A Reckless Note (Brilliance Trilogy 1)

“Do you now own part of an NBA team?”

“I kept it for a while, just to prove to my father that I, a man with a violin, was just as capable as him. Which was silly. He’s dead. I’m a football and violin guy. A year in, I sold it and pocketed the money.”

“And the rest of his business?”

“Real estate is a good investment. I still own that part of his business. I have a CEO who runs the show with my input.”

“I just—you’ve written lots of hit songs. And I know that because Sara told me and I gathered as much from Nix, too. Surely your father saw that.”

“I never told him. He never asked. He had no idea. He didn’t know when I won a Grammy. He didn’t know when my first song hit number one. All he saw was the violin. Which reminds me. Speaking of my violin.” He unbuckles himself and stands, reaching to an overhead bin and removing his violin case before motioning me to the couch and table across from us. “You’re supposed to tell me if this is real.”

The ride is calm, no bump in sight, and I find I’ve forgotten the flight completely. There is just this man and that violin, a piece of my history that was both beautiful and destructive. With my heart racing, I unbuckle and move across the aisle. I sit down next to Kace and watch as he opens the case, displaying the shiny wood of a stunning instrument. My mind flashes back to the three Stradivarius violins my father owned and kept sealed in a vaulted room underground. I’ve often wondered if they could still be there. I wonder now if my brother went after them.

I studied those instruments in detail with my father and brother. I was young, but I listened to every word our father said about their history, their creation, even before his death when I studied his writings quite obsessively.

“This,” Kace says, motioning to the violin, “is my favorite instrument I’ve ever played by far, and I’ve played hundreds of violins.” He glances over at me. “You want to hold it?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I do not want to risk hurting it.”

“You aren’t going to hurt it.”

“I just want to look,” I say. “Can I see the flashlight on your phone? Mine is in my purse.”

He pulls it from his pocket, turns on the light, and hands it to me. I lean in and start scanning the instrument inside and out, the best I can in the case. When I exhaust that view, I eye Kace. “Can you pick it up?”

He grabs a towel and lifts it, settling it on his knee. I go down on my knees in front of him. My hand goes to his leg without hesitation, our eyes colliding momentarily, our growing comfort and intimacy between us. I lean in, scanning the parts of the violin I couldn’t see before, from every possible angle. I find all the proper markings, but so far there is no visible watermark, but it’s hard to get to certain parts of the instrument.

“Move it a little this way,” I say, motioning to the right before leaning in and shining the light once more. And there it is. The watermark.

“It’s real,” I say, leaning back on my haunches. “It’s real.” I stand up and then sit next to him, stunned, truly stunned. “I haven’t seen a real Stradivarius since—” I stop myself just in time, so close to saying too much.

Kace tilts his head and studies me. “Since when?”

“A very long time,” I say quickly. “It’s a majestic instrument.”

He’s still watching me with such intent I swear it feels like he’s going to crawl under my skin and sink straight into my soul. I’m panicking, not sure what I will say if he pushes me for more, so I just give him more on my terms. “Antonio Stradivari placed a unique watermark in each instrument, his signature. No mark is in the same place. All are quite hard to find. The instrument up for auction at Riptide didn’t have it. This one does.”

“How do you know about the watermark when clearly many experts don’t?”

“My client, the person who taught me what to look for, was intimate with the family before they disappeared.” And then because I’m walking a line between truth and lies, I quickly add, “I can’t believe I’m looking at the real deal.”

He watches me for a moment, weighing something in my words, his expression unreadable, but he doesn’t push. He grabs his bow and scoots back a bit to give himself space. “I believe I can tell a real Stradivarius by the sound.” He plays a few notes, beautiful notes, soft and then rugged. “The richness it delivers is like that of no other instrument.”