Concerto (North Security 2)

There are fifteen major violin scales. An almost infinite number of concertos and sonatas. I know almost all of them by heart. They are embedded into my skin, etched deeper with every afternoon of careful practice.

This one I don’t recognize.

A blush steals over her cheeks. “Nothing.”

The dress has a high slit, exposing one perfectly shaped leg. It would be so easy to push her knee open, to draw my fingers up the inside of her thigh. I rest my hand on her other knee, the one that’s covered by black silky fabric.

“It’s beautiful.” And haunting.

“I’m only playing around,” she says, her voice wavering.

“You’re composing?” That’s not something she’s ever told me about. To play with her skill is a form of composition. She lends her interpretation to every piece—her passion, her heart. There is no such thing as a rote recitation for a prodigy like her.

Even so, writing her own composition would be something new.

“It’s no big deal,” she says quickly, giving a little shrug that moves the ruffles that lie against her breast, drawing my attention to the gentle curve.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

She didn’t mean to kill me with this dress.

She doesn’t mean to torture me, I’m almost sure.

“A vintage shop,” she says, sounding shy. Maybe she does mean to torture me. “I thought I could wear it on the tour. What do you think? Should I?”

The

thought of thousands of men seeing her in this dress makes me want to lock her away. She would be terrified if she knew everything I think about. I can imagine her tied down on my bed wearing this dress, unable to get away from me, unable to do anything but take me. Fuck.

“Perhaps,” I say, my tone noncommittal.

Disappointment flits across her pretty features. “Well, it’s not decided or anything. There’s still time to look. I just thought I’d try to play while I’m wearing it.”

Christ. She deserves more than a surly bastard more concerned about his unholy obsession than her feelings. “You look beautiful, Samantha. You look…” I swallow hard. “You look like the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think it’s the dress. It’s you.”

I’ve knelt down in front of her a thousand times before, but she’s never been in a dress like this. And I’ve never been shirtless, my feet bare.

“Is that the only reason you’re up this late? To try on the dress?”

A blush creeps up her cheeks, the soft line of her neck. The tops of her breasts, plump and gently sloping above the black ruffles. “I couldn’t sleep, knowing that I turn eighteen soon.”

“In about five minutes.”

Emotions chase across her face, as clear as the notes she plays on her violin—excitement, apprehension, a tentative hope. “I guess you must be relieved. Your civic responsibility will be over soon.”

“Were you listening outside the door, Samantha?”

A soft laugh. “Guilty.”

How can I resist her? The girl was beautiful and strong. The woman is devastating. “I do feel responsibility for you, but it has nothing to do with civic duty.”

“Then why did you say that to the reporter?”

“I wanted her to leave it alone. And I didn’t want to tell the real reason.” I can’t resist the truth when she’s looking at me like that, her eyes liquid brown, full of desire. It makes me want to be the man she thinks I am—the one who could cherish and keep her. Have her and hold her. That man will never be me, but doesn’t she deserve to know?

Or maybe I want one night of truth.

“What was the real reason?”