“And that’s bad?”
Did he know me at all? “It’s only a matter of time before I spill something on it.”
He laughed while pulling on his own coat and fastening the buttons. “That’s what dry cleaners are for.” He held out a hand. “Come on.”
I stood where I was. “Slash, why are you buying me all these things?”
He paused, his gaze steady on mine. “What else would I spend my money on?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Computer equipment, travel, important technical and cyber research, more concert tickets.” Well, that’s what I’d spend mine on, minus the concert tickets, but adding in a boatload of chocolate éclairs.
He closed the gap between us, brushing his fingers across my cheek. “None of those things are worth anything if I’m alone, okay?”
It didn’t escape my notice that Slash knew me far better than I knew him. Or if I were being technically correct, Slash knew me far better than he allowed me to know him. There was a significant difference and I wasn’t sure if there was anything I could do about it if he refused to open up to me.
We just stared at each other until I nodded. He took my hand and we headed out. The spring night was cool, but I felt warm and safe in the big city, holding hands with my mysterious boyfriend.
The FBI sedan was waiting for us in front of the hotel. The two guys waved as we approached. Slash opened the door for me, so I climbed in. It smelled like pizza.
I fastened my seat belt, leaning forward. A pizza box sat on the center console. “Hey, you guys took my advice.”
“Guilty as charged. We made a small detour for dinner. You planted the seed.” He licked his lips. “And you were right. Best damn pizza ever.”
Slash smiled as he came around the other side and got in.
“So,” the driver asked him. “Where to?”
“Carnegie Hall.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “The Carnegie Hall?”
Slash leaned back against the seat and took my hand. It was almost as if he couldn’t bear for us not to be touching. I suspected our earlier conversation about his apartments had made him uncharacteristically concerned. That hadn’t been my intention, but I had no idea how to fix things on that front. Especially since I wasn’t sure it was something I could fix anyway. “Si. Have you ever been?”
“No.” I shook my head. “But I’ve read about it in books.”
“You’ll like it. Trust me.”
“I do or I wouldn’t be here.”
We pulled up to the front of the building and Slash and I exited the car. The agent in the passenger seat got out as well. He stretched and I saw his shoulder holster under his jacket.
“So, what time is the concert finished?” he asked Slash.
“Eleven.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
The sedan drove away, leaving the other agent at the curb.
I stared at him. “What are you going to do?”
The agent grinned. “Be invisible.” He walked into the building.
I pushed away all thoughts of FBI surveillance and marveled at the sight of Carnegie Hall. It was lit up like a jewel against the night sky. Slash held my hand as we walked into the building. We left our coats at the coat check and wandered into a dazzling hall where dozens of impeccably dressed people milled about chatting.
I stared in amazement at the glittering lights. “It’s magnificent, Slash.”
“We’re in the Isaac Stern Auditorium. There are five levels of seating.” He pointed to the left side of the stage. “We’re on the next level up—the balcony seats near the stage.”
“Looks like we’ll have a great view.”
When we got to our seats, he sat next to me, resting his arm on the seat behind me. “Here.” He handed me the program for the performance.
I opened it and read about Hai Tsang and his upbringing in China. Apparently he’d been abandoned at birth because of a cleft foot, which was considered a sign of evil in the small village where he’d been born. Hai had been taken to an orphanage in Beijing, where he’d taken to playing on the piano in the children’s recreation room. He had an extraordinary natural talent and had caught the ear of famous Chinese pianist Wen Leung, who took the boy under his wing and began to train him. By six years of age, Hai had performed his first formal recital at the Beijing Concert Hall.
The lights dimmed and Hai Tsang entered the stage. I estimated him to be maybe sixty years old, quite handsome and distinguished. He pushed back his tuxedo tail with a flourish and sat at the piano. He started playing and music filled the hall. After a few minutes I looked at Slash. He had closed his eyes as if to better concentrate on every note.
I’d never seen Slash look like this before—open, blissful and genuinely peaceful. Something in Tsang’s music had transformed him. I’d caught him, my mysterious man, in a truly unguarded moment. This was the part of him I wanted to know, the part he seemed intent on keeping from me.
I returned my attention to Tsang. He played softly at first, before rising to powerful passion that nearly took my breath away. He’d made me a fan by the end of the first arrangement. Rhythm was something I lacked in spades, so I appreciated his subtle flow. This time when I looked at Slash, his eyes were open and his concentration was on the man behind the piano.
The first half of the recital seemed to pass quickly. During intermission, Slash brought me champagne and we sipped it while watching patrons wander about the hall.
Once Tsang resumed playing, I lost track of time. The music seemed to merge into one masterful performance conducted with fluid transition and breathtaking finesse. As the last note faded through the hall, I was the first to leap to my feet clapping.
Tsang glanced up to the balcony and seemed to smile right at me before leaving the piano to bow before the audience. The crowd, myself included, cheered wildly. Someone threw a couple of bouquets of flowers onto the stage, which Tsang picked up with another appreciative bow.
Slash stood to leave. This time I slipped my hand into his as we filed out.
“So, your evaluation of the entire performance, cara?” He put an arm around my shoulders.
“Well, I think it was clear that I loved it.” I took a minute to collect my thoughts. “It surprised me because I didn’t expect to connect so completely with piano music, but I did. It’s hard for me to say how good Tsang is in comparison to other pianists, because this is the first formal piano concert I’ve ever attended. However, given that caveat, my opinion is that his technique seemed flawless and the patterns within the music flowed effortlessly. But...”
I paused and Slash leaned forward. “But what?”
“Even though I have an untrained ear, it seems to me that the mathematical cadence and rhythm of his music seemed to transcend the ordinary.”
“How?”
I sensed that my answer was important to Slash, but I couldn’t figure out why. I fiddled with a button on my new coat. “Well, I’m not certain. I once read that scientists believe there is an actual physiological relationship between the brain and music. Some experts believe that children who are exposed to music at a very early age can actually forge an emotional, biological and physiological connection to music. The notes, cadence and patterns become imprinted on the brain. The findings don’t mean that every child exposed to music at an early age will become a virtuoso, but it does seem to suggest that many of these children are able to go on to not only produce extraordinary music, but understand it. I think Tsang may have been one of those children. He has somehow transcended the understanding of the notes and melody to make an emotional connection to music, perhaps as a result of the trauma and abandonment he suffered at an early age. Even more important, he can translate and share that experience with the average person who may not have that kind of access or understanding of the music. Someone
like me.”
I paused, expecting Slash to respond, but he didn’t. Instead a thoughtful expression crossed his face. I had no idea if I’d said something that made sense or if he thought I was a babbling idiot.
We stepped outside and I spotted the FBI sedan. We walked to the car and Slash opened the back door for me. I climbed in and Slash shut the door before going around the back to get in.
I noticed there was only the driver, so I leaned forward. “Hey, is your partner still inside?”
“He’s off duty.”
“Off duty? But I thought—”
I stopped. It was a different voice. A different guy. And the car didn’t smell like pizza.
Before I could say anything else Slash yanked opened the door, leaned inside and grabbed a fistful of my coat.
“Get out,” he shouted, yanking me hard.
Chapter Four
The driver gunned the engine. Slash fell backward out of the car and my coat ripped with a sickening sound.
“Slash!” I yelled as the sedan shot forward and screeched around a corner. The door swung shut. A glass divider automatically rose between the front and the backseat. I pounded on it and tugged on the door handle, but to no avail. I was locked inside.
“Stop,” I shouted at the driver as if he would magically listen to me. “Stop the car right now.”
“You’d better buckle in,” the driver advised.
I leaned forward, staring at his face in the rearview mirror. I’d never seen him before. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, dark hair, Asian. The driver swerved around a corner and my face slammed against the window, nearly breaking my nose. I fumbled for the seat belt, glancing behind us. To my astonishment, Slash was right behind us on a motorcycle.
The driver saw him, too, because he floored it, the engine whining with the sudden speed. It was late, but this was the city that never sleeps, so there were plenty of people and cars. We swerved across lanes, cutting off drivers and flying over sidewalks. I was barely able to fasten my seat belt while I was sliding and bumping all over the backseat.
I heard the wail of a police car and moments later Slash flanked us on the left. The driver rolled down his window and a gun emerged.
“Slash!” I screamed, pounding the window with my fists. “Gun!”
I had no idea if he could hear me. All his focus was on the road and the driver.
The driver fired just as Slash swerved. The first bullet ricocheted off the aluminum rim of the front tire. Another shot hit the composite frame.
The gunfire didn’t deter Slash. He continued to flank us and didn’t draw his own weapon, even though I knew he had one. Was it because he had to keep all his focus on handling the motorcycle, or because he was worried about hitting the driver and crashing the car? Either way, I hoped he had a plan in mind, because right now I was coming up blank.
The driver yanked the wheel hard to the left, trying to use the car as a weapon and sideswipe Slash. Slash anticipated it and maneuvered away just in time to avoid the front bumper.
My driver stopped shooting. Apparently he needed both hands on the wheel. He pulled hard to the right and the car rocketed down an alley, almost losing Slash. Slash accelerated as he leaned into the turn, nearly scraping his knee on the asphalt, and followed us in.
The alley narrowed until the side doors screeched as they grated against the brick, sending sparks flying. We left the narrow alley and shot out into a parking lot. The driver suddenly slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed and the smell of burning rubber flooded the car.
Dead end.
The car skidded sideways until it hit a brick wall. The right rear passenger side took the force of the hit. Metal crunched as we came to a bone-jarring stop. If not for the seatbelt I would have pitched headfirst into the window.
My driver threw open the door, jumping out. The chatter of gunfire sounded. I unbuckled my seatbelt and threw myself to the floor. A car window shattered, so I put my hands over my head. I heard a lot of shouting and the scream of a police siren, but I had no idea what was going on.
After another volley of shots, there was silence. I lifted my head just as the door lock clicked and the door was yanked open.
“Cara!”
Slash stood there in his rumpled tuxedo.
I’d never seen a more welcome sight. “Slash!” He was alive and seemingly unhurt. Thank God.
Relief crossed his face. Stretching out a hand, he helped me out of the car. “Madre di Dio. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I looked down at my ruined coat. “I told you it was a mistake to buy me anything white.”
He tugged me into him, kissing the top of my head. “Now I can breathe.”
I looked over his shoulder. Police filled the alleyway and stood over a guy, presumably the driver, who lay on the asphalt. “Is he dead?”
“Si.”
“Who is he? What happened? Where’s your FBI detail?”
Slash held me tighter. “I don’t know yet.”
“Why did he want to kidnap me? Or us?”
“I’m going to find out.”
Slash rubbed his hands up and down my arms. He was shaking. Adjacent to the car, the motorcycle lay on its side, bullet holes evident.
“Whose motorcycle is that?”
“I have no idea. Some poor bystander. He abdicated without a word when I showed him my gun.”
“I bet. So, does this mean we are spending the rest of the night at the police station?”
Slash sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
Chapter Five
It was nearly four o’clock in the morning before we got back to the hotel. A new FBI team accompanied us to the hotel and cleared our room before they let us in. They weren’t nearly as friendly as the other guys and left without saying a word. I shrugged out of the remains of my coat, trying to hang it up in the closet. It kept sliding off the hanger.
“Don’t bother.” Slash took off his jacket. “It’s a complete loss. I’ll get you a new one.”
I laid it over the back of a chair and unzipped my dress. “So, at this point we know exactly squat about what happened.”
Slash and I had been questioned separately by both the police and the FBI and had only been allowed to reunite just prior to our departure from the police station.
“All I know is the man had no identification on him. The sedan was stolen. They are running his fingerprints now and an autopsy is scheduled in two days.”
“How did they know the FBI was going to pick us up from the concert?”
Slash pushed his fingers through his hair. “They had to be observing us. Perhaps they saw them drop us off, so they extrapolated they would pick us up.”
“Why were they watching us in the first place? Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
I put a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you get in the car, Slash? How did you know?”
He sighed. “I should have noticed at once, but I was too preoccupied thinking about Tsang and what you’d said. The car was different. I realized it when I was going around. I should have checked out the driver before I let you in. This is on me.”
“What happened to the real FBI tail?”
“Apparently the driver was circling the hotel when he encountered a so-called accident.” He removed his cuff links and set them on the dresser. “He was delayed just long enough to miss us.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Nothing convenient about it. Smells more like a well-laid plan to me.”
I sat on a corner of the bed. “What about the agent who was inside with us?”
“He was right behind me when we exited the hall. He didn’t want to shoot at the car for fear of hitting you. The agents are under investigation as well.”
“We’ll see.” His voice was hard. I had a feeling most of his anger was directed at himself.
We got undressed without talking. I missed the laughter and intimacy of the pre-concert time, but the kidnapping attempt had taken its toll. Since I didn’t have any pajamas, not even my usual oversize T-shirt, I slid naked into the bed, pulling the covers to my chin. Slash joined me shortly and pulled me into his arms. I rested my head on his bare chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
He stroked my hair for a long time, but said nothing. Then, without warning, he squeezed me so tightly that for a moment I couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t want you to leave me, cara.” There was something fierce in his tone.
I was so astonished I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted to ask him why he would think that and what was the matter—maybe that’s what he was waiting for—but while I pondered what to say and how to say it, I heard him breathing deeply. He’d fallen asleep and I’d missed my opportunity.
I kept my head on his chest, listening to his heart and breathing. Soon my own eyes grew heavy and I began to slip into slumber as well. My last thought before I fell asleep was that in many ways Slash remained as much a mystery to me now as on the day I’d first met him.
Chapter Six
It was business as usual after we woke up, making me think I had imagined Slash’s odd mood right before we’d fallen asleep. After breakfast in our suite, we took a quick flight home to DC.
Slash was quiet as we drove to my small apartment in Jessup, Maryland, in his SUV, so I started when he abruptly spoke.
“I’m arranging private security for you.”
“What?”
“When I’m not with you, you’ll have private security. I’m not risking you again.”
“Don’t you think this is overkill? This isn’t Broodryk. He’s dead.”
Johannes Broodryk was a psychotic cybermercenary with whom I’d matched wits for the past few months. Slash and I, along with some help from the Navy SEALs, had finally brought him down, but not before he’d taken a toll on my friends and me with his sick games.
No Room for Error: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Seven Page 3