Sonata (North Security 3)

My chest tightens. How could she doubt me? Because I gave her every reason to doubt me. “It was never a question of loving you, Samantha. I always did that. In the right ways. In the wrong ways. In the dirty ways.” It’s probably unfair that I stroke my thumb along the inside of her thigh as I speak. If it convinces her to stay with me, all the better. Her breath catches. “The only question was whether I could stop trying to sacrifice myself for you.”

A tremulous smile. “And can you?”

“You don’t want a martyr. God knows you don’t need one. I figured that out in the alley outside the Palais Garnier, looking down at a dead body and thinking it might be my brother. There’s no honor in giving you up. Both of us lose that way. I was afraid, plain and simple. Afraid you’d leave me. Afraid you wouldn’t leave me, and you’d see what’s underneath this military training. You deserve someone as brave as you. I’ve decided that’s going to be me.”

She throws her arms around my neck. I let her tumble us back onto the rug. The black velvet box rolls to a stop beside us. I pull out the ring. It’s a two-carat green emerald that once belonged to Charles X. Yellow gold filigree fans out from the center. It’s what Frans’s private jeweler called an estate piece. Something that could be handed down through generations. I only care if Samantha likes it. Her eyes glitter with joy as I slip it on her finger.

Her breasts press against my chest, and I struggle to focus on the sentiment of the moment. Definitely not the way her stomach rubs against my cock. Until she does it again. And again. “Very naughty,” I say with a grunt.

A grin. “You did promise me something on the window.”

“We don’t need a window for that.” I pull her up so that her knees straddle my face. I pull her hips down and make good on my promise. She gasps at the sudden switch. It’s not two separate things, my love and my desire. They’re like the emerald set in gold filigree, each part empty without the other. I use my tongue to make her moan—more, more, more. Until she’s pressing her body down in urgent pulses. Until the rushes take her over. Moisture spills down my chin. Christ. She’s wearing my ring. I should fuck her in a bed. Instead I flip her over so she’s on her back, the thick carpet her only protection from marble floors. I push her legs wide. Next time we’ll use a bed. For now I need to be inside. I plunge into her, savoring the wet heat, cursing my pleasure at the way she encases me. “My little prodigy. Mine.”

Her head dips back, and I lick her neck in a primal claim.

“Play me a chord.”

To make sure she obeys me, I flick my thumb against her clit. She bucks against my body, trapped between my weight and the rug, the sound of her ecstasy sweet in my ear, the sexual strains the perfect counterpoint to the hard thrusts I use to find my end.

Bethany

I stare at the door the way that Samantha stared at her violin, in silent challenge. It’s a losing battle. It’s nightfall when I finally stride across the room and turn the knob. The hallway seems to hold its breath. Complete silence. It sounds loud in my ears.

I’m sure Liam is comforting Samantha…

Actually, it’s probably the other way around. He looked haunted when he pulled her out of that well. Romeo went in search of his handsome servant as soon as we got back. I’m sure the married couple who live here are together.

I’m one of the few people in one of these rooms alone. There’s one other person I know I’ll find by himself. The darkness peaking under his door gives me pause. What if he doesn’t want me here? Of course he won’t want me here.

A soft knock.

No answer. No sound of movement inside.

What if he’s having complications? I know from my time in Cirque du Monde that hits on the head can always turn serious. He won’t appreciate my concern, that’s for sure. I push inside anyway. The tightness in my chest won’t let me leave.

Pitch black.

My eyes slowly accommodate to the darkness. Sofas and side tables stand like sentinels. I creep past them to the bedroom door. Draperies in both rooms have been battened down against the moonlight. The shadows on the bed don’t move, not even to breathe. They don’t make any sounds, but I feel his presence anyway, his intense life force held in stasis.

As I step closer the shape of him emerges from the night. His arms and shoulders—bare. That probably means he’s naked under the heavy blanket. His strong features in rare repose. A frown mars his forehead. It’s the only sign of awareness. The only sign of life. Even his chest barely stirs with each exhale. I put my knee on his bed, which feels like a violation. Then I touch two fingers to his brow. A small caress between enemies. After a moment his expression smooths into that deep slumber.

I come from a family of superstitions. Joshua North would surely mock me if he knew about the voodoo and the tarot cards my mamere read. But he can’t mock me now. The orange bottle on his nightstand shows the reason why. I doubt his usual reflexes would allow me to sneak up on him this way. He took pain medicine, which I can only imagine means he was in absolute agony. Otherwise he would resist it. He doesn’t have his usual defenses, so I’ll watch over him. I settle into a chair on the side of the room.

Superstitious or not, I’ll keep the evil spirits away from him for tonight. I stay there until my shoulders become stiff. Until my right foot falls asleep. By the time the early sun peers between the slats in the drapes, I’m already gone. He never needs to know I was here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Liam

Footmen carry our bags through the service exit while I lead Samantha down the broad staircase. Isabella and Bethany wait at the bottom to say goodbye. I leave them to their hugs and promises of texts. The doors to the library stand open, like sentries. Frans stands at his desk, reading something on a tablet, a frown marring his forehead. He looks up when I enter.

“Thank you for letting us use the jet,” I say, crossing the room. North Security consulted on the safety and security of the aircraft, as we have for many of our wealthy clients. I’ve placed the necessary order to purchase our own, but it will be several months before it’s fully outfitted. It became necessary now that our most famous client needs to travel for her musical appearances.

Frans accepts my handshake. “I don’t think Isa and I will be traveling soon.”

Probably not, considering the paparazzi camped outside the chateau’s gates. The ramped up security we put in place for Samantha’s visit will remain until the furor dies down. Every newspaper features a photograph of a young woman masterfully playing a violin, along with headlines that proclaim Conspiracy Uncovered and International Scandal.

“Thank you also for bearing witness.” Frans is as dangerous as any man on my payroll, but that’s not the primary reason I brought him along two nights ago. It’s his word that won’t be questioned, even in the highest circles of the European governments. The aristocracy doesn’t have the weight it used to, but some of the conventions are alive and well.