“Then it’s mutual,” he replies, though I’m not sure exactly what he means by that statement, but I swear there is interest in his eyes. Or it’s wishful thinking I shouldn’t be thinking at all. He’s dangerous, I remind myself. I need to walk away.
“You know Italian,” he comments.
“I do,” I reply, offering nothing more. It’s how I’ve been conditioned. Don’t offer more than necessary, my mother had preached. But I also don’t walk away.
“How?” he asks.
“I studied linguistics in college.”
He arches a brow. “With what intent?”
It’s a complicated question, I think. The truth is, language and music connect for me, both as ways to communicate, but I can’t say that to him without opening the door to questions about my connection to music. And so, I say only, “There’s the question of the hour,” and because I want to take attention off Italy, where I was born, where my father made the Stradi, because the Stradivarius formula was lost, I add, “I speak Spanish, German, Chinese, and French as well.”
“But do you speak sign language?” he asks, and then he signs, “You’re beautiful.”
My belly flutters and I remind myself that yes, he’s flirting, but this is Kace August. He probably flirts with every woman he meets. I sign back, “Thank you.”
“I’m impressed, Aria Alard. I myself speak all those languages, somewhat fluently. Italian and German quite well.” A waiter walks by and he grabs two champagne flutes. “Drink?”
“I’m not a very good drinker and I have to bid tonight with someone else’s money.”
“Right. The Mark Challenge. He loves to play little power games with people. Sometimes not giving Mark Compton what he wants creates more interest, not less.” He sets a glass in front of me. “And Chris was right. Mark’s wife will cut right through that bullshit.” He laughs without humor and sips his champagne. “None of us believed that man would ever get married.”
“How do you know Mark?”
“We’ve run in the same circles for a good decade.”
“I’d have thought musicians were more your type.”
He arches a brow. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re—” I stop. I’ve just told him that I know who he is.
He leans in closer, the small table shrinking smaller. “Because you know who I am.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Yes. I know who you are.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“You were at lunch and I intruded. I wasn’t going to be rude, but I love the way you play.”
“You do know it’s okay to be one of my many haters. Of my music.” He winks. “Just not me.”
“I love how you play. I’m a fan.”
His eyes warm and he lifts his glass. “I do believe I am as well.”
“You are?”
His brilliant blue eyes warm and spike with a hint of mischief. “Yes,” he says, and suddenly I realize he’s not talking about the violin. He’s talking about me. “I absolutely am.”
“Ms. Alard.”
At Mark Compton’s voice, I straighten. “Mr. Compton.”
“I see your intent on making a showing tonight. What are you bidding on?”
“I have a client that very much wants the bottle of 1787 Château Lafite straight from Thomas Jefferson’s collection.”
“That’s going to go for around three hundred and fifty thousand. Are you really ready for that?”
Kace laughs. “You’re such a dick, Mark. Of course, she’s ready.”
Mark flicks him a look. “A word, Kace.” It’s an order I can’t imagine a man like Kace taking.
And I’m right. He doesn’t. “I’m better with a note,” he replies, and I don’t miss the musical reference others might. “I think I’ll stay right here with Aria.”
“It’s important or I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Kace’s lips press together and he downs his champagne. “Excuse me, Aria.” He pushes off the table and turns to Mark. “I’m here.” They walk away and I’m a nervous wreck.
I grab the champagne and then set it down. No. I really do not drink well. “That’s not the way to empty your glass.”
The pretty blonde who’s joined me smiles. “We have plenty.”
Her dress is red with etched flowers on the sheer sleeves. Her eyes friendly. Her skin perfect.
“We?” I ask. “You work here?”
“I’m Crystal, Mark’s wife, but I worked here for my mother-in-law before she retired and he took over. You’re new to the auctions.”
I’m stunned at how nice she is. “You’re Mark’s wife?”
She laughs. “You sound baffled. Yes. And I get that reaction often.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just he’s so hard and you’re so—”
“Not hard? Yes, I know. He’s got a hard shell, but he’s a softy inside, though you might not want to tell him I said that.”
I laugh. “Ah no. I will not be telling your husband that you said he was a softy. I’m Aria Alard from Accent Collectibles, by the way. I’m interested in coming to the VIP event.”
“Did you talk to Mark about it?”
My hope that she can help fades. “Yes. Mark told me to come prove myself tonight and bid.”
“Oh my God. That man. What are you interested in bidding on?”
“The violin.”
“Of course. A phenomenal prize. Well, we do have a strict policy about the VIP events. We have celebrities among the crowd, but you aren’t required to buy anything to prove yourself. You just need to fill out an application. Once you’re approved, you’re cleared to attend all future VIP events. Call me here tomorrow and I can help you.”
Hope returns, a bright and shiny star in my otherwise dark sky right now. “Thank you.”
“Of course. We’re glad to have you and please do not feel it’s necessary to buy anything.”
“I really actually want one of the auction items. My client desperately wants the wine from the Thomas Jefferson collection. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of watching the auctions in the past.”
“I see we have a newbie tonight.”
The comment comes from a tall, good looking man in an expensive suit, his brown hair neatly styled. “We have a lot of new guests tonight,” Crystal replies, and a woman nudges her arm and whispers to her before she glances at me. “I need to attend to the auction, but good luck with your prize tonight. And call me tomorrow.”
“Thanks again, Crystal.”
“I’m Alexander Voss,” the man says. “And you are?”
“Aria,” I say, offering nothing more. I’ve said too much to too many people and so I do what I do often: I turn the conversation. “You’re a regular here?”