A Wicked Song (Brilliance Trilogy Book 2)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Words he’s said to me every moment of indecision I’ve ever shared with him. And right or wrong, like every time before, I don’t say no. I say, “Yes.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kace and I exit the alcove into the gust of wind and I swear my head spins with the mix of weather and drugs. I huddle into Kace’s jacket, but it all but falls from my shoulders. Kace catches it and settles it back in place, sheltering me. He is the one in short sleeves, without a jacket, and yet he is quick to slide his arm around me, pulling me close, his big body holding the jacket in place and blocking the next cold gust. I snuggle in closer to him, and without reserve, I simply cannot muster, I cling to him with my free hand. The sun is a beam in my eyes, the light as illuminating as this day has proven to be.

  Kace knows who I am.

  He’s the first person outside my family who knows who I am, who I really am. It’s surreal, an odd feeling of liberation followed by fear.

  We reach his Roadster and he clicks the locks, opening the passenger door, but doesn’t just wait for me to climb into the car. He literally eases me into the seat and kneels down beside me. “You okay?”

  There is tenderness in his question, and in the sea of emotions swimming in his blue eyes, the kind of tenderness I struggle to see as anything but real, honest. “That’s a complicated question.”

  “I suppose it is right now,” he agrees, smoothing my good hand down my leg. “Beyond us, your body, how do you feel?”

  “Sitting is good,” I say. “They gave me a pain pill. I think it’s messing with me.”

  “We’ll get you into bed and you can rest.” He grabs the seatbelt and pulls it over me, his big, wonderful body pressing to mine as he latches it into place, but once complete, he doesn’t move away. He hovers over me, his palm settling on my face. “I care, baby.” His voice is a rumble of masculinity and emotion. “I care. Never doubt it.” His lips brush mine, sending a shiver down my spine, and then he’s gone, standing and shutting me inside his car. My world is spinning right now. I want to believe him when he says he wants only me, that he cares about me, not the formula to create a Stradivarius. I want to trust him, but I quickly remind myself that I need to tread cautiously. Kace has money, but what’s the one thing a man who can have everything wants, but what he cannot have?

  Kace joins me in the car, claiming the wheel while setting my bag of meds behind the seat. His scent is everywhere. On my skin. On my clothes. In the air. And his eyes are on me as he settles not into his seat, but facing me. I shift in his direction, meeting his stare, and only then does he ask, “Can I take you home with me, Aria?”

  This is a loaded question. I know he knows it’s loaded question. We both know it’s a loaded question, that knowledge punching at the air between us.

  If I go to his place, it feels to me that he’s in total control, but if I invite him to mine, it feels as if I am offering him another piece of me. Right now, though, control feels important, my control. My home. Decision made, I say, “I need to be in my own space.”

  His lashes lower, the afternoon sunlight breaking across the hardening lines of his handsome face. “All right then,” he says, his eyes meeting mine again, amber flecks in their depths. “We’ll go to your place. Do you have everything you need in that bag they gave you?”

  “They filled my meds for me,” I say, a queasy feeling overtaking me. “And more than ever, I really don’t think my body approves of what they gave me.” I rotate and rest my head on the seat.

  “Pain meds on an empty stomach are never good.” He reaches over and strokes my hair. His touch is like silk on my frazzled nerves and I don’t have it in me to fret over the fact that he also caused those frazzled nerves. My lashes lower, and I savor the warmth he’s created in me, and ironically, considering the pain he’s caused me, the only good things that I’ve felt in hours are because of him.

  His lips brush my forehead and it’s as if the hand of sleep reaches up and pulls me closer to it. Sinking into the heaviness of the moment, I am only remotely aware of Kace starting the engine, of the sway of the car.

  For the next few minutes, I fight the drugs and conjure a memory of that day in the restaurant, when I’d hunted down Mark to beg for an invitation to the VIP event. Chris and Kace had both been with him. I sink back into the past:

  Mark fixes his gray eyes on me. “What are you seeking?”

  “A violin,” I say, thankful to this Chris person for the pressure that seems to have made Mark ask for more information.

  “Your buyer likes music, does he?”

  The words spoken by the man to Mark’s right draws my gaze and I blink into brilliant blue eyes framed by thick, longish dark hair and rugged, handsome features. I blanch with the knowledge of who this is. I’m standing across from the thirty-four-year-old rock star of violins. A man who uses his good looks, denim, leather, and arms tatted up with randomly colored musical notes to create an image. That, along with his re-mixed versions of hot new pop hits has done what many believe impossible—he’s made the violin cool and sexy.

  “You’re,” I swallow hard and force myself not to act star struck, which would certainly ensure I don’t make it into the VIP room. I regroup and instead of saying Kace August, I say, “accurate.”

  His eyes, those famously blue eyes, narrow and his lips quirk slightly. Mark jumps in then and lifts a finger. “What song is playing right now?”

  Ironically, there’s a violin playing in the restaurant right now, and the question is a test, of course. Do I know enough to be worthy of this auction? To win his respect defies my mother’s insistence that I deny my roots. This is not a work just anyone would know. But to fail could cost me the opportunity to find my brother. “‘The Four Seasons,’ Antonio Vivaldi.”

  Mark glances over at Kace. “Is she right?”

  “She is absolutely accurate,” he says, using my own word, which I do not believe is an accident. His eyes warm on my face, ripe with surprise, but there is more. He’s pleased, I think. He likes that I know his world. I am drowning in this man’s blue eyes, and before I’m too far under to recover, I jerk my gaze to Mark. “Can I at least get a private viewing of the violin?”

  “Leave your card and show up to Friday night’s event. Buy something. That’s the best way to show intent.”

  Buy something, with all the money I do not have, I think, acid biting at my belly. I reach into my bag and pull out my card, setting it on the table in front of him. I can feel Kace’s eyes on my face, burning through me. That’s when he shocks me and speaks to me in Italian: “Cambiano i suonatori, ma la musica è sempre quella.”

  It means, “the melody changes, but the song remains the same,” but directly translated it’s: “the players change, but the music is always the same.”

  I look at him and I know I shouldn’t respond, I shouldn’t connect myself to Italy with this man, but translation services are on my card. “No,” I answer in English. “The musician, the player, makes all the difference, which is why he should have an instrument worthy of him.” It’s what my ancestor who created the Stradivarius violin believed. It’s why he made the Stradivarius.

  I glance back at Mark. “I’ll be there Friday night.”

  And with that, I turn and start walking toward the exit.

  My eyes open and I am aware now, if not then, that I’d not only confirmed my Italian heritage in that exchange, I’d also made it clear I understood the value of both player and instrument. The question becomes, was Kace confirming my identity in his own mind, or did he already know?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The joy of Manhattan.

  We end up in standstill traffic a block from my apartment. My lashes lower and I don’t know how when the drive is short, but I must drift off to sleep. I wake to Kace leaning over me, unhooking my belt. “Wake up, baby. We need to get you inside.”

  I blink. “We’re here?”

  “Yes. We’re here. No thanks to that traffic jam.
” He kneels back down beside me. “Where are your keys?”

  “My keys?”

  “To your apartment.”

  “My purse. Oh God, my purse. Where is my purse?” Not sure the last time I saw it, panic takes over and I reach for my hip, and thank God, it’s actually there. “I thought I lost it.” I try to open the zipper, but can’t get my one hand to cooperate.

  Kace closes his hand over mine, his touch warm, familiar, intimate. “Can I do it?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”

  He kisses my hand and then quickly removes my keys before unhooking my seat belt. “Let’s get you inside.”

  I shut my eyes against a wave of sickness. “Can I just stay here in your beautiful car?” I whisper.

  “Your big, beautiful bed is a better idea.” He catches my hands. “Let’s get you there now.” Before I can object, somehow he stands and takes me with him. He wraps his jacket around me and I wrap my arms around him, holding on, because well, I really want to hold onto him in all kinds of ways. “My bed is not big.”

  “Good,” he says, his lips curving. “I’ll take every advantage I can to hold you close.”

  “It’s small, Kace. You’re not small. Maybe we should go to your place?”

  “I would like nothing more than to have you in my bed, Aria,” he says. “Tomorrow.” He drapes his arm around my shoulders and eases me out of the way to shut the door. “Right now, we’re staying here.”

  I glance at the meter where he’s parked the Roadster. “What about your car?”

  “I’ll feed the meter after I get you inside.”

  Right, I think. A two-hour meter, but then maybe he’s not planning to stay. I recoil with the idea. Maybe I should want him to leave. I’m conflicted, confused. I just need to be in my bed, no matter its size. He sets us in motion toward my building, and when we reach the door, I key in my security code and glance up at him. “I am not in sound mind right now. You don’t need the keys to get in the building.”

  He leans down and kisses me. “Hopefully you do need me.” He doesn’t give me time to reply. He opens my door and we enter the store, where rows of books and collectibles read like a library to a new visitor. “Where’s your apartment?” Kace asks, shutting the door and resetting the alarm on his own.

  I point toward the stairs. “But we actually do need the keys to get inside my apartment. And I need to sit a minute.” I motion to a pair of cozy chairs in a small sitting area but never make it there. Kace scoops me up instead.

  “What you need is your bed.” The next thing I know, we’re up the stairs at my door and he’s not even breathing hard.

  Kace doesn’t even set me down to unlock the door. Somehow he manages to hold onto me and open the door. Only then do I realize how humble my world is compared to his. My bed isn’t the only thing that’s small. My entire apartment is a box. He starts forward, intent to move inside my apartment and I use my foot to halt us right in the doorframe.

  “Set me down. I need down.”

  “On the bed,” he argues.

  “Now,” I insist. “Here. I need down.”

  “Aria—”

  “Kace.”

  His expression darkens, his lips pressing together, but he eases me oh so carefully toward the ground and once my feet are planted on the floor, my good hand plants on his chest. “You can’t come in.”

  His hand covers my hand. “Don’t do this. I am not your enemy. I’m—”

  “This isn’t about who I am or you knowing it and not telling me,” I say. “I don’t live like you, Kace. I can’t—I just can’t deal with how that makes me feel right now. I should have thought of this, but my brain doesn’t want to work right now.”

  His expression softens and one of his hands cups my head while the other settles on my waist. He leans in close, and even in my diminished state, his scent is teasing me again. And how can I not? He smells like spice, the kind of spice a girl wants to press to her nose and just breathe in. “I care about you, not how you live.” His lips caress mine, a feather-light touch that is so very tender. “Trust me. Trust us.”

  Those words are far-reaching beyond the moment, they are a star shooting across a dark sky, lighting a path he seduces me down, his path. And for now, it works. “What if I want your money?”

  His lips curve, “What if you want my body?”

  I laugh despite the screams of my own body. “Kace.”

  “Aria,” he murmurs softly and before I know his intent, he’s picked me up again, scooped me into those powerful arms, and walked to my upper-level bedroom, easing me onto the softness of my mattress.

  He comes down with me, setting me on the edge of the bed, and easing my purse over my shoulder before setting it on the nightstand. He then leans over me, one hand on the far side of my body. “I’m going to get your medication from the car. Then I’m going to order us food. Are you thirsty?”

  “No,” I say softly. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “No,” he agrees, and in this moment, his famously intense eyes live up to their reputation, inviting me to drown in a sea of blue. “No, I do not,” he adds softly, and then he kisses my nose, pushes off the bed, and heads down the stairs. I roll to my side and watch him disappear, sighing. Kace August is here in my apartment, and he knows who I am.

  I’m suddenly drifting back in time again, and this time, I’m reliving the night he’d chased me down outside the bar:

  I turn as Kace steps in front of me, his hand settling on the top of the door, successfully caging me between his big body and the car.

  “I thought you’d come back by the table,” he says.

  “I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “Alexander is intruding. You wouldn’t have. And—about Alexander.”

  That statement is a stab of reality. He’s not here for me. He’s here because of some battle between the two of them. “What about him?”

  “He’s got an agenda.”

  I bristle, embarrassment heating my cheeks. I actually thought he came out here for me. And I don’t understand this man or what game he’s playing. “What about you, Kace? Do you have an agenda?”

  His eyes darken, burn, heat. His gaze lowers to my mouth and lingers before it lifts. “Yes. I do.” And before I know his intent, he’s stepped into me, tangling fingers into my hair and leaning in close, his breath a warm fan on my lips and cheek. “This,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to do this every damn second I’ve been with you.”

  Instantly I’m melting like chocolate under the hot sun for this man and doing it in the middle of a cold October wind. I sink into him, his hard body absorbing mine. And then he’s kissing me, his tongue licking against my tongue, a delicious caress that tastes of passion and hunger. His hand slides up my back, molding me closer, possession in that touch that should scare me, but it doesn’t. I’m lost in the intensity of my need for this man, a stranger I should resist, but I can’t remember why. Why was I supposed to resist?

  A horn honks, and Kace pulls back. “You are my only agenda,” he says. “Don’t forget that.” And then he’s setting me away from him, leaving me cold where I was hot only moments before. “Good night, Aria.” He turns and walks away, leaving me panting and stunned.

  I return to the present, and suddenly his vow that night has new meaning. He knew who I was. The question is: would he have told me sooner than later, or would he have waited for me to tell him? And really, at this point, does it really matter?

  My lashes lower and I decide that no, it doesn’t matter. What matters are his motives, and his agenda, which he claims is me, just me. But, is it?

  And I’ve drifted into two memories in one night.

  Why these two memories?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I blink awake to a throbbing pain in my hand, a dimly lit room and the ache of my hand and the leaden feel of my arm, no doubt from the tetanus shot. That’s when I realize that I’m not only in my own
bed but that Kace is right here with me, propped up on the headboard, watching television.

  “Hey,” he says, scooting down to lay next to me on his side, his hand settling possessively on my belly. “You’re finally awake.”

  My brows furrow and I try to remember how I even got into bed. “Finally? What time is it?”

  “Seven. You’ve been asleep for hours. I tried to get more pain meds down you about an hour ago, but you refused.”

  “I did?”

  “You did. You just wanted to sleep. How are you?”

  “I hurt and I need to pee,” I confess. “And if that kind of frankness doesn’t scare you off, I’m certain you either love me or you want the formula to make the violin.” It’s out before I can stop it, a product of pain, drugs, and grogginess. “And on that awkward note, I have to get up.” I roll away from him, but just when I think he’s going to allow my escape, he’s already standing above me, offering me his hand. He’s also shirtless. I’m instantly mesmerized by the musical notes on his naked belly. An easy fixation even if I hadn’t just told the man he’s in love with me or he’s using me. So much so that I dare to reach out and press my hand to the taut hard muscle of his belly. He pulls me to my feet, his free hand flattening on my lower back, and suddenly I am flush to his hard body.

  “Careful, baby,” he says. “You might start something you’re not ready to finish.”

  I’m presently not sure if he means with my words or my hands. “What I said—”

  The blue of his eyes fleck with amber. “What about it?”

  “I wasn’t suggesting—I just—”

  His mouth brushes my mouth. “Have to pee,” he teases, his perfect mouth curving. “I know.” He strokes my hair. “Go pee. Jenny dropped by some soup, homemade bread, and cookies. I’ll warm up the soup and bread so you can take some more medication.”

  My eyes go wide. “Wait. What? Jenny was here?”