Diamond in the Rough

by Skye Warren

  A low animal sound of pain fills the air, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. He does see it, he does, but he can’t do anything except succumb to the physical release. I close my mouth around his cock, catching his climax on my tongue. I swallow, greedy, knowing this might be my only taste. I lave him gently, kiss him, kiss him, soothing him as he comes down in jerks and pants.

  Without warning or ceremony, he drags me onto his lap, fingers working quickly at my jeans, finding their way inside to the slick center. I jerk at the intrusion. Too much friction, too fast. “Wait,” I whisper.

  “Now,” he says, unbending.

  I try to clamp my legs shut, but it only makes the pressure more intense. “Tell me we can have more than this. Tell me you’ll see me on the tour. Tell me you’ll wait for me to come back.”

  He doesn’t tell me any of those things. His silence is answer enough. My body doesn’t realize it’s lost—the climax builds in pleasure-drenched waves, leaving me panting and sated on the lap of a man who’s just turned me away.

  His lips brush my forehead, chaste even as my arousal dries on his fingers. “There is no future for you and me. I’m no longer your guardian. You’re no longer my ward.”

  Tears dampen my lashes. “We could make something new.”

  He pushes me gently off his lap, and I stagger like a deer on my legs for the first time. “You’re forgetting something, sweetheart. I don’t want that.”

  Every molecule in my body shouts at me to push him, to shake him, to make him see that we can work. Whether he’s trying to protect me or protect himself, the result is the same. I can’t make him want this. And I don’t think he’ll ever really see me as an adult while I live under his roof.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  There are two skulls in composer Joseph Haydn’s tomb. His head was stolen by phrenologists and a replacement skull was put in his tomb. In 1954, the real skull was restored, but the substitute was not removed.

  LIAM

  My hands are steeped in blood and dirt. I’ve been working through the obstacle course we use for training for the past five hours, pretending that my life is at stake—because in some ways it is. I set every barrier to its highest point, every weight to its heaviest. I’m still alive, which means we really need to make it harder. Torn muscles ache everywhere in my body. I wipe the sweat and grit from my eyes.

  I started this afternoon, and the sun set a little while ago. Footsteps approach from the house. My senses are dulled by pain, which is the point.

  “Go the fuck away,” I tell Josh. He’s come to check on me every hour, offering water and energy bars and once, the use of his pistol. Finish the fucking job, if that’s what you want, he said. He should have given it to Elijah, who probably wouldn’t mind using it.

  “I might,” comes a feminine voice. Samantha. “I have some questions first.”

  I drag myself into a sitting position, leaning back against a 4x4 staked into the ground. The world tilts wildly until I close my eyes. Something nudges my hand. A bottle of water. I take a swallow, downing half the liquid before I take a breath.

  Samantha kneels in front of me, the way I did so often as she played the violin. She holds out something in her hand, her expression solemn. It’s a couple of ibuprofens. I stare at the pills, so innocuous and small, so ordinary when the world is shattering. I swallow them down and finish the rest of the water. “Thanks,” I say gruffly.

  “How did you know my father?” she says, her brown eyes as clear as I’ve ever seen them in the deepening night. “The real answer this time.”

  “I wasn’t friends with him,” I admit. “We hadn’t ever met.”

  She takes a seat a few feet away, her legs crossed. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt with her high school crest on it—which makes her look like a child. She isn’t a child anymore, but that doesn’t change what she is to me. Like the bird that fell from the nest before it could fly.

  “Go on,” she says.

  “He was a spy,” I say, my voice abrupt. Businesslike. Because this had been my business for so long. “He took money under the table from a few different countries, but mostly Russia. It was my job to identify men like that and then eliminate them. But sometimes we would wait. If they could be useful, we’d keep them around, let them lead us to even bigger targets.”

  Her eyes are troubled, though she doesn’t look particularly surprised. It’s as if I’m reminding her of something she already knew. Children are smart, even when they don’t know all the facts. They know what’s important. “That’s how you knew him? You were watching him?”

  “Those were my orders, except he started getting too erratic.”

  She’s quiet a moment. “So your team eliminated him?”

  “No, sweetheart. I did that.”

  A flinch. “You were just doing your job.”

  Even now she wants to make excuses for me. “My orders were to continue to watch him. They wanted to see what happened next. I already knew, and I wasn’t going to wait around. So I slipped a little something into his special dark roast coffee beans, the ones he guarded so fucking religiously that no one else could drink it.”

  Her eyes are wide. She knows what’s coming next. “The coffee.”

  She never drank coffee with me, not once. Only tea. Some part of her recognized the danger, even if she couldn’t remember why. “I didn’t know that a twelve-year-old little girl liked to sneak a sip of the stuff. Not until I found out she was in the hospital.”

  Tears fall down her cheeks. “That’s why I don’t remember.”

  “They didn’t put it together at the time. An old man dying of a heart attack. A young girl who’d seen it, passed out with memory loss from seeing something tragic. By the time anyone thought to investigate, he was cremated.”

  “Is that why you wanted custody of me?” she says, the words like venom, full of pain. “To make sure no one could run a blood test on me without your permission?”

  “Christ. No, Samantha. Any trace would be gone from your system.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because you deserved a hell of a lot better than a traitor for a father and a bastard for a brother.” I give a humorless laugh, knocking my head back against the splintery wood. “Do you know what I regret the most? Not killing him. I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I had to watch him forget to feed you, forget to clothe you. I saw him leave you at the square in Leningrad while it was snowing, and you weren’t even wearing boots—I couldn’t call anyone to get you because it would prove he was being surveilled.”

  She listens to me speak and then gives a brief nod, as if our conversation is concluded. And I suppose it is. This is the only way it could end—with the truth.

  SAMANTHA

  In some ways the information about my father wasn’t a surprise. I may not have known the specifics, but I knew what kind of man he was. Loyalty wasn’t in his vocabulary. And if I had thought more about it—the money that would come and go. The way he’d buy me a new dress to attend a fancy dinner one week and then leave the pantry empty the next. Alistair Brooks was a desperate man. And I was his desperate daughter, so eager to believe that someone cared about me that I invented stories. If only I could play violin well enough, if I followed the rules hard enough. If I wanted it bad enough, there would be a father to love me.

  Growing up isn’t about learning something new. It’s about unlearning the fairy tales you believe as a child. Elijah offered to take me away from here, but I won’t put that between the brothers. Instead I call a cab and pack a single carry-on suitcase. A flight leaves Austin in a few hours that will take me to Chicago, and then on to Tanglewood. I can start my new life there, a little earlier than I had planned. I’m ready.

  I put my suitcase in the car and step into the back of the cab. The front door opens, and Liam strides toward me. Don’t ask me to stay, I beg him silently. I’m not sure I can say no. It’s not because I stopped loving him. I think I love him even more now, somehow, seeing him
battered and broken against the obstacle course he built himself, beating himself against his own guilt. But he will never see me as a grown woman while I stay here. He will never accept me as an equal while I remain in his custody, if only in body and not spirit.

  The only choice is to leave, which means it’s not really a choice at all.

  His silhouette breaks from the house, and I realize he’s holding the violin. The Stradivarius. I hadn’t brought it with me. There are violins everywhere, and societies and museums would be happy to loan me a great one. It wouldn’t equal the Lady Tennant, but nothing would.

  “Why did you leave it behind?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to have it. After everything that happened.”

  His green eyes are lighter than I’ve ever seen them, almost see-through. This is the most he’s ever shown me of him—his past, his emotion. All it took was for me to leave.

  “Bullshit,” he says.

  “Fine. Maybe I wasn’t sure I still wanted it. After everything that happened.”

  “Take it. That is, if you want to play this violin, then I want you to have it.”

  I swallow hard and take the case, my fingers brushing his on the wooden handle.

  “And if you ever need me—” His voice breaks.

  “I know where to find you,” I finish for him.

  He shuts the door and slaps the top of the cab so we move forward. I watch my home disappear through my tears. Only when we get to the airport do I realize that it’s Josh driving the cab. “What the hell?” I say as he steps out to squint at a parking meter.

  “Do you have a quarter?” he says, digging through his pocket.

  With an exasperated sigh I reach into my jeans and find a dollar bill. He plucks it out of my hands. “Thanks. You have now officially hired North Security as your personal bodyguard.”

  I cross my arms. “Pretty sure that’s not legally binding.”

  “And I’m pretty sure Liam North would shit a brick before he ever let you leave without adequate protection. The guy in the Crown Vic may be dead, but someone else ordered the hit. You’re not safe until we neutralize them for good.”

  A rush of emotion wells in my throat. I know I need to leave Liam, but it hurts worse than anything I can imagine. I could turn Lady Tennant into firewood, and it still wouldn’t break my heart as much as this. A sob escapes me, and Josh’s face blurs into a thousand pointillism dots. Through the tears, I see him open his arms. I let him hold me as I break apart. He has the same build as Liam, the same coloring, and I feel close to the man I love—and so far away I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to cross the distance.

  LIAM

  I sit in the armchair in my office, the fire blazing. It can’t penetrate the chill. Samantha took any warmth from the house, and I don’t expect it to return.

  That doesn’t absolve me of my responsibility where she’s concerned.

  I should probably feel guilty about defiling a priceless violin with a micro-tracking device, but there is nothing I won’t do to keep her safe.

  Elijah enters the room, his face implacable. He wants to kick my ass, but it’s a testament to how terrible I look that he doesn’t bother.

  “You’re a bastard,” he says instead, no heat in his voice.

  “Are you more angry that I failed in protecting Samantha—or that I failed in protecting you?” I enlisted the day I turned eighteen, leaving my brothers behind. Josh was old enough to defend himself by then, at least. Elijah had no such power. It took years before I had the money and the strength to return home to get him out of there.

  “You didn’t fail,” he says. “That’s not giving Samantha enough credit.”

  No, she became a strong woman with fierce loyalty. No thanks to me. I don’t expect I’ll ever get to touch her again. Won’t get to see her except from afar. But I can damn well protect her. “A drug lord?”

  A humorless smile. “That was an unexpected detour.”

  “Christ, Elijah.”

  “We found the target and confirmed his identity.”

  I flip through the pages in a manila folder, proof that one Kimberly Cox never actually existed. She has a convincing portfolio of freelance articles, an apartment in Brooklyn, a 401K. She had a contract with Classical Notes to interview the performers on tour.

  Except that she’s not a real person.

  The woman who came to our house that day was a fraud.

  “Did he make you?” I ask.

  “Negative, but he knows someone’s after him.”

  A few months ago I heard whispers that Alistair Brooks survived the assassination.

  I sent the Red Team to find out if the whispers were true. And then a reporter shows up asking questions about her background. Quite a coincidence. That had been enough to make me concerned. I stepped up her security detail quietly, making sure one of the men was always nearby.

  Josh will keep her safe while I find the traitorous fucker and finish the job.

  She’ll be safe once and for all—and she won’t ever have to know that the man who ordered the hit was her father.

  * * *

  Thank you so much for reading OVERTURE!

  I hope you love Liam and Samantha. Find out what happens when Samantha goes on tour in CONCERTO, and Liam learns he can’t live without her.

  The spotlight lands on Samantha Brooks. Years of practice build to the opening night of a global tour. She plays her heart out, but there are darker forces underneath the stage.

  There are eyes watching from the wings.

  Liam North fights to keep her safe with every weapon he owns. She’s his greatest pride—and his greatest weakness. The danger comes from somewhere no one expected. Betrayal threatens to destroy everything he’s built. His business. His family. His life.

  When the curtain falls, only one of them will be left standing.

  ONE CLICK CONCERTO NOW >

  And you can read Hugo and Bea’s story right now! Find out what happens when a seductive and jaded male escort shows up at the penthouse of an innocent heiress…

  “A sensual feast! Escort is extraordinary—delicious, passionate, dreamily sexy and utterly romantic! One of my favorite books of the year and I will be recommending it to everyone!”

  —#1 NYT Bestselling author Lauren Blakely

  One-click ESCORT now >

  Turn the page for an excerpt from CONCERTO…

  Excerpt from Concerto

  Her breath catches. “I missed you.”

  The words tumble out of her mouth, as if she can’t hold them back. My heart clenches, a painful squeeze that reminds me of every second I’ve been apart from her.

  One day I had been a man with a death wish—and the next I was responsible for a twelve-year-old girl. And then she grew up into a beautiful woman. At every turn she’s been a surprise.

  I touch my fingers to her temple and stroke her cheek. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life it’s that everything will change. Don’t worry about your future. Do this because you love it, right now. Play. Compose. Perform. Sometimes all you have is right now.”

  My hand trails down her jaw, until the backs of my fingers rest against her throat. Her vocal cords vibrate as she speaks. Ripples of pleasure and pain resound through my body.

  “I’m not performing right now,” she whispers.

  I have her tucked into the ivy, as deep as she can go. I’m blocking her with my body—keeping her within reach, keeping everyone else away. It’s the only way I’ve ever been able to breathe.

  A knot forms in my throat. “What do you want?”

  Right now. The words move between us like the cool night breeze.

  It shouldn’t be possible for her to live up to the image in my head, the perfection that I’ve been imagining every goddamn night. Except it doesn’t even do her justice.

  She’s living breathing perfection.

  Somehow, I’m leaning close. Is it only me who wants this? Her breath brushes over
my lips. “Right now, I want this,” she whispers, and then she closes the centimeters between us.

  Four weeks. That’s how long I’ve been apart from her.

  It might as well have been four years. A lifetime of silence. The moment her lips touch mine I’m suffused with music, thousands of notes that she’s played for me, a million heartbeats.

  By the time she pulls back I’m breathing hard. I can run a marathon barely breaking a sweat. Being near this woman is enough to break my body into pieces.

  “Right now,” I say, my voice unsteady.

  “That’s all we have.” Her eyes search mine. “Or is there more?”

  “You need to get back. They’ll be waiting for you.”

  Disappointment darkens her pretty face. “Yeah, and somehow I was late. I swear my invitation didn’t say anything about a cocktail hour before dinner. God, I wonder if they did that on purpose. Harry said they want us to have drama so we get more press.”

  “You’re a world-class musician, Samantha. They can go to hell. Besides, we have bigger problems to worry about. Like the fact that you’re still in danger.”

  A soft intake of breath. “How do you know?”

  Because I tortured a man until he pissed himself. That’s something she doesn’t need to know. “It doesn’t matter. The intelligence is good. That’s the important part. So no going outside without Josh. I’m going to have a talk with him.”

  “Liam,” she whispers. “Why are they doing this?”

  “Because I have a responsibility to you. They know that. So they’ll use you to draw me out. You would be bait, to get revenge on almost killing your father.”

  A notch forms between her eyebrows. “Who would avenge him?”

  “He would. Your father isn’t dead, Samantha.”

  A ripple of shock moves through her body. I wish I could shield her from it, but I take a step back instead. She’s going to face this particular truth on her own. How can I help her when I’m the reason he should have died? When I’m the reason he’s still alive?