Page 57 of Steal My Heart

He shakes his head, unlocking his phone and pulling up the song. Hitting play, the music fills the air, and I close my eyes, imprinting the chorus and progressions into my mind; the melody I pick up right away.

The song ends, and I open my eyes to find Angelo studying me with the same intensity he brings to just about everything, including a thorough finger-banging. I force my cheeks not to flush by sheer willpower. “What?” I ask.

“Can you play the song now?”

“Let’s find out.” Stretching my fingers, I walk up to the stage, taking a seat behind the baby grand.

A big grin spreads across my face as my fingers glide over the keys, the melody finding its way out of my right hand. The lush, rich sound of the piano fills the room, and I get lost in the chord progression.

My fingers linger over the last notes, and the room goes silent.

Angelo rises, giving me a standing ovation.

“Thank you.” I stand, giving a silly little curtsey.

“Come eat, and then you can finish the set,” he calls, and I realize the food’s been served.

Smiling, I exit the stage with a nice little spring in my step, taking a seat after Angelo pulls out my chair for me and then pulls it close to his.

Again with the sexy chair move.

“Even with a gun held to my head, I wouldn’t have been able to hear that song and play it. I’m in awe,” he tells me.

“Thank you.” I can’t help but grin.

“I took the liberty of ordering you the crawfish fettuccine, with no crawfish for the lady, of course, because she doesn’t like those little mudbug eyes looking at her.”

I sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Only that this man is hell bent on making me fall in love with him.

And what a colossal mistake that would be.

Angelo

I haven’t so much as thought of my camera in years, and yet here I am, using it to sneak pictures of Remi on stage. Better to seek forgiveness than ask for permission. And I’m one hundred percent certain that when she sees the final results, my clandestine photo session will be forgiven.

The woman was born to be a jazz pianist, no two ways about it. A talented musician, yes, but she has that certain something. A stage presence. Your eyes can’t help but be drawn to her.

Maks appears, jerking his head.

I rise, approaching the stage, and Remi pauses her play. “Is there a problem?”

That remains to be seen, but shaking my head, I tell her, “I have some business to attend to. Continue practicing.”

“Ha. You’ll have to carry me offstage, because I’m not leaving.”

“That can be arranged,” I promise her.

Rather liking that idea, I reluctantly leave to deal with what I’m sure is far less enjoyable business.

Moving swiftly to my office, I sit behind my desk, and Maks slides over a manila envelope. I open it, finding legal documents for one Ellis Harrell. “Sienna’s story checks out,” I comment, flipping through Ellis’ criminal file.

“Arrested for simple possession of a Schedule 2 substance, namely cocaine; currently on pretrial diversion.” Maks turns over another document. “The musician list for the mayor’s party.”