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More than anything, he wanted to lock her in his townhouse and protect her. He never wanted her to go back to the Café, never wanted her to be ashamed of who she was and what she did for a living. But he was a musician. He didn’t have the tactical or physical skills to bust her out of her living situation.
But he couldn’t sit back and do nothing. If half the rumors were true, that place needed to be shut down. At the same time, many powerful people frequented the Café. Politicians, businesspeople, lobbyists. The most influential people in the country were patrons.
How did he fight against something like that?
He had to do something. But he couldn’t do it alone. He didn’t have that particular skill set. He needed help from someone who had those abilities.
His godfather, Alex, had those abilities in Germany. Or that couple in Boston—Chase and Sabrina. He’d played at their wedding a few years back. They were friends with Alex and had local connections...
He let go of Emily’s hand and went to open his violin case, then stepped back as she came to stand in front of it, staring at the instrument as if it were a long-lost treasure. He hadn’t unpacked it after getting home from rehearsal, and it was still nestled in its red velvet bed.
She reached out to touch it but snapped her hand back and shook her head. “You don’t happen to have a violin laying around that isn’t worth millions of dollars, do you?”
He laughed. “Why?”
“It would be a crime for someone like me to attempt to play such a perfect instrument.”
“Emily, you’re worth any instrument anyone wants to give you.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I meant more because I haven’t played in years, and dying cat screams should never be heard from a Guarneri.”
He stared for a long moment, her eyes twinkling as she watched him, and then he burst out laughing. “Dying cat screams?”
She shrugged. “My mom called it that when I first started playing.”
He shook his head. “I’d be honored for you to play this,” he said, motioning to the violin. Her eyes widened in alarm. “But if you’re that hesitant, I do have a few others around. Hang on.”
He walked across the room to a climate-controlled cabinet, still chuckling about her remarks, and studied the four cases. They were all his personal violins he’d either bought or had been purchased for him throughout the years. His eyes landed on a cracked leather case, a little worn for wear, but it held his most precious violin. The one given to him by Sebastian, in Germany, when he was big enough for his first full-size violin. It wasn’t a named violin, wasn’t a Stradivarius or Guarneri, but it had been given to him by someone who knew his talent, knew his potential. He’d cherished it from the moment he’d drawn the first bow stroke over its strings. He played the Guarneri because it was expected of him, but this no-name violin was more precious to him than all the others combined.
He smiled, remembering clutching it to his chest while he deplaned the first time in America and later anxiously opening the case to make sure it had survived the flight over.
He pulled out the case and walked back to the table where Emily waited. He unfastened the case and opened the lid.
She tilted her head and smiled. “It’s beautiful.”
“It was my first full-sized violin, given to me in Germany.” He took it out and tightened the strings and quickly tuned it. He hadn’t played it in a few years and stroked the scroll with his thumb before handing it to Emily. “Please.”
Her eyes widened as she gingerly wrapped her hands around the neck of the violin. Mark tightened the hairs on the bow and handed it to Emily. “Hang on, let me find you a shoulder rest.” He hurried back to the cabinet, found one, and returned to slide it onto the bottom of the violin. He nodded. “Okay.”
She stared at the instrument for a long moment. “I haven’t played in over five years...” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.
“It’ll come back to you,” Mark said, trying to reassure her.
She stared at the violin for a long moment before raising the precious instrument to her shoulder and setting the bow to the strings. She winced as it squeaked.
He smiled. “It’s okay.”
She took a deep breath and drew a tentative bow across the A-string, a myriad of emotions floating across her face. She inhaled deeply, drew her brows together, and moved her left hand into the proper position. With halting fingers, she played a scale, then smiled, tears filling her eyes. “That feels amazing,” she whispered.
“You don’t sound like a dying cat.”
She giggled and he laughed.
She licked her lips and played another scale. And another. And another. She ran through a few of the exercises he did daily, hesitant and with mistakes, but with determination in her eyes. Then she stopped and put the violin and bow down, and looked at her fingers. “My calluses are gone.”
She held up her hand and he saw the indentions the strings had made in her fingertips.
“They’ll come back.” He took her hand and kissed each fingertip. Her lips parted and heat spread through his body as he stared into her eyes.
