Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Liam appears in the doorway behind her, looking stern and… strange, somehow. His eyes have turned almost olive, a haunting color. He must have noticed that Kimberly Cox is nothing like the other classical music journalists we’ve met. Does he like the way she looks? Of course he likes the way she looks.
She’s beautiful, and his eyes work just fine.
He doesn’t say anything, only leans back against the doorframe—watching. Probably watching her. He’s already seen me. I’m not the one with flawless eyeliner and amazing calf muscles.
Something dark and a little green stirs in my center. Is this jealousy? Oh my God, I’m jealous of this woman and the way that Liam North must think of her. Sexually, that’s how he must think of her. As a grown woman. Not a child.
“There’s a speaker system,” I say, nervous energy making me speak. I pull up my phone and play Schubert. “Der Erlkönig” streams in perfect, terrible angst from all corners of the room. “That’s how I practice accompaniments.”
She cocks her head, listening. “This piece was based on a poem, wasn’t it?”
“A child was taken by a monster in the woods.” The high-pitched notes are the child’s cries, and in response the father replies in low, placating reassurance.
It turns out to be an empty promise. The poem doesn’t end happily. I press the Pause button on the app to stop the music. Silence reverberates in the room.
“Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” Kimberly asks, glancing around at the empty room, where there are no other chairs except mine.
“My office,” Liam says, striding between us and pushing open the door that separates the two rooms. His office is just as large as the music room, with a sitting area in front of gleaming walnut bookcases.
I take one of the armchairs while Kimberly takes the other.
Liam starts to close the doors, with him inside.
The reporter clears her throat. “Actually I was hoping to have a moment alone to interview Ms. Brooks. I know you’re concerned about her, but she seems more than capable of speaking for herself.”
A shadow passes over Liam’s green eyes, turning them moss. “I made it clear that the answer to that is no. If you don’t follow the rules, you’ll have to leave.”
Kimberly doesn’t look surprised or taken aback by his hard tone. “Don’t you think Samantha can make that decision? There will be lots of interviews on the tour, and you won’t be there, will you?”
My stomach clenches because she’s right. For so long I’ve done my best to be the good, obedient girl. If you don’t follow the rules, you’ll have to leave. That’s been my greatest fear. Except I did follow the rules, all of them, and I’m still going to graduate and turn eighteen.
I still have to leave.
“I’ll do it,” I say, my voice soft.
Liam turns to me. “No, Samantha. She doesn’t get to dictate what happens in this house.”
No, I think, only you get to do that. “I’ll think of it like practice,” I say instead. “There will be lots of press stops on the tour, and I should be able to do this.”
He frowns, and I think for a moment he might refuse. “I’ll be right outside,” he says, his voice dark. There’s no question that I could have this woman off the property. The part of me that’s small and jealous wants her gone, where Liam can’t see her. Where he can’t get turned on and think about sex and maybe even ask her out on a date.
The bigger part of me knows that she has nothing to do with it. There are beautiful women all over the world, and Liam North has no doubt dated many of them. He’s always been careful to keep that part of his life hidden from me, part of his iron control and discipline, but that doesn’t mean he’s a monk. Does it?
I’m desperate to know something, anything about Liam’s sex life.
Kimberly gives me a rueful smile as the door closes behind him. “I don’t think I made a new friend with him. He sounded pretty strict about staying in the room with you.”
“He’s just protective,” I say, feeling defensive of him, even though it would probably be better if she thinks he’s an asshole. “You never really know what you’re getting with reporters.”
For example, sometimes they show up thirty years younger than you think.
She leans closer and gives me a conspiratorial smile. “All the more reason for him to be gone while we talk about your personal life.”
“Oh.” I blink, trying to make sense of her words. “I thought you… well, I thought you’d ask me about my favorite composer and who I want to work with.”
“I’m assuming your favorite composer hasn’t changed from the interview you did for BBC last year. As for who you want to work with, you should probably say Harry March even if that’s not true.”