with the Boston Symphony. I’m going to do what she does someday. And that violin she has?” She let out a sigh. “I’d happily kill for a Starfish.”

  He was unfamiliar with violin manufacturers, but he’d bet Cherry that was the unique purple instrument Margo never let out of her sight. Plenty of other violinists were used in the studio, both male and female. All of them seemed so stiff and formal, and none of them had a purple violin quite like hers. Blitz seemed to target Margo for a more specific use. Slightly edgier pieces suited her, regardless of the symphony uniform she wore.

  Lex’s nails bit into the tops of his hands. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Sure. Starfish is rad.”

  She sighed. “Yes, the violin is awesome, but no. I meant about singing. You need to picture yourself somewhere else. Your favorite place.”

  “The stage.”

  Her sweet, freckled face brightened. “See, that’s good. It’s no different than on stage—”

  Simon crossed his arms. “Yes, it is. The energy is missing. The sweat and the gritty smoke in the air, the screams, the feedback. All of that is gone.”

  “I can almost guarantee you don’t miss the smoke when you’re singing.”

  She had him there. “Well, no…but—”

  “No buts. Go back in there and pretend it’s the damn shower. It’s easy to sing in the shower.”

  Her earnest—and entirely too pure—face made him feel like a wimp. Here she was, a complete stranger trying to give him pointers. And what did he do? Whine like a bitch. Pathetic.

  He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “All right, I got it.” He looped an arm around her shoulders and dragged her in for a quick hug. “Thanks for the pep talk, squirt.” He shrugged into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned over his tank top as he stood up.

  “You’re welcome. Tell Blitz that Lex says hi.”

  “You got it.” He wandered back inside, his shoulders stiffening as he walked into the control room.

  “Look, Simon.” Blitz didn’t look at him as he spoke. “I’m going to leave the instrumental on a loop and you go get comfortable in the booth for at least an hour. I want you in here at six. We’ll all start fresh.”

  “A.M.?”

  “Yes.”

  Simon cracked his neck. No sleep then. “All right.” He went into the secondary studio and stopped in front of a huge, high backed leather chair. It looked like something that Ozzy would have in his living room, but the leather was soft and worn.

  Flea market meets rock star.

  He hefted it over his head and backed his way into studio B where they’d been working. The chair barely fit through the door to the booth, but he made it work. He lowered the mic and sat back, closing his eyes against the constant motion in the control room, the eyes that judged and found him lacking.

  He took out his phone and his earbuds, letting Myles Kennedy center him. Slash’s guitar was gritty and yet somehow crystal clear from beginning to end. He let his lungs open up and the familiar lyrics to “Starlight” filled the room. He didn’t care what he sounded like, just liked the raspy warm-up with Myles.

  Simon opened his eyes to see Margo in the main recording room. She watched him with a strange tilt to her head. Solemn brown eyes that saw too much. He yanked the earbud out and Deacon’s heavy bass filled the space. The walls were soundproofed and could be turned into speakers. The speakers were on full volume now.

  He closed her out, let his own song work through his bloodstream. The room was a shower, warm and tight. He could reach out and touch the four walls with his fingertips. He imagined the heat of the steam filling his lungs. The clamps around his chest opened as he let the music carry him. Testing his voice with the belabored end of the song where each word became a prayer.

  As always, he followed Deacon’s sure and steady bass line. Again and again he sang until the lyrics were effortless. Not perfection, just effortless on his tongue—as instinctive as muscle memory.

  He opened his eyes, knowing Violin Girl was still staring. Still trying to piece him together. Slim and cool as an ice pick, she seemed so apart from everything. She came into the room to do a job, and just the job. The only emotion came out of her instrument, not a damn thing showed on her face.

  The need to show off overrode the nerves that had been plaguing him. He somehow found a reservoir of talent that had been absent and the reward of a quivering vibrato stirred her into action.

  She lifted her violin and played her part with the recording. He stood at the window, amazed at the difference between this Margo and the one he was used to seeing in the studio. Her eyes closed. The cool façade slipped away. And when she opened her eyes again and her gaze collided with his, he looked down to see the doorknob in his hand.

  He opened the door and the live music drilled inside his chest. A humming high note lured him out for more, but he stopped at the threshold. She was utterly lost in the sensual element of the song. Her elegant fingers slipped up and down her fret board with a precision that he’d never even hope to achieve. The notes were as fluid as a guitar, but the lower registers added a full-bodied element that hadn’t been there before.

  Margo was actually walking toward him, breaching the doorway to his cell. Her eyes were huge and dark—he couldn’t tell where pupil met iris. All he could do was drown as his voice lowered in reaction. His cock curled in the confines of his jeans until it dug into his thigh.

  Ignoring the involuntary response to the sexual undertones of the song, he paid attention to the way his voice molded around the lyrics. The words tasted as smoky and biting as black licorice—undeniably different and overwhelming on the tongue. She stopped a heartbeat away and mouthed the words with him. Her honeysuckle scent rolled in with the chest-thumping whine of strings under a bow instead of pick.

  Her hand fell to her side, the bow and lightweight violin clutched in the elegant fingers of one hand. He brushed the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. Her pulse fluttered madly in her throat as she swallowed. Taking the instrument from her, he set it in the corner of the room and returned to her side.

  He traced her jaw, following the line of her throat, dipping his thumb into the half circle dent of her collarbone. A tiny pearl hovered on a chain so fine it barely glittered in the dim light. He spun the bead, then leaned in and tucked his tongue underneath to taste her skin.

  She shuddered, but didn’t step back. Instead she tipped her chin back and gave him greater access. He tugged at the pearl, feeling the sandy grit to the tiny treasure. Bumping his nose deeper into the collar of her blouse, he reveled in the spice and flower scent he found. Deeper and stronger at her pulse points.

  God, he loved the rich flavor of her. He needed to know if her tongue tasted just as spicy. If her lips were cool or hot, wet or dry. He palmed the back of her head, knocking her clip to the floor so her hair twined around his fingers and wrist.

  His other hand slid along her hip, lining her up and yet giving her more than enough time to back away. To walk away if this wasn’t what she wanted. Her wide brown eyes weren’t so cool now. They were curious. They remained open as he flicked his tongue along her full upper lip. She rolled that full lip into her mouth with the tiniest flash of tongue, then pressed her lips flat as if gauging his taste. He slid his thumb behind her ear, tipping her face up as he went in for more. Her tongue tentatively slid along his. Coffee and caramel warred with the coolness of her mouth.

  When her breath mingled with his, he gave up all pretense of letting her go.

  He sealed his mouth over hers and demanded her full participation. She m
oaned as their tongues twined and he stepped into her space. She dug under his shirt into the skin along his back. When her nails bit into the flesh of his ass, he scraped his way down her chin to her neck.

  “This doesn’t stop with a kiss, Violin Girl.”

  “Margo,” she said on an uneven breath. “If we do this, you better know my name.”

  “Margo,” he agreed. No, he wouldn’t forget her name. Ever. Then his mouth was on hers again. They both fought for dominance, but he couldn’t settle back and let her take control. This wasn’t his usual roll for fun and distraction. He couldn’t sit back and let whatever happened happen.

  Her taste infected him like a lyric that needed to be absorbed and understood. A lyric that would burrow into his brain for years. Like “The Becoming”, he needed to understand and devour her until everything was clear.

  He gripped her sides, drawing her skirt up inch by inch as his mouth glided across her jawline and down the fragile column of her throat. With his tongue, he slid one of the small pearl buttons free.

  A cool fingertip grazed his hip where she’d infiltrated one of the rips in his jeans. He hissed, moving away from her. “That kind of action will end this before we’ve even begun.”

  “I thought you were a virile rock star.”

  “I’ve been smelling your perfume for days, watching you play, watching you…watch—I want you too much right now.”

  “Watching me watch?”

  He nipped her chin then her lower lip. “You watch everything. Take everything in. It’s sexy as fuck.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why?”

  The slinky yet scratchy material of her skirt bunched into his hands. She damn well didn’t stop him and he wanted her under him. Or maybe over him. Christ, he didn’t care. He just needed to get under her skirt. “Don’t play, Violin Girl.”

  At the wrinkle in her forehead, he let one side of her skirt fall from his hand as he drew his thumb between her brows and down her nose to her lips. Maybe she didn’t know just how intriguing she was. Though in his experience, beautiful women knew their own power.