Overture (North Security 1)

“Does that mean she isn’t allowed to speak her mind?”

Christ. I have half a mind to slam the door on this reporter’s face. I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her. If this were six years ago, I would do just that.

It could risk Samantha’s involvement in the tour, though. She earned the right to do this. I may be her legal guardian, but not for much longer.

“It means it’s my job to protect her from members of the press who are more interested in a juicy story than the privacy of an underage young woman.” I keep my voice level, but there’s no mistaking my meaning. If she tries to pull anything in front of Samantha, she’s gone.

The reporter smiles. “I’ll be on my best behavior then. And if I step out of line, maybe we can meet up after and you can teach me a lesson I won’t forget.”

I stare after her as she heads into the house, following the sound of the violin without knowing the way. That’s how rusty I am at dating—that it takes me a second to realize she was flirting with me. I have a feeling it’s more than flirting. An offer. She would be in my bed tonight if I wanted her.

So why don’t I want her? She’s a beautiful woman, there’s no doubt. And it’s not like I have an abundance of options spending my days here at the compound. I don’t date any of my employees or anyone who lives in Kingston. It might lead to complications. Come to think of it, I’m in the middle of a dry spell that’s pretty damn long.

I already know that I’m not going to take the pretty reporter up on her offer. It has something to do with the violinist she’s here to interview. Because I don’t want anything to distract from my duties as her guardian. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Samantha’s face in rapture as she takes the first sip of her hot tea flashes through my mind. I’m afraid my reasons for abstaining may be something far more base.

No, that can’t be right. Samantha is my responsibility. I’m sixteen years older than her and in a position of power. I absolutely cannot think of the small moan she made.

My body reacted to the sound with instant carnal hunger.

I grit my teeth and follow the reporter to the music room because I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this interview get out of hand. Something tells me this reporter is eager enough to push her luck. No one messes with Samantha Brooks—not even me.

CHAPTER TWO

A single violin is made from over seventy individual pieces of wood.

SAMANTHA

I can tell from the moment the reporter steps into the room that everything will be different. She has hair so glossy and curled—I didn’t know it could look that way outside of a magazine. Her eyebrows belong in some kind of YouTube tutorial. And she’s dressed like we’re in a New York City high-rise instead of a small-town ex-military compound. The house is large and expensive, with marble floors and crown molding—but it’s clearly designed to hold men.

Lots of men. Everything large and solid. Very few women ever walk through these rooms. There are some women who work for North Security. My friend Laney’s mom is on the Red Team, for example. They’re rare. And when they do come around, they dress and act as tough as the men—tougher, because they need to be tougher to survive in what’s still mostly a man’s world. A housekeeping service comes once a week, but they wear uniforms and comfortable, sturdy tennis shoes.

Nothing like the blush heels she wears.

She gives me a warm smile. “You must be Samantha. I’m Kimberly Cox. Of course I’ve read all about you. And that sounded absolutely lovely. I can see why everyone loves you.”

“Oh.” My cheeks turn warm. “Thank you. I’m not sure everyone loves me.”

“When I spoke with Harry March a couple weeks ago, he said he was dying to meet you.”

A startled laugh bursts out of me, embarrassing because it’s so inappropriate. She must be exaggerating. Maybe she wants some kind of reaction? A lot of girls have crushes on Harry March. A lot of boys, too. “Well, that’s very kind of him. I’m really excited to meet him, too.”

She pauses, glancing around the room. “So this is where the magic happens.”

“I don’t like much distraction,” I say, feeling as if I have to make excuses for the bare walls. The room is large enough for a whole orchestra to play in, almost a full ballroom, but there’s only me. A single chair, not even cushioned. A stand for sheet music and my phone.

Liam appears in the doorway behind her, looking stern and… strange, somehow. His eyes have turned almost olive, a haunting color. He must have noticed that Kimberly Cox is nothing like the other classical music journalists we’ve met. Does he like the way she looks? Of course he likes the way she looks.

She’s beautiful, and his eyes work just fine.

He doesn’t say anything, only leans back against the doorframe—watching. Probably watching her. He’s already seen me. I’m not the one with flawless eyeliner and amazing calf muscles.

Something dark and a little green stirs in my center. Is this jealousy? Oh my God, I’m jealous of this woman and the way that Liam North must think of her. Sexually, that’s how he must think of her. As a grown woman. Not a child.

“There’s a speaker system,” I say, nervous energy making me speak. I pull up my phone and play Schubert. “Der Erlkönig” streams in perfect, terrible angst from all corners of the room. “That’s how I practice accompaniments.”

She cocks her head, listening. “This piece was based on a poem, wasn’t it?”