CHAPTER FOUR
Rich classical music phrases, lasting 10 seconds long, cause the heart rate and other parts of the cardiovascular system to synchronize with the music.
Samantha
Isa shows me to a large set of rooms that looks like it belongs in a period drama. There’s plush oriental rugs and gilt furniture. I don’t have a single bedroom, the way I expected. Instead there’s an actual apartment—a sitting room, a dressing room, and a large bedroom. Velvet drapes surround the bed, revealing a white lace counterpane.
“This is too much,” I tell her, twirling in a circle. It makes me feel like a princess.
“I told Frans you might be more comfortable in a smaller room.” Her smile turns sly. “He thought you’d want to be near Liam, though. His apartments are through there.”
A door stands open, revealing a similar sitting room with more masculine tones. “Oh, I mean probably. For safety reasons. We aren’t together.”
Even as I say the words the memory of his bare chest in the train restroom flashes across my consciousness. I can see the ripple of strength, scent the musk of salt and man. We aren’t together, but we really aren’t apart either.
Isa makes a disappointed face. “He’s so handsome.”
I have to laugh. “Probably a happy new bride thinks everyone should be in love.”
“Ohhh.” She wanders away, turning back to glance at me over my shoulder. “It wasn’t a love match.”
That makes me blink. I can only stare at her. Not a love match? What other kind of match is there? She seems to be referencing something like an arranged marriage, but it’s the twenty-first century. People don’t do that, do they? Then again, this place is drenched in old-world formality.
“I’ve shocked you,” she says cheerfully. “Don’t worry. It was all a big shock for me too.”
A woman enters the room, her doe-shaped eyes alert, her satin dress reminiscent of a maid. “The luggage is in the dressing room. Can I help mademoiselle unpack?”
“Later,” Isa says, her voice hard.
Dangerous undercurrents ripple through the air, making the hair on my arms rise. The woman nods in a way that’s both deferent and dominant before she leaves.
“Sorry about that,” Isa murmurs. “I know it seems rude, but you can’t trust the servants here. They report everything to Frans. If they insist on spying on me, they’ll have to work for it.”
Surprise steals my voice. “What is this place?”
A soft laugh. “You’ll get used to it. Or maybe you won’t. If you and Liam aren’t an item, that probably means you’re going to be a completely ordinary guest. Like Bethany.”
“Bethany’s here? What about Romeo?”
“They got here two weeks ago.”
That’s not long after we left Germany and rented a flat in Madame Tissot’s house. The similarity prods at my consciousness, until I’m forced to face the truth: Liam has been planning this. It wasn’t a moment spurred on by the emotion of the day—or by the fact that I poured rubbing alcohol on his wound like a crazy person. It was always going to end this way.
“There you are,” says a familiar voice.
Warmth suffuses me as I take in the sight of Bethany, wearing her leotard and tights as if it’s a regular practice day back in Tanglewood before the tour began. She opens her arms, and I almost trip over myself hugging her. She pulls me into a deep embrace.
“I was worried about you,” she murmurs against my cheek.
“I was worried about me too,” I say, trying to make it a joke. Then I pull back. “I’m sorry about the tour. It must have been a mess when it couldn’t continue.”
“Please, honey. I wouldn’t have kept going if you were in danger.” She gives me a little shrug. “Besides, we were technically on loan from Cirque du Monde. Their lawyers had set things up so that we got paid whether the shows happened or not.”
That makes me laugh. “That must have given Talent Development a heart attack.”
“None of the old label reps are here. There’s someone else designing the show.”
Unease moves through me, even though it shouldn’t matter. The only reason I agreed to do the show is so that I can draw out whoever’s behind this. Then Liam can get back to his regular life.