A Reckless Note Read online

  “Gio?!” I call out and walk to the bathroom, but my hope is quickly dashed. He’s gone. He’s still gone.

  Fear stabs at my heart and I exit the apartment, throwing myself into the only solution there is: finding him. I have to find him. He’d find me if I were lost. That’s what we do. We protect each other. I lock up his place and open mine. Entering the identical space, outside of furnishings, I flip my locks and then pass my light blue couch and chairs on the way up the stairs. Tossing my things on my bed, I find comfort in my view of what’s below, safe. I feel safe. Or rather I feel safer here than down there.

  A few minutes later, I’m in leggings and a sweater, curled up on the bed, with an extra bag of nuts aside from the one I ate on the subway on my way home. I scan our customer book, and the list of outstanding items they hope we’ll locate for them. Next, I pull out the schedule the receptionist had given me. Apparently, the items are listed in more detail online and I quickly pull up the list. Immediately, a bottle of rare wine catches my attention. I have a client, an oilman with deep pockets, who collects fine wine. I do my research on this particular bottle, and once I’m ready to pitch to him, I dial his number.

  “Ed, this is Aria.”

  “Aria. Tell me something good.”

  “I have a lead on a rare 1787 Château Lafite. It could run as high as three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was said to be a part of Thomas Jefferson’s collection. It’s not drinkable, though. This is for collectible purposes only.”

  “I’m stunned at such a find. Yes.”

  Relief washes over me for more than one reason. I need to pay our bills. This will carry me for two full months.

  “Count me in,” he continues. “I’ll put money in the escrow I set-up for you. When will I know if I can have it?”

  “Friday night.”

  “I can’t wait. If you need more—I’ll just deposit a bit extra to be safe.”

  “You do remember we charge a seven percent fee?”

  “I will happily pay it if you claim this treasure for me.”

  “You’ll know the minute I know.” We disconnect and hope fills me. I’m closer to answers just by gaining Ed’s approval. And this is a good deal for the business. There was a time when we thought we’d do deals like this one often. I’ve avoided the auction houses to stay out of the spotlight, but no more. We have to pay the bills. And I, oh damn, I have to buy something to wear to this event. I need to look like I belong, and unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of friends walking around I might borrow clothes from. And with good reason: the people I care about disappear.

  I scan the auction list again and look for any other item that might match a client’s needs. Unfortunately, I can’t find one. But this wine is a respectable purchase, albeit not the ten million a Stradivarius violin would sell for, but it’s going to have to do for now.

  I don’t know how it happens, but I lean against my headboard and google Kace August. I have no business showing interest in this man, but I tell myself it has nothing to do with those blue eyes and all that talent. It’s simply that he’s too close to my roots for comfort. He’s potentially trouble for me. I need to know who I’m dealing with. But he’s a private person off the stage. I find only the basics. He’s thirty-four. As a prodigal violinist, he studied with some of the best violinists in the world and did so as young as ten years old. He’s traveled the world to perform. He’s also been attached to a few actresses and models. Of course, he has been, and yet I replay our exchange today and the perfect roll of his tongue when he spoke Italian. I pull up one of the many YouTube videos of his performances and hit play. I sigh after the first is complete. He’s brilliant. I wanted to play and be brilliant, too. I used to play. But that wasn’t my destiny. And so, for now, I indulge myself. I get lost in listening to the beautiful way he plays.

  ***

  The event at Riptide is formal and requires you to buy tickets, which are not cheap, but I buy my ticket. The formal nature of the auction at least works in my favor. A formal dress is hard to identify by label, which allows me to purchase a bargain. I buy a black dress with beautifully etched long black lace sleeves that cost under two hundred dollars. I buy Christian Louboutin black heels that cost far more, but the red soles tell people they cost money and I can wear them for work meetings as well. I manage to find a classic black Chanel purse on Craigslist for a fraction of the cost I’d pay otherwise. I also fretfully buy a few mix and match outfits, because I have to be ready to move in this upper echelon of the collectibles world. We should have been doing this already. I just pray I snag that bottle of wine to pay for all of this.

  The auction begins at eight PM and I take an Uber rather than ride the subway to arrive at seven-thirty as was suggested on the website. Amber, the redheaded receptionist that I’d met before, greets me. “Welcome. I remember you.”

  I manage a smile despite my mixed feelings about being remembered. I’ve spent my entire life trying to blend in, trying to be someone I’m not. And yet, being remembered by Mark Compton and his staff is important tonight. “As I do you, Amber.”

  She smiles at her name and directs my next move. “We’ll be holding this event in the ‘Silver Room.’ Follow the signs.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hurry across the white shiny tile, following the signs and the fancy dresses. This formality is for an open event. What must the VIP event be like? Nerves are lighting up my entire body and I walk down a long hallway to finally find double glass doors labeled “The Silver Room.” Inhaling to calm myself, I open the door and enter a room filled with fancy dresses and suits, as well as waiters carrying champagne and finger foods.

  I’m handed an auction list and I walk to one of the many tables covered in white tablecloths. I quickly scan the list, praying the wine is still a part of the offerings, and it is. Relief washes over me when suddenly a familiar pair of shark-blue eyes are staring at me. Kace August is standing across from me.

  “I remember you,” he says.

  And as dangerous as it is for this man, a man deeply rooted in the world I’m hiding from, to remember me, I’m breathless with the idea that he has, in fact, remembered me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kace, Mr. Violin Rocker himself, is wearing a T-shirt with a blazer, and while he’s not the only rebel in this crowd—I count a good half-dozen—he has this confidence about him that defies cotton and fine silk. It doesn’t matter what this man wears. During my YouTube exploration, I admired him in a tuxedo for numerous classical performances and the effect was the same. He’s a man who stands out in a crowd without even trying. And the two gorgeous women casting him sideways glances from the next table see it, too. He’s a beautifully rugged man who plays just as beautifully. But I cannot forget that we are of the same world and despite how alluring this may be to me, that’s why he’s dangerous to me. So very dangerous, but still I find myself saying, “I remember you, too.”

  “Then it’s mutual,” he replies, though I’m not sure exactly what he means by that statement, but I swear there is interest in his eyes. Or it’s wishful thinking I shouldn’t be thinking at all. He’s dangerous, I remind myself. I need to walk away.

  “You know Italian,” he comments.

  “I do,” I reply, offering nothing more. It’s how I’ve been conditioned. Don’t offer more than necessary, my mother had preached. But I also don’t walk away.

  “How?” he asks.

  “I studied linguistics in college.”

  He arches a brow. “With what intent?”

  It’s a complicated question, I think. The truth is, language and music connect for me, both as ways to communicate, but I can’t say that to him without opening the door to questions about my connection to music. And so, I say only, “There’s the question of the hour,” and because I want to take attention off Italy, where I was born, where my father made the Stradi, because the Stradivarius formula was lost, I add, “I speak Spanish, German, Chinese,
and French as well.”

  “But do you speak sign language?” he asks, and then he signs, “You’re beautiful.”

  My belly flutters and I remind myself that yes, he’s flirting, but this is Kace August. He probably flirts with every woman he meets. I sign back, “Thank you.”

  “I’m impressed, Aria Alard. I myself speak all those languages, somewhat fluently. Italian and German quite well.” A waiter walks by and he grabs two champagne flutes. “Drink?”

  “I’m not a very good drinker and I have to bid tonight with someone else’s money.”

  “Right. The Mark Challenge. He loves to play little power games with people. Sometimes not giving Mark Compton what he wants creates more interest, not less.” He sets a glass in front of me. “And Chris was right. Mark’s wife will cut right through that bullshit.” He laughs without humor and sips his champagne. “None of us believed that man would ever get married.”

  “How do you know Mark?”

  “We’ve run in the same circles for a good decade.”

  “I’d have thought musicians were more your type.”

  He arches a brow. “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re—” I stop. I’ve just told him that I know who he is.

  He leans in closer, the small table shrinking smaller. “Because you know who I am.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Yes. I know who you are.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You were at lunch and I intruded. I wasn’t going to be rude, but I love the way you play.”

  “You do know it’s okay to be one of my many haters. Of my music.” He winks. “Just not me.”

  “I love how you play. I’m a fan.”

  His eyes warm and he lifts his glass. “I do believe I am as well.”

  “You are?”

  His brilliant blue eyes warm and spike with a hint of mischief. “Yes,” he says, and suddenly I realize he’s not talking about the violin. He’s talking about me. “I absolutely am.”

  “Ms. Alard.”

  At Mark Compton’s voice, I straighten. “Mr. Compton.”

  “I see your intent on making a showing tonight. What are you bidding on?”

  “I have a client that very much wants the bottle of 1787 Château Lafite straight from Thomas Jefferson’s collection.”

  “That’s going to go for around three hundred and fifty thousand. Are you really ready for that?”

  Kace laughs. “You’re such a dick, Mark. Of course, she’s ready.”

  Mark flicks him a look. “A word, Kace.” It’s an order I can’t imagine a man like Kace taking.

  And I’m right. He doesn’t. “I’m better with a note,” he replies, and I don’t miss the musical reference others might. “I think I’ll stay right here with Aria.”

  “It’s important or I wouldn’t be standing here.”

  Kace’s lips press together and he downs his champagne. “Excuse me, Aria.” He pushes off the table and turns to Mark. “I’m here.” They walk away and I’m a nervous wreck.

  I grab the champagne and then set it down. No. I really do not drink well. “That’s not the way to empty your glass.”

  The pretty blonde who’s joined me smiles. “We have plenty.”

  Her dress is red with etched flowers on the sheer sleeves. Her eyes friendly. Her skin perfect.

  “We?” I ask. “You work here?”

  “I’m Crystal, Mark’s wife, but I worked here for my mother-in-law before she retired and he took over. You’re new to the auctions.”

  I’m stunned at how nice she is. “You’re Mark’s wife?”

  She laughs. “You sound baffled. Yes. And I get that reaction often.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just he’s so hard and you’re so—”

  “Not hard? Yes, I know. He’s got a hard shell, but he’s a softy inside, though you might not want to tell him I said that.”

  I laugh. “Ah no. I will not be telling your husband that you said he was a softy. I’m Aria Alard from Accent Collectibles, by the way. I’m interested in coming to the VIP event.”

  “Did you talk to Mark about it?”

  My hope that she can help fades. “Yes. Mark told me to come prove myself tonight and bid.”

  “Oh my God. That man. What are you interested in bidding on?”

  “The violin.”

  “Of course. A phenomenal prize. Well, we do have a strict policy about the VIP events. We have celebrities among the crowd, but you aren’t required to buy anything to prove yourself. You just need to fill out an application. Once you’re approved, you’re cleared to attend all future VIP events. Call me here tomorrow and I can help you.”

  Hope returns, a bright and shiny star in my otherwise dark sky right now. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. We’re glad to have you and please do not feel it’s necessary to buy anything.”

  “I really actually want one of the auction items. My client desperately wants the wine from the Thomas Jefferson collection. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of watching the auctions in the past.”

  “I see we have a newbie tonight.”

  The comment comes from a tall, good looking man in an expensive suit, his brown hair neatly styled. “We have a lot of new guests tonight,” Crystal replies, and a woman nudges her arm and whispers to her before she glances at me. “I need to attend to the auction, but good luck with your prize tonight. And call me tomorrow.”

  “Thanks again, Crystal.”

  “I’m Alexander Voss,” the man says. “And you are?”

  “Aria,” I say, offering nothing more. I’ve said too much to too many people and so I do what I do often: I turn the conversation. “You’re a regular here?”

  “Occasionally there’s an item that catches my attention. What are you after tonight?”

  “Wine. What about you?”

  “Wine.”

  “Oh well. Isn’t this awkward? How vicious is our battle going to get?”

  His eyes twinkle. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How much are you going to make me pay?”

  At that moment, the crowd parts and my gaze locks with Kace’s where he stands talking to Mark. He’s staring at me, his expression unreadable, but intense. I want to know why. I want to know, too badly for my own good. I can’t seem to breathe with the heat rushing over my skin. I suck in a breath and I swear his gaze lowers to my mouth. God, what is happening?

  “How much?” Alexander presses.

  I jerk my gaze back to his. “I guess we’ll see. Excuse me.” I fade into the crowd, desperate to reach out to my client and press his limits. And the truth is, I need out of the scorching stare of Kace August.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I exit the pre-auction cocktail room and step into the hallway, spying a giant podium with hundreds of tiny red roses in it. I follow the lush scent and step behind it to dial Ed. “Did we get it?” he asks anxiously.

  “Not yet. I just want to be clear. You put 400k in the escrow to include my fee. How high do you want to go?”

  “I’ll go the whole four-hundred and make up your fee tomorrow morning, but I’d rather not.”

  “Okay. Well, I need you to know this is a bidding situation and there is at least one other bidder who really wants this wine.”

  “Of course there is. Then go the four hundred thousand without regret.”

  Relief washes over me. “Okay. I’ll let you know.” I disconnect and walk around to the flower display to find Kace a few feet away on the other side, talking on his phone. And I now know that his navy blue T-shirt and blazer are paired with dark jeans that hug his deliciously muscular body.

  That I shouldn’t be noticing.

  I pause, hating the idea of interrupting him at all, but if I stay where I’m at, it might seem as if I’m listening in. Decision made, I start walking. “Not this holiday. No. I need a break. I told you that.” His eyes li
ft and find me. “I’m not going to do this right now. Call me tomorrow.” He ends the call.

  “Small world,” he says, and at the prod I pause, turning to face him, those stunning eyes of his fixed on me. Instantly, I feel the energy between us, the push and pull, the charge. I tell myself it’s my imagination. I tell myself I don’t want this, but it’s a lie, and while I hate lies, it’s one of many I tell to survive.

  “It is a small world,” I reply, managing to sound impressively cool, but the energy is still pulsing in the air, consuming me, dragging me closer to him when I haven’t taken a step. I start trying to reason it away. He’s talented. I admire him. I fear him. The energy is all mine. But yet, I don’t know. I do not believe I’ve ever felt anything like this with anyone else, ever. Not that I’ve let many men into my life. Unlike my brother, who whores around to cope with our situation, I shut myself off. I protect myself.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I add.

  “You are far more interesting than that call.” He says the words as if they’re obvious rather than flirtation, though there’s that energy between us. I think. I’m confused. “You met Crystal?” he asks.

  “I did,” I say. “You were right. She was helpful. She’s going to get me into the VIP auction.”

  “I knew she would.” He motions his hand. “She jumps right past Mark’s bullshit.”

  I’m awkwardly staring at his hand, the hand that holds his bow. I wonder which bow he prefers and I jerk my gaze to his. Which I will never know because I won’t ask. “I can’t decide if you and Mark are friends or enemies.”

  He laughs a low, sexy rumble that sings like a rough note of his violin. “Most people can’t.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”