The auction that I can’t afford to win. Guilt stabs at me and I grab his jacket, ready to confess. “Kace—”
“And I’m not good for you, Aria. I need you to know that right now. In fact, I’m ten shades of bad you should run from.”
It’s a warning defines every hot and cold moment with this man, and I should run. But I’m not running, not when he’s standing right here, and there’s this rough, edgy quality to him that calls to me in ways I cannot explain. “Then why are we standing here?”
His eyes, those potent blue eyes, lower to my mouth where they linger, and I know—I just know—that he is thinking about kissing me, and I can barely breathe with the eternal moments that tick between us.
“Because,” he says, his gaze lifting to mine, “I kissed you and now I can’t stop tasting you on my tongue.” Suddenly, his fingers are tangling into my hair and our lips are a breath from touching. “And I want more. So damn much more.” And then he’s kissing me, his tongue pressing past my teeth, caressing deep, a sensual stroke I feel in every part of me. I’m melting into the hard lines of his body.
I can taste his hunger, his need, that darkness beneath his surface I have sensed, and it draws me to him, it burns me alive. Maybe it’s the good girl in me, captive to a life not of my choosing, but that edge in him pulls me under, drugs me. I’m all in for these moments with this man, and I forget all the reserve I’ve lived with my entire life. I’m nothing but this moment, nothing but pure submission, pure need for this man. Pure need for escape.
Abruptly the door to our right, opens and a man clears his throat. Kace tears his mouth from mine but he doesn’t immediately look at our visitor. His eyes are locked on me. “That, Aria, is why we’re here.” Only with that declaration does he look to our visitor, as do I.
Chris Merit stands there, his blond hair rumpled, his T-shirt a splattering of intentional paint, and my God, I’ve been caught making out with a world-famous musician by a world-famous artist.
I don’t know how Chris knew where to find us or how he timed it just when he did, but he did. And here we are.
“Evening, Aria,” Chris greets, and thankfully he doesn’t wait for my reply because I’m fairly certain I have no use of my vocal cords right now.
He glances at Kace. “They’re ready for us, man,” and with that, he disappears.
“Oh my God, I’m embarrassed,” I murmur.
“It’s Chris. You won’t meet a more private person or one you can trust more than him. He won’t say anything. I promise.” He stokes my lip, his lips quirking at the edges. “But your lipstick all over the place might.” He rubs a couple of spots and says, “All clear. And you still have on lipstick.”
“And you don’t somehow.”
He catches my hand. “We have to get in there, but if I win the violin, if your client matches the bid, I’ll let him have it. I have a collection of violins, including several Stradivariuses. I don’t need to have this one, too.”
I blanch at the idea of his collection, but also his generosity. “You barely know me,” I say. “Why would you do that?”
His fingers brush my jaw. “I want to know you, Aria. That’s what I’m telling you.” He kisses my hand again and when he would lead me to the door, I tug him back. “Wait. Wait, it’s important.”
If he feels the pressure of those waiting on him, he doesn’t show it. He’s cool. He’s easy. He’s right here, giving me his attention. “What is it?”
“I’m not bidding. Don’t bid.” And then, pressed by time, I dump it all on him. “The violin isn’t real, Kace. Mark won’t listen to me because I’m not credentialed, but I swear to you it’s not authentic. It’s a good fake, worth millions, but not the millions it’s going to go for. I’d never steer you wrong. I’m protecting you.”
He cups the side of my face and leans in, his lips pressing to mine, his tongue doing a fast, sensual slide before he says, “I believe you, baby. I won’t bid.”
The endearment does funny things to my stomach as he adds, “Don’t leave without me tonight.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kace leads me into a room where rows of chairs await hundreds of guests while the stage to our left awaits Kace and Chris. Actually, Chris is already on the stage, kneeling at the edge, talking with Sara, who stands just beneath him. A few other men in black jeans and matching black T-shirts are also present with Chris, fiddling about with the performance set behind him. Kace slides an arm around me, possessiveness to his touch that sends a shiver down my spine. His mood though is light, as he points to one of the men on stage: a tall, good looking man with blond hair and about the same age as Kace. “That’s Micky,” Kace informs me. “He’s my guitarist. He travels with me and has for five years. Micky, this is Aria.”