Sonata (North Security 3)

“Samantha Brooks.” A low voice breaks through the crowd. “You look all grown up. And somehow, so much the same. Do you remember me? Probably not.”

The person speaking is too handsome to possibly forget except… I search my memory. Nothing. My cheeks feel warm. There’s no empty response to this. “I’m so sorry.”

He laughs, a little self-deprecating. “I’m sure it’s a good thing that I don’t look like my teenaged self. Besides the fact that I could barely bring myself to look at you then. Alexander Fox. Above-average cello player. We once played on the same stage in Leningrad.”

Surprise disarms me. Probably his handsome face does, too. He could be an actor in a blockbuster movie with those blue eyes and square jaw. “I remember Leningrad.”

“I was one of eight cellos in the orchestra. I was so nervous about the performance I was lucky not to fumble my parts. You, however, were a goddamn miracle.”

A blush. “Thank you. I’m sorry I don’t remember—”

He waves his hand. “It would be strange if you did. Especially since I know what happened six months after that performance. I could never get you out of my head after that.”

Six months after that performance my father died. The servants at the house had no idea where to place me. I ended up at a Russian orphanage. Only later did I find it strange. Shouldn’t I have returned to the United States? Unless someone didn’t want me there. Unless someone thought it would be easier to kill me in a foreign country, in a house that barely counted all the girls in its care.

Liam North retrieved me from the orphanage and took custody of me. A judge made his guardianship official a few months later. It took money to pull that off. Power. I’ve always been at the mercy of men. It was only the violin that made it bearable. And now, even that is gone.

Alexander frowns. “I’ve upset you. Of course I have, bringing that up. I’m a bastard. Let me get you a drink. Distract you. Or would you like to dance?”

I open my mouth, only to find a laugh coming out. He sounds a little nervous, but somehow I find it charming. Is this what it would feel like to meet a handsome man at a ball? I suppose that’s what I’m doing now, but my past taints every interaction. “You know what? Yes. I would love to dance.”

That’s how I end up twirling on the parquet floor, the world spinning as if I hang from the ceiling in the Tanglewood theater, everything moving too fast. Instead of a rope and cable around my waist there’s a man’s warmth.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” Alexander says.

“I didn’t think you’d ask me to dance,” I say, laughing a little.

“It’s been, what? Eight years now? I hope I’ve learned how to speak to pretty girls better than I could back then. Anything’s better than staring at the floor.”

“You’re a charmer,” I say, but I don’t seem to mind.

He’s lacking the edge of self-destruction that tinged Harry March’s interactions. Instead Alexander seems… genuine. He’s also handsome. And he knows how to dance. I realize that I didn’t really know how when I agreed, but he leads me through the waltz with sure feet.

His blue eyes reflect the light of a thousand crystals on chandeliers. He blows out a breath. “Okay, I’m not that smooth with pretty girls. I should have opened with this, I’m in charge of the concert.”

“Oh.” I can’t control the way my body stiffens. After the harshness of the label reps in the US and the disaster that ended it, I’m sensitive to whoever will call these shots.

“I can only imagine you’re nervous about performing again. Rest assured we’re working with the best security consultants to make sure that you’ll be safe on this stage.”

That’s what he thinks I’m worried about? It’s surprisingly astute. “You’ve met Bethany, right? She mentioned that you preferred a more classical style.”

“I suppose you could say that. I prefer more of a recital format. As far as the dramatic flair… I don’t mind it, but I think a little goes a long way. Unless you like a more colorful style? I saw footage of the US tour, but we frequently have license to change things for the European leg.”

“A recital style sounds much better to me.” That’s a lie. Anything where I have to play the violin makes me break out into a sweat. But this way means I’ll spend less time onstage.

There will be very little showmanship. Maybe I’ll actually manage to survive it…

My stomach cramps. Then again maybe not.

“The truth is…” A lock of hair falls over his forehead, making him look both dashing and shy. “You could probably convince me to do the concert any way you like. You’re the headliner for a reason. And I knew

your genius when I heard you play eight years ago.”

The flattery expands my chest. “Are you performing, too?”

“Oh God, no. My above-average skill as a teenager has fallen to purely mediocre. No, I went to work for an auction house after college. A lot of rubbing elbows and knowing the right people. In the end it was hard to see the best instruments in the world go to billionaires who would lock it up instead of the performers who could make magic.”

I murmur my understanding, because so many of the old instruments are owned by museums and investment groups and billionaires. The average musician must save up a lifetime or use a loan. It’s not only the upfront cost of the instrument, which can run in the millions, but also the upkeep. I’m one of the rare musicians who owns a masterpiece outright—and that’s only thanks to Liam North. He made Lady Tennant, my violin, a gift to me. And I repaid that thanks by locking the violin away. Acid rises in my throat. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, but I can’t imagine going back now. I turned my back on more than Lady Tennant that terrible night in New York City, afraid that Liam would die in my arms. I turned my back on music.