Conductor of Hearts: An older alpha male and younger woman short romance (Filthy Rich Love Book 4)

by Sadie King

  Conductor of Hearts

  Filthy Rich Love - Book 4

  Sadie King

  Conductor of Hearts

  Ayden

  I’ve returned home after years of travelling the world, but I’m getting restless and ready to move on. Then I find her sitting at my piano. The music fills my empty house, lifts my soul, and sets my body on fire. I’ll do just about anything to keep her playing, and I’m beginning to realize some things are worth sticking around for.

  Laila

  I’ve worked hard to get an audition at a prestigious music school. But with two days to go I meet Ayden. Now my head’s spinning, my body’s in a fever, and I’m stumbling over the notes. Can I pull it together for the audition, or will this gorgeous, globe-trotting entrepreneur be my downfall?

  Conductor of Hearts is a short and steamy romance featuring an alpha male and a younger woman.

  Book four in the Filthy Rich Love series. Each book in the series is a standalone. No cliff-hangers!

  Copyright © 2019 by Sadie King.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover designed by Designrans.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, companies, locales or persons living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  www.authorsadieking.com

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  Fox in the Garden is a bonus book in the Filthy Rich Love series, exclusive to email subscribers.

  William

  When I escape for some air before the most important business call of my life, I don’t expect to find a woman dancing barefoot in my Zen Garden.

  The last two years of my life have been spent working toward this business deal. But now, all I can think about is her.

  Ariel

  Dad’s drinking is getting worse, and it’s starting to lose him clients. So I step in and take over the gardening business. But who knew our most profitable client was such a silver fox?

  He’s older than me, confident and handsome. The kind of man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it. And I think what he wants is me…

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  Contents

  1. Laila

  2. Ayden

  3. Laila

  4. Ayden

  5. Laila

  6. Ayden

  7. Laila

  8. Ayden

  Epilogue

  Man of Strength

  Chapter 1

  1

  Laila

  Tap tap tappity-tap. Two notes with the pinky and down to the lower G. Damn. My thumb slides off the steering wheel as I turn into the wide driveway. Three days away from the most important audition of my life and instead of practicing at home like all the other Manhattan Music School hopefuls, I’m stuck in a white van delivering packages around the outer suburbs of New York.

  “Oh, wow.” The house comes into view, and I catch my breath. It’s a Georgian-style mansion, its white stonework glinting in the sun. A balcony runs around the second floor and rose vines have grown between the banisters, adding splashes of bright color. It’s beautiful.

  The tires crunch on the pebbles as I pull up next to a black Porsche convertible. Whoever lives here has fantastic taste in cars.

  I get out of the van and stand for a moment admiring the house. A warm tingle spreads up my neck. Despite its size there’s a lovely feel about this place, inviting and warm.

  I wonder if there’s some old-fashioned servants’ entrance I’m supposed to use. I dismiss the idea. The wide stone steps and grand pillars are too inviting not to use. It makes an elegant change from the suburban homes I mostly deliver to. I grab my scanner and the package out of the back and head up the front steps.

  The door’s open a crack, and I catch a glimpse of shiny white marble flooring and what could be the start of a spiral staircase. I resist the urge to push it open further and have a good look around and instead ring the buzzer.

  The noise echoes throughout the house, but there’s no sound from inside. I push it again and drum my fingers on my thighs, moving through the trickiest part of my audition piece while I wait.

  I get stuck again at the start of the crescendo. It doesn’t feel right jumping to the G. I feel like I need to hear it to check that I’ve got it right. But I’ve still got half a van of deliveries to make before I can get home and get to my old piano, that keeps going out of tune and has keys that get stuck.

  I ring the doorbell again impatiently. In my haste, I bump the door open a little more.

  “Hello?” My voice echoes back to me through the enormous entry hall. “Signed delivery.”

  There’s a large gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall, and I can see a spiral staircase reflected in it. It’s beautiful, and I so desperately want to get a better look.

  You’re not supposed to go into the houses, but the door is open, and no one answered the bell, so . . .? I edge it open just a bit further and take a tentative step across the threshold.

  “I’ve got a delivery for Mr. Miller.”

  Holy cow, there’s a Steinway baby grand in the entryway nestled under the curve of the staircase. My fingers itch at the sight of it. The lid is propped up open and ready as if someone’s just stepped away.

  The keys are calling to me, and before I know what I’m doing I’m inside the house and in front of the piano. I can’t seem to stop myself. I leave the package and my scanner on the floor and sit down on the plush velvet stool.

  I glance around guiltily, but there’s no one here. They must be in the garden or something if they didn’t hear the bell and didn’t hear me call. Surely it won’t hurt to have a little playing time just to get this tricky part fixed in my head.

  I brush my fingers over the keys. They’re smooth as silk, and I bet they don’t stick like the ones at home do sometimes. I run through the C Major scale. The acoustics of the entryway give it a clear, vibrant sound.

  I take a deep breath and start to play.

  The notes sing out in the entryway; the high ceiling and hollow space make for an excellent chamber hall. The music spirals up the staircase and fills the room.

  The tapping I’ve been doing all day is released in these notes, the tingling starting in my fingertips and spreading through my body until I’m unaware of anything else around me. My body is taut, all my concentration focused on my fingertips as they dance over the notes. My hands fly over the keys, and my heart soars. It’s the release I’ve been waiting for.

  I’m coming up to the difficult bit and I tell my mind to relax, to stay in the moment. But already I’m slowing down, my fingers are fumbling, and I’m having to think about the notes rather than play them automatically.

  I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead. My heart’s racing as I reach the crescendo. I’m doing it, I’m doing it! Damn! My finger slips, and I miss a note. Most people wouldn’t notice, but it rings out like a funeral bell to me.

  I finish the piece slowly. My focus is shot, and I’m so disappointed in myself. If I don’t get into music school, I’ll be stuck delivering packages my whole life. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s the only option out there for me.


  I’m not like the other kids trying out. If they don’t get into music school, daddy will send them to law school instead. I don’t have rich parents. I’ve gotten this far on my own by sheer determination. No pushy parents to make me practice.

  While the other kids in my neighborhood were hanging out at the mall, learning to smoke and flirting with boys, I was sneaking into the school music hall to play on the old piano they kept in the corner.

  I trawled the internet for free piano tutorials to teach myself, and when I’d exhausted those, I begged Mom for lessons. She put in some extra shifts at the factory, so she was able to send me to a local teacher.

  Mrs. Hays was amazing. She never seemed to notice the over-sized, hand-me-down clothes I wore, or how much thinner I was than the other kids. She encouraged me to keep playing and practice at every opportunity. I think she knew I broke into the school music hall, but she never told anyone.

  As soon as I was old enough, I got an after-school job and saved up for a secondhand piano. Mom gave her collection of Mills and Boon paperbacks to the secondhand shop and got rid of the bookcase so we could squeeze the piano into the living room. The stool was hard up against the back of the sofa, but I didn’t care. I practiced every night.

  Mrs. Hays told me about the Manhattan Music School, and how she thought I could be good enough to be a concert pianist. But I need the training first.

  For the last three years that’s been my focus. I should have auditioned last year, but Mom got sick and couldn’t work. All those years at the factory have done something to her lungs. I had to get a job and look after her.

  I kept playing though. Mrs. Hays helped me find out about scholarship programs, and this year I think I’ve got a shot at it. I’ve been putting a bit of money aside, so I’ll only have to do a couple of shifts a week while I’m studying.

  It’ll be hard, and the other students won’t be working while they study. But Mrs. Hays has shown me that I can do anything if I work hard enough, and I’m almost starting to believe her.

  At least if it wasn’t for this damn section that keeps tripping me up. I come out of my daydream and realize I’m still playing. The muscle memory in my hands means I can skip over the easy bits without thinking too much about it. I finish the piece and rest my hands in my lap.

  Clap, clap, clap.

  I spin around at the noise to find a man leaning on the doorframe and watching me. He’s tall and well-built, his tight black t-shirt showcasing his bulging biceps as he claps slowly. The ink of a tattoo snakes out from under the fabric on his right arm. He’s dressed all in black, with tight black jeans and even black socks.

  His appearance is at odds with the elegance of the house, and I wonder for a moment if he’s an employee here. But the way he’s smirking at me and the casualness of his sock-covered feet make me think he may just be the owner. He definitely looks like the owner of the black convertible outside, which means he’s probably Mr. Miller who owns the house and who I’m supposed to be delivering a package to.

  Oh shit. I’ve been busted breaking and entering by the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

  2

  Ayden

  I watch her squirm on the piano stool. Her blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail and wisps of it have broken free. Some strands are plastered to her face by sweat from the intensity of her playing.

  Her top is pulled tight over her full breasts, and I feel a twinge in my pants. The music was so sensual that my dick has been hard since I found her in my entranceway, concentrating and passionate, her straight back with the exposed skin at the neck of her t-shirt. She got me hard from behind, but now that she’s turned around, she’s taken my breath away. Her eyes are the palest blue I’ve ever seen. Her cheeks are flushed from the exertion of playing, and her full pink lips are making my dick ache.

  I finish my slow clap and watch a blush spread up her neck.

  “The door was open.” She stands up too quickly and knocks her knee against the piano. “I’ve got a delivery for you.” She picks a package up off the floor. “Well, for Mr. Miller. Is that you?”

  I take the package from her, letting my finger brush against her hand. A current of energy jumps from her, sending a rush of heat through me.

  “Do all delivery drivers make a habit of breaking into people’s homes?”

  Her face falls, and I immediately regret my harsh tone.

  “I-I-I’m sorry. I rang the bell, and the door was open. I don’t usually do this. Please don’t report me. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t report me.”

  My cock throbs at the words, and I have an image of her down on her knees with that pretty pink mouth wrapped around my cock. I shake the thought out of my head.

  “Play for me,” I find myself saying instead. Her eyebrows go up in surprise.

  “Play for me,” I repeat. “Sit back down on that stool, and play me a tune.”

  “But I...”

  “You broke into my house; you touched my property. I won’t call the police if you sit down and play for me.”

  She sits back down on the stool. I can sense the nervous energy running through her. I have no intention of calling the police, but I’m not going to let her know that. I have no intention of letting her out of my house just yet either. She's come in here uninvited, and she must pay the price.

  “What would you like me to play?” she asks.

  “Beethoven. The Moonlight Sonata. Do you know it?”

  She nods and turns back to the piano. Her hair swishes, the ponytail trailing down her back. I wonder what it would be like to run my hands through it. It’s a hard piece, but she doesn’t hesitate. The notes peel off the piano as her fingers glide over the keys. It starts slow and she leans in, her hair falling over her shoulder. She's good, really good. The music flows from under her fingers, the melody dancing off the keys and around the room. I lean against the door frame and watch her.

  She's small but her back is ramrod straight, like she’s made of steel on the inside. She seems lost in the music, oblivious of her surroundings. It’s not hard to understand why she came in here. A girl with that talent stuck delivering packages.

  The shrill tones of a phone break into the music.

  “Sorry,” she mutters, reaching into her pocket.

  The sudden loss of the music feels like a bandage being ripped off.

  “Hello?” she says into the phone. “Yup, I got a bit lost. Just making the delivery now. Uh-huh...yup...thanks for checking.” She hangs up her phone and gets up off the stool.

  “If I take too long between deliveries, they check up on me. Supposedly for my safety, but whatever.” She picks up the scanner from the floor and holds it out to me. “I need a signature.”

  I scribble my name in the screen for her. She's so close I can smell her scent, cardboard boxes and notes of a floral soap. Clean and good and goddamn she’s got beautiful eyes. I act on instinct, shooting my arm out and grabbing her wrist. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and those eyes look up at me. Her skin is soft and warm, and she offers no resistance.

  “Don’t go wandering into strangers’ houses. It could be dangerous.”

  Her eyes go wide for a moment, and her lips part. It’s only an instant, but it’s like a calling card for my dick. My heart’s racing, and the blood is heading straight to my hard-on.

  “Don’t leave your door open. You don’t know who might wander in.”

  I release her wrist, but she doesn’t move away. I’m sure she must hear the thumping in my chest.

  She turns away, and before I can stop her, she’s out the door and running down the steps. I follow her out.

  “Wait,” I call. “What’s your name?”

  “Laila,” she says, swinging the van door open. “My name’s Laila.”

  “I’m Ayden.”

  She climbs into the van and slams the door. I feel a sense of loss as I watch her drive away.

  I feel something soft circling my leg and look down to find Buddy, a stray
cat I seem to have adopted and now named.

  “I’m glad I left the door open for you.” I reach down and give him a pat between the ears. He meows up at me and darts between my legs and through the door as if he owns the place. Maybe he does.

  He turned up the day after I moved in and wasted no time investigating the new arrival. He sauntered through the rooms as if he was familiar with the surroundings, knowing already the places where the afternoon sun fell on the floorboards.

  He must think it’s odd that I’ve only furnished two rooms: the living room which doubles as my office and a bedroom upstairs. The other rooms sit empty. Nothing to fill them with.

  I bought the house because I like the garden, and because despite its quiet location, the internet speed is fast. Which means I can sit anywhere within the grounds and work if I want.

  I follow Buddy distractedly, thinking about Laila and her pale eyes and full lips and the raw talent of her playing. I retrieve my laptop and open a web browser. I know what I have to do to see her again.

  3

  Laila

  Holy hell! My heart is racing as I pull out of the driveway. He’s got to be the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and my body knows it too. My heart’s working overtime, my cheeks are flushed, and there’s a dampness in my panties from the wet heat he seems to have caused down there.