Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  His hand falls away, and I replace it with mine, touching New York City and then Boston and then Chicago. Vancouver and then Seattle. Los Angeles. That will be the last stop on the US tour.

  I lift my finger so it hovers over the globe, the metal landscape apart from me.

  Liam spins the globe lightly, until I’m holding my finger over Tokyo. The first stop on the Asia tour. Then there will be the European tour. And South America.

  A major record label put together the tour. They’re going to record the first concert, the one in Tanglewood, and release it as an album titled Concerto. Its release will be staggered across the globe to coincide with our tour.

  “I won’t miss you,” he says, his tone soft and final.

  My breath catches. Don’t cry, I order myself. I swallow down the lump in my throat. Is there something wrong with me? Am I inherently unlovable? “I’ll miss you,” I say, not caring if it makes me weak.

  “I can’t miss you,” he says, placing his hand over mine, moving our fingers back to the hill country of Texas, where Kingston nestles among the land and the lakes. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

  “I’ll come back,” I promise, breathless. “After the tour. I’ll visit—”

  “Do you want to kill me, Samantha?”

  I break off, uncertain whether he wants me to leave or stay here forever. Not knowing whether he hates me or loves me. “I want to please you.”

  “Then go away from here. Leave and don’t come back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The most expensive opera costume of all time was worn by Adelina Patti at Covent Garden in 1895. It was worth £15 million.

  SAMANTHA

  A row of shops along South Congress carry only the unique and eclectic and antique. There’s a flower shop with a sofa and chair and coffee table molded from the ground and then grown over with super soft grass. An old record shop with cats that sleep in the dusty trays, shooting a dirty look if you try to shift the vinyl around them.

  A whimsical toy shop that sells an action figure of Jane Austen.

  Our goal is a large vintage clothing shop that takes up three stories. It’s the kind of place where you have to look through a hundred racks of clothing to find one thing to buy. The smell of mothballs and incense fills the air. I didn’t really feel like shopping, but poor Laney needs the distraction. Her mother has been gone a long time, and even for the daughter of a mercenary, someone used to absences, she must be getting nervous.

  And maybe I’ll find something special to wear on the tour.

  Laney holds up a bright purple dress with puffy sleeves that could only have come from the eighties. “What do you think? It would be like that girl from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, except instead of a giant blueberry I could be a giant grape.”

  “Knowing you, you’d probably bring the style back.”

  She shudders in mock agreement and shoves the dress back onto the rack. “You’re probably right.” After a short pause of moving hangers, she sighs. “I wish I could actually see the clothes that are right in front of me, but my mind keeps wandering. Next thing I know I’m looking at a lace cocktail dress in army green.”

  “Oh, that sounds nice actually,” I say, peering around the thick rack of clothes. She swats me away, determined as ever to make me wear something that will actually attract attention instead of hide me. “Did you talk to Liam about it?”

  “Yes,” she says glumly. “He says they’re safe and sound in Germany, resting before they come back. That’s what he said—resting. Like what, are they taking a nap or something?”

  “I’m sure they have a good reason,” I say, keeping my voice free of the worry twisting my stomach. I’m not sure how she’s managed to stay as calm and cool, but then again, she’s had plenty of practice.

  “Of course they have a good reason,” she says. “Like the fact that they’re not safe and sound. How do we feel about plaid? I mean in a short skirt—obviously yes. But what about this beret?”

  I give her a dubious look. “Where would you wear a beret?”

  “In Paris, when I have a torrid love affair with a moody musician. Oh by the way, I’m going to need you to introduce me to some moody musicians.”

  “Okay, well, first I’ll have to meet some myself.”

  “You’ll meet plenty on the tour. Starting with Harry March.”

  I make a face. “He’s probably not even going to talk to me. I’ll be like the stagehand, except less important, because I won’t know where his microphone is.”

  “Whatever. You’re going to wear something fabulous and you’re going to play that way you do where everyone starts crying, and then he’s going to fall madly in love with you.”

  “Speaking of madly in love, how is Cody?”

  “Why would that be speaking of madly in love?”

  Because he’s been in love with Laney since they were children. “No reason.”

  She sighs. “He’s glad that Coach Price is gone, obviously. But he didn’t exactly bounce back from the experience. The school counselor tried to talk to him, but he shut her down.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, squeezing her hand. “He’ll work through it in his own time.”

  “But my timeline is so much faster,” she says, plaintive.

  My hands pause in their path through the clothes. I pull out the black dress, a flush warming me. The fabric hangs awkwardly on the hanger, but there’s something about it…

  I wander over to one of the standing mirrors and hold the gown against me. It’s an asymmetrical line, sloping down across my body. Ruffles of black silk line the top. It’s simple and dramatic all at once, and the way it’s cut will emphasize the violin I’ll hold. It falls to the floor, approximating the more formal gown that a classical musician would wear, but with a high slit, befitting a popular music stage.

  “Perfect,” Laney breathes. “You have to get it.”

  “For the tour, right?”

  “Well, sure, but you should wear it where Liam can see you. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow is my birthday. Which means that at midnight Liam North will cease to be my court-ordered guardian. I make a face, trying to act like it’s no big deal. “We don’t have any big plans.”

  There’s a pang in my chest, because we usually do something for my birthday. A nice dinner at the country club in Kingston or the latest hipster foodie restaurant in Austin. Liam will hand me a birthday card that’s completely impersonal, in which he’s signed his name—that’s it.

  We’ve done it for the past six years, so I just assumed… well, I suppose he doesn’t owe me that. After all he’s done, he doesn’t owe me anything.

  “Hey,” Laney says, hugging me from behind. She gives me a small smile in the mirror. “Everyone is safe and sound, remember? They’re only taking a nap.”

  I force a smile. “Of course they are. So let’s pick out something for you. You are going to come to the opening night, aren’t you? I’ll have the moody musicians all lined up to meet you.”

  We look through racks for a few minutes, getting separated in the maze of old clothes, only the sound of hangers scraping across metal filling the air.

  A sound comes from behind me, and I whirl, looking at the sea of colors, a thousand different fabrics and colors. It would be so easy to hide in here. The thought whispers through my brain. My heart pounds, and I take a step back.

  Footsteps land heavy on the stairs, coming up toward us. For a second I think we’re under attack, that someone dangerous is here.

  Josh appears at the top of the stairs. “You girls ready?”

  My breath still comes fast as I stare at him. I glance over my shoulder, but the riot of fabric looks the same. I must have imagined it. Living in the headquarters of North Security has probably made me paranoid. We check out at the registers downstairs.

  As we get into Josh’s truck, I glance at the upstairs window, where it looks like a shadow moves. Unease floods through my veins in staccato.

  C
hapter Twenty

  Before the nineteenth century, the violin bow was shaped like a hunting bow

  LIAM

  Moonlight streams through the open window. Something must have woken me up. I check my phone, but there are no missed calls. It could have been a nightmare. Then I hear the strains of the violin drift through the crack in the door. I double-check the time.

  Ten minutes to midnight.

  She’s only my ward for another ten minutes. Christ.

  I pull on some jeans and head toward the music, not sure what I’ll say when I get there. She used to wake up in the middle of the night to play, when she first got here. There was no sense of a normal schedule for her. She ate and slept and breathed on her father’s wishes. I tried to instill a sense of normalcy, tried to show her what it was like to have a stable home, tried to… oh hell, whatever I tried, that’s over now.

  She usually wears her school uniform when she plays. Or jeans and a T-shirt. Something comfortable to last the hours she’ll sit in roughly the same position.

  But she’s not wearing anything like that now.

  Instead she’s in a black dress that I’ve never seen before. My throat goes dry. She looks like someone else, like a grown woman. A sensual woman.

  My body reacts suddenly, violently.

  I force myself to walk into the room, to pretend like this is a thousand other times from the past, that she’s still a child and I’m her guardian. Even though the seconds tick away with every breath.

  “What’s that?” I crouch down in front of her.

  There are fifteen major violin scales. An almost infinite number of concertos and sonatas. I know almost all of them by heart. They are embedded into my skin, etched deeper with every afternoon of careful practice.

  This one I don’t recognize.

  A blush steals over her cheeks. “Nothing.”

  The dress has a high slit, exposing one perfectly shaped leg. It would be so easy to push her knee open, to draw my fingers up the inside of her thigh. I rest my hand on her other knee, the one that’s covered by black silky fabric.

  “It’s beautiful.” And haunting.

  “I’m only playing around,” she says, her voice wavering.

  “You’re composing?” That’s not something she’s ever told me about. To play with her skill is a form of composition. She lends her interpretation to every piece—her passion, her heart. There is no such thing as a rote recitation for a prodigy like her.

  Even so, writing her own composition would be something new.

  “It’s no big deal,” she says quickly, giving a little shrug that moves the ruffles that lie against her breast, drawing my attention to the gentle curve.

  “Where’d you get this?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

  She didn’t mean to kill me with this dress.

  She doesn’t mean to torture me, I’m almost sure.

  “A vintage shop,” she says, sounding shy. Maybe she does mean to torture me. “I thought I could wear it on the tour. What do you think? Should I?”

  The thought of thousands of men seeing her in this dress makes me want to lock her away. She would be terrified if she knew everything I think about. I can imagine her tied down on my bed wearing this dress, unable to get away from me, unable to do anything but take me. Fuck.

  “Perhaps,” I say, my tone noncommittal.

  Disappointment flits across her pretty features. “Well, it’s not decided or anything. There’s still time to look. I just thought I’d try to play while I’m wearing it.”

  Christ. She deserves more than a surly bastard more concerned about his unholy obsession than her feelings. “You look beautiful, Samantha. You look…” I swallow hard. “You look like the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think it’s the dress. It’s you.”

  I’ve knelt down in front of her a thousand times before, but she’s never been in a dress like this. And I’ve never been shirtless, my feet bare.

  “Is that the only reason you’re up this late? To try on the dress?”

  A blush creeps up her cheeks, the soft line of her neck. The tops of her breasts, plump and gently sloping above the black ruffles. “I couldn’t sleep, knowing that I turn eighteen soon.”

  “In about five minutes.”

  Emotions chase across her face, as clear as the notes she plays on her violin—excitement, apprehension, a tentative hope. “I guess you must be relieved. Your civic responsibility will be over soon.”

  “Were you listening outside the door, Samantha?”

  A soft laugh. “Guilty.”

  How can I resist her? The girl was beautiful and strong. The woman is devastating. “I do feel responsibility for you, but it has nothing to do with civic duty.”

  “Then why did you say that to the reporter?”

  “I wanted her to leave it alone. And I didn’t want to tell the real reason.” I can’t resist the truth when she’s looking at me like that, her eyes liquid brown, full of desire. It makes me want to be the man she thinks I am—the one who could cherish and keep her. Have her and hold her. That man will never be me, but doesn’t she deserve to know?

  Or maybe I want one night of truth.

  “What was the real reason?”

  “That I loved you as soon as I heard you play. That I saw the way your father left you to fend for yourself, well before he died. That I wanted to hide you away from the world that would hurt you and scare you and use you, and I was just selfish enough to actually do it.”

  Her eyes widen. “You never said you loved me before.”

  “Love isn’t something I ever wanted, Samantha. Especially parental love. That was the worst kind of all. It was dangerous. Cruel. I never wanted to do that to you.”

  It’s more than I meant to give away, revealing what I think about parental love, how horrible it can be. She doesn’t miss the implication. Her brown eyes widen. “What did your parents do to you?”

  Once a principal had called my father. This is incredible news, the woman had said. Your son is extremely gifted. I spent three days and three nights in the well because of those test scores. I learned to get the answer wrong enough times not to attract attention, after that.

  I never really believed the devil lived inside me. If I believed in the devil, then I had to believe in God, and he had abandoned me too long ago for me to speak his name—even to myself. It wasn’t the devil, precisely. It was me. Simply me. As I’d traced my fingers along the moss-damp bottom of the well, I knew that I deserved to be down here. That every glimpse of sunlight was a gift I didn’t deserve.

  That every sweet thing I’d ever have would have to be stolen.

  “And then when that love started to change into something else, when it was spiked with desire, I didn’t know how to handle that. It was better and so much worse at the same time.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Maybe it’s time that I gave you the sex talk,” she says, her tone impish. “So that way you’ll know what you’re doing. Repeat after me: condoms are mandatory.”

  A bark of laughter escapes me. “I never stood a chance against you, did I?”

  Her humor fades. “You’ve done a pretty good job resisting this.”

  Part of me still wants to deny it. Stubborn to a fault, that’s me. But I can’t pretend not to want her anymore. Lust thrums through my body in visible shudders. Being this close to her, touching her, but not having her—it’s enough to rip me to shreds. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “How much longer?” she whispers.

  My internal clock is accurate down to the second. “A minute.”

  “What would you do to me? If I were over eighteen?”

  Heat races through my veins. “I shouldn’t have kissed you, but I would do it again. And again. And again until you moaned into my mouth. And then I’d move lower, down your body. To your shoulders and your stomach. Your breasts. It’s all I can think about.”


  Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Keep going.”

  How did I ever think I was the one with control in this relationship? Because I made rules and she followed them, but that was always her choice. I only ever had as much control as she gave me. And I’m helpless in the face of her desire. “I want to kiss you between your legs, to taste you, to drink you in and make you push your hips against my face. And all the while you’ll play the violin, so perfect, so perfect, because you don’t know how to make a mistake, not even if you tried.”

  Her eyes are wide and dark and luminous. “Liam.”

  “But then I would find your clit. It would already be hard and throbbing. Slick. I’d flick it with my tongue, again and again, ruthless, not caring that you’d beg me to go slower or softer. Your hands would falter, and there would be a terrible sound from the violin, because you would come hard enough to forget.”

  “How much longer?” she says on a tortured breath.

  At some point my words stopped being hypothetical. They became a promise, and every muscle in me strains for completion. My whole body aches to hear the beautiful sounds as she rises and the terrible screech as she comes for me.

  “Almost doesn’t count,” I mutter, grim and aching.

  “Now.”

  I shake my head, my eyes not leaving hers. She’s heavy-lidded, her lips gently parted. “Ten,” I tell her. “Nine. Eight.”

  She moves her violin back into place, her arms up as the bow goes into position. How many times have I seen her like this? And yet she’s completely different. It can’t be the seconds ticking away. Nothing as external as time. Something’s changed inside her.

  “Seven. Six. Five.”

  The first note enters the air around us, and I feel it deep inside my body. In my muscle and bone. In my cock, which pushes against the rough denim of my jeans.

  There is more than welcome in her eyes. There’s challenge.