“I happen to love the West Village. It has personality.”
“I should take an Uber.”
He holds out his hand to me. “Nice to meet you. I’m your Uber.”
I laugh in spite of myself and accept his hand, heat darting up my arm and across my chest. “You’re—”
He kisses my hand and steals my breath and words. “I’m what?”
I have no idea what I was going to say and I’m not getting out of this ride. “You’re stubborn, but I’d appreciate the ride.”
His eyes light with approval that I ache for far too much. I’m afraid he’ll see this in my eyes, afraid I’m just reacting to being alone and him sharing a connection to my past that I desperately need right now. I turn and slide back into the seat. He shuts me inside the car and I pull on my seatbelt that feels necessary to navigate my life right about now. He joins me and settles in. “Where are we going?”
I give him the address and he revs the engine, power purring to a smooth hum. “Is this a Roadster?” I ask.
“It is. You like it?” He pulls us onto the road.
I run my hand over the dash. “It’s a beautiful car. A beast like your violin.”
He laughs. “I’ve never thought of my violin as a beast, but I like that analogy. A beast with a life of its own.”
I want to ask what that means. I’m curious about his training, his practice, his entire life, actually, but I’m sure everyone is. And I don’t dare show just how knowledgeable I am about music anyway. A reckless note can change everything, I remind myself.
“You didn’t get the wine,” he says. “That sucks.”
“Yes, it does. Calling my customer and telling him is going to suck all over again, too.”
“Alexander made buttloads in oil and hates to lose. He would have paid another hundred just to win.”
“I could tell that. It was in his eyes. The irony is that my client is old oil money.”
“They’re both crazy,” he says. “A bottle of wine you can’t drink is not my kind of investment, but you know, to each their own.”
“You’d be surprised at some of the requests we get. People have all kinds of quirky interests and when they have money to blow, they will pay to satisfy their interest.”
“And occasionally you get to make a purchase that also interests you,” he assumes. “Like the violin.”
I don’t deny or confirm that statement. “Is it really supposed to be a Stradivarius?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“Do you know what source validated its authenticity?” I ask.
“I don’t, but I trust Mark to ensure it’s the real deal. He’s damn good at what he does.”
“And so are many of the counterfeiters.” I’m showing too much knowledge and I change the subject. Or redirect it. “Obviously, you, of all people, have played a Stradivarius.”
He smiles. “Among many other great instruments, but it will always be my instrument of choice. Have you ever played one?”
“I’m not a violinist. That would be you. And perhaps the single most famous violinist ever.”
He glances over at me. “I’m a niche market. The people who know me know that niche market, like you. You knew who I was.”
“You’ve brought people to the instrument. You made violins cool.”
“To many, I defile the instrument and the craft.”
“Because you play pop music and wear denim and leather? That’s ridiculous. They know how well you play. You just stepped out of the box and that makes some people uncomfortable.”
He pulls to a halt at a stoplight. “But not you.”
“I’m envious of your courage.”
He rotates to face me and leans in close, so very close. “Are you now?” he challenges softly.
“I am,” I whisper and I have this insane urge to run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.
Someone honks and his jaw clenches, as if he regrets the interruption. We both settle back in our seats and it’s only then that I realize I’d turned to face him, that’s we’d turn to face each other. He turns down my street and adrenaline surges through me. I don’t know how I’m at my apartment with this man. I motion to the front of the building and he parks in front.
“Thank you for the ride.”
He kills the engine and gets out. I fumble with my seatbelt and before I’ve even reached for my door, he’s opening it. I rotate to exit and my skirt hikes up my legs, the burn of his stare, hot. I glance up at him and find him staring down at me, something unreadable in his expression. He offers me his hand and it’s almost like a question. I’m not sure what that question is, but there is only one answer, this moment, this night. I check that my purse is at my hip and then steel myself for the impact of his touch, before sliding my palm against his palm, sucking in a breath with the charge of that connection.
He pulls me to my feet and close, his woodsy scent once again teasing my nostrils. For just a few beats, I’m on an invisible island with this man, one that floats in an ocean with the stars and moon shining down on us. “I do believe,” he says softly, his voice a low rasp I feel in every part of me, “that there’s a song in your story.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He steps back and takes me with him before releasing me to shut the door. I move more fully onto the sidewalk and then he’s beside me, and we’re walking to my building. I pull out my key and unlock the door, flipping on the light before I turn to face him. “My apartment is above the store.”
He leans closer and presses one hand on the doorjamb above my head. “Aria means melody or song in Hebrew and Italian.”
He knows too much. He sees too much but there’s no running from what he already sees. “Yes,” I confirm. “Yes, it does.”
His gaze lowers to my lips and I swear he’s thinking of kissing me. I want him to kiss me like I have not wanted ever before, but then his gaze lifts to mine and he says, “Good night, Aria.”
He pushes off the wall and walks to his car. I’m stunned at his abrupt departure and I quickly turn and enter the store, shutting the door, locking up, and turning on the alarm. And then I just lean on the door and stare into the empty space. I don’t know what just happened, but I feel more alone than ever. And I didn’t even ask him if he knows Sofia.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The building creaks and hums with random noises that I suspect have always been present.
Ed is not happy about the wine, but I promise to find him a new treasure and quickly. I spend a good part of the night searching through my brother’s apartment and office for a clue to where he is now. Again. I’ve done this now three times. I finally decide to try to get into his cellphone account and just have the peace of mind that he’s using his phone. An hour later, I can’t figure out his password and I know I need to hire a private investigator to dig into this problem safely, but even that makes me nervous. And it’s going to cost money.