A good ten minutes pass, with traffic just one more obstacle to overcome in these turbulent few days.
Tension pulses in the air, or maybe it’s more like a ticking clock with a heavy, exaggerated arm. A million thoughts charge through my mind, many of them warnings my mother spoke to me over and over, about not just protecting myself but others around me. She would not approve of Kace August. She’d like him. She’d admire his talent. But she would not approve of a man that is a poster child for the world I’m never supposed to visit again. She’d claim he represents danger to me and me danger to him.
But I give a mental push to her assumed arguments.
I was eleven when I left Italy. The odds of someone recognizing me like Kace did are next to zero. Even if they dig around, my history is long and established right here in New York City. And Gio didn’t accidentally find trouble. He went looking for it. In fact, after years of hiding, I think he welcomed it.
I don’t want to walk away from Kace.
Almost as if I’ve spoken this desire out loud, Kace reaches for me and scoots over, aligning our legs. His touch sizzles through me, electric, and somehow soothing. That’s the thing about Kace August. He, like his music, manages to be so many things at once. We don’t immediately look at each other, but there is a magnetic pull between us. In unison, we turn to each other and the minute our eyes meet, we lean into the connection. His fingers tangle into my hair while mine twist around his T-shirt and our mouths collide in a scorching, deep kiss. A kiss that consumes. A kiss that both demands and gives in the same breath. We only come up for air, and reluctantly, when the vehicle halts. Kace strokes my damp lip, glancing over my shoulder to the window.
“We’re here,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down my hair the way he always does, tender and possessive at the same time.
He leans forward and speaks to the driver, his voice muffled before he shifts his attention back to me. “He called ahead. The door is clear. No press.”
The driver flips the locks on the doors and exits the vehicle. He must signal the building staff because my door is opened by the doorman, a chilly air piercing the warm heat of the vehicle. I slide across the seat, and exit the backseat with Kace on my heels, his hand settling possessively at my back.
Steven, dressed in his blue official jacket, welcomes us. “There she is,” he greets warmly, the lines by his eyes and gray at his temples, aging him older than I’d remembered. Fifty-something, I think today. “Please tell me you are on the mend,” he adds.
“I am,” I say. “Thank you for your help. I was a mess, I know. I barely remember what I said or did.”
“You’re better now,” he says. “That’s what matters.”
Kace slides his arm over my shoulder. “Thank you, Steven.”
Steven gives a tiny nod. “No thanks needed.”
Kace guides me into the building and to the lobby, but instead of heading to the elevator, he detours to the security desk and the tall, red-haired man in the same blue jacket Steven wore behind it. I expect Kace to discuss the press and the security risk. Instead, he says, “Mitch, this is Aria Alard. I need to add her to my approved entry list.”
My gaze jerks to his, and while there might be surprise in my action, it quickly transforms into understanding. He’s still looking at Mitch, not me, but I know what he’s telling me. We’re not over. He’s telling me we are not over.
“What do you need from her?” he presses Mitch.
I glance at Mitch, and inside his probing stare, I decide I’m not the only one surprised by this request. He recovers a perfectly stoic expression to flavor his tone as he greets me. “Good evening and welcome, Ms. Alard. Can I get a copy of your ID please?”
My heart thumps against my breastbone, and when I look at Kace, I find a question in those intelligent deep blue eyes: what will I do?
For him, I sense, this is about a commitment. Him giving it. Him asking for it. But for me it’s not that simple, not that commitment is ever simple. I avoid showing off my ID for obvious reasons. But it seems that somewhere between the day Gio disappeared and now, I’ve decided owning my identity is far more powerful than praying it’s good enough. And then there is Kace, whose name and presence, as cheesy as Gio would say it sounds, has become a healing song filling my empty heart. I reach in my purse, find my ID, and then offer it to Mitch. He gives it little attention, simply copying it at the mini machine right next to him. That copy stirs a hint of unease, but not enough to have me yanking it away from the man.