Rhapsody (Butcher and Violinist 1)

With him holding my hand and that sexy French accent, I was close to melting in his hold. He slipped his finger along the lines of my palm, causing a lusty shiver through me. “The hand has twenty-seven bones, including the ones in the wrist.”

This is the best anatomy class ever!

I caught my breath and tried to remain calm. “So…you broke your hand?”

“Yes.”

I wanted to ask how, but him touching me was messing with my head.

He slid his hand along the bones forming the palm of my hand. “This is the metacarpals. Mine were shattered.”

Ouch.

I parted my lips in shock.

He let my hand go, and I wished he kept touching me.

“So, no I don’t play the violin anymore,” he said. “It was my left hand that was shattered. I can no longer execute finger placements like you do with such finesse.”

Blushing, I whispered, “Thank you, and I’m sorry for what happened.”

“That’s okay. It was bound to happen.”

Shalimar took that time to come over. “Eden, you should take your break. It’s slowly winding down.”

I nodded and gave Jean-Pierre a smile. “Thank you for the conversation, but I should go.”

“Good. I’ll talk to Shalimar about our deal.”

Shalimar rolled her eyes. “You better be prepared to spend a lot of money, Jean-Pierre.”

Heat filled his gaze on me. “I’m more than prepared.”

Damn it. Every time I talk to him, I have to change my panties.

I rushed to the bathroom, carrying my case and tip hat. Over and over, I whispered his name in my mind, so I wouldn’t forget it.

Jean-Pierre Fabron.

By the time I hit the bathroom, I pulled out my phone and looked him up.

A quick Google™ search showed up several results. Shalimar had been correct about him being a musician, and Jean-Pierre had been more than humble. She didn’t know that he’d been a celebrated French violinist decades ago. And his name was not Fabron. It had been Laurent.

Currently, Jean-Pierre Laurent was 35.

At 12, he’d been a celebrated violinist. A prodigy. A brilliant virtuoso. By 18, he’d recorded two CDs and won several awards and prizes in the contemporary classical music categories at the Yehudi Menuhin Competition. At the young age of twenty-one, he served as concertmaster with the Paris Symphony.

My mind blew from the news.

At this point, I shouldn’t have been playing for him. He should’ve been performing for me.

I checked more sites and glanced at the time every few seconds. Like a crazy person, I found his first album on Apple™ and bought it.

The album would take the rest of my break to download on my old phone.

So, why isn’t he playing now?

I found the answers in the rest of the results.

With each article, my heart broke.

At twenty-five, Jean-Pierre married his model girlfriend of ten years. There were pictures of a fabulous wedding full of celebrities. The bride had been from a wealthy French family. They had a huge wedding. I was envious of each glamourous picture of their perfect silhouettes within the sunset. His circle of powerful and influential friends included Micolas Cholie, who was elected France’s president in 2000, as well as other kingpins of politics and finance.

Shit.

And then the headlines changed for Jean-Pierre right after he married his model girlfriend. Dated a week later other horrific headlines showed.

There’d been a violent dispute at the newlywed’s house. Jean-Pierre had caught his wife in bed with another man. There’d been a fight between the men which resulted in Jean-Pierre having several ribs and his left hand broken, while his wife’s lover had been taken to the hospital, went into a coma, and never woke up again.

Jean-Pierre’s defense team argued that he was pushed into committing a crime of passion that should warrant a maximum sentence of ten years in prison. The victim’s family contended that Jean-Pierre had simply murdered him.

He was given a life sentence. The cops discovered Jean-Pierre’s wife’s mangled body in a ditch later. Of course, he hadn’t done it since he was locked away in jail, but the newspapers wondered who had.

So, wait. How is he here, if he’s supposed to be in jail?

I searched around for him some more. One article kept coming up, but it was about a famous French mafia boss named Rafael Dubois, who had escaped jail with four others. Jean-Pierre had been a part of the list, and the break out of jail had been five years ago.

Okay. So…that’s a lot. I need to stay away from him.

After the article on the escape, there were no further reports on Jean-Pierre.

I shut off my phone. My mind was blown as I left the bathroom and headed back to the stage.

A guy stopped me before I stepped forward.

The scent of whiskey left his lips. “I would pay anything to touch you.”

I stepped to his side. “Sorry, but I’m not for sale.”

He stumbled closer to me and whispered. Spit flew out of his mouth. “Think about it, baby.”