Sonata (North Security 3)

More than whether or not she likes that young man she danced with before me.

“Tomorrow we’ll record the songs he made you memorize.” Our hiding was complete enough that she couldn’t play the violin. Her skill would have been too remarkable. So would visiting a recording studio. “That will allow us to run them through some algorithms. And it will also be used—”

She appears calm. “In case I die before we solve the mystery?”

“No. I’m not planning for that.” Every cell in my body rebels against the idea. The soldier in me understands collateral damages. It understands statistics. The man wants to hold Samantha close. I’ll burn down the world before I let it singe her. “It will be used as an insurance policy.”

“I already wrote down the sheet music.”

I’m distracted by the feel of her slender waist, by the warmth of her small hand on my arm. It’s enough that I almost miss the tremor in her voice. “The music may have some nuance the notes miss. We’ll be able to run it through some databases once it’s digitized.”

She doesn’t answer, but I feel a stiffness in her body. I want to soothe it in the most primal way, to stroke her, caress her, until she surrenders to safety.

“I thought you’d want to play, anyway. It’s been months.”

“Not that.”

No, she wouldn’t have good memories attached to that song. I hate that her original composition started with that melody. As if he taints everything about her, even her inspiration. Even her mind. The composition strays from the notes he gave her, but it doesn’t erase the way it starts. I suppose it’s like she said. Unless you think that I’m nothing more than I was. She is more than a frightened girl under her father’s control, but it always starts with that.

She turns her face toward the orchestra, her natural instinct toward the music. In the profile her expression looks haunted. I study her full lips, her upturned nose, struck by a feeling of déjà vu.

“Are you afraid?” That’s how she looks—afraid. Of the violins? Of the music?

That earns me a hollow laugh. “Of course not. How can I be afraid with my own private army following me everywhere. You even brought Josh on the train. I thought that poor woman would have a heart attack when he insisted on questioning her.”

“The woman.” The dancers around me slow down. Maybe it’s just my heartbeat.

“She felt bad for spilling the tea.”

“It wasn’t an accident.” My mind has been running the tape of that moment enough times to be certain of that, even before Josh spoke earlier. “Her passport was fake. Did you recognize her?”

Samantha gives me a strange look. “Of course not. I would have said something if I knew who she was. But I did think… she looked familiar. Is that weird?”

Not weird. Too much of a coincidence considering I felt the same thing.

The quartet builds a crescendo. The floor around us clears for a second. I take the opportunity to spin her in my arms. It’s a pretense of romance. A moment of imagining she’s mine. The villain doesn’t get to keep the princess. Her dark hair flies around her, and she laughs. Oomph. She lands against my chest. I’m standing still in a ballroom full of movement. She’s clasped to my body.

They’ve done something smoky to her eyes. They’re more black than brown tonight. A galaxy inside this woman. A universe. I want to kiss her, but not here—in private. These people don’t matter. I dip my head and press an almost-chaste kiss to her lips.

She doesn’t return the kiss. “Is she still alive? You said it wouldn’t be a sweet reunion, as if she’s still alive. You must know that much. You must have checked.”

A fire-burnished poker could not have burned me more. It steals my breath. “Yes. The last time I checked she was still alive. She started a new family.”

I need her to kiss me back, so I bite her lower lip. She gasps into my mouth. That gives me the opening. I sweep my tongue against hers. A faint moan. It might as well be an orchestra, that’s how keenly I hear the sound she makes. Her whole body sighs into my embrace.

Ruthless. That’s what I am to distract her this way.

My head lifts. I study her half-closed eyes, her high cheekbones, her chin. It’s like I’m looking at her for the very first time. Adding thirty years to her features. Comparing her to a woman on the train.

Shock tighten

s my hold on her arms, until she squirms.

Her eyes widen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, but it’s too damn late.

Suspicion makes her eyes glisten. “Who did you think was coming to get me after my father died? Why did you wait two weeks, Liam? Tell me the truth.”