I bite down on my lower lip, a hot flush creeping into my cheeks. I drag my eyes away, forcibly twisting myself back in the direction of my secluded hiding spot and recoil, a gasp slipping from my lips as my shoulder smacks into something hard.
“Ahh!” Glass shatters on the floor around my bare feet as cold liquid drizzles down the front of my black top, making the drenched fabric cling to me. The sharp scent of alcohol stings my nostrils as droplets of white wine pebble my skin.
“Miss Graziani, I am so sorry!” The waitress holding the now-empty tray gushes, a horrified expression on her face. “Please don’t move! Let me clean this up. I don’t want you to step in any of the glass!”
“It’s fine, really,” I say, staring at the shards glittering on the floor around me. Shit. I’m really kind of stuck since pieces of the huge glass taunt me from all directions. “I think I can, um—”
But before I can finish my thought, a pair of strong arms circles my waist and I’m suddenly airborne.
Literally swept off my feet and intoxicated, not by the spilled wine but by my savior’s spicy cologne.
God, he smells good…
I grip my violin case with one hand, my other hugging his neck as he carries me out of the puddle of glass and pinot and sets me down next to the sofa I’d claimed earlier.
The second my feet hit the floor, my heart sinks into them.
Why did it have to be such a quick walk?
Why couldn’t I have picked a couch on the opposite side of the lounge just so I could relish being in his embrace for a few seconds longer?
Why am I in such a twist over a man who’s done nothing but taunt me with innuendoes and a smile that pretty much melted off my panties?
Okay, that last question is rhetorical.
“Thank you,” I mumble. “That was very sweet of you to look out for me like that.”
“Oh, I didn’t do that for you,” he says with a devious glint in his eye. “I did it for the case. You tore me apart and accused me of being a thief. But why punish the case for that?”
A giggle tumbles out of my mouth. “I’m really sorry about that. I know I probably looked like a crazy person before, but I’m just really protective of my instrument.”
“I mean, so am I, but if someone grabs hold of it, I tend to give them the benefit of the doubt. See how well they can play it.” He shrugs, winking at me.
My jaw drops for the second time as I gaze at his matter-of-fact expression, unable to find words and string them together for a response.
“I’m kidding,” he says with a quick chuckle. Then he pauses, his eyebrow quirked. “Or am I?”
Warmth radiates from my core, and I can’t help but drop my gaze to his instrument.
My curious gaze doesn’t go unnoticed, either.
“You play, I play. We have so much in common already.” Then a sudden chortle of laughter makes my skin tingle. “You should see the look on your face right now.”
“I’m sure it’s probably a cross between horror, incredulity, and curiosity,” I sputter, a ripple of laughter quaking my shoulders.
“Curiosity. I like that one,” he murmurs.
“Do you always say things like that to strange women?”
“You don’t look strange to me. You look pretty normal, at least now that you have your case back. A few minutes ago, it would have been questionable.” He nods at my hand. “Violin?”
“Very good.” A hot flush rushes into my cheeks when I realize my gaze keeps floating south.
His knowing smile tells me he’s not offended.
“How long have you played?”
I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “Pretty much since I could hold it under my chin. It’s literally my life.”
“Are you any good?”
I blink fast. Did he really just ask me that? I know I have a very specific audience, and I’m not exactly Taylor Swift, but I do get recognized.
Sometimes.
Clearly this guy has different musical tastes than my fans, but Jesus. I tour, I’m photographed and interviewed, and I have a freaking YouTube channel with hundreds of thousands of followers.
I’m not a wannabe.
I actually be!
“I’m very good, as a matter of fact,” I say, my voice laced with the same innuendo he used on me earlier. It’s a little shocking that I can pull off the shameless flirt routine at all considering the fact that my experiences with men have been severely limited for one very big reason.
My father, Giacomo Graziani.
He wouldn’t be happy to see me right now.
But then again, he’s not here. Nobody is, and to be honest, it’s nice to be able to spread my wings a little bit and to not be hawked over every second of every day by someone…except for the creepy guy at the concert hall earlier tonight.
Ick. I don’t want to think about him.
I want to think about other things…deliciously tempting things like the guy standing in front of me.
And the fact that there is a hoard of butterflies swarming my belly right now as his heated gaze travels the length of my body.
Every single bit of my prim, proper, and organized life is orchestrated, observed, and analyzed.
Except this one and it makes me feel so…free. Maybe a little bit reckless.
And I like it.
It’s not that I don’t have fun.
Okay, I don’t really have fun.
Other than performing, of course.
But socially? Not so much.
He grins and nods toward the sofa. “You wanna sit?”
I nod, a smile playing with my lips as I try to play coy, most likely failing miserably. “Love to.”
In the back of my mind, I wonder how I can be so cavalier and comfortable with this strange, sexy-as-hell man when I’d been cornered by that psycho stalker not even an hour ago. I’m alone in a strange city, with nothing but my bow as a weapon.
But something in his eyes puts me at ease.
Or maybe that’s just my naivete trying to convince me that he has no shady intentions.
I can guarantee if he knew who my father is he probably wouldn’t come near me with a ten-foot pole.
And I’m not talking about his instrument.
I slowly lower myself onto the couch, trying to look as smooth and experienced as possible. I scrunch my nose as the wet fabric of my shirt gathers at the waist. I pull it away from myself, a chill of air blasting my wet skin, and frown at my bags. I never carry a spare change of clothes ever, which is a really stupid thing considering all of the traveling that I do. Ugh, I feel like a sopping wet mess right now.
The waitress comes rushing over with another large glass of wine for me and a towel, as a maintenance worker cleans up the mess a few feet away. She places the glass on the table in front of me and hands me the towel. “If you need to freshen up, the ladies’ lounge is in the corner behind the bar.”
“Thanks,” I murmur with a smile. I give a quick look at the towel, briefly debating how stupid it would look if I stuffed it under my shirt. I finally decide to just lay it flat in my lap and focus my attention on the Adonis whose heated gaze is the only thing keeping me warm at this second.
“Do you need something to change into?” he asks.
“It’s okay,” I reply with a wave of my hand. “I’m sure the shirt will dry fast enough.”