mean, then?” His hand grazed the keys of the upright piano, touching without stirring a note.
She shivered as she remembered the way he’d played so carefully over her skin long ago. “I was sixteen.” She tapped out a quick tune on the other end of the keyboard, her nerves all too ready for an outlet. “Tough sell? I think not.”
“My poor ego.” He skimmed a scale.
“Sorry to have wounded you.” She mirrored his notes. How many times had they done this?
“No, I mean it. You’re good,” he said without a trace of sarcasm. “It’s nice to have someone who’s real around me, someone I can trust.”
“Am I supposed to cry for the poor little rich rock star?”
“Not at all.” He slid onto the piano bench, his scale taking shape into a tune, the music relaxing and drawing her in at the same time.
Unable to resist, she sat down next to him and continued to twine her notes with his as easily as taking in air. “You know, one of the things that attracted me to you before was how you never seemed impressed by my father’s wealth or influence.”
“I respect your father—even if he did get me sent away from you. Hell, if I had a daughter and—” His melody tangled. “Ah, crap. Okay, let me roll back that statement and reframe it.”
“I know what you meant.” Her hands fell to her lap, the piano going silent. “No parent would be happy about their sixteen-year-old having sex, much less reckless sex.”
His face went dark with guilt, his hand gravitating to her face until he cupped her cheek. “I should have protected you better.”
“We both should have been more responsible.” She put her hand over his without thinking, her body going on autopilot around him as it always had, whether with touches or with music.
In less than a day, they’d fallen right back into the synchronicity they’d shared before, and God, that scared her spitless. She’d dated other men—slept with other men—but being with them never had this sense of ease. Already, she felt herself swaying toward him as his body leaned into hers.
Magnetic.
His hand still held her face, the calluses on his fingers familiar, a reminder of the countless hours he devoted to playing the guitar. Music hummed through her now, the sound of the two of them occupying the same space.
Her lips parted in anticipation—
The doorbell rang.
She jolted back as it rang again. How had she missed someone coming up outside?
Malcolm stood, his hand sliding away, then coming back to stroke her jaw once again. “That’s dinner.” He frowned. “And my phone.”
He pulled his cell from his pocket.
“Supper?” she parroted, surprised she could even speak at all. She vaguely recalled him mentioning sending his driver/bodyguard for food. He had a whole staff at his disposal day and night, another reminder of how different their worlds were these days.
On his way to check the door, Malcolm said over his shoulder, “My chauffeur will set everything up while I take this call. All I need is a blanket and pillow for the sofa.”
Before she could answer, he’d opened the door, waving his driver inside and stepping outside with his phone. Clearly, he didn’t want her to hear his conversation. Which made her wonder a little about what he had to say.
And wonder a lot about who he said it to.
How the hell had he almost kissed her?
Malcolm gripped the wooden rails of Celia’s small balcony landing just outside her front door. With ragged breaths, he drew in muggy night air as he listened to his driver setting up dinner inside. Bodyguards were stationed in the yard below and outside the brick-wall fence.
Malcolm’s cell phone continued to buzz, and he knew he had to answer. And he would return the call—as soon as his heart rate settled back to normal.
He’d come here to make amends with Celia. To put his feelings of guilt to rest by helping her now like he couldn’t before.
Where did sex factor into that?
It didn’t. It hadn’t. Until he’d seen her again.
These days he had control over his libido, enjoying healthy, safe relationships. He’d sure as hell never forgotten to put on a condom ever again. But he knew protecting Celia was about more than safe sex. That wouldn’t keep either of them safe from the heartache of resurrecting something that was long done.
Plucking his phone from his pocket, he thumbed Redial and waited for Colonel John Salvatore to answer. His old headmaster from boarding school.
Now his Interpol handler. The man had traded in a uniform for a closet full of gray suits worn with a red tie.
“Salvatore here,” his longtime mentor answered in clipped tones, gravelly from years of barking military orders.
“Calling you back, sir. Any word on Celia Patel’s vehicle?”
“I checked the local department’s report and they lifted prints, but with so many students in the school, there are dozens of different impressions.”
His frustration ratcheted up. “And the security cameras?”
“Nothing concrete, but we did pinpoint the time the flyer was placed on the vehicle. We just couldn’t see who did it. Kids were on lunch break, and a large group passed in front of the camera. Once they cleared, the flyer was under the wiper.”
Malcolm scanned the street beyond the brick security wall, monitoring the lazy traffic for warning signs. “So whoever placed it there appears to be cognizant of the school’s surveillance system.”
“Apparently. One of my people is in between assignments and agreed to look into it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Salvatore oversaw a group of freelance agents and field operatives, mostly comprised of former students. People who knew how to push the boundaries. Individuals with high-profile day jobs that allowed them to move in influential circles for gathering intelligence.
Except, today Malcolm needed Salvatore’s help, and as much as he hated to ask anyone for anything, when it came to Celia … well, apparently he still had a weak spot. “I have a favor to ask.”
“With what?” Salvatore answered without hesitation.
“I need an untraceable car and some ID delivered here tonight.” A safeguard in place to escape with Celia in the morning, just in case his gut feeling played out. He’d learned to trust his gut.
“Not that I’m arguing, but just curious,” Salvatore said drily. Nothing had gotten by the old guy when he’d been headmaster, either. “Why not have your personal detail take care of that? You’ve got a top-notch team.”
In fact, some of them were former agents.
“This is too important.” Celia was too important. “If it were just me, I could take care of myself. But with someone drawing a target on Celia’s back …”
His fist thumped the railing, words choking on the dread in the back of his throat.
“Fair enough.” The questions ended there. The two of them worked that tightly together with that kind of faith. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”
“Thanks. I owe you.” More than he could ever repay.
Colonel John Salvatore had become his father figure. The only real father figure he’d ever known, since his biological dad cut out on his family in the middle of the night, moving on to play his next honky-tonk gig. The bastard had sent a birthday card from the Florida Keys when Malcolm turned eleven. He never heard from him again.
“Malcolm,”