Overture (North Security, #1)(40)

I force a smile. “Of course they are. So let’s pick out something for you. You are going to come to the opening night, aren’t you? I’ll have the moody musicians all lined up to meet you.”

We look through racks for a few minutes, getting separated in the maze of old clothes, only the sound of hangers scraping across metal filling the air.

A sound comes from behind me, and I whirl, looking at the sea of colors, a thousand different fabrics and colors. It would be so easy to hide in here. The thought whispers through my brain. My heart pounds, and I take a step back.

Footsteps land heavy on the stairs, coming up toward us. For a second I think we’re under attack, that someone dangerous is here.

Josh appears at the top of the stairs. “You girls ready?”

My breath still comes fast as I stare at him. I glance over my shoulder, but the riot of fabric looks the same. I must have imagined it. Living in the headquarters of North Security has probably made me paranoid. We check out at the registers downstairs.

As we get into Josh’s truck, I glance at the upstairs window, where it looks like a shadow moves. Unease floods through my veins in staccato.





CHAPTER TWENTY





Before the nineteenth century, the violin bow was shaped like a hunting bow.


LIAM

Moonlight streams through the open window. Something must have woken me up. I check my phone, but there are no missed calls. It could have been a nightmare. Then I hear the strains of the violin drift through the crack in the door. I double-check the time.

Ten minutes to midnight.

She’s only my ward for another ten minutes. Christ.

I pull on some jeans and head toward the music, not sure what I’ll say when I get there. She used to wake up in the middle of the night to play, when she first got here. There was no sense of a normal schedule for her. She ate and slept and breathed on her father’s wishes. I tried to instill a sense of normalcy, tried to show her what it was like to have a stable home, tried to… oh hell, whatever I tried, that’s over now.

She usually wears her school uniform when she plays. Or jeans and a T-shirt. Something comfortable to last the hours she’ll sit in roughly the same position.

But she’s not wearing anything like that now.

Instead she’s in a black dress that I’ve never seen before. My throat goes dry. She looks like someone else, like a grown woman. A sensual woman.

My body reacts suddenly, violently.

I force myself to walk into the room, to pretend like this is a thousand other times from the past, that she’s still a child and I’m her guardian. Even though the seconds tick away with every breath.

“What’s that?” I crouch down in front of her.

There are fifteen major violin scales. An almost infinite number of concertos and sonatas. I know almost all of them by heart. They are embedded into my skin, etched deeper with every afternoon of careful practice.

This one I don’t recognize.

A blush steals over her cheeks. “Nothing.”

The dress has a high slit, exposing one perfectly shaped leg. It would be so easy to push her knee open, to draw my fingers up the inside of her thigh. I rest my hand on her other knee, the one that’s covered by black silky fabric.

“It’s beautiful.” And haunting.

“I’m only playing around,” she says, her voice wavering.

“You’re composing?” That’s not something she’s ever told me about. To play with her skill is a form of composition. She lends her interpretation to every piece—her passion, her heart. There is no such thing as a rote recitation for a prodigy like her.

Even so, writing her own composition would be something new.

“It’s no big deal,” she says quickly, giving a little shrug that moves the ruffles that lie against her breast, drawing my attention to the gentle curve.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

She didn’t mean to kill me with this dress.

She doesn’t mean to torture me, I’m almost sure.

“A vintage shop,” she says, sounding shy. Maybe she does mean to torture me. “I thought I could wear it on the tour. What do you think? Should I?”

The thought of thousands of men seeing her in this dress makes me want to lock her away. She would be terrified if she knew everything I think about. I can imagine her tied down on my bed wearing this dress, unable to get away from me, unable to do anything but take me. Fuck.

“Perhaps,” I say, my tone noncommittal.

Disappointment flits across her pretty features. “Well, it’s not decided or anything. There’s still time to look. I just thought I’d try to play while I’m wearing it.”

Christ. She deserves more than a surly bastard more concerned about his unholy obsession than her feelings. “You look beautiful, Samantha. You look…” I swallow hard. “You look like the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think it’s the dress. It’s you.”

I’ve knelt down in front of her a thousand times before, but she’s never been in a dress like this. And I’ve never been shirtless, my feet bare.

“Is that the only reason you’re up this late? To try on the dress?”

A blush creeps up her cheeks, the soft line of her neck. The tops of her breasts, plump and gently sloping above the black ruffles. “I couldn’t sleep, knowing that I turn eighteen soon.”