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The event at Riptide is formal and requires you to buy tickets, which are not cheap, but I buy my ticket. The formal nature of the auction at least works in my favor. A formal dress is hard to identify by label, which allows me to purchase a bargain. I buy a black dress with beautifully etched long black lace sleeves that cost under two hundred dollars. I buy Christian Louboutin black heels that cost far more, but the red soles tell people they cost money and I can wear them for work meetings as well. I manage to find a classic black Chanel purse on Craigslist for a fraction of the cost I’d pay otherwise. I also fretfully buy a few mix and match outfits, because I have to be ready to move in this upper echelon of the collectibles world. We should have been doing this already. I just pray I snag that bottle of wine to pay for all of this.
The auction begins at eight PM and I take an Uber rather than ride the subway to arrive at seven-thirty as was suggested on the website. Amber, the redheaded receptionist that I’d met before, greets me. “Welcome. I remember you.”
I manage a smile despite my mixed feelings about being remembered. I’ve spent my entire life trying to blend in, trying to be someone I’m not. And yet, being remembered by Mark Compton and his staff is important tonight. “As I do you, Amber.”
She smiles at her name and directs my next move. “We’ll be holding this event in the ‘Silver Room.’ Follow the signs.”
“Thank you.”
I hurry across the white shiny tile, following the signs and the fancy dresses. This formality is for an open event. What must the VIP event be like? Nerves are lighting up my entire body and I walk down a long hallway to finally find double glass doors labeled “The Silver Room.” Inhaling to calm myself, I open the door and enter a room filled with fancy dresses and suits, as well as waiters carrying champagne and finger foods.
I’m handed an auction list and I walk to one of the many tables covered in white tablecloths. I quickly scan the list, praying the wine is still a part of the offerings, and it is. Relief washes over me when suddenly a familiar pair of shark-blue eyes are staring at me. Kace August is standing across from me.
“I remember you,” he says.
And as dangerous as it is for this man, a man deeply rooted in the world I’m hiding from, to remember me, I’m breathless with the idea that he has, in fact, remembered me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kace, Mr. Violin Rocker himself, is wearing a T-shirt with a blazer, and while he’s not the only rebel in this crowd—I count a good half-dozen—he has this confidence about him that defies cotton and fine silk. It doesn’t matter what this man wears. During my YouTube exploration, I admired him in a tuxedo for numerous classical performances and the effect was the same. He’s a man who stands out in a crowd without even trying. And the two gorgeous women casting him sideways glances from the next table see it, too. He’s a beautifully rugged man who plays just as beautifully. But I cannot forget that we are of the same world and despite how alluring this may be to me, that’s why he’s dangerous to me. So very dangerous, but still I find myself saying, “I remember you, too.”
“Then it’s mutual,” he replies, though I’m not sure exactly what he means by that statement, but I swear there is interest in his eyes. Or it’s wishful thinking I shouldn’t be thinking at all. He’s dangerous, I remind myself. I need to walk away.
“You know Italian,” he comments.
“I do,” I reply, offering nothing more. It’s how I’ve been conditioned. Don’t offer more than necessary, my mother had preached. But I also don’t walk away.
“How?” he asks.
“I studied linguistics in college.”
He arches a brow. “With what intent?”
It’s a complicated question, I think. The truth is, language and music connect for me, both as ways to communicate, but I can’t say that to him without opening the door to questions about my connection to music. And so, I say only, “There’s the question of the hour,” and because I want to take attention off Italy, where I was born, where my father made the Stradi, because the Stradivarius formula was lost, I add, “I speak Spanish, German, Chinese, and French as well.”
“But do you speak sign language?” he asks, and then he signs, “You’re beautiful.”
My belly flutters and I remind myself that yes, he’s flirting, but this is Kace August. He probably flirts with every woman he meets. I sign back, “Thank you.”
“I’m impressed, Aria Alard. I myself speak all those languages, somewhat fluently. Italian and German quite well.” A waiter walks by and he grabs two champagne flutes. “Drink?”
