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That question jolts me. I don’t live in a neighborhood that suggests I have clients capable of bidding on a ten-million-dollar violin. I rotate to get out of the car, but that’s a mistake because Kace is not eye level. “What just happened?” he asks, and his hands, his musically talented hands, rest on his powerful thighs. I find those hands incredibly alluring.
I’m not only drowning in everything seductive about this man, I’m captive to the façade of money. No, I’m captive to lies. Lies have held me prisoner my entire life, and I just can’t add another. My gaze lifts to his. “I don’t live in Tribeca or Soho, or whatever fancy neighborhood you live in, Kace. I live in the West Village.”
“I happen to love the West Village. It has personality.”
“I should take an Uber.”
He holds out his hand to me. “Nice to meet you. I’m your Uber.”
I laugh in spite of myself and accept his hand, heat darting up my arm and across my chest. “You’re—”
He kisses my hand and steals my breath and words. “I’m what?”
I have no idea what I was going to say and I’m not getting out of this ride. “You’re stubborn, but I’d appreciate the ride.”
His eyes light with approval that I ache for far too much. I’m afraid he’ll see this in my eyes, afraid I’m just reacting to being alone and him sharing a connection to my past that I desperately need right now. I turn and slide back into the seat. He shuts me inside the car and I pull on my seatbelt that feels necessary to navigate my life right about now. He joins me and settles in. “Where are we going?”
I give him the address and he revs the engine, power purring to a smooth hum. “Is this a Roadster?” I ask.
“It is. You like it?” He pulls us onto the road.
I run my hand over the dash. “It’s a beautiful car. A beast like your violin.”
He laughs. “I’ve never thought of my violin as a beast, but I like that analogy. A beast with a life of its own.”
I want to ask what that means. I’m curious about his training, his practice, his entire life, actually, but I’m sure everyone is. And I don’t dare show just how knowledgeable I am about music anyway. A reckless note can change everything, I remind myself.
“You didn’t get the wine,” he says. “That sucks.”
“Yes, it does. Calling my customer and telling him is going to suck all over again, too.”
“Alexander made buttloads in oil and hates to lose. He would have paid another hundred just to win.”
“I could tell that. It was in his eyes. The irony is that my client is old oil money.”
“They’re both crazy,” he says. “A bottle of wine you can’t drink is not my kind of investment, but you know, to each their own.”
“You’d be surprised at some of the requests we get. People have all kinds of quirky interests and when they have money to blow, they will pay to satisfy their interest.”
“And occasionally you get to make a purchase that also interests you,” he assumes. “Like the violin.”
I don’t deny or confirm that statement. “Is it really supposed to be a Stradivarius?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“Do you know what source validated its authenticity?” I ask.
“I don’t, but I trust Mark to ensure it’s the real deal. He’s damn good at what he does.”
“And so are many of the counterfeiters.” I’m showing too much knowledge and I change the subject. Or redirect it. “Obviously, you, of all people, have played a Stradivarius.”
He smiles. “Among many other great instruments, but it will always be my instrument of choice. Have you ever played one?”
“I’m not a violinist. That would be you. And perhaps the single most famous violinist ever.”
He glances over at me. “I’m a niche market. The people who know me know that niche market, like you. You knew who I was.”
“You’ve brought people to the instrument. You made violins cool.”
“To many, I defile the instrument and the craft.”
“Because you play pop music and wear denim and leather? That’s ridiculous. They know how well you play. You just stepped out of the box and that makes some people uncomfortable.”
He pulls to a halt at a stoplight. “But not you.”
“I’m envious of your courage.”
He rotates to face me and leans in close, so very close. “Are you now?” he challenges softly.
“I am,” I whisper and I have this insane urge to run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.
Someone honks and his jaw clenches, as if he regrets the interruption. We both settle back in our seats and it’s only then that I realize I’d turned to face him, that’s we’d turn to face each other. He turns down my street and adrenaline surges through me. I don’t know how I’m at my apartment with this man. I motion to the front of the building and he parks in front.
