Page 75 of Steal My Heart

“I beg your pardon?”

“We have some questions?—”

“If this is about the coffee with a cop program I’m sponsoring, all questions can be forwarded to my general manager atThe Boardroom. If you’ll excuse me.”

I go to brush past him, when the cold metal of handcuffs catches my left wrist.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Remi

We’re in the middle of a soft jazz number when the crowd collectively turns their attention to the back of the room. The stage lights are too blinding for me to see what the hell is happening. Which poses another problem: I’ve been unable to locate the mayor from this vantage point.

The song ends, leading us to our first set break. The band members trickle off the stage, with me last, trying to steer clear of Ellis.

“Cannon, we’ve lost our eyes, and we have no Duke Man. Abort,” Maks says in my ear.

Turning my back on everyone, I whisper, “What happened?”

A tap on my shoulder has me turning around to find Ellis with his go-to smile firmly in place. “So, beautiful, what’s a guy like me gotta do?—”

“Did you hear me, Cannon? I’m going offline now. Abort,” Maks repeats in my ear.

“To get to know a pretty girl like you?”

Ignoring both of them, I spin on my heel and march back on stage. Grabbing the mic, I announce, “Ladies and gentlemen—” The microphone screeches, and I hold it away from my face. “Hot mic. Sorry about that. Almost as hot as this party, am I right?”

The crowd agrees, hooting and hollering.

“Speaking of hot, where is our man of the hour?” I move my free hand to my forehead, making a show of scanning the room. “Mayor Morrissey,” I call in a sing-song voice. “Come on up here and help me out with the next number.”

I’m going to remind every damn man why I’m in charge of this operation.

The mayor appears in the spotlight with a practiced smile and a wave, taking the stairs two at a time. Joining me, he reaches for the microphone, but I shift my body while simultaneously bringing it closer to my mouth. “Mayor, could you help me tickle the ivory?”

An eruption of cheers and suggestive whistles.

He waves off the audience, shaking his head, but I’m not letting him get away that easily. Grabbing his hand, I announce, “You heard the people. It’s your first mandate, Mr. Mayor.”

Another collective cheer, and the mayor makes a lead-the-way gesture with his free hand.

As I walk him to the piano, his whiskey-soaked breath tickles my ear. “I don’t play piano.”

That’s okay, I’m about to play you.

“Follow my lead,” I whisper back.

We both take a seat on the bench. The piano’s facing the stage, our backs to the curtain, and this is my one shot to make the grab.

“What song should we play?” I connect the mic to the piano stand as party goers shout out song suggestions.

Playing a bluesy freestyle riff with my right hand, my left is at my side, ready to swipe the phone. Until I realize my mistake.

Dammit. The cell is on his other hip.

“Mr. Mayor, I’ve got the perfect song for us.” Undeterred, I grab his hands and place his right index finger on G and his left on E. Pressing them in a simple rhythm, I move them in a solo version of chopsticks.

We get a mixed reaction of cheers and playful jeers.