A Reckless Note

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  I study him, searching for answers in his face. He’s given me a gift, because, no, I don’t’ have a real buyer, and guilt stabs at me over that lie between us, but yes, I can find a buyer. It’s dangerous for me to connect myself to a Stradivarius, but it would allow me to fund a real search for Gio. His offer is incredibly generous. “Why would you do this, Kace?”

  He folds me close and lowers his voice for my ears only. “My money isn’t going away, baby. If you have your own, you won’t feel as uncomfortable with mine. It’s the freedom to do anything you want to do. Anything we want to do.”

  I’m stunned by his generosity. “You are like no other man I’ve ever known.”

  He cups my face. “And you, Aria, are like no other woman I’ve ever known.”

  I don’t know what is happening between me and this man, but I know I can’t walk away. And I know I can’t go much longer without telling him who I am. Who I really am.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The plane is luxurious with tables, couches, and leather recliners. As the only guests on board, Kace and I are free to choose our seats and we settle into a couple of the recliners near the rear of the plane.

  “It’s later than I’d hoped,” he says, eyeing the silver-rimmed face of his watch, the thick leather band so very rock star-ish, but then, everything about this man has become a rock star to me. “We’re going to be lucky if we get to the hotel by eleven,” he adds, “but we have sandwiches in the fridge, chocolate, and,” he twists open a mini bottle of Bailey’s and pours it over ice for me, “something to calm your nerves.”

  “I darn sure won’t turn it down, either,” I say. “Did flying ever bother you?”

  “I was all over the place so young it was like riding in a car, but here’s how I know you can beat this.”

  “I’m glad one of us knows. I’m listening eagerly.”

  “Control freaks fear what they can’t control, but they also insist on finding a way to control what feels uncontrollable.”

  I snort. “I’d have to become the pilot to make that happen and then I’d worry about the engine.”

  “You have to find a way to conquer your own mind, not the plane.”

  The engine roars to life and I down the drink. “More, please.”

  He laughs, and God, the man has such a deep, sexy, masculine laugh. And nice lips. I really like his lips. He unscrews another mini bottle and empties it into my glass. “Talk to me and keep your mind off of the takeoff.”

  “Okay,” I say. “We’ll give this a try. When is the show?”

  “Seven tomorrow night. And unless you’re in a rush to get home, we can spend some time in Austin on Sunday and fly back late.”

  “I’ve never been to Texas. I’d like that.”

  His lips curve, his eyes warm. “Then it’s a plan. You and me and Austin.”

  “Yes,” I say. “You and me and Austin.”

  And oh so easily, Kace August has become exactly that: my plan. But my plan for what? Too much, too soon, I think. Not enough, I amend. I don’t think I can get enough of this man. The plane begins to burn a path down the runway and I set my glass in a cup holder. Kace reaches over and settles his hand on my belly. “Easy, baby. We’ll be up and steady in no time.”

  I grab his arm and squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth. We lift off and my gaze lands on his arm and all the colorful red, blue, and green of the musical notes there. My eyes meet Kace’s. “When did you get them?”

  “The minute I turned eighteen.”

  “The minute no one could stop you.”

  “Exactly,” he confirms.

  The plane sways left and right. “I could assume they mean your music is a part of you, and you it, but you don’t seem that simple of a man.”

  He arches a brow. “Is that right?”

  “It is. So, what do they really mean to you?”

  “My father was a real estate investor who owned part of an NBA team. He didn’t want his son playing a piece of shit violin when he could be playing sports.”

  I twist around to face him, the flight forgotten. “An actual NBA team?”

  “Yes. An actual NBA team.”

  “My God. How much money do you have, Kace?”

  “More than any one man should have, and that’s just how my father liked it. To him, money was power. And he wasn’t wrong. It is. But it’s power that should be wielded with a thoughtful hand, not a whip. He liked the whip. I prefer the thoughtful hand.” His lips thin and he moves on. “As for the tattoos, if I wasn’t going to play sports, he wanted me in a suit in the boardroom. He hated my music and he hated tattoos. The tattoos were a fuck you to him that I ended up liking.”

  There is a lot of baggage in everything he just told me, the kind I’m certain this man doesn’t share, but he told me. He told me and I sense he doesn’t want to go deeper. No one understands the point of “enough for now” than me, so I focus on the lighter side of things. I dare to flirt, and I’m not someone who exactly masters that skill, but this is Kace. I’m different with Kace. “I like them, too. They’re sexy like you are when playing your violin.”

  His hand covers mine, his eyes warm again, attentive. “I’m glad you think so.” And then he surprises me by giving me more, perhaps because I didn’t try to take it. “My father didn’t agree.”

  “Well, if he thought you were sexy, that would be creepy.”

  He laughs. “Yes. I suppose that is exactly right.”

  “How did your father react?”

  “He threatened to disinherit me, but I was his only heir. That wasn’t going to happen.”

  “Even after you became such a powerhouse all on your own? Surely he came around.”

  “Never.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She supported me, but I believe she was afraid my father would leave her if she traveled with me. She let me know how proud she was when she could. I didn’t like how she handled things, but in truth, she’s the reason I played at all. She put a violin in my hand and then convinced my father it would create discipline I’d use in business.”

  “You said your father saw money as power. Did the money finally win him over?”

  “Yeah. When he tried to pull me from tour and I threatened to use that money to petition for emancipation.”

  “Oh my God. What did he do?”

  “He backed off. Better a rock star son with money than a rock star son who disowns you. It would have embarrassed him far more than my violin and I knew that because my mother told me it would. I was the misfit who inherited his empire. I’m sure that bothers him even from the grave.”

  “Do you now own part of an NBA team?”

  “I kept it for a while, just to prove to my father that I, a man with a violin, was just as capable as him. Which was silly. He’s dead. I’m a football and violin guy. A year in, I sold it and pocketed the money.”

  “And the rest of his business?”

  “Real estate is a good investment. I still own that part of his business. I have a CEO who runs the show with my input.”

  “I just—you’ve written lots of hit songs. And I know that because Sara told me and I gathered as much from Nix, too. Surely your father saw that.”

  “I never told him. He never asked. He had no idea. He didn’t know when I won a Grammy. He didn’t know when my first song hit number one. All he saw was the violin. Which reminds me. Speaking of my violin.” He unbuckles himself and stands, reaching to an overhead bin and removing his violin case before motioning me to the couch and table across from us. “You’re supposed to tell me if this is real.”

  The ride is calm, no bump in sight, and I find I’ve forgotten the flight completely. There is just this man and that violin, a piece of my history that was both beautiful and destructive. With my heart racing, I unbuckle and move across the aisle. I sit down next to Kace and watch as he opens the case, displaying the shiny wood of a stunning instrument. My mind
flashes back to the three Stradivarius violins my father owned and kept sealed in a vaulted room underground. I’ve often wondered if they could still be there. I wonder now if my brother went after them.

  I studied those instruments in detail with my father and brother. I was young, but I listened to every word our father said about their history, their creation, even before his death when I studied his writings quite obsessively.

  “This,” Kace says, motioning to the violin, “is my favorite instrument I’ve ever played by far, and I’ve played hundreds of violins.” He glances over at me. “You want to hold it?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I do not want to risk hurting it.”

  “You aren’t going to hurt it.”

  “I just want to look,” I say. “Can I see the flashlight on your phone? Mine is in my purse.”

  He pulls it from his pocket, turns on the light, and hands it to me. I lean in and start scanning the instrument inside and out, the best I can in the case. When I exhaust that view, I eye Kace. “Can you pick it up?”

  He grabs a towel and lifts it, settling it on his knee. I go down on my knees in front of him. My hand goes to his leg without hesitation, our eyes colliding momentarily, our growing comfort and intimacy between us. I lean in, scanning the parts of the violin I couldn’t see before, from every possible angle. I find all the proper markings, but so far there is no visible watermark, but it’s hard to get to certain parts of the instrument.

  “Move it a little this way,” I say, motioning to the right before leaning in and shining the light once more. And there it is. The watermark.

  “It’s real,” I say, leaning back on my haunches. “It’s real.” I stand up and then sit next to him, stunned, truly stunned. “I haven’t seen a real Stradivarius since—” I stop myself just in time, so close to saying too much.

  Kace tilts his head and studies me. “Since when?”

  “A very long time,” I say quickly. “It’s a majestic instrument.”

  He’s still watching me with such intent I swear it feels like he’s going to crawl under my skin and sink straight into my soul. I’m panicking, not sure what I will say if he pushes me for more, so I just give him more on my terms. “Antonio Stradivari placed a unique watermark in each instrument, his signature. No mark is in the same place. All are quite hard to find. The instrument up for auction at Riptide didn’t have it. This one does.”

  “How do you know about the watermark when clearly many experts don’t?”

  “My client, the person who taught me what to look for, was intimate with the family before they disappeared.” And then because I’m walking a line between truth and lies, I quickly add, “I can’t believe I’m looking at the real deal.”

  He watches me for a moment, weighing something in my words, his expression unreadable, but he doesn’t push. He grabs his bow and scoots back a bit to give himself space. “I believe I can tell a real Stradivarius by the sound.” He plays a few notes, beautiful notes, soft and then rugged. “The richness it delivers is like that of no other instrument.”

  “And now I am one of the few people who have heard a Stradivarius played this close and thirty-thousand feet up in the air. How do you feel about the other two you have at home? Are they real? Do they sound the same?”

  “No two Stradivarius violins sound exactly the same, but I’m not a fan of one of the two which now has me curious about your future assessment. In fact, I never use it but then, I’m partial. This one,” he says, running a hand over the wood of his instrument, “the tone is magnificent, and that’s why I stick with it.”

  “Do you use a practice instrument to limit risk of damage to the Stradivarius?”

  “Only when I was on tour and forced to practice on a plane, which meant I could be jolted about and damage the violin. I adjust how I play based on what the instrument delivers and my primary instrument delivers at a high level. I deliver at a higher level when I’m playing it. I want to practice at the same level I perform.” He returns the violin to the case and seals it inside.

  “How many hours a week do you practice?” I ask.

  He leans his shoulder on the seat, facing me, and me him. “Most people think I no longer need to practice that often.”

  “Because you’re Kace August the Great? No longer human? No one stays the best, and you are the best, if they don’t improve their craft.”

  “Very few people understand that or the pressure that puts on me.”

  On some level I know he knows I am not what I seem. I know he knows I come from his world. And I know he wants answers, ones he hopes I’ll offer. I don’t offer any. Not now. “How many hours do you practice a week?” I ask again.

  “Every day, even when I travel.”

  “Being on the road really does sound challenging,” I say, and before I can stop myself I add, “Unsettling, though I bet exciting. Adventurous. Lonely.”

  “It is all of those things and more. Sometimes all at once. Sometimes not. But it served a purpose.”

  It’s an answer I would give, one that says much and nothing at all. One that reaffirms my belief that he is a man of mystique, who appears to share himself with the world and somehow share very little at all. It’s a gift that also requires practice and motivation. It’s a talent of necessity. Still, it’s clear he’s slowly opening up to me. I haven’t opened to him. Not much.

  For that reason, I don’t press him to go deeper, to explain that purpose. I don’t ask him because I now know that I understand him beyond the content of words. Instead, my hand dares to go to his forearm, my finger tracing one of the musical note tattoos on his arm. It’s my silent way of telling him that I know he was running from the family and the pain represented.

  He covers my hand with his and our eyes connect, the lighthearted mood shifting, the air thickening with our shared attraction. “What did the song I was playing at the gallery mean to you?”

  My lashes lower, his music and that song playing in my mind. Kace cups my face, drawing my gaze to his. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “It reminded me of a romantic moment between my father and mother. A good memory but still painful. I miss them often.” I dare to run my fingers over his jaw. “I really loved getting ready this morning to the sound of you playing. Really loved it.”

  “Maybe one day you’ll trust me enough to tell me why you love the violin so much and how you really know what you know about the Stradivarius.” He kisses my fingers. “Not today, I know, but one day. We need to try to rest a bit.” He stands, taking the case with him and placing it back in the overhead bin. He offers me his hand and the moment my palm is in his palm and I’m standing, the plane begins to jump and jolt. Kace grabs the ceiling and wraps his free arm around me, his eyes meeting mine as he says, “Hold on, baby, and I will, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Kace and I lay with our seats back, facing each other, no arm between us, our legs entangled—talking. We just talk. At my prodding, he tells me stories about the different countries he’s visited—about the food, the people, his shows. We talk for what feels like hours, until my eyes grow heavy and he pulls me under his arm, onto his chest. I fall asleep just like that, in his arms, with his heart thundering under my ear. I wake to him stroking my hair, murmuring in my ear, just before the wheels hit the ground.

  Once we’re off the plane and inside the private airport, we head toward the front door, me rolling one bag and Kace handling the rest. “We have to find a drive-thru that’s open,” he says. “I need food. Now.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “It’s late, though. Do we have a car service waiting or how does this work?”

  “I rented a car,” he says, “that should be here waiting on us outside.” We exit the building into the parking lot and thank God Kace suggested we stick our coats in the bags because it’s warm, like sixties, versus the thirties back home.

  “Here we are,” Kace says, motioning to the fancy black sports car s
itting near the door. “That will be us. The keys are under the seat.”

  I blink. “Is that a Porsche? Can you even rent a Porsche?”

  “Money buys just about anything, baby. And as for the Porsche, it’s the best they had on short notice.” He opens the door, grabs the keys, and pops the trunk. “I’m not a Porsche guy. Chris is. The man loves these damn cars.”

  We load up the trunk and then us inside the car. He revs the engine. “It’s a beast, that’s for sure.”

  “Why don’t you like it?” I ask, running my hand over the leather. “It’s a beautiful car.”

  “It’s all muscle. I guess it’s that damn Stradivarius spoiling me, but I like a little more finesse.” He shifts into reverse and it’s not long before we’re on the highway and driving with confidence.

  “You know where you’re going?” I ask.

  “I’ve been here a few times. We’re headed downtown. The event is actually inside the Driskell hotel, which is why we’re staying at the Fairmont hotel for privacy reasons.” He motions to a road sign that lists restaurants coming up. “We have McDonald's, Taco Bell, and Whataburger. Whataburger is big here in Texas. The locals love it.”

  “Whataburger it is, then,” I say, and it’s not long before we’re sitting in a parking lot, eating burgers and fries.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “It’s good,” I say.

  He arches a brow. “Not great?”

  “It’s good,” I repeat.

  “You Whataburger traitor, you,” he teases. “At least I’m not alone. I feel the same.”

  “If you don’t love it, why’d we eat here?”

  “Because you can’t get it anywhere but here. Everyone will ask you if you tried it. I wanted you to able to say yes.” He tosses his wrapper into the bag. “I’m ready for the room.” He shifts us into drive and I’m left feeling the impact of what might have been a simple act, but it’s a show of his character. He can have anything he wants in the world, but he was worried about my experience, not his own.