“They filled my meds for me,” I say, a queasy feeling overtaking me. “And more than ever, I really don’t think my body approves of what they gave me.” I rotate and rest my head on the seat.
“Pain meds on an empty stomach are never good.” He reaches over and strokes my hair. His touch is like silk on my frazzled nerves and I don’t have it in me to fret over the fact that he also caused those frazzled nerves. My lashes lower, and I savor the warmth he’s created in me, and ironically, considering the pain he’s caused me, the only good things that I’ve felt in hours are because of him.
His lips brush my forehead and it’s as if the hand of sleep reaches up and pulls me closer to it. Sinking into the heaviness of the moment, I am only remotely aware of Kace starting the engine, of the sway of the car.
For the next few minutes, I fight the drugs and conjure a memory of that day in the restaurant, when I’d hunted down Mark to beg for an invitation to the VIP event. Chris and Kace had both been with him. I sink back into the past:
Mark fixes his gray eyes on me. “What are you seeking?”
“A violin,” I say, thankful to this Chris person for the pressure that seems to have made Mark ask for more information.
“Your buyer likes music, does he?”
The words spoken by the man to Mark’s right draws my gaze and I blink into brilliant blue eyes framed by thick, longish dark hair and rugged, handsome features. I blanch with the knowledge of who this is. I’m standing across from the thirty-four-year-old rock star of violins. A man who uses his good looks, denim, leather, and arms tatted up with randomly colored musical notes to create an image. That, along with his re-mixed versions of hot new pop hits has done what many believe impossible—he’s made the violin cool and sexy.
“You’re,” I swallow hard and force myself not to act star struck, which would certainly ensure I don’t make it into the VIP room. I regroup and instead of saying Kace August, I say, “accurate.”
His eyes, those famously blue eyes, narrow and his lips quirk slightly. Mark jumps in then and lifts a finger. “What song is playing right now?”
Ironically, there’s a violin playing in the restaurant right now, and the question is a test, of course. Do I know enough to be worthy of this auction? To win his respect defies my mother’s insistence that I deny my roots. This is not a work just anyone would know. But to fail could cost me the opportunity to find my brother. “‘The Four Seasons,’ Antonio Vivaldi.”
Mark glances over at Kace. “Is she right?”
“She is absolutely accurate,” he says, using my own word, which I do not believe is an accident. His eyes warm on my face, ripe with surprise, but there is more. He’s pleased, I think. He likes that I know his world. I am drowning in this man’s blue eyes, and before I’m too far under to recover, I jerk my gaze to Mark. “Can I at least get a private viewing of the violin?”
“Leave your card and show up to Friday night’s event. Buy something. That’s the best way to show intent.”
Buy something, with all the money I do not have, I think, acid biting at my belly. I reach into my bag and pull out my card, setting it on the table in front of him. I can feel Kace’s eyes on my face, burning through me. That’s when he shocks me and speaks to me in Italian: “Cambiano i suonatori, ma la musica è sempre quella.”
It means, “the melody changes, but the song remains the same,” but directly translated it’s: “the players change, but the music is always the same.”
I look at him and I know I shouldn’t respond, I shouldn’t connect myself to Italy with this man, but translation services are on my card. “No,” I answer in English. “The musician, the player, makes all the difference, which is why he should have an instrument worthy of him.” It’s what my ancestor who created the Stradivarius violin believed. It’s why he made the Stradivarius.
I glance back at Mark. “I’ll be there Friday night.”
And with that, I turn and start walking toward the exit.
My eyes open and I am aware now, if not then, that I’d not only confirmed my Italian heritage in that exchange, I’d also made it clear I understood the value of both player and instrument. The question becomes, was Kace confirming my identity in his own mind, or did he already know?
CHAPTER FOUR
The joy of Manhattan.
We end up in standstill traffic a block from my apartment. My lashes lower and I don’t know how when the drive is short, but I must drift off to sleep. I wake to Kace leaning over me, unhooking my belt. “Wake up, baby. We need to get you inside.”