A Reckless Note

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."