“I’ll have him tracked down. I’ll make sure he never bothers you or any other woman, ever again.”
“Don’t.” They would go after Alex, too, and then the circles of violence would spread. “It’s over. I’m okay.”
He stepped closer, raising his fingers toward her shoulder, but he stopped with his hand in the air. “Can I touch you?”
At least he knew how to act around an assault victim, even if he had entirely misunderstood the nature of what had happened, and that was just fine with her.
She reached up and took his warm hand. The calloused ridges on his fingertips rubbed her fingers. “I really am okay.”
Alex wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll make sure you’re safe. I’ll protect you.”
She gently detangled herself from his long limbs. Even though an offer of safety seemed terribly attractive, he couldn’t promise that. “We have to make sure that everyone is all right.”
“We should check in,” Alex said, pulling his cell phone from his pants pocket. “Do you have Wulfram’s security contact?”
“Lizzy and I just got here a few hours ago. We didn’t even change the SIM cards in our phones.” She jiggled her purse, indicating her phone.
Alex held his phone to his ear. “Quentin is Pierre’s Head of Security. I’ll check in with him, and we can get Wulfram’s contact numbers. After we check in with Big Brother’s security, we’ll stay in my room until we know what our next move is.”
Georgie leaned on the wall behind her. Her legs still felt like rubber bands were wound between her bones. “Big Brother?”
“That’s what Flicka used to call her brother, Wulfram. He had people watching her from the shadows all through school. She became adept at escaping his security, but they often found her within minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had earned that white wedding dress, considering how many men with guns surrounded her at all times.”
“God, I hope they’re okay,” Georgie said, clutching her hands in front of her.
“Bon jour, Quentin?” He continued in French, and Georgie couldn’t follow the rest of what he said. Really regretting taking Spanish and Mandarin right now.
Alex hung up. “Flicka and Pierre are unharmed and en route to their plane. Wulfram’s head of security is with him and they are fine, so Luca Wyss is in charge here. I have his phone number. Would you like to use my phone?”
“Yes. Please.”
Alex thumbed the screen of his phone and handed it to Georgie. It rang twice before a man’s bass voice said, “Say Luca Wyss.”
“I only speak English.”
“I speak English.”
Georgie said, “This is Georgie Johnson, Georgiana Johnson. I’m here with Alexandre—” She looked up at him.
“Grimaldi,” Alex said.
“Grimaldi, and we’re fine. We’re in his room, upstairs.”
“If you are being held against your will, say a number between one and five.”
“No! I mean, six! No, I’m fine. We’re fine. Is everyone else all right?”
“We do not provide operational information during an attack.”
“Please! Please tell me if they’re all right!” she begged. Georgie’s legs started to buckle, and Alex took her arm and led her to the couch.
Luca Wyss whispered, “At this time, we have no information of any casualties, either fatalities or injuries, and all but two people have now checked in. It appears that the snipers were very poor shots.”
“Thank you. Who hasn’t checked in?”
“Operational security.”
“Okay. I understand. Do either of the names rhyme with whizzy?”
Luca Wyss cleared his throat. “No.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Thank you for checking in. We will have vehicles leaving the hotel for the airport as soon as everyone is secured here. Can I contact you at this number?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Stay in the room. Keep the door locked. We will contact you when it is time to leave.”
“All right. Thank you.”
“Good day, Ms. Johnson.”
She hung up. “He said that I should stay here.”
“You should stay here.” Alex ran his knuckles down the side of her face and tucked a hank of hair behind her ear. Her schoolmarm bun must be falling down.
“I could go to my own room. You can call me on the hotel phone when they want me to go to the cars.”
“That wasn’t a request.” He took her hand, and his serious stare right in her eyes unnerved her. “You need to stay here when I can protect you.”
“Alex, I’m okay. Really.” She was halfway sure that she could walk to her room without falling into a heap. “You don’t need to make sure everything is under control.”
He blinked his soft, brown eyes. “I always make sure that everything is under control. Everything.”
“That sounds like a lot of stress.”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you have to keep under control, your estate and your vineyards in France? I thought you were one of the idle rich?”
“Other things,” he said. He ran his knuckles beside her ear and down her neck. “What should we do in the meantime?”
A big, black guitar case slanted against one of the armchairs. “Play something for me.”
“I shouldn’t sing,” Alex said. “I am recovering from a throat infection. That is why I am so hoarse.”
“Just the guitar,” she said. “Play ‘Alwaysland’ for me, the way it’s meant to be played.”
His brown eyes took on a terrible wariness, and he dropped his hand away from her face. “All right.”
Alwaysland
Alexandre de Valentinois
Alexandre could feel it streaming back at him.
The late afternoon sunlight poured in the windows, alighting on the blue couches and yellow silk armchairs and spreading across the blue and gold carpeting. The warm flowers released the last of their sweet scent into the air, perfumed roses and spicy hydrangeas with scents like sable fur and tingling chimes.
He felt like he was barely holding on to the here-and-now, the Parisian light and sweet air, but just beyond his vision lurked the darkness and hot pressure that was waiting for him on the other end of a plane ride.
As he reached for the black guitar case, a black miasma swirled between his fingertips and the fiberglas case.
He grabbed the case anyway and yanked it open. The base was too thick, and he turned his body so that Georgie wouldn’t see that there was obviously another compartment in it. The honey-colored guitar lay nestled in black velvet padding inside.
As he picked it up, he touched a string, vibrating a G note into the air.
Ripples of blue swam across his vision, not blocking anything out, precisely. It was more like he immediately remembered seeing them there a second ago.
He grabbed the neck of the guitar, silencing the steel string, but he could feel it creeping up on him again like obsession. He should have left the guitar on the bus, but he couldn’t travel without the other one.
Some musicians had hidden compartments in their guitar cases for heroin and their works. Others had bags of cocaine or pot.
Alexandre had his own addiction, one that was perhaps more destructive.
With the guitar in his hand, he slapped the lid closed so Georgie wouldn’t see.
As he turned around, he felt the other creeping up on him, hardening him, but he pushed it away. He was supposed to have a few more hours.
Alexandre sat on an armchair and propped the guitar between his knees. “Are you sure that you want to hear ‘Alwaysland?’”
“It seems like a great song. I’d like to hear what you did with it.”
He swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t sing.”
“Yeah, I know. Just the music, then.”
Alexandre warmed up his fingers, and the music flowed through his head and behind his eyes. “Alwaysland” was composed in shades of blue and teal wi
th just enough amber running through it to liven up the tones, a melancholy tune.
He segued into the melody, picking out the melody line on the top couple string while he played the harmonies that he had written with the deeper tones.
Within a few minutes, he couldn’t help himself and began to hum along to warm up his voice. His voicebox warmed, flushed with blood, and his mind settled into the music.
In another few minutes, he was singing in a low, breathy voice, still with an open larynx to let the air through until he warmed up.
Sapphire and ocean green streaked with sunset swirled around Alexandre, and he felt the music wave through every cell in his body. Yes, he had written it and it was a part of him as much as a child would be, but when he performed it, he lived it again, and his heart pulsed and shattered with each lyric line. The chord change at the end brought in deep maroons and golds.
The song ran out, and he almost called it back to run through it again, but it was better to let it end.
Alexandre opened his eyes, and he was in a hotel room in Paris with a girl.
Georgie was staring at him, her tawny brown eyes wide and stunned. “Your voice is really evocative.”
He looked down into his reflection in the glass coffee table. The man there held a guitar, and his long hair draped over the fretboard. He looked like he thought he was a rock star, but that was all far away. “Thanks.”
“That was absolutely beautiful.”
Alexandre glanced over at her, sure that she had finally recognized him. A lot of people didn’t recognize him just by looking at him.
But his voice, especially with the guitar, exactly as it was recorded, that was too much, and a lot of people would nail who he was.
Georgie’s open expression, though, honest and a little arrogant about her own music, hadn’t changed. She had changed her opinion of him but not her concept of him.
This was pretty damn cool. He could get honest feedback from a classical musician. “What about the music?”
“It was gorgeous. Completely different than what I expected. I heard a little Franck in there, which makes sense considering the religious symbolism in the lyrics. Are you Catholic?”
“Recovering,” he admitted.
“Me, too. The symbolism, though—”
“It still resonates.”
“Yeah.”
“And the lyrics?” he asked. With anyone else, that would have been fishing for compliments.
“Gorgeous. Heartfelt. A little clichéd in places.”
“You think so?” He frowned.
“You’re just throwing some of those words in there. In the second verse, you’re using the whole ‘ring’ thing at face value instead of contrasting it or using its opposite somewhere, so yeah. There are other things you could have done with it to unpack the metaphor.”
Alexandre frowned. Honesty kind of sucked.
He leaned his elbows on his guitar. “I suppose so.”
While he smiled at Georgie, he felt more solid, more real. He had heard from Flicka that Wulfram had found his wife by hiding their “dynastic problems,” as Flicka called them, and Rae had fallen in love with him, and then she had stayed with him anyway.
Alexandre didn’t want Georgie to fall in love with him. He wanted to discuss Wolfgang Rihm and Philip Glass and the New Simplicity movement, even that dilettante Rhys Chatham, and he disparately needed someone to discuss his own music with, a sounding board, a first listener, someone who knew what they were talking about, and he needed to know that she wouldn’t be influenced by that whole crazy world out there, that echo chamber that he had unwittingly constructed, even if honesty kind of sucked.
“Georgie,” Alexandre said. “There’s something else I’d like your opinion on.”
Violin
Georgie
Georgie held onto the arm of the couch, trying not to fall off of it and beg him to fuck her again. Great music had that effect on her.
The late afternoon sunlight glinted on the blond ends of Alex’s long hair that swung over his guitar as he played, and the slanting beams highlighted the sharp lines of his cheekbones and square jaw.
He was singing another song, still in that breathy warm-up voice that sounded like he was whispering in Georgie’s ear. The deep throatiness sounded just like the timbre of his voice when he had been breathing on her shoulder, both when she was panicking at the piano bench and when they had been in bed.
Hearing that raspy, sexy sound, Georgie was really regretting not shagging Alex again, maybe right there on the couch or maybe dragging him to the bedroom just through the ivory and gold door.
His fingers fluttered on the strings of the guitar. His long, very strong, callused fingers bowed when he plucked the strings, and he didn’t just slap his hand over the frets to play chords. He tapped his fingers down the frets, playing each note like he was playing classical guitar, but his fingers on the fretboard weren’t bent quite right.
Georgie looked more closely, analyzing.
He had known all the parts of Ravel’s string quartet, like he had played one of those instruments: the violin, the viola, or the cello.
He leaned his head to the right, exposing a dull, red callus on the left side, underneath his jaw.
The way his hand had thrummed when he had played her body to a screaming crescendo became vibrantly clear.
She said, “You play the violin.”
Alex looked straight at her and scoffed, “I do not.”
“Then why are you holding your fingers on those strings like a violinist?”
“I didn’t take formal guitar lessons until I had been playing for a few years. I picked it up and taught myself.”
“Because you could already play a stringed instrument. Play your violin for me.”
“I don’t play the violin.”
Georgie looked slanted at him, wondering why he was arguing so hard. “You have a violin hickey.”
Alex’s left hand twitched, like he had started to raise it to the side of his neck to hide the pink callus under his jaw, and he knew that it should be on his left side.
“Do you have it with you?” she asked.
He glanced at his guitar case.
“Play it for me.”
Alex walked over to his oversized guitar case. Built into the back of the velvet was a small, hourglass-shaped compartment. He opened it and extracted a violin.
When he wedged it between his chin and shoulder, the sun reflected off the wood, glowing in the deep, old varnish.
Even though Georgie was a pianist, she had been in the presence of enough concert-quality instruments to recognize one.
Even the way he limbered up the bow was exquisite and spoke volumes about how long he had been playing, probably most of his life, probably hours every day. Maybe many hours.
“Alex,” she said, wanting to ask more.
His sharp glance silenced her.
Alex’s fingers attacked the strings, and he drew forth the striking lines from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, with such precision and clarity and perfect tone that Georgie thought she was going to need to change her panties, except for the haunted look in his eyes.
Beethoven’s Fifth
Arranged/Performed by David Garrett
The music buffeted the room, the frantic lines swirling like angry spirits in the air. It sucked all the air out of Georgie’s lungs.
When he spun the last notes out of the violin and let the bow drop to his side, Georgie wiped her eyes and said, “My God, Alex. You can’t tell me that you’re not a professional musician.”
“I’m not a violinist,” he said.
“Yes, you are. You may not be paid to perform, but Holy Mary, Mother of God, Alex! That was incredible.”
He tucked the violin back in its hidden compartment. “I would prefer not to discuss it.”
Georgie smeared her eye makeup again, trying to clear her vision. “Then it was a gift, and thank you, because it was absolutely beautiful.”
“Maybe someday we can discuss it.”
“You’re fishing for my phone number again.”
“I have a better idea.” Alex held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
She dug the dead thing out of her purse and handed it to him, checking that her passport was still there as she did.
Alex turned it on and tapped the screen. “There. Now you have my number.” He handed the phone back to her. “Call me if you want to further discuss Wolfgang Rihm.”
His solemn expression touched her heart a little, but Georgiana Oelrichs was the one with the soft heart. Soft little hearts could be smashed.
The name he had tapped into her contact list was Alex G, which seemed so unassuming, and was just a few contacts above Flicka vH. “Okay,” she said.
Music filled their air, Metallica, if Georgie placed the heavy metal music right, but that was a long-shot. Georgie could differentiate different classical pianists by their phrasing better than she could tell modern musicians apart
Alex pinched his phone from his pants pocket and answered it, “Ouais? Merci.” He tapped it, hanging up. “Understandably, the wedding supper is cancelled, and your ride to the airport will be here in ten minutes. They’ll collect your luggage from your room.”
“Where’s the car going to be?” Nerves shivered in Georgie’s chest.
“Out front.”
Georgie’s hands clenched into fists, and she took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.
Alex inclined his head to the side, and the blond tips of his hair hung over his shoulder, strands of gold glistening on the dark blue fabric. “You don’t want to go out there again.”
“That guy might still be there.”
“You don’t think it was merely opportunistic, then?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Have you seen him before?”
“No.”
He frowned, confused. “I could walk you to the car.”
“Are Wulfram’s guys still here?”
“They would doubtlessly be around the car and will probably ride with you. Do you want to hear another option?”
[Billionaires in Disguise 01.0] Every Breath You Take Page 11
