Page 5 of Mr. Risky

Someday I’ll get you out on that water, he’d say. Wouldn’t you like to live on a yacht? Or a houseboat?

Oh, a houseboat, I’d said, with stars in my eyes. Because I was an idiot who didn’t know a slick-talking villain when I saw one.

Where was he? I wondered as I quickly pulled on a green dress, shaking out my dark auburn hair.

There were mirrors set around for hair and makeup, but I was too nervous to get out there and start playing to spend much time on makeup, a quick swipe of eyeliner to frame my emerald eyes, and a touch of lip gloss.

My pale white skin looked even paler now, my eyes huge and frightened in my face.

To my delight the dress was lighter than air, a decadent rich green that flattered my coloring. A little tight over my breasts, but still flowing behind me in the ocean breeze.

I changed into it eagerly, but something between my shoulders itched, and I turned around almost instinctively.

But all I saw was the dark walnut wood panels of the backstage changing room.

I had to stop jumping at shadows.

Once the first meeting was over, I would feel better, I was sure of it.

I used to delude myself that we had this amazing connection. It was all naivete and innocence, of course.

We hadn’t had a connection at all. It had just been foolishness and longing. Longing to belong to someone for once in my life.

And he’d made me feel that way.

My hands were trembling with excitement and fear as I went out to the lawn.

The dress was tight, sculptured around the bodice so my breasts were pressed together, my hair flowing over my naked shoulders.

That was who the Sirens were, beautiful musicians hired to play as the biggest and wealthiest people in the state ate fine foods and drank wine.

Was this the beginning of my big break?

I had to focus on myself and my career, and ignore any other distractions.

Just as the first few notes sung out from my flute, I got a glimpse of a tall, lazy figure loping down the path from the beach from the big house.

Fucking hell.

Granger.

His walk was cocky, arrogant. Like he owned the place, stopping by Chamberlain Hollingsworth to shake the stiff, harsh-faced older man’s hand, his irresistible smile flashing out.

I hadn’t seen him in so long that I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t be like it had been before. He wouldn’t have that same hold over me.

No damn way.

But he looked the same, his strides loose and long-limbed, his blonde hair messy as hell, sticking out over his ears and curling down his neck. Deeply tanned skin with those careless stubbled cheeks.

And of course those god-damn baby blue eyes.

If only he hadn’t played that damn fiddle.

But there was something about how he played that made me think there was something between us. Or else why would our music have sounded so perfectly matched, those notes blending together so poignantly?

Music had never lied to me, but his music was a liar.

Just like he was.