by Skye Warren
The black netting falls to the sides of the skirts, parting to reveal the red silk in its uncovered sheen in the middle. I have to admit it looks beautiful. Probably more beautiful if I didn’t know it was trying to be a bug. I’m not what you’d call an outdoorsy person. Perhaps it is more alluring with the hint of a story behind it. Much like a performance becomes deeper with a sense of character.
The three dresses look striking side by side—red, orange, and yellow. The color of flame. We’ll stand out in any gathering of well-dressed people. We’ll be the center of attention even before people know our names. Looking at Isa’s contentment I know that was the purpose. She leaves to consult with an army of stylists and makeup artists in the large dressing room next door.
“I can’t believe you went along with her,” I murmur to Bethany.
She laughs softly. “It was my idea. Remember, I’m a performer at heart. How we dress is part of that. How we hold ourselves comes from how we dress.”
I look down at her plain tank top. Her black sweat pants are loose fitting and then cinch at her ankles. It’s a look that can only look good on someone with an incredible body, which she definitely has. “How are you holding yourself now?”
“This isn’t a performance. Think of this room like backstage. In that ballroom downstairs, there will be representatives from the European record label. There will be investors from the theater, including the one who’s the creative director of our show. Not to mention half of France’s high society, specifically the kind of people who patronize classical music.”
Nervousness tightens my throat. Even the idea of playing the violin again makes me seize up. Tonight I won’t be playing, but it will be the precursor. The chug-chug-chug to the top of the roller coaster that I don’t want to be on. “So I should hold myself with humility in request of their patronage?”
“Oh God no. You should be haughty and intellectual and snobby.”
She looks serious. “Snobby?”
“They want to know that there’s a secret club to the world of classical music. And that you’re part of it. You’re their entrance. You’re their only hope of being part of it.”
“There’s no secret club. Or if there is, I’m not part of it.”
A musical laugh. “You are the club, Samantha.”
“Have you been having conference calls with Liam? He’s convinced I’m going to be the star of the show. I mean I expect that kind of optimism from my agent, but you guys know me. I’m just a regular person.”
Bethany leads me to a table that’s laid out with a large breakfast. “Have a croissant, regular person,” she says, piling fresh fruit onto her plate.
I should probably go for fruit or oatmeal or something healthy. The pile of croissants looks flaky and delicious, though. Bethany knows me too well. I grab a croissant and tear a piece to eat. Yes. Buttery croissants are the best. My mouth is still full of savory flavor when Bethany holds up her phone. It’s my Instagram account. I recognize the photo from the tour. Violinist. Croissants. Eiffel tower. Your favorite child prodigy all grown up. Music emojis complete the bio. The account had been active during the tour, but I assumed it had been abandoned when we left. Apparently not. There are words of affirmation and pictures from around the world, as if I were sightseeing instead of hiding from people trying to kill me. It’s the number at the top right that makes my heart stop. My mouth drops open. “One million followers? Who are these people?”
“They’re your fans,” Bethany says before eating a piece of pineapple.
Somehow I’ve become a little celebrity. When did this happen? How?
Suddenly the concert at Palais Garnier makes more sense. As does the ball tonight filled with high society and actual royalty. Feeling almost numb with wonder, I click the link in the bio to the tickets being sold for the concert. It’s my name headlining the tour. My silhouette holding a violin that’s the main image. The concert is already sold out. Resale tickets are going for thousands of euros each.
The career I thought I would have to spend decades building, the one I thought I’d walked away from… it’s waiting for me downstairs. It’s already mine.
Liam
I watch the ball from the edges of the room, strolling behind large potted plants and wide columns. A few of the guests are clients of North Security. Most of them are strangers.
“Do you really think they’d make a move here?” Josh asks in the earpiece. I can see him strolling along the ballroom on the opposite side. We have men stationed outside the chateau and throughout the public rooms. We’re taking point on the ballroom itself.
“No, but I think they’ll attend. Why wouldn’t they?” Any chance to survey your opponent was important, especially if your opponent had been in hiding for months.
“That assumes they can get an invitation.”
The ball is definitely exclusive, but someone who has the power to destroy a classified file in the US government has high connections. “Tell me about the woman from the train.”
There’s quiet over the radio. My body tightens. There was something there. Damn it. He clears his throat. “Anthony followed her off the train and lost her on the Avenue du Choisy. We found her ticket information. Her passport was a fake.”
“Christ. I should have kept her.”
“The French government wouldn’t have taken kindly to our holding people hostage on trains,” Josh says dryly. “We wanted to come in without too much attention.”
“And yet we had someone’s attention.”
“Someone in Frans’s entourage?”
“Maybe. Do we have information on his new wife?”
“You don’t trust her?”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
A low laugh. “He’ll kick your ass if he finds out we investigated her. She comes from old money. Railroads, steel, technology. Nothing even remotely connected to politics.”
“And now a duchess.”
“In other words, she has no incentive to sell out her country.”
“Her old country. Now she’s a citizen of Spain. A resident of France. And you’re forgetting the less frequent reason people sell out their countries. Not always money. It could be ideology.”
Josh snorts. “It’s always about money.”
He might be right about that. Even when people claim they do things for ideological reasons, money usually factors into the equation. Unfortunately we don’t know who knew about our location. We can’t even be sure that the woman went into our car on purpose. My mind’s eye remembers her dark hair and dark eyes, her tanned skin heavily wrinkled. Her clothes were plain—probably too plain. Chosen to be nondescript. Even so, something about her feels familiar.
A stir in the crowd turns their attention to the grand staircase.
A man at the bottom of the stage announces Isa, including her full name and royal titles. She appears at the top of the stairs, wearing a wide gown of orange and black. Despite the rather playful image she projected when I met her, she appears regal now. No one would question her position the way she holds her head, her shoulders, the way she drifts down with regal hauteur, even in whispers.
The man at the bottom announces Bethany. Somehow she manages to make a bright yellow color look mysterious instead of like sunshine. She drifts down the stairs with the grace of a dancer. A murmur of interest spreads across the room as some know that she’s part of the concert.
Every muscle in my body tenses. I know who’s coming next.
There are strict regulations regarding where I need to stand to always see the whole crowd. There are protocols for how often I scan the crowd. There are affectations so that people don’t notice me or know where my attention goes. All of this is built into my muscles. All of this is thoughtless, but I can’t remember it now. Not when every cell in my body leans towards those stairs.
Not when I want to be at her side, escorting her into the room. Marking my possession so that every man who admires her knows exactly where she belongs.
&nbs
p; She appears at the top of the stairs. My breath catches. My God.
I’m used to seeing her in demure black clothes when she plays. During the tour she wore that costume of blue satin and white lace. It emphasized her youth. Now she wears a red ballgown that declares her sensuality in dangerous certainty. My cock hardens in the tux with nowhere to go. A rustle goes through the crowd. They know who she is, but that’s not the only reason. I can only imagine the ideas running through the men. The gown features a strapless bodice that shows off her small breasts. My fingers twitch at my side. I want to touch her, to tweak her nipples.
A pause. She doesn’t immediately come down the stairs the way the other women did. She stands very still, but I sense her nerves. The crowd must seem intimidating. I never should have let her come in on her own. I take a step forward, determined to walk up the stairs and escort her down.
Her chin lifts.
There’s no comparison. She floats down the stairs with such confidence everyone forgets the moment of uncertainty. Everyone except me. Satisfaction suffuses my chest. The part of me that helped raise that young woman feels pride. The rest of me? Pure lust. I want her wearing that dress, the red fabric thrown up around her waist as I pound into her on the marble stairs. I want her bent over, only her pretty little ass visible, framed by the dress, while I sink two fingers into her heat.
“Close your mouth,” a low voice mutters directly in my ear. “You have at least two hours before you can drag her away from the ballroom, by the way.”
Fucking Josh. Even from across the room he could tell how dumbstruck she makes me. I speak into my mouthpiece. “Noah. Move inside the ballroom. You’re taking over the south wall.”
The crowd has already swallowed her, greeting her, taking up her attention. I don’t begrudge them her time and space. I don’t begrudge them her music. I’m not so possessive that I won’t let her perform in whatever capacity, whether it’s in the violin or as the belle of the ball, but I want every man who admires her to know she goes home with me at the end of the night.
For that matter, I want no doubt in her mind either.
I may not get to keep her, but for right now she’s mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
French composer and virtuoso pianist Louise Farrenc was twice awarded the Prix Chartier of the Academie des Beau-Arts and was appointed to the prestigious position of Professor of Piano at the Paris Conservatory. Despite this, she was paid less than her male counterparts. Only after she composed a piece for the popular and handsome male violinist Joseph Joachim did she finally receive equal pay.
Samantha
My chest tightens with everybody that brushes against me. There are too many people. I’m reminded of those days in the orphanage, when we were stacked six-deep in a room, the sleeping mats more narrow than our skinny bodies. The irony is that I’m wearing a dress that costs enough to feed the girls there for a year. Faces dance in front of me, a kaleidoscope of bright smiles and shimmery jewels. I want nothing more than to be bundled onto the high bed in my room. Those velvet drapes would shield me from this. I manage to murmur polite greetings without really understanding. So nice to meet you. Oh, thank you. You’re so kind. Hopefully my responses match up to what people are actually saying. It’s a buzzing sound, perhaps the language of butterflies and ladybugs and bumble bees.
“Samantha Brooks.” A low voice breaks through the crowd. “You look all grown up. And somehow, so much the same. Do you remember me? Probably not.”
The person speaking is too handsome to possibly forget except… I search my memory. Nothing. My cheeks feel warm. There’s no empty response to this. “I’m so sorry.”
He laughs, a little self-deprecating. “I’m sure it’s a good thing that I don’t look like my teenaged self. Besides the fact that I could barely bring myself to look at you then. Alexander Fox. Above-average cello player. We once played on the same stage in Leningrad.”
Surprise disarms me. Probably his handsome face does, too. He could be an actor in a blockbuster movie with those blue eyes and square jaw. “I remember Leningrad.”
“I was one of eight cellos in the orchestra. I was so nervous about the performance I was lucky not to fumble my parts. You, however, were a goddamn miracle.”
A blush. “Thank you. I’m sorry I don’t remember—”
He waves his hand. “It would be strange if you did. Especially since I know what happened six months after that performance. I could never get you out of my head after that.”
Six months after that performance my father died. The servants at the house had no idea where to place me. I ended up at a Russian orphanage. Only later did I find it strange. Shouldn’t I have returned to the United States? Unless someone didn’t want me there. Unless someone thought it would be easier to kill me in a foreign country, in a house that barely counted all the girls in its care.
Liam North retrieved me from the orphanage and took custody of me. A judge made his guardianship official a few months later. It took money to pull that off. Power. I’ve always been at the mercy of men. It was only the violin that made it bearable. And now, even that is gone.
Alexander frowns. “I’ve upset you. Of course I have, bringing that up. I’m a bastard. Let me get you a drink. Distract you. Or would you like to dance?”
I open my mouth, only to find a laugh coming out. He sounds a little nervous, but somehow I find it charming. Is this what it would feel like to meet a handsome man at a ball? I suppose that’s what I’m doing now, but my past taints every interaction. “You know what? Yes. I would love to dance.”
That’s how I end up twirling on the parquet floor, the world spinning as if I hang from the ceiling in the Tanglewood theater, everything moving too fast. Instead of a rope and cable around my waist there’s a man’s warmth.
“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” Alexander says.
“I didn’t think you’d ask me to dance,” I say, laughing a little.
“It’s been, what? Eight years now? I hope I’ve learned how to speak to pretty girls better than I could back then. Anything’s better than staring at the floor.”
“You’re a charmer,” I say, but I don’t seem to mind.
He’s lacking the edge of self-destruction that tinged Harry March’s interactions. Instead Alexander seems… genuine. He’s also handsome. And he knows how to dance. I realize that I didn’t really know how when I agreed, but he leads me through the waltz with sure feet.
His blue eyes reflect the light of a thousand crystals on chandeliers. He blows out a breath. “Okay, I’m not that smooth with pretty girls. I should have opened with this, I’m in charge of the concert.”
“Oh.” I can’t control the way my body stiffens. After the harshness of the label reps in the US and the disaster that ended it, I’m sensitive to whoever will call these shots.
“I can only imagine you’re nervous about performing again. Rest assured we’re working with the best security consultants to make sure that you’ll be safe on this stage.”
That’s what he thinks I’m worried about? It’s surprisingly astute. “You’ve met Bethany, right? She mentioned that you preferred a more classical style.”
“I suppose you could say that. I prefer more of a recital format. As far as the dramatic flair… I don’t mind it, but I think a little goes a long way. Unless you like a more colorful style? I saw footage of the US tour, but we frequently have license to change things for the European leg.”
“A recital style sounds much better to me.” That’s a lie. Anything where I have to play the violin makes me break out into a sweat. But this way means I’ll spend less time onstage.
There will be very little showmanship. Maybe I’ll actually manage to survive it…
My stomach cramps. Then again maybe not.
“The truth is…” A lock of hair falls over his forehead, making him look both dashing and shy. “You could probably convince me to do the concert any way you like. You’re the headliner for a reason. And I knew
your genius when I heard you play eight years ago.”
The flattery expands my chest. “Are you performing, too?”
“Oh God, no. My above-average skill as a teenager has fallen to purely mediocre. No, I went to work for an auction house after college. A lot of rubbing elbows and knowing the right people. In the end it was hard to see the best instruments in the world go to billionaires who would lock it up instead of the performers who could make magic.”
I murmur my understanding, because so many of the old instruments are owned by museums and investment groups and billionaires. The average musician must save up a lifetime or use a loan. It’s not only the upfront cost of the instrument, which can run in the millions, but also the upkeep. I’m one of the rare musicians who owns a masterpiece outright—and that’s only thanks to Liam North. He made Lady Tennant, my violin, a gift to me. And I repaid that thanks by locking the violin away. Acid rises in my throat. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, but I can’t imagine going back now. I turned my back on more than Lady Tennant that terrible night in New York City, afraid that Liam would die in my arms. I turned my back on music.
“So where do you work now?” I force myself to ask.
Blue eyes study me as if he knows the dark direction of my thoughts. When he speaks I know it’s more a kindness than a conversation. “I have another confession to make. My family is one of those overly rich, undertalented people who own some of the best instruments. It’s why they pushed me to play the cello. They wanted a prodigy. Instead they got me.”
Sympathy tightens my throat. There had been many stage moms and dads when I performed as a child prodigy. They had pointed to me as the example. You don’t want this for them, I wanted to shout. Better to be normal. Better to be happy. Not that it mattered. They couldn’t manufacture prodigy-like skill any more than I could pretend I knew what to do a on playground. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Ah, don’t apologize. My father accepted it soon enough. Mom took a little bit longer, but she wants me to be happy. And they’re rich enough that they can sponsor prodigies every year. I took over the family business, managing our investments in the music world. Including with the Palais Garnier.”
