Reckless Games

by M. J. Lowell

  Pull yourself together! a warning voice in my head sounded.

  “Is this errand a top-secret mission or can you tell me where we’re going?” I asked, trying not to betray where my thoughts had been taking me.

  He glanced over, and the flush in my cheeks deepened under his gaze. “Does it make you nervous, not knowing our destination?”

  Not knowing the destination was the least of it, but I wasn’t about to confess to that. “Of course not.” I forced a laugh. “I’m just curious.”

  “We’re going to Ludovisi.”

  “Ludovisi?” I echoed in confusion. “The violin store?”

  “I was told it’s the best in the city if you’re in the market for a violin. Was I told wrong?”

  “No, Ludovisi is the best. It’s amazing. But— why do you need a violin?”

  “Actually, I need two dozen of them.”

  “Two dozen?” I said, astonished. Violins at Ludovisi started at four figures, and some of them cost more than his Tesla. Two dozen could easily add up to a half-million dollars. “Are you starting an orchestra?”

  Rhys chuckled. “Not exactly. It’s for an arts center a friend’s involved with that provides instruments and lessons to children with musical promise. It’s called—”

  “Mozart’s Muses,” I supplied without thinking.

  “Ah. You’ve heard of the place?”

  “Of course. That’s where—” I stopped short. I might be in my own clothes, but I wasn’t going to give Rhys Carlyle any more clues as to my real identity, and that included telling him where I’d first learned to play the violin. “I think I read an article about it somewhere,” I finished vaguely.

  I felt his eyes on me, as though he’d noticed the hesitation in my response, and I was suddenly gripped by second thoughts. It didn’t help that the confined space of the car felt more intimate than the Plaza, even more intimate than being naked with him in his suite at the Bowery. Or maybe I was just that much more aware of him.

  What was I doing there, really? How would I ever chart a connection between Rhys and my father, much less between him and CF-64, if it truly were at the heart of this mystery? It wasn’t exactly easy to work “Hey, heard about any new polymers lately?” into conversation. I had no idea how I’d ever get any answers from him, yet here I was, letting this man lure me deeper into his dangerous web.

  We were idled at a stoplight when he tapped a button on his phone and a grid striped with colored lines appeared, hovering in front of the windshield like something from a Sci-Fi movie.

  I leaned forward. “What is that?”

  He touched the air and the grid rotated, becoming a map of Manhattan. “A real-time traffic map, bounced from my phone.” He indicated a series of thick red lines representing snarled traffic. “Looks like we should cut across below Twelfth Street.”

  I gaped. “Did you get the James Bond package when you bought the car?”

  He grinned. “No, I added it myself. It’s a technology we considered investing in for gaming consoles that can turn any surface into a monitor – even thin air.”

  “That’s incredible. When will it come out?”

  “It won’t,” he said. He tapped his phone and the map vanished. “It’s already obsolete. The next wave in gaming won’t require a screen. It will be right here.” He pointed to his eye.

  My throat went dry. The words I’d overheard the previous day came rushing back. “I’m paying you to get me that glass,” he’d said. And only a few hours ago Nico had explained to me how CF-64 was supposed to work. Did Rhys mean— could he actually be referring to—

  “You mean like Google Glass?” I managed to say. “Or a contact lens?”

  “Something like that,” Rhys said obliquely. He gave me a sidelong look. “But that’s all I can tell you. It’s a very secretive business, and I’m still waiting to hear from my expert whether the most promising version in development will even work. If it does, there could be millions at stake.”

  My head was buzzing. It sounded like he really was talking about CF-64, or at least about the same kind of lens my father had been working on. The kind of lens he’d been working on before he was murdered.

  “Who would come up with something like that?” I asked, not wanting to let go of this thread, however thin it might be.

  Rhys grinned again. “You know what they say: ‘I could tell you but I’d have to kill you.’”

  A chill went through me. I should have been pleased. My instincts were right. I had something to go on now. A clue. A small one, but one I hadn’t had before.

  So why did I feel more lost than ever?

  Chapter Eleven

  Ludovisi occupied an unassuming storefront in the East Village between a vegan pet boutique and a vintage clothing store. The front windows were dusty and filled with faded album covers, but the modest façade concealed a jewel box within.

  A bell chimed as we stepped through the door, and Itzhak Perlman playing a Bach cantata streamed from hidden speakers. I was still reeling from the possible connection between Rhys and CF-64 and all it implied, but the familiar scents of polished wood and resin combined with the music to soothe me.

  The shop was a long narrow space, its mahogany-paneled walls lined with shelves of instruments and its linoleum floor worn by the footsteps of generations of violinists. Against the back wall a glass-fronted case displayed the most valuable instruments.

  An older man in an impeccably tailored gray suit came out from behind the counter to greet us. He had the broad barrel chest of an opera singer, and he sounded like one as well, his voice deep and resonant and his words thickly accented. “I am Francesco di Belmonte. May I assist you?”

  Rhys answered in flawless Italian – at least, I assumed it was flawless based on how Signor Belmonte’s eyes lit up. They conversed together at length, speaking quickly and with animation until Rhys nodded and said, “Va bene.” He gestured to me. “This young lady is my expert consultant.”

  Signor Belmonte bent to kiss my hand gallantly. “You’ll want a range of sizes, I presume. Shall we start with the one-eighths?”

  “Where did you learn to speak Italian?” I asked Rhys as we followed the man deeper into the store.

  “Opera,” he said. “I fell in love with the music but wanted to understand the lyrics as well. That’s where I picked up most of my French, too.”

  Another new facet revealed, I thought to myself in surprise. Rhys Carlyle was an opera lover, and a linguist to boot. This definitely hadn’t turned up in any of Val’s research, but it fit with the portrait Davies had painted the day before, of a man who could achieve anything once he’d set his mind to it.

  Signor Belmonte stopped in front of a display of 1/8-sized violins, the size I’d started on myself as a first grader. I ran a finger gently along the curved frame of one. The salesman handed me a bow, and I picked it up and played a quick scale and then a series of arpeggios. The instrument’s tone was deep and full.

  It felt wonderful to play again, like coming home after an absence. And when a memory of the long-ago months when I’d lost my ability to play flickered at the edge of my mind, I pushed it back easily, glancing at Rhys instead.

  He was watching me play the most basic of exercises with such serious intensity, as if he was at a private recital by Itzhak Perlman himself, that I couldn’t resist sliding into the theme from Star Wars.

  Rhys whooped with boyish laughter, and the sound of it filled me with a startling lightness. His expression was sheer delighted surprise. It was thrilling to have caught this controlled man off-guard, to have unsettled him just a little. God knew, he unsettled me enough.

  Signor Belmonte and Rhys both applauded as I finished. Rhys grinned. “Is that a good violin or is it just your stellar playing, young Jedi?”

  I laughed. “The violin is out of this world.”

  Rhys’s answering laugh was more genuine than any I’d ever heard from him, reaching from his lips to his eyes, lighting up his entire face. His g
aze held mine, warm and uncomplicated in its candor. It felt like we were old friends, had known each other forever.

  And suddenly I knew, with an overwhelming confidence and clarity: I hadn’t imagined it the day before. This wasn’t simple attraction – it was that same sense of connection, of rightness I’d felt at the Plaza, and it was very real.

  “You’re sure that’s the one to get?” he asked, indicating the violin. “There are others that are more expensive. I don’t want the kids to have to settle for second-rate instruments.”

  I had to laugh again – the one in my hands had a price tag of five thousand dollars. “This is definitely not second-rate. I would have been ecstatic to have anything half as good when I was little.”

  Signor Belmonte nodded vigorously and said, “La signorina is correct. It is an excellent choice.”

  The three of us moved from display to display, selecting an assortment of differently sized violins. Deciding on the full-sized violins was the most challenging – there were so many exquisite instruments. I could have stayed there all day trying to choose among them.

  “Which would you choose for yourself?” Rhys asked as I deliberated.

  “This one,” I said immediately, indicating an instrument that could have been custom-made for me. Of course, it also cost more than most people made in a given year.

  “Done.” He picked it up and started to hand it to a beaming Signor Belmonte.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “It would be better to get something less delicate for the center. No matter how careful the students are, there’s always some wear and tear.”

  “It’s not for the center,” said Rhys. He smiled, a smile of pure pleasure. “It’s for you.”

  “What?” I was as stunned by his smile as his words. “No. I mean, I couldn’t. It’s far too expensive.”

  “You’ve been so giving of your time and expertise,” he said. “I want to thank you. And you said you sold your good violin. It seems only fair.”

  “I- I can’t,” I said. “But thank you.” The violin was gorgeous, and I was amazed he remembered what I’d said the previous day, but the idea of accepting such a costly gift seemed like it would compromise me somehow, leave me indebted.

  And I was never going to let that happen again. Especially not with this enigmatic man. With each new encounter I saw another side of him but understood him less. It was hard to reconcile his Sexiest Bachelor Number Nine persona with either the dangerous undercurrents I sensed lurking beneath the surface or the selfless generosity on display this afternoon.

  Or with the chilling possibility that he could have been involved in my father’s death.

  I could tell you but I’d have to kill you, he’d said so lightly. But maybe his joking words belied a murkier truth.

  The unease, the lost feeling I’d set aside when we walked into Ludovisi came flooding back, eclipsing the fleeting sense of connection in all its confidence and clarity. I didn’t know if Rhys sensed it, but from the moment I refused the violin his mood seemed to darken as well. He returned the instrument to its perch without another word and made short work of arranging for payment and delivery of the violins we’d selected.

  We said good-bye to Signor Belmonte and left the store in silence, all trace of laughter gone. I felt as though I was walking next to a stranger, as if the laughing man he’d been a short time ago never existed.

  He pulled his phone out and sent a text as we headed toward where he’d parked the Tesla. When we reached the car he pocketed the phone and said, “Davies will be here in five minutes to take you anywhere you want to go.”

  “Davies?” I echoed. “You’re leaving?”

  Rhys’s voice was now cold, his words clipped. “I am.”

  I felt a rising tide of panic. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not like this. I- I hadn’t even had a chance to ask him any questions. To try to find out if the technology he’d mentioned actually was my father’s. That was the only reason I was desperate to stop him. Or so I told myself.

  “Do you like cannoli?” I blurted out.

  “What?”

  “Cannoli. It’s an Italian pastry. The best in the city are across the street at Veniero’s.”

  He stared at me as if I’d suddenly started exhibiting signs of rabies. “Are you a reporter?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

  That was not a question I was prepared to answer aloud. I couldn’t even be honest with myself. “Why do I have to want something from you?”

  “In my experience, people spend time together because they want something from one another.”

  “What do you want from me?” I countered, taking a step toward him.

  His gaze went to a point over my shoulder, his eyes not meeting mine. “I told you yesterday. You said no.”

  I was close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest when he took a breath. “And yet you summoned me back.”

  “That was a mistake,” he said decisively, still avoiding my eyes, his jaw tight.

  My heart was pounding. “Why did you do it?”

  Finally he brought his eyes to mine, and what I saw astonished me. It was as if he were searching for something, seeking, but almost…afraid.

  As if I frightened him.

  That’s impossible, I told myself. But I knew it wasn’t. I was right. Only what could he possibly have to fear from me? He was the one who might be a murderer—

  Without warning, the vulnerability vanished and his eyes were hard sapphires again, a steel security gate clanging shut. “To tell you the truth, I had the ill-conceived idea I’d persuade you to change your mind. I’m sorry I wasted your time. I appreciate your help. Goodbye.”

  “Wait.” I spoke without thinking. I only knew I didn’t want to let him walk away.

  Because I had to find out if he really did know about CF-64, I reminded myself. And if so, who else knew. As Rhys himself had said, it was a secretive business – if the technology truly was linked to my father’s death, only those who were aware of it could be suspects.

  That’s when I realized: even if Rhys hadn’t known my father, even if he had nothing to do with his death, he could still help me. If the technology he’d mentioned wasn’t CF-64, it was very similar – similar enough to give whoever had developed it a multi-million-dollar motive to eliminate my father as a competitor.

  Rhys was either my best suspect or my best connection to the killer. And I had to do whatever it took to get closer to him.

  But there was only one way that could happen. He’d made that completely clear.

  At least, that’s what I told myself to explain what I did next.

  Taking a step toward him, I put my hand on his chest, hard muscle beneath the soft wool. I looked up at him and said, “I want to play your game.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I could feel his heart beating under my palm. His pulse was racing. I’d made his pulse race, and the idea thrilled me.

  His gaze, however, was as icy as his tone. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  He put his hand over mine, and his eyes swept my face, settling on my lips. “It could be dangerous.”

  The touch of his hand seemed to put me into a trance. His mouth moved almost imperceptibly closer. He’s going to kiss me, I thought. Please kiss me.

  I saw the exact instant he changed his mind. He dropped my hand and stepped back. “No.”

  “Yes,” I insisted, trying to sound as controlled and definitive as he did.

  “Good lord, Tuesday, give a man a break. Are you like this with all your lovers?”

  “Most of them don’t require this much persuasion,” I said, striving for an air of sophistication, to be the woman he thought Tuesday Granite was. “If you’ve decided you don’t want me—”

  His tone was deadly serious. “I want you. You have no idea how much I want you.”

  The words made me shimmer inside with pleasure. “The
n— why not?”

  “You’re—” he started. He took a deep breath. “You’re everything I’ve built my life to avoid. You’re completely wrong for me.”

  “Because I’m not blond?”

  I meant it as a joke but he nodded. “Not blond. Not fake. Not a cheat.” He paused. “Not safe.”

  “And you’re especially not good at compliments,” I found myself retorting, Tuesday Granite momentarily forgotten. To have offered myself so brazenly, only to be rejected, stung beyond all expectation. “Never mind,” I said coolly, willing myself back into character. “You’re right. We should go our separate ways—”

  His strong grasp on my wrist silenced me. His eyes locked on mine for a long moment.

  “You’re sure,” he said finally. It was a statement, not a question.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “But I want to add a rule of my own.”

  Rhys stared down at me. I’d surprised him, but not as much as I’d surprised myself. The idea had come to me without conscious thought. “That’s never been necessary before,” he said. “My rules have proved adequate for any situation.”

  I met his eyes boldly. “I would have thought you’d be more open-minded. Surely even the most satisfying games can be improved.”

  He paused. “What is this rule of yours then?”

  “You can’t ask me anything about myself.”

  His eyes seemed to burn into mine. “Why not?”

  “Protection.”

  He gave me a long considering look. “Fine,” he said finally, adding under his breath, “Except I don’t think you’re the one who needs protecting.”

  And suddenly he was pulling me across the street. As we reached the other side, he turned to face me again. His expression was unreadable. “Everyone starts at the first level, and its theme is Obey. That means you do what I say. Exactly what I say.”

  Only then did the full weight of what I was doing hit me. I had agreed to play Rhys Carlyle’s game. Begged to play it, actually.