Rhapsody (Butcher and Violinist 1)

One of Jean-Pierre’s men opened the door before I could ask her more.

Another armed man guided me inside.

In the space, the lighting was dim. He sat at the table alone. His intense gaze followed me as I entered. Rising from the table, Jean-Pierre’s blue eyes assessed me.

Even closer, I got a better look of him.

And he was gorgeous. Just staring at him jolted me with attraction and lust.

Thick, dark hair teased his broad forehead. His wide mouth curled up with an expression that looked half smile, half challenge. His eyes captured me. Accented by a sweep of black brows. He watched me, as if he could see deep inside my mind. As if he knew all my secrets. And he stood about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a body of muscle. It was evident under that tight, white-buttoned shirt.

Thank goodness we wouldn’t be alone for too long. My body was unable to deal with how gorgeous he was.

Shalimar glared at him. “Jean-Pierre, she’s tired. Don’t make this dinner too long.”

His attention never left me. “I won’t.”

Shalimar left the room.

That French accent rode his words. “Do me a favor and take the mask off.”

My nerves flared. This mask had served as protection. Of course, anyone could see me, but I felt hidden with it on. I relished in it. I’d found safety behind the lace.

Now Jean-Pierre wanted to strip me of my thin armor.

I took my time taking the mask off. The ribbons unbound. While he’d probably seen flashes of my face under the lace, now there would be no mask to hide under.

Cool air brushed against my face.

He studied me. “I knew you were beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

When he extended his hand to mine, he didn’t shake it. Too simple. Tangling his gaze with mine, he brought my hand to his mouth and placed a kiss on my fingers. “Thank you for having dinner with me.”

Mmmm.

I cleared my throat. “Thank you for inviting me.”

And then he kissed my fingers again. Fire raced up my arm, turning my heartbeat into staccato. He lingered. His warm breath caressed the back of my hand. His fingertips teased my palm. Tingles raced across my body. The impact of his presence dove deep inside me. It caused an ache between my thighs.

He let go of my hand. I found my breath as he pulled out my chair. Jean-Pierre sat across from me. Waiters came in and poured wine. The whole time Jean-Pierre’s face held an amused expression.

The glasses were crystal. The plates high china. The food was high-priced and savory smoke rose from the dishes. Expensive art hung on the wall and silence hung in the air.

There was a surreal feeling to this moment, and I found myself unable to catch my breath.

Somehow, I found the will to eat. I took a few bites and then put the fork down.

When I look up from my plate, Jean-Pierre’s eyes were on me. “You’re not hungry?”

“Only a little bit.” I tried some of my salmon, enjoying the taste, but hungrier to learn about the man in front of me.

Jean-Pierre ripped off a piece of bread from the loaf on the table. “How long do you plan on playing at the Candy Shop?”

“Until I get a new position.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“You’re desperate to play?”

“I am, but I’m even more desperate to pay my bills.”

“So, you’re open to being paid for other positions.”

It was something about the way he worded that. It brought warmth to the center of my thighs.

“The struggling musician.” He curved his lips into a smile. “I remember that feeling.”

“You didn’t have that feeling for a long time. You were already beyond my skills at twelve.”

“You’ve looked me up?” He didn’t appear mad, only amused. “What did you find, petit chat curieux?”

“You used to play violin. Well…that’s an understatement. You were a virtuoso.”

“Hmm.” Jean-Pierre sipped wine. “And now what am I, Eden?”

There was something tantalizing about the way he said my name.

“Now?” I blinked. “Now. . .you’re an accountant.”

He grinned. “Why did you choose the violin?”

“I started as a kid. I wanted to be a genius. I read once that Einstein played the violin.”

“Einstein said that music helped him when he was thinking about his theories.”

“Yes, I read that too.”

Jean-Pierre placed his glass of wine down. “And what theories have you come up with about life?”

“I have none. I’m just trying to survive.”

“Bach and Mozart. Their music has clarity. Simplicity. An architectural perfection that even Einstein sought in his theories. But then you have life.” He looked at me. “And life is complex and at times dark, and beautifully chaotic.”

The door opened.

A blond man pushed a young red-headed woman on a cart as if she was a part of the meal.

Jean-Pierre frowned. “What is this?”

The man bowed. “Shalimar requested entertainment for your dinner.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

The man and woman exchanged glances.