READ THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS OF A RECKLESS NOTE
This is a four-chapter preview of A RECKLESS NOTE! This is the first book in my BRILLIANCE TRILOGY! This trilogy is bringing me back to my Inside Out world (no worries if you haven’t read it, this trilogy stands completely alone) and I cannot wait for you all to dive into Aria and Kace’s world with me! Once you read the FOUR CHAPTER SAMPLE, I hope you’ll find me on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram (@LisaReneeJones everywhere) and let me know what you thought!!
xoxo,
Lisa Renee Jones
xoxo,
Lisa Renee Jones
PROLOGUE
Gio—
When you touch me, I tremble. When I close my eyes and you’re not here, I remember your touch, your hands on my body, your tongue on my skin. And when you kiss me, as silly as it might sound, I melt. I go places with you, do things with you, that I never knew I could welcome in my life. But it’s all about you. It’s all about what you make me feel.
I know you feel that I’ve become your “reckless note” in the never-ending pursuit of a story you cannot leave without a proper ending. But that’s just it. I’m part of this story now. I’m part of your story. And I never meant for any of this to happen. I couldn’t know that we’d meet and the world would spin beneath my feet, and somehow ignite a million shades of beauty in my life. I couldn’t know that I’d change how you saw, well, everything.
Please don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.
I don’t know who I am without you anymore.
We will find the answers you need together. We will find your family “recipe.” I wasn’t lying. The answers you need can be found with me and at the Riptide Auction House. I promise you. Come see me. I won’t keep secrets any longer. I’m done with secrets.
Love forever,
Sofia
When you touch me, I tremble. When I close my eyes and you’re not here, I remember your touch, your hands on my body, your tongue on my skin. And when you kiss me, as silly as it might sound, I melt. I go places with you, do things with you, that I never knew I could welcome in my life. But it’s all about you. It’s all about what you make me feel.
I know you feel that I’ve become your “reckless note” in the never-ending pursuit of a story you cannot leave without a proper ending. But that’s just it. I’m part of this story now. I’m part of your story. And I never meant for any of this to happen. I couldn’t know that we’d meet and the world would spin beneath my feet, and somehow ignite a million shades of beauty in my life. I couldn’t know that I’d change how you saw, well, everything.
Please don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.
I don’t know who I am without you anymore.
We will find the answers you need together. We will find your family “recipe.” I wasn’t lying. The answers you need can be found with me and at the Riptide Auction House. I promise you. Come see me. I won’t keep secrets any longer. I’m done with secrets.
Love forever,
Sofia
CHAPTER ONE
One reckless note can change everything.
My mother used to say that to me and my brother, Gio, and even in the years since she passed, the words echo in my mind, as I know they must in my brother’s. After all, we heard those words on nearly a daily basis from the moment our father disappeared until the moment our mother died seven years later. I’d been eleven when my father disappeared and eighteen when my mother was murdered. Now, I’m twenty-eight and the only person I have left in this world is also missing. Gio forgot that saying, he forgot that a reckless note can also be deadly when you’re born into our family. I’ve known for months that he forgot, but that letter from Sofia, whoever she is, confirms that his promises to stay away from our family secrets were not kept. And now I have to find him before it’s too late, the way it was for mom and dad. I refuse to believe Gio is dead. He’s protecting me. It’s the only acceptable answer.
It’s a mild October late afternoon, with the hot eighties temperatures finally breaking into the low sixties windy day as I approach the double glass doors of the world-renowned Riptide Auction House. Nerves flutter in my belly with the idea that I’m about to do everything my mother warned me never to do—I’m about to place myself in the middle of the world that destroyed our family. But I’m also trying to save the only family I have left. A security guard opens the door for me and I quickly smooth down my wind-blown, long, dark hair.
“Welcome,” he greets.
“Thank you,” I say, shifting the Louis Vuitton briefcase my mother had given me for my high school graduation. She’d gotten it from a thrift shop and validated its authenticity. I didn’t care where it came from. It’s Louis Vuitton, a luxury I’d never known, though she had. We’d had money in Italy before we’d fled after my father’s disappearance, and did so with nothing. Unfortunately, the briefcase is the only thing I’m wearing that is a recognizable brand, but at least it pops against my basic black skirt and matching black silk blouse. Though as I walk under the extravagant chandelier that seems to have hundreds of dangling diamonds, and across floors so glossy white I need sunglasses, it doesn’t seem quite enough.
The receptionist desk is to the right, a long white number that shines like the floors, so shiny that I imagine this is the kind of desk heaven might have. The Italian in me clings to religion, and the idea of heaven right now, but I reject the idea of Gio being there with our parents, not here with me. He can’t leave me. I won’t let him leave me here alone.
There are three people spread out behind that fancy desk and I choose the friendly-looking redhead with a splatter of freckles on her button nose.
“Hi,” she greets. “I’m Amber. Can I help you?”
“Hi, yes.” I slide a card on the counter. “I’m Aria Alard,” I say, speaking my mother’s maiden name with the confidence she meant it to give me. No one here has to know who I really am. Ever. They can never know. We disappeared with my father, our historic bloodline ended forever. That’s what we let the world believe of my entire family. “I’m with Accent Collectibles,” I add. “Is Sofia here?”
Her brows furrow. “Sofia?”
“I was told she works here.”
Her brow crinkles and she says, “No. There’s no Sofia here.”
Disappointment stabs at me. “I must have the name wrong. I’m interested in attending one of your auctions.”
“Of course.” She slides a piece of paper in front of me and presents me with a list. “These are the upcoming auctions.”
I scan a summary list of the hot ticket items I’m hoping for, but the list is long. “I’m looking for a violin I was informed you’d be auctioning off.”
“Let me check for you.” She punches keys on her keyboard and then frowns. “I don’t see anything about a violin.” She glances over at her co-worker. “Brenda, is there a violin being auctioned off?”
“I do believe there is,” she says, “but that’s for the VIP event. It’s closed to the public, invitation only.”
Another female employee steps to Amber’s side, and glances at me. “Apologies. I’ll be just one moment.” She lowers her voice and speaks to Amber. “Where did Mr. Compton go for lunch? I have a document he told me to rush over to him and I—well, I forgot the restaurant’s name.”
“Monroe’s,” Amber replies.
The other woman thanks her, apologizes to me again, and then leaves. Amber refocuses on me. “I’m sorry. You would have to have an invitation from Mr. Compton himself.”
“How do I meet Mr. Compton?”
“You can try attending the auction Friday night. I know he’ll be there.”
It’s Tuesday. Friday night is forever away when my brother’s missing and that violin is absolutely what my brother was after. “Do you happen to have any details about the violin?”
Amber eyes Brenda. Brenda replies, “We’re not at liberty to release any information for the VIP event, and honestly, I’ve said too much as it is.”
Defeat threatens, but I reject it. “Thank you,” I say, turning away and stuffing the auction schedule into my briefcase. I’m already googling Monroe’s before I even step outside the building.
I pause just outside as I pull up an address only a few blocks away. My brother is looking for a violin. He has to believe this one is special, perhaps one of the three our father owned, one of which our mother claimed hid a secret—the “recipe,” as Sofia had said, writing in obvious code, to make the renowned Stradivarius violin worth tens of millions of dollars. But I don’t care about the recipe. I care about finding my brother.
I hurry down the street and into the crush of the New York City sidewalk, the scent of roasting nuts from a street vendor teasing my hungry belly. Eating hasn’t exactly been on the top of my priority list the past few days but there is no time to stop now. I need to catch Mark before he departs from the restaurant. The walk is short and I quickly reach my destination, but I’m forced to step sharply behind a concrete column as the woman from the gallery exits the restaurant. Once I spy her heading down the sidewalk, I close the space between me and the dining spot but pause at the door to do my best to hand brush my hair into decent form.
Giving up, I decide I just have to do this. I enter the restaurant, and since I’ve read the Riptide website in detail, I scan for Mark Compton, based on his photo.
The hostess greets me. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I do,” I say. “I’m with Mark Compton, but I’ll find him. I just need to head to the ladies’ room first.”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s to the far-right and so is his table.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Thank you.”
I inhale and force my nerves down hard and fast, pulling forward the courage my mother showed when she raised us and protected us. I can do this. I will do this. For my brother.
My mother used to say that to me and my brother, Gio, and even in the years since she passed, the words echo in my mind, as I know they must in my brother’s. After all, we heard those words on nearly a daily basis from the moment our father disappeared until the moment our mother died seven years later. I’d been eleven when my father disappeared and eighteen when my mother was murdered. Now, I’m twenty-eight and the only person I have left in this world is also missing. Gio forgot that saying, he forgot that a reckless note can also be deadly when you’re born into our family. I’ve known for months that he forgot, but that letter from Sofia, whoever she is, confirms that his promises to stay away from our family secrets were not kept. And now I have to find him before it’s too late, the way it was for mom and dad. I refuse to believe Gio is dead. He’s protecting me. It’s the only acceptable answer.
It’s a mild October late afternoon, with the hot eighties temperatures finally breaking into the low sixties windy day as I approach the double glass doors of the world-renowned Riptide Auction House. Nerves flutter in my belly with the idea that I’m about to do everything my mother warned me never to do—I’m about to place myself in the middle of the world that destroyed our family. But I’m also trying to save the only family I have left. A security guard opens the door for me and I quickly smooth down my wind-blown, long, dark hair.
“Welcome,” he greets.
“Thank you,” I say, shifting the Louis Vuitton briefcase my mother had given me for my high school graduation. She’d gotten it from a thrift shop and validated its authenticity. I didn’t care where it came from. It’s Louis Vuitton, a luxury I’d never known, though she had. We’d had money in Italy before we’d fled after my father’s disappearance, and did so with nothing. Unfortunately, the briefcase is the only thing I’m wearing that is a recognizable brand, but at least it pops against my basic black skirt and matching black silk blouse. Though as I walk under the extravagant chandelier that seems to have hundreds of dangling diamonds, and across floors so glossy white I need sunglasses, it doesn’t seem quite enough.
The receptionist desk is to the right, a long white number that shines like the floors, so shiny that I imagine this is the kind of desk heaven might have. The Italian in me clings to religion, and the idea of heaven right now, but I reject the idea of Gio being there with our parents, not here with me. He can’t leave me. I won’t let him leave me here alone.
There are three people spread out behind that fancy desk and I choose the friendly-looking redhead with a splatter of freckles on her button nose.
“Hi,” she greets. “I’m Amber. Can I help you?”
“Hi, yes.” I slide a card on the counter. “I’m Aria Alard,” I say, speaking my mother’s maiden name with the confidence she meant it to give me. No one here has to know who I really am. Ever. They can never know. We disappeared with my father, our historic bloodline ended forever. That’s what we let the world believe of my entire family. “I’m with Accent Collectibles,” I add. “Is Sofia here?”
Her brows furrow. “Sofia?”
“I was told she works here.”
Her brow crinkles and she says, “No. There’s no Sofia here.”
Disappointment stabs at me. “I must have the name wrong. I’m interested in attending one of your auctions.”
“Of course.” She slides a piece of paper in front of me and presents me with a list. “These are the upcoming auctions.”
I scan a summary list of the hot ticket items I’m hoping for, but the list is long. “I’m looking for a violin I was informed you’d be auctioning off.”
“Let me check for you.” She punches keys on her keyboard and then frowns. “I don’t see anything about a violin.” She glances over at her co-worker. “Brenda, is there a violin being auctioned off?”
“I do believe there is,” she says, “but that’s for the VIP event. It’s closed to the public, invitation only.”
Another female employee steps to Amber’s side, and glances at me. “Apologies. I’ll be just one moment.” She lowers her voice and speaks to Amber. “Where did Mr. Compton go for lunch? I have a document he told me to rush over to him and I—well, I forgot the restaurant’s name.”
“Monroe’s,” Amber replies.
The other woman thanks her, apologizes to me again, and then leaves. Amber refocuses on me. “I’m sorry. You would have to have an invitation from Mr. Compton himself.”
“How do I meet Mr. Compton?”
“You can try attending the auction Friday night. I know he’ll be there.”
It’s Tuesday. Friday night is forever away when my brother’s missing and that violin is absolutely what my brother was after. “Do you happen to have any details about the violin?”
Amber eyes Brenda. Brenda replies, “We’re not at liberty to release any information for the VIP event, and honestly, I’ve said too much as it is.”
Defeat threatens, but I reject it. “Thank you,” I say, turning away and stuffing the auction schedule into my briefcase. I’m already googling Monroe’s before I even step outside the building.
I pause just outside as I pull up an address only a few blocks away. My brother is looking for a violin. He has to believe this one is special, perhaps one of the three our father owned, one of which our mother claimed hid a secret—the “recipe,” as Sofia had said, writing in obvious code, to make the renowned Stradivarius violin worth tens of millions of dollars. But I don’t care about the recipe. I care about finding my brother.
I hurry down the street and into the crush of the New York City sidewalk, the scent of roasting nuts from a street vendor teasing my hungry belly. Eating hasn’t exactly been on the top of my priority list the past few days but there is no time to stop now. I need to catch Mark before he departs from the restaurant. The walk is short and I quickly reach my destination, but I’m forced to step sharply behind a concrete column as the woman from the gallery exits the restaurant. Once I spy her heading down the sidewalk, I close the space between me and the dining spot but pause at the door to do my best to hand brush my hair into decent form.
Giving up, I decide I just have to do this. I enter the restaurant, and since I’ve read the Riptide website in detail, I scan for Mark Compton, based on his photo.
The hostess greets me. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I do,” I say. “I’m with Mark Compton, but I’ll find him. I just need to head to the ladies’ room first.”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s to the far-right and so is his table.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Thank you.”
I inhale and force my nerves down hard and fast, pulling forward the courage my mother showed when she raised us and protected us. I can do this. I will do this. For my brother.
CHAPTER TWO
The restaurant is dimly lit, with a navy-blue theme that carries through to chairs, square lights hanging from the ceiling, and apparently, even to the glassware. I’m fairly certain based on the level of fluff, that a lunch plate would cost my weekly grocery money, but my belly doesn’t care. It rumbles loudly and the idea of my roasted nuts promises relief. For now, I weave through tables, forcing away a need for sustenance for a much more pressing matter: finding Gio.
I spy Mark, a good-looking man with classic looks, in the corner booth sitting in the center of two other men I can’t make out. I close the space between me and him, noting his refined appearance. His blond hair is trimmed neatly, his features aristocratic, square and strong. And the man’s blue suit is far more expensive than my purse. I have a last-minute fluttery moment of doubt that erupts inside my chest, but I push it down and away.
Stepping right in front of his table, I’m suddenly in the spotlight of not one, but three men, though I don’t look at anyone but Mark. He’s my path to answers. He’s who matters. “Mr. Compton?”
He arches an incredibly practiced arrogant brow. “And you would be?”
“Aria Alard, with Accent Collectibles. I’m sorry to bother you, but I recognized you from your photo and I couldn’t miss the chance to introduce myself. I have a wealthy buyer with a high seven figures to spend. I’m requesting a spot to bid in your VIP auction.”
“Well, Ms. Alard,” he says tightly, “who’s the buyer?”
“Me,” I say. “The buyer wishes to remain anonymous.”
“That’s not good enough,” he replies. “Not when I have VIPs I’m protecting.”
“In case you’re wondering,” the man to his left says, “he’s always this arrogant.”
I glance in his direction and he’s a gorgeous man with longish blond hair and a brightly inked tattoo down his arm, who doesn’t read as arrogant. Just powerful, and that power is the only reason he fits at this table with Mark. “Just push through it,” he adds. “Or go around him and talk to his wife.”
Mark’s jaw sets hard and he glances at the other man. “You don’t know your limits, Chris.”
“I know my limits,” he assures him. “You just don’t like that I know yours.”
Mark dismisses him and fixes his gray eyes on me. “What are you seeking?”
“A violin,” I say, thankful to this Chris person for the pressure that seems to have made Mark ask for more information.
“Your buyer likes music, does he?”
The words spoken by the man to Mark’s right draws my gaze and I blink into brilliant blue eyes framed by thick, longish dark hair and rugged, handsome features. I blanch with the knowledge of who this is. I’m standing across from the thirty-four-year-old rock star of violins. A man who uses his good looks, denim, leather, and his re-mixed versions of hot new pop hits to stir new interest in the violin.
“You’re,” I swallow hard and force myself not to act starstruck, which would certainly ensure I don’t make it into the VIP room. I regroup and instead of saying Kace August, I say, “accurate.”
His eyes, those famously blue eyes, narrow and his lips quirk slightly. Mark jumps in then and lifts a finger. “What song is playing right now?”
Ironically, there’s a violin playing in the restaurant right now, and the question is a test, of course. Do I know enough to be worthy of this auction? To win his respect defies my mother’s insistence that I deny my roots. This is not a work just anyone would know. But to fail could cost me the opportunity to find my brother. “The Four Seasons, Antonio Vivaldi.”
Mark glances over at Kace. “Is she right?”
“She is absolutely accurate,” he says using my own word, which I do not believe is an accident. His eyes warm on my face, ripe with surprise, but there is more. He’s pleased, I think. He likes that I know his world. I am drowning in this man’s blue eyes, and before I’m too far under to recover, I jerk my gaze to Mark. “Can I at least get a private viewing of the violin?”
“Leave your card and show up to Friday night’s event. Buy something. That’s the best way to show intent.”
Buy something, with all the money I do not have, I think, acid biting at my belly. I reach into my bag and pull out my card, setting it on the table in front of him. I can feel Kace’s eyes on my face, burning through me. That’s when he shocks me and speaks to me in Italian: “Cambiano i suonatori, ma la musica è sempre quella.”
It means, “the melody changes, but the song remains the same,” but directly translated it’s: “the players change, but the music is always the same.”
I look at him and I know I shouldn’t respond, I shouldn’t connect myself to Italy with this man, but translation services are on my card. “No,” I answer in English. “The musician, the player, makes all the difference, which is why he should have an instrument worthy of him.” It’s what my ancestor who created the Stradivarius violin believed. It’s why he made the Stradivarius.
I glance back at Mark. “I’ll be there Friday night.”
And with that, I turn and start walking toward the exit.
I spy Mark, a good-looking man with classic looks, in the corner booth sitting in the center of two other men I can’t make out. I close the space between me and him, noting his refined appearance. His blond hair is trimmed neatly, his features aristocratic, square and strong. And the man’s blue suit is far more expensive than my purse. I have a last-minute fluttery moment of doubt that erupts inside my chest, but I push it down and away.
Stepping right in front of his table, I’m suddenly in the spotlight of not one, but three men, though I don’t look at anyone but Mark. He’s my path to answers. He’s who matters. “Mr. Compton?”
He arches an incredibly practiced arrogant brow. “And you would be?”
“Aria Alard, with Accent Collectibles. I’m sorry to bother you, but I recognized you from your photo and I couldn’t miss the chance to introduce myself. I have a wealthy buyer with a high seven figures to spend. I’m requesting a spot to bid in your VIP auction.”
“Well, Ms. Alard,” he says tightly, “who’s the buyer?”
“Me,” I say. “The buyer wishes to remain anonymous.”
“That’s not good enough,” he replies. “Not when I have VIPs I’m protecting.”
“In case you’re wondering,” the man to his left says, “he’s always this arrogant.”
I glance in his direction and he’s a gorgeous man with longish blond hair and a brightly inked tattoo down his arm, who doesn’t read as arrogant. Just powerful, and that power is the only reason he fits at this table with Mark. “Just push through it,” he adds. “Or go around him and talk to his wife.”
Mark’s jaw sets hard and he glances at the other man. “You don’t know your limits, Chris.”
“I know my limits,” he assures him. “You just don’t like that I know yours.”
Mark dismisses him and fixes his gray eyes on me. “What are you seeking?”
“A violin,” I say, thankful to this Chris person for the pressure that seems to have made Mark ask for more information.
“Your buyer likes music, does he?”
The words spoken by the man to Mark’s right draws my gaze and I blink into brilliant blue eyes framed by thick, longish dark hair and rugged, handsome features. I blanch with the knowledge of who this is. I’m standing across from the thirty-four-year-old rock star of violins. A man who uses his good looks, denim, leather, and his re-mixed versions of hot new pop hits to stir new interest in the violin.
“You’re,” I swallow hard and force myself not to act starstruck, which would certainly ensure I don’t make it into the VIP room. I regroup and instead of saying Kace August, I say, “accurate.”
His eyes, those famously blue eyes, narrow and his lips quirk slightly. Mark jumps in then and lifts a finger. “What song is playing right now?”
Ironically, there’s a violin playing in the restaurant right now, and the question is a test, of course. Do I know enough to be worthy of this auction? To win his respect defies my mother’s insistence that I deny my roots. This is not a work just anyone would know. But to fail could cost me the opportunity to find my brother. “The Four Seasons, Antonio Vivaldi.”
Mark glances over at Kace. “Is she right?”
“She is absolutely accurate,” he says using my own word, which I do not believe is an accident. His eyes warm on my face, ripe with surprise, but there is more. He’s pleased, I think. He likes that I know his world. I am drowning in this man’s blue eyes, and before I’m too far under to recover, I jerk my gaze to Mark. “Can I at least get a private viewing of the violin?”
“Leave your card and show up to Friday night’s event. Buy something. That’s the best way to show intent.”
Buy something, with all the money I do not have, I think, acid biting at my belly. I reach into my bag and pull out my card, setting it on the table in front of him. I can feel Kace’s eyes on my face, burning through me. That’s when he shocks me and speaks to me in Italian: “Cambiano i suonatori, ma la musica è sempre quella.”
It means, “the melody changes, but the song remains the same,” but directly translated it’s: “the players change, but the music is always the same.”
I look at him and I know I shouldn’t respond, I shouldn’t connect myself to Italy with this man, but translation services are on my card. “No,” I answer in English. “The musician, the player, makes all the difference, which is why he should have an instrument worthy of him.” It’s what my ancestor who created the Stradivarius violin believed. It’s why he made the Stradivarius.
I glance back at Mark. “I’ll be there Friday night.”
And with that, I turn and start walking toward the exit.
CHAPTER THREE
The sun is setting when I arrive back at Accent Collectibles, which is also where Gio and I both live in separate apartments. I quickly unlock the door and flip on the light to find our mail shoved under the door. I grab it, lock up and turn on the security system and then drop the mail on the counter to the right. The building is old, rumored to be haunted, but it was a steal when we bought it five years ago with our pooled funds. Stories of ghosts normally make me laugh, and thankfully thus far have proven to be myth, but tonight a creak from the upstairs has my nerves standing on edge.
I grab our leather-bound book where we log our customers’ special requests, and hurry forward, walking past rows of books and trinkets that don’t move fast enough to pay the bills. We count on being contracted to locate high-end collectibles. My translation services have helped during a few random large projects, but that work isn’t steady.
Passing two offices, mine on the left, and Gio’s on the right, I pause at the wooden stairs that lead to two separate apartments we had built when we bought the place, and I hesitate, listening for another creak. It doesn’t come, but then suddenly I wonder if Gio is back. I rush up the stairs, drop my bag by my door, and knock on his. When he doesn’t answer, I grab my keys and open his door, pushing it open to reveal his studio. I scan the room and the oversized brown leather couch and chairs that eat up the space. He’s not immediately in view, and when my gaze lifts to the stairs leading to his bed, that space is empty.
“Gio?!” I call out and walk to the bathroom, but my hope is quickly dashed. He’s gone. He’s still gone.
Fear stabs at my heart and I exit the apartment, throwing myself into the only solution there is: finding him. I have to find him. He’d find me if I were lost. That’s what we do. We protect each other. I lock up his place and open mine. Entering the identical space, outside of furnishings, I flip my locks and then pass my light blue couch and chairs on the way up the stairs. Tossing my things on my bed, I find comfort in my view of what’s below, safe. I feel safe. Or rather I feel safer here than down there.
A few minutes later, I’m in leggings and a sweater, curled up on the bed, with an extra bag of nuts aside from the one I ate on the subway on my way home. I scan our customer book, and the list of outstanding items they hope we’ll locate for them. Next, I pull out the schedule the receptionist had given me. Apparently, the items are listed in more detail online and I quickly pull up the list. Immediately, a bottle of rare wine catches my attention. I have a client, an oilman with deep pockets, who collects fine wine. I do my research on this particular bottle, and once I’m ready to pitch to him, I dial his number.
“Ed, this is Aria.”
“Aria. Tell me something good.”
“I have a lead on a rare 1787 Château Lafite. It could run as high as three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was said to be a part of Thomas Jefferson’s collection. It’s not drinkable, though. This is for collectible purposes only.”
“I’m stunned at such a find. Yes.”
Relief washes over me for more than one reason. I need to pay our bills. This will carry me for two full months.
“Count me in,” he continues. “I’ll put money in the escrow I set-up for you. When will I know if I can have it?”
“Friday night.”
“I can’t wait. If you need more—I’ll just deposit a bit extra to be safe.”
“You do remember we charge a seven percent fee?”
“I will happily pay it if you claim this treasure for me.”
“You’ll know the minute I know.” We disconnect and hope fills me. I’m closer to answers just by gaining Ed’s approval. And this is a good deal for the business. There was a time when we thought we’d do deals like this one often. I’ve avoided the auction houses to stay out of the spotlight, but no more. We have to pay the bills. And I, oh damn, I have to buy something to wear to this event. I need to look like I belong, and unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of friends walking around I might borrow clothes from. And with good reason: the people I care about disappear.
I scan the auction list again and look for any other item that might match a client’s needs. Unfortunately, I can’t find one. But this wine is a respectable purchase, albeit not the ten million a Stradivarius violin would sell for, but it’s going to have to do for now.
I don’t know how it happens, but I lean against my headboard and google Kace August. I have no business showing interest in this man, but I tell myself it has nothing to do with those blue eyes and all that talent. It’s simply that he’s too close to my roots for comfort. He’s potentially trouble for me. I need to know who I’m dealing with. But he’s a private person off the stage. I find only the basics. He’s thirty-four. As a prodigal violinist, he studied with some of the best violinists in the world and did so as young as ten years old. He’s traveled the world to perform. He’s also been attached to a few actresses and models. Of course, he has been, and yet I replay our exchange today and the perfect roll of his tongue when he spoke Italian. I pull up one of the many YouTube videos of his performances and hit play. I sigh after the first is complete. He’s brilliant. I wanted to play and be brilliant, too. I used to play. But that wasn’t my destiny. And so, for now, I indulge myself. I get lost in listening to the beautiful way he plays.
***
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.
I grab our leather-bound book where we log our customers’ special requests, and hurry forward, walking past rows of books and trinkets that don’t move fast enough to pay the bills. We count on being contracted to locate high-end collectibles. My translation services have helped during a few random large projects, but that work isn’t steady.
Passing two offices, mine on the left, and Gio’s on the right, I pause at the wooden stairs that lead to two separate apartments we had built when we bought the place, and I hesitate, listening for another creak. It doesn’t come, but then suddenly I wonder if Gio is back. I rush up the stairs, drop my bag by my door, and knock on his. When he doesn’t answer, I grab my keys and open his door, pushing it open to reveal his studio. I scan the room and the oversized brown leather couch and chairs that eat up the space. He’s not immediately in view, and when my gaze lifts to the stairs leading to his bed, that space is empty.
“Gio?!” I call out and walk to the bathroom, but my hope is quickly dashed. He’s gone. He’s still gone.
Fear stabs at my heart and I exit the apartment, throwing myself into the only solution there is: finding him. I have to find him. He’d find me if I were lost. That’s what we do. We protect each other. I lock up his place and open mine. Entering the identical space, outside of furnishings, I flip my locks and then pass my light blue couch and chairs on the way up the stairs. Tossing my things on my bed, I find comfort in my view of what’s below, safe. I feel safe. Or rather I feel safer here than down there.
A few minutes later, I’m in leggings and a sweater, curled up on the bed, with an extra bag of nuts aside from the one I ate on the subway on my way home. I scan our customer book, and the list of outstanding items they hope we’ll locate for them. Next, I pull out the schedule the receptionist had given me. Apparently, the items are listed in more detail online and I quickly pull up the list. Immediately, a bottle of rare wine catches my attention. I have a client, an oilman with deep pockets, who collects fine wine. I do my research on this particular bottle, and once I’m ready to pitch to him, I dial his number.
“Ed, this is Aria.”
“Aria. Tell me something good.”
“I have a lead on a rare 1787 Château Lafite. It could run as high as three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was said to be a part of Thomas Jefferson’s collection. It’s not drinkable, though. This is for collectible purposes only.”
“I’m stunned at such a find. Yes.”
Relief washes over me for more than one reason. I need to pay our bills. This will carry me for two full months.
“Count me in,” he continues. “I’ll put money in the escrow I set-up for you. When will I know if I can have it?”
“Friday night.”
“I can’t wait. If you need more—I’ll just deposit a bit extra to be safe.”
“You do remember we charge a seven percent fee?”
“I will happily pay it if you claim this treasure for me.”
“You’ll know the minute I know.” We disconnect and hope fills me. I’m closer to answers just by gaining Ed’s approval. And this is a good deal for the business. There was a time when we thought we’d do deals like this one often. I’ve avoided the auction houses to stay out of the spotlight, but no more. We have to pay the bills. And I, oh damn, I have to buy something to wear to this event. I need to look like I belong, and unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of friends walking around I might borrow clothes from. And with good reason: the people I care about disappear.
I scan the auction list again and look for any other item that might match a client’s needs. Unfortunately, I can’t find one. But this wine is a respectable purchase, albeit not the ten million a Stradivarius violin would sell for, but it’s going to have to do for now.
I don’t know how it happens, but I lean against my headboard and google Kace August. I have no business showing interest in this man, but I tell myself it has nothing to do with those blue eyes and all that talent. It’s simply that he’s too close to my roots for comfort. He’s potentially trouble for me. I need to know who I’m dealing with. But he’s a private person off the stage. I find only the basics. He’s thirty-four. As a prodigal violinist, he studied with some of the best violinists in the world and did so as young as ten years old. He’s traveled the world to perform. He’s also been attached to a few actresses and models. Of course, he has been, and yet I replay our exchange today and the perfect roll of his tongue when he spoke Italian. I pull up one of the many YouTube videos of his performances and hit play. I sigh after the first is complete. He’s brilliant. I wanted to play and be brilliant, too. I used to play. But that wasn’t my destiny. And so, for now, I indulge myself. I get lost in listening to the beautiful way he plays.
***
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?”
“I’m not a very good drinker and I have to bid tonight with someone else’s money.”
“Right. The Mark Challenge. He loves to play little power games with people. Sometimes not giving Mark Compton what he wants creates more interest, not less.” He sets a glass in front of me. “And Chris was right. Mark’s wife will cut right through that bullshit.” He laughs without humor and sips his champagne. “None of us believed that man would ever get married.”
“How do you know Mark?”
“We’ve run in the same circles for a good decade.”
“I’d have thought musicians were more your type.”
He arches a brow. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re—” I stop. I’ve just told him that I know who he is.
He leans in closer, the small table shrinking smaller. “Because you know who I am.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Yes. I know who you are.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“You were at lunch and I intruded. I wasn’t going to be rude, but I love the way you play.”
“You do know it’s okay to be one of my many haters. Of my music.” He winks. “Just not me.”
“I love how you play. I’m a fan.”
His eyes warm and he lifts his glass. “I do believe I am as well.”
“You are?”
His brilliant blue eyes warm and spike with a hint of mischief. “Yes,” he says, and suddenly I realize he’s not talking about the violin. He’s talking about me. “I absolutely am.”
“Ms. Alard.”
At Mark Compton’s voice, I straighten. “Mr. Compton.”
“I see your intent on making a showing tonight. What are you bidding on?”
“I have a client that very much wants the bottle of 1787 Château Lafite straight from Thomas Jefferson’s collection.”
“That’s going to go for around three hundred and fifty thousand. Are you really ready for that?”
Kace laughs. “You’re such a dick, Mark. Of course, she’s ready.”
Mark flicks him a look. “A word, Kace.” It’s an order I can’t imagine a man like Kace taking.
And I’m right. He doesn’t. “I’m better with a note,” he replies, and I don’t miss the musical reference others might. “I think I’ll stay right here with Aria.”
“It’s important or I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Kace’s lips press together and he downs his champagne. “Excuse me, Aria.” He pushes off the table and turns to Mark. “I’m here.” They walk away and I’m a nervous wreck.
I grab the champagne and then set it down. No. I really do not drink well. “That’s not the way to empty your glass.”
The pretty blonde who’s joined me smiles. “We have plenty.”
Her dress is red with etched flowers on the sheer sleeves. Her eyes friendly. Her skin perfect.
“We?” I ask. “You work here?”
“I’m Crystal, Mark’s wife, but I worked here for my mother-in-law before she retired and he took over. You’re new to the auctions.”
I’m stunned at how nice she is. “You’re Mark’s wife?”
She laughs. “You sound baffled. Yes. And I get that reaction often.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just he’s so hard and you’re so—”
“Not hard? Yes, I know. He’s got a hard shell, but he’s a softy inside, though you might not want to tell him I said that.”
I laugh. “Ah no. I will not be telling your husband that you said he was a softy. I’m Aria Alard from Accent Collectibles, by the way. I’m interested in coming to the VIP event.”
“Did you talk to Mark about it?”
My hope that she can help fades. “Yes. Mark told me to come prove myself tonight and bid.”
“Oh my God. That man. What are you interested in bidding on?”
“The violin.”
“Of course. A phenomenal prize. Well, we do have a strict policy about the VIP events. We have celebrities among the crowd, but you aren’t required to buy anything to prove yourself. You just need to fill out an application. Once you’re approved, you’re cleared to attend all future VIP events. Call me here tomorrow and I can help you.”
Hope returns, a bright and shiny star in my otherwise dark sky right now. “Thank you.”
“Of course. We’re glad to have you and please do not feel it’s necessary to buy anything.”
“I really actually want one of the auction items. My client desperately wants the wine from the Thomas Jefferson collection. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of watching the auctions in the past.”
“I see we have a newbie tonight.”
The comment comes from a tall, good looking man in an expensive suit, his blond hair neatly styled. “We have a lot of new guests tonight,” Crystal replies, and a woman nudges her arm and whispers to her before she glances at me. “I need to attend to the auction, but good luck with your prize tonight. And call me tomorrow.”
“Thanks again, Crystal.”
“I’m Alexander Voss,” the man says. “And you are?”
“Aria,” I say, offering nothing more. I’ve said too much to too many people and so I do what I do often: I turn the conversation. “You’re a regular here?”
“Occasionally there’s an item that catches my attention. What are you after tonight?”
“Wine. What about you?”
“Wine.”
“Oh well. Isn’t this awkward? How vicious is our battle going to get?”
His eyes twinkle. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“How much are you going to make me pay?”
At that moment, the crowd parts and my gaze locks with Kace’s where he stands talking to Mark. He’s staring at me, his expression unreadable, but intense. I want to know why. I want to know, too badly for my own good. I can’t seem to breathe with the heat rushing over my skin. I suck in a breath and I swear his gaze lowers to my mouth. God, what is happening?
“How much?” Alexander presses.
I jerk my gaze back to his. “I guess we’ll see. Excuse me.” I fade into the crowd, desperate to reach out to my client and press his limits. And the truth is, I need out of the scorching stare of Kace August.
“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?”
“I’m not a very good drinker and I have to bid tonight with someone else’s money.”
“Right. The Mark Challenge. He loves to play little power games with people. Sometimes not giving Mark Compton what he wants creates more interest, not less.” He sets a glass in front of me. “And Chris was right. Mark’s wife will cut right through that bullshit.” He laughs without humor and sips his champagne. “None of us believed that man would ever get married.”
“How do you know Mark?”
“We’ve run in the same circles for a good decade.”
“I’d have thought musicians were more your type.”
He arches a brow. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re—” I stop. I’ve just told him that I know who he is.
He leans in closer, the small table shrinking smaller. “Because you know who I am.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Yes. I know who you are.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“You were at lunch and I intruded. I wasn’t going to be rude, but I love the way you play.”
“You do know it’s okay to be one of my many haters. Of my music.” He winks. “Just not me.”
“I love how you play. I’m a fan.”
His eyes warm and he lifts his glass. “I do believe I am as well.”
“You are?”
His brilliant blue eyes warm and spike with a hint of mischief. “Yes,” he says, and suddenly I realize he’s not talking about the violin. He’s talking about me. “I absolutely am.”
“Ms. Alard.”
At Mark Compton’s voice, I straighten. “Mr. Compton.”
“I see your intent on making a showing tonight. What are you bidding on?”
“I have a client that very much wants the bottle of 1787 Château Lafite straight from Thomas Jefferson’s collection.”
“That’s going to go for around three hundred and fifty thousand. Are you really ready for that?”
Kace laughs. “You’re such a dick, Mark. Of course, she’s ready.”
Mark flicks him a look. “A word, Kace.” It’s an order I can’t imagine a man like Kace taking.
And I’m right. He doesn’t. “I’m better with a note,” he replies, and I don’t miss the musical reference others might. “I think I’ll stay right here with Aria.”
“It’s important or I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Kace’s lips press together and he downs his champagne. “Excuse me, Aria.” He pushes off the table and turns to Mark. “I’m here.” They walk away and I’m a nervous wreck.
I grab the champagne and then set it down. No. I really do not drink well. “That’s not the way to empty your glass.”
The pretty blonde who’s joined me smiles. “We have plenty.”
Her dress is red with etched flowers on the sheer sleeves. Her eyes friendly. Her skin perfect.
“We?” I ask. “You work here?”
“I’m Crystal, Mark’s wife, but I worked here for my mother-in-law before she retired and he took over. You’re new to the auctions.”
I’m stunned at how nice she is. “You’re Mark’s wife?”
She laughs. “You sound baffled. Yes. And I get that reaction often.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just he’s so hard and you’re so—”
“Not hard? Yes, I know. He’s got a hard shell, but he’s a softy inside, though you might not want to tell him I said that.”
I laugh. “Ah no. I will not be telling your husband that you said he was a softy. I’m Aria Alard from Accent Collectibles, by the way. I’m interested in coming to the VIP event.”
“Did you talk to Mark about it?”
My hope that she can help fades. “Yes. Mark told me to come prove myself tonight and bid.”
“Oh my God. That man. What are you interested in bidding on?”
“The violin.”
“Of course. A phenomenal prize. Well, we do have a strict policy about the VIP events. We have celebrities among the crowd, but you aren’t required to buy anything to prove yourself. You just need to fill out an application. Once you’re approved, you’re cleared to attend all future VIP events. Call me here tomorrow and I can help you.”
Hope returns, a bright and shiny star in my otherwise dark sky right now. “Thank you.”
“Of course. We’re glad to have you and please do not feel it’s necessary to buy anything.”
“I really actually want one of the auction items. My client desperately wants the wine from the Thomas Jefferson collection. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of watching the auctions in the past.”
“I see we have a newbie tonight.”
The comment comes from a tall, good looking man in an expensive suit, his blond hair neatly styled. “We have a lot of new guests tonight,” Crystal replies, and a woman nudges her arm and whispers to her before she glances at me. “I need to attend to the auction, but good luck with your prize tonight. And call me tomorrow.”
“Thanks again, Crystal.”
“I’m Alexander Voss,” the man says. “And you are?”
“Aria,” I say, offering nothing more. I’ve said too much to too many people and so I do what I do often: I turn the conversation. “You’re a regular here?”
“Occasionally there’s an item that catches my attention. What are you after tonight?”
“Wine. What about you?”
“Wine.”
“Oh well. Isn’t this awkward? How vicious is our battle going to get?”
His eyes twinkle. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“How much are you going to make me pay?”
At that moment, the crowd parts and my gaze locks with Kace’s where he stands talking to Mark. He’s staring at me, his expression unreadable, but intense. I want to know why. I want to know, too badly for my own good. I can’t seem to breathe with the heat rushing over my skin. I suck in a breath and I swear his gaze lowers to my mouth. God, what is happening?
“How much?” Alexander presses.
I jerk my gaze back to his. “I guess we’ll see. Excuse me.” I fade into the crowd, desperate to reach out to my client and press his limits. And the truth is, I need out of the scorching stare of Kace August.
buy A Reckless Note
Book one in the Brilliance Trilogy...
It all started with a note, just a simple note hand written by a woman I didn't know, never even met. But in that note is perhaps every answer to every question I've ever had in my life. And because of that note, I look for her, but find him. I'm drawn to his passion, his talent, a darkness in him that somehow becomes my light, my life. Kace August is rich, powerful, a rockstar of violins, a man who is all tattoos, leather, good looks and talent. He has a wickedly sweet ability to play the violin, seducing audiences worldwide. Now, he’s seducing me. I know he has secrets. I don't care. Because you see, I have secrets, too. I’m not Aria Alard, as he believes. I’m Aria Stradivari, daughter to Alessandro Stradivari, a musician born from the same blood as the man who created the famous Stradivarius violin. I am as rare as the mere 650 instruments my ancestors created. Instruments worth millions. 650 masterpieces, the brilliance unmatched. 650 reasons to kill. 650 reasons to hide. One reason not to: him. BUY THE BOOK |