Concerto (North Security 2)

Even in its shabby state it’s worth several hundred thousand dollars at auction—and of course, like most other things in my possession, it does not actually belong to me. It’s owned by Liam North, purchased by him, his name on the insurance papers. It sleeps in a thoroughly modern suspension case made of carbon fiber. There could be a nuclear disaster, and the violin would remain inside the rectangular case, fully protected and encased in microfiber.

Gone.

The carbon fiber case, the Nicolo Amati violin. All of it, gone.

There is my chair with faded fabric and gleaming wood, the one I usually use to practice. My stand. The sheets of music that I’m practicing for the tour.

“A birthday gift,” comes a low voice from behind me. Liam moves so stealthy that I didn’t hear him. “We still have the Amati, if you want to keep it.”

I take a step closer, examining the case, which is clearly an antique in its own right, with its smooth satinwood surface and brass closures. Even a few feet away I can feel the presence of the violin inside, as if its heartbeat thrums through the case.

He said I could keep the Amati, but it isn’t really mine.

“I—don’t understand.” Violins like this aren’t gifts. They are sold at auction, usually to museums and societies. Occasionally to eccentric billionaires with more money than musical skill.

“I had a hell of a time tracking down the owner after the

last auction. He preferred to remain anonymous, but I promised him—well, more money than he can spend in his lifetime. And a private demonstration at its debut in Tanglewood by the famous violin prodigy Samantha Brooks.”

A brass lock plate is engraved with the following words: Lady Tennant/40 Grosvenor Square W.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“We can get a new case,” he says, sounding gruff and strangely uncertain. “One with your name on it. This is the one it came with.”

“Don’t you dare,” I say, half laughing, half crying.

There are only five hundred Stradivarius violins left in the world. Even so there are too many for me to know the provenance of every single one, but I know this one. Lady Tennant got its name because it was purchased by Sir Charles Tennant as a gift for his wife.

My hands are shaking as I reach for the clasps and open the case. I barely feel worthy to touch this violin—and I can’t even imagine owning it, even though that’s apparently what’s just happened. I grasp the violin gently by its neck, lifting it from the case, and all my tremors evaporate. It’s like the part in Harry Potter where the wand chooses the wizard. In this case it’s the violin choosing me.

I’m tempted to run my fingertips over the strings and the neck, to learn its terrain by touch. But a violin’s imperative is to play, and so I lift the bow and touch it to the strings. The sound soars through the air, the clearest note I’ve ever heard.

An opening scale and it sounds as momentous and poignant as any classical piece. It feels like I’m playing violin for the first time, hearing notes in an entirely new way.

I look back at Liam. He’s always appreciated my playing. I suppose he would have gone mad by now if he didn’t, having my music room connected to his office. Even he looks awed by the sound.

“How did you know?” I murmur, reluctant to set down the violin for even one moment.

“You like it?” His voice is roughened with something, maybe emotion. Are the strings of a Stradivarius so compelling that they’ll move a man of strength and stoicism to this?

“It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me. More than I ever imagined.” And then it doesn’t matter how much I long to hold Lady Tennant or play everything I’ve learned with her—I have to set her gently into the case. That’s where my carefulness ends.

I launch myself at Liam, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing. There’s moisture where my cheek touches his hard jaw, and I know he’ll be embarrassed by my wild show of gratitude. He’s never liked me being overly emotional, so I’ve tried so hard to be like him.

When I pull back, his green eyes shine with what can only be tears. It’s enough to make my breath catch. Maybe he isn’t as stoic as he wants me to think.

Maybe we’re more alike than I ever knew.

In the moments that follow I become aware that I’m clinging to him like I’m drowning and he’s my last chance of survival. Sensation blooms in my chest, my belly, and lower, to where my legs are half wrapped around him. He releases me gently, and I slide down his body to the floor.

“I’m old enough,” I whisper, because it means he doesn’t have to hold himself back from me. He doesn’t have to feel bad about the erection I can feel cradled between our bodies.

He looks more torn than ever, shame hard in his eyes, his mouth a firm line. “The violin, Samantha. It was more than a birthday present. It’s a goodbye.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

In comparison to many other instruments, the piano is relatively new. It was invented in 1698 by Bartolomeo Cristofori in Italy.