What if she had to go to the front with Simon?
No. Don’t think about it.
Juliet tugged Margo’s cami down so that the hot pink peeked from the lace. God, it felt like her breasts were actually going to spill out of the top.
Margo tried to hike it up and Juliet pulled it down in the back. “No. It has to sit right above your hips to accentuate the curve.”
“It’s too tight.”
“It’s supposed to be. Lifts and separates baby.” She pulled the clip out of Margo’s hair. “Now, you’re good. And I’m off to meet with my friends. We’ll see you at the party.”
Margo turned. “I can’t get all your friends in.”
“Well, how handy that I’m the one who got an invite from them. My friend Lucia works for Ripper Records. She has four invites for the festivities tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t wait up. I might not be back until morning.”
Margo sighed as her sister sailed out the door, leaving her chaos in the room without a backward glance.
Perfect.
3
Simon slicked back his hair from the shower and slipped on the black button-down shirt that wouldn’t make it to show time. But with the five interviews he had to do before they got on stage, he had to have some clothes on.
He jammed his feet in his shitkickers and left the buckles open because he was too lazy to actually fasten them. Taking one last shot of Crystal Skull, he grabbed the key and his phone—though he was more than willing to leave it behind if Lila wouldn’t skin him alive for it.
The hallway was silent save for the jangle of his buckles and silver chains at his wrist. He locked his door and the solid clunk of a door opening and closing drew his attention. A woman at the far end of the hall was also locking up.
A curtain of dark chocolate hair fell across her shoulders and back. His eyebrow went up as the woman made a quarter turn. The most spectacular pair of breasts were doing their damnedest to stay inside the corset that peeked over a simple black tank.
His cock twitched in his pants. Pissed because it was another brunette that was making Simon senior take notice, he brought his eyes up and stalled at the fragile chain at her throat.
No.
His tongue burned at the memory of the sandy pearl against his teeth and rolling along the tip of his tongue before her honeysuckle scent had taken over. He looked away.
No.
The key dug into his fingers. He was seeing things.
But dammit, he hadn’t had enough vodka to make that mistake again.
He looked again and his cock surged. That familiar hip roll was exaggerated thanks to the mile-high heels she wore and skintight opaque black stockings that hugged every goddamn curve.
The curves that he still could taste. Those curves that could wake him from a dead sleep when he least expected it. A little sash at her hip swung with each step and she jangled like a goddamn gypsy.
The familiar case that was never far from her side bounced against her thigh.
Violin Girl.
Margo.
Only this wasn’t exactly the woman he remembered. This woman owned her sexuality and walked like she was going to end up in a bedroom with a door that locked for days.
She paused in the middle of the hall and in that moment, he saw the woman from the studio. Uncertain and curious. Her chin tipping up as she walked toward him. The roll in her gait had been tempered, but the rest—oh fucking hell, the rest—was there and lured like a siren on the rocks and he was a willing victim.
No.
Not her victim again.
Hell no.
He tucked his key into his pocket, then made sure to adjust himself for her before crossing his arms. “Well, if it isn’t Violin Girl.”
“Mr. Kagan.” Her chest shuddered for the briefest moment before she squared her shoulders.
“And just what are you doing in New York City? The symphony need a stand-in?”
She glanced down at her outfit. “Does this look like I’m going to be playing Vivaldi?”
His eyes skimmed over her again. “You look like you’re going to a party, but I know that case in your hand.”
“Yes, there is a party involved.”
The skin between his shoulder blades was on fire. “You don’t belong at my party, Violin Girl. It’s for grownups and those that don’t wear their chastity belts like an accessory.”
“Do you see a chastity belt on me?”
No, what he did see was a tool that would cock-block him then strangle him. Even worse, he saw the writing on the wall. Margo Reece was exactly the kind of publicity stunt that Lila would pull.
The real question was, why hadn’t he been told about it?
“I don’t remember seeing you on my itinerary, Violin Girl.”
“From what I remember, you aren’t big on reading.”
Simon stepped closer and tipped his head. “Is that how this is going to go? Back to our petty little insults.” He lowered his gaze to her very full, very lush lips. Just a hint underplayed. So much like the woman he remembered.
Hiding.
Always hiding.
Except tonight, she was just a little bit wild. Unbound hair and a hint of mischief in her smoky eyes. He lifted a lock of her hair that had fallen into her cleavage and wound it around his finger.
The silky straight hair didn’t bend. It slipped away to fall back in with the rest around her shoulders. “We didn’t necessarily need words, if I remember right.”
She sucked in a corner of her lip, which plumped up the rest. The wash of blood under her skin made his cock hammer against his leathers. Instead of taking a step back, she tilted her head the other way and let her lower lip go.
“Do you honestly remember? I remember tasting the burn of vodka on your tongue.”
“And I remember the salted honey of your pussy.”
Her eyes flashed wide and she did step back this time.
He let his trademark smirk slide across his face and lifted a brow. “Oh, I remember everything about that night, Violin Girl.”
“Margo,” she corrected.
He swept her hair back over her shoulder and was rewarded with a slight tremble. He remembered that reaction before he ripped her pantyhose open and tasted her for the first time. Remembered that she’d corrected him that night too.
Remembered that she’d walked away.
He stepped aside and bowed, his arm out. “Looks like we’re going to the same place.” He looked up at her from the shag of his bangs and choppy hair. “Care to join me?”
She lifted her chin and walked ahead of him. “A car is waiting for me.”
“I can guarantee mine’s better.”
“Because you expect it?”
“No, because the fans expect it and Lila doesn’t like to disappoint the fans.”
Her step faltered a little before she continued toward the elevator, but she shook her hair back and he got a good look at all the curves she hid under shapeless clothes and high collars.
Fuck, he needed a drink.
He unhooked his sunglasses from the inside pocket of his jacket and beat her to the elevator. He leaned against the gold wall with the brass fixture. “We can break in the backseat on the ride over.”
“In your dreams.”
“Well, I’ve done it a few times, so maybe a memory?” The minute he’d said it, he wished he hadn’t.
She stepped into the elevator and turned to face him. The chilly Violin Girl retreated back under her armor and her almost smile was replaced with serene grace.
He hated that face. It always was followed by a retreating back.
* * *
Margo curled her fingers under the bar behind her back. She wasn’t ready to see him. She’d been prepared to see him at rehearsal—even at a few of the interviews, but not there.
Not at the hotel. Not smelling of that leather and cinnamon combination that lived in her head. Now it was sitting in her damn sinuses bec
ause he’d walked right into her space. As if he had the right or the privilege. He hadn’t even given her the chance to put him in his place about it. He’d just been there. Too close. The heat and scent of him enveloping her like fingers of fog. Pervasive and overwhelming.
And she’d just stood there like an idiot.
Thank all the sinners that she’d had the heavy boning of the corset to hold in all the proof of her body’s traitorous reactions. Her breasts ached and her tights felt constricting. His coarse words and those stunning eyes had bored into her until she’d been all but defenseless.
No, she’d definitely not shored up her brick-and-mortar foundation against the instant softening that happened when he was in her vicinity. But she’d have to do it now. Or she’d do something insane like take him up on the idea of Lincoln Town Car sex.
How many of those restrictive cars had she traveled in over the years? Between her parents and the few times a year that she worked in the city, she’d ridden in many of them. How many of the cars had kneeprints in them?
She looked down at the floor.
Why did she want to have her own imprint on the floor? This one, maybe, or the car’s. Perhaps both.
The elevator door opened and Simon slapped his hand over the sensor. He gave her that head tilt that saw far too much and waited patiently for her to exit. She sailed out of the elevator and Frank came around the desk.
“Your car is here, Ms. Reece and Mr. Kagan. I assumed one car would be fine?”
Margo’s fingers itched to curl around the concierge’s perfect neck, but manners had been instilled in her long before she’d taken up her bow. “Thank you, Frank.”
Simon came up behind her. Too close.
God, way too close.
“Thanks, Frankie. I do love to travel in style.”
“Yes, sir.” Frank led the way across the marble tile and through the ornate doors.
Simon’s hand settled on her lower back. It shouldn’t have felt proprietary, but it did. Probably because his lack of distance made it seem all the more intimate.
She didn’t want intimate.
It was bad enough that she had to be in the same car. She really didn’t need his cinnamon and leather scent to be all over her. Nor the memory of his touch to be so intrusive.
So long ago and yet it felt like no time had passed at all. The memory strong and true as the blinding orgasm she’d experienced—one that had never been duplicated. She’d never been a sexual creature. It didn’t fit with her lifestyle. She’d had one purpose—to practice and move up the chain at the philharmonic.
But now there was new purpose and being around this man only made her realize what she’d been missing. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like how out of control he always made her feel. No matter if it was one day or one hour, or a year, Simon Kagan burrowed under her skin. She couldn’t handle him touching her.
Not now.
Not when everything already felt too unbalanced. With her costume, with her lies, and a nebulous goal she was trying to create.
She picked up her step so he didn’t touch her, but his long legs ate up just as much marble and sidewalk as hers. And the more he knew she was affected by him, the more he’d try to take.
That part she remembered all too clearly as well.
He beat the driver to the door and held it open for her, but instead of standing back like a gentleman, he framed the door with his body. She looked up at him—those few inches that separated them all that leather and heat.
Don’t let him know it matters.
Don’t let him see.
His eyebrow speared up as he waited to see what she’d do.
That smug smile full of power and sex. She knew it was the charisma he carried around like a pheromone, and she knew many women fell for it right before their panties hit the floor.
Hers had. As galling as it was, she couldn’t deny it.
She kept her face blank as she turned and slid her bottom across the front of his thighs and stepped into the car. The urge to cross one foot behind her ankle in the prim pose that suited her former life was ingrained. Legs together, back straight. She heard her mother’s voice in her ear as clearly now as she had from toddlerhood.
Today, she crossed her legs and tucked her knees down against the luxury leather so her calves and heels were on display. The silky drape of her skirt rose high on her thigh, and she tucked her case behind her knees.
She caught one look before Simon shielded his eyes with his shades and sprawled in the seat, his arm across the back. The aviators hid everything and his sardonic smirk was in place, but he tightened one hand on his thigh and his first finger tapped restlessly.
“So tell me, when did Lila invite you to the festivities?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“I see.” Simon’s tapping grew in speed.
She’d said no at first. The season was over at the Boston Philharmonic Opera. Even before she’d lost her spot, she’d have been able to do the guest spot. But playing in the studio was far different from the stage. She was a puzzle piece from a Monet, locking in with a cityscape from Los Angeles. They weren’t even the same genre, let alone time period.
She didn’t belong.
But her obsession with the music had to be handled. This seemed like the perfect way. Two days and she could kill the curiosity and burn the remains.
She could get back to auditions and the life she’d been born for.
This fairytale could end.
“I only said yes a week ago. Lila sent me another request.” More like a command via a FaceTime call. A sleepless night and a weak moment were all someone like Lila needed to get her way.
And here she was, in New York City to play with a rock band.
“She gets what she wants.” He turned to her, the fingertips of his stretched out hand brushed against her hair. He dragged a lock away from her shoulder, the calloused tip flicking across her skin before he gently rubbed the stick-straight strands between his thumb and first two fingers. “It usually works out in my favor.”
She cupped her hand around her neck and tugged her hair out of his reach to let it fall down her opposite shoulder and the front of her corset. “We can use this time to decide on a cover song for the set. You can use me.”
He tipped his shades down. “Oh, Violin Girl, I’d love to use you.”
A flash of memory choked her. Her fingers wrapped around the back of that wide-backed velvet chair as he took her from behind. She crossed her arms under her corset—she didn’t exactly have a choice there—and gave him a bland stare.
He made a little twirling gesture with his finger. “Dirty Violin Girl had a thought. I knew the ice princess thing hid a freak.”
The way he said freak—emphasizing the k until it was its own word, its own exclamation—made her bury any reaction. The wild dreams and ache she fought against every night was too close to the surface.
“I’m here to work. My job is to enhance the sound you have and give it another layer. To make tonight and tomorrow night special. No more, no less.” She drew her phone out of the small pouch she had near the handle of her case. “There’s your songs, of course, but Lila thought I could add to a fun cover song—the strings in ‘Kashmir’.”
“Yes. Yes, that needs to happen. Nick and Gray would kill that and Pixie wouldn’t mind a break on the drums. All preggo and such. But it has a big build—long song, though. We’ve played it a million times when fucking around. You know, Zep and all.”
“Won’t take much rehearsal then. It’s a good one to fire up the crowd. Open with it.”
“Not sure the crowd we play to will be as appreciative of the glory that is Led Zeppelin.”
“Yes, but your...” She bit her lower lip. How did you tell a man like Simon that his sex appeal on stage was another instrument? Especially without stroking his ego until he puffed up like a peacock. She was fairly sure he knew that it was his instrument. He’d let go of the guitar and embraced that aspect of himself
.
“But my...” He scraped his fingers through his messy head of inky hair. “Spit it out.”
She sighed. “You have the sexual nature to pull off the song.”
“The sexual nature?” He crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his jacket. “Are you trying to tell me I’m sexy? I like it.”
“You are well aware of your strengths, Mr. Kagan. I don’t need to tell you about them, nor to stroke your healthy ego.”
“Not the only healthy thing on me. But then again, you know that.”
Her spine stiffened and she glanced up at the driver. As with all drivers, he didn’t blink, didn’t even have a facial expression beyond bored. But he heard Simon. She knew that for sure.
“What happens between two consenting adults is not what we’re talking about here.”
“Consenting adults? That’s what you call it? ‘The Becoming’ lured you into the singing booth and what we did couldn’t be labeled with something as mundane as consenting adults. We fucked and you liked it.”
They pulled up to the club. The neon and box light marquise looked garish in the waning sunshine. This was a place for the slick dark of New York under the cover of night. A lot like them.
That studio had been a moment in the dark and with day came realizations. Namely that they didn’t fit outside of music.
“It was pleasant, yes.”
“I remember you screaming.” He turned to her, his fingers digging into her hair to grip her scalp. “I remember that you couldn’t get enough.”
Her nipples tightened and the ache that curled into her belly awakened like a cherry blossom in April. Achingly beautiful and awe-inspiring, but ultimately, only lasting a short time. That’s what they were.
And she needed to remember that.
She curled her fingers around his wrist. The tension there was like her violin when she tightened the strings too much. They’d break and the sound resonated on a sour note.
She needed to loosen that strain. “And then it was done.”
The tension receded and she almost smiled in relief. There, that wasn’t so bad. Until she saw his face. The almost snarl was gone. In its wake was nothing.
Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion #3) Page 4
