Sonata (North Security 3)

“Maybe. Do we have information on his new wife?”

“You don’t trust her?”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

A low laugh. “He’ll kick your ass if he finds out we investigated her. She comes from old money. Railroads, steel, technology. Nothing even remotely connected to politics.”

“And now a duchess.”

“In other words, she has no incentive to sell out her country.”

“Her old country. Now she’s a citizen of Spain. A resident of France. And you’re forgetting the less frequent reason people sell out their countries. Not always money. It could be ideology.”

Josh snorts. “It’s always about money.”

He might be right about that. Even when people claim they do things for ideological reasons, money usually factors into the equation. Unfortunately we don’t know who knew about our location. We can’t even be sure that the woman went into our car on purpose. My mind’s eye remembers her dark hair and dark eyes, her tanned skin heavily wrinkled. Her clothes were plain—probably too plain. Chosen to be nondescript. Even so, something about her feels familiar.

A stir in the crowd turns their attention to the grand staircase.

A man at the bottom of the stage announces Isa, including her full name and royal titles. She appears at the top of the stairs, wearing a wide gown of orange and black. Despite the rather playful image she projected when I met her, she appears regal now. No one would question her position the way she holds her head, her shoulders, the way she drifts down with regal hauteur, even in whispers.

The man at the bottom announces Bethany. Somehow she manages to make a bright yellow color look mysterious instead of like sunshine. She drifts down the stairs with the grace of a dancer. A murmur of interest spreads across the room as some know that she’s part of the concert.

Every muscle in my body tenses. I know who’s coming next.

There are strict regulations regarding where I need to stand to always see the whole crowd. There are protocols for how often I scan the crowd. There are affectations so that people don’t notice me or know where my attention goes. All of this is built into my muscles. All of this is thoughtless, but I can’t remember it now. Not when every cell in my body leans towards those stairs.

Not when I want to be at her side, escorting her into the room. Marking my possession so that every man who admires her knows exactly where she belongs.

&nbs

p; She appears at the top of the stairs. My breath catches. My God.

I’m used to seeing her in demure black clothes when she plays. During the tour she wore that costume of blue satin and white lace. It emphasized her youth. Now she wears a red ballgown that declares her sensuality in dangerous certainty. My cock hardens in the tux with nowhere to go. A rustle goes through the crowd. They know who she is, but that’s not the only reason. I can only imagine the ideas running through the men. The gown features a strapless bodice that shows off her small breasts. My fingers twitch at my side. I want to touch her, to tweak her nipples.

A pause. She doesn’t immediately come down the stairs the way the other women did. She stands very still, but I sense her nerves. The crowd must seem intimidating. I never should have let her come in on her own. I take a step forward, determined to walk up the stairs and escort her down.

Her chin lifts.

There’s no comparison. She floats down the stairs with such confidence everyone forgets the moment of uncertainty. Everyone except me. Satisfaction suffuses my chest. The part of me that helped raise that young woman feels pride. The rest of me? Pure lust. I want her wearing that dress, the red fabric thrown up around her waist as I pound into her on the marble stairs. I want her bent over, only her pretty little ass visible, framed by the dress, while I sink two fingers into her heat.

“Close your mouth,” a low voice mutters directly in my ear. “You have at least two hours before you can drag her away from the ballroom, by the way.”

Fucking Josh. Even from across the room he could tell how dumbstruck she makes me. I speak into my mouthpiece. “Noah. Move inside the ballroom. You’re taking over the south wall.”

The crowd has already swallowed her, greeting her, taking up her attention. I don’t begrudge them her time and space. I don’t begrudge them her music. I’m not so possessive that I won’t let her perform in whatever capacity, whether it’s in the violin or as the belle of the ball, but I want every man who admires her to know she goes home with me at the end of the night.

For that matter, I want no doubt in her mind either.

I may not get to keep her, but for right now she’s mine.

CHAPTER EIGHT

French composer and virtuoso pianist Louise Farrenc was twice awarded the Prix Chartier of the Academie des Beau-Arts and was appointed to the prestigious position of Professor of Piano at the Paris Conservatory. Despite this, she was paid less than her male counterparts. Only after she composed a piece for the popular and handsome male violinist Joseph Joachim did she finally receive equal pay.

Samantha

My chest tightens with everybody that brushes against me. There are too many people. I’m reminded of those days in the orphanage, when we were stacked six-deep in a room, the sleeping mats more narrow than our skinny bodies. The irony is that I’m wearing a dress that costs enough to feed the girls there for a year. Faces dance in front of me, a kaleidoscope of bright smiles and shimmery jewels. I want nothing more than to be bundled onto the high bed in my room. Those velvet drapes would shield me from this. I manage to murmur polite greetings without really understanding. So nice to meet you. Oh, thank you. You’re so kind. Hopefully my responses match up to what people are actually saying. It’s a buzzing sound, perhaps the language of butterflies and ladybugs and bumble bees.