Page 19 of Thorns of Death

“Ma chérie, you played exquisitely,” the conductor continued, beaming as he took both my hands into his and squeezed them. I was sure my smile resembled a grimace more than anything.

“Thank you.”

“You make grown men cry.” He sniffled. “It hits me right in the heart.”

Oh my gosh, I had to get out of here, or I might hit someone in their balls. I couldn’t see that man again, or I wouldn’t be liable for my actions.

“I hope you don’t mind, Maestro Andrea. I couldn’t resist meeting such a talented violinist.”

I bit my tongue to stop a snarky comment like “I’d never met such a talented cheating bastard” escaping and letting the whole music community know I slept with the douchebag. Andrea’s penchant for gossip made that of any grandma, housewife, and bored socialite combined look mild.

“Ah, Mr. Marchetti—” Oh, fuck me! Just like that, confirmation that Reina had been right. Not that I doubted her. I’d just hoped more than anything that she was wrong. God, why couldn’t it be anyone else but Marchetti. Shit!

Two sets of eyes stared at me in anticipation as if I was supposed to say something. Maybe acknowledge his cheating ass? Well, I didn’t want to. I wanted to smash my violin on his gorgeous head, and maybe dig his eyes out with my bow for good measure.

Jesus, violence had never been my thing. Until today apparently. Or that one time with Reina, but I refused to think about that right now. Or at all, as a matter of fact. It was the pact we made that night. Never to speak of it, and never to utterhisname.

“Did you hear that, Miss Evans?” Andrea beamed like a 1000-watt light bulb.

I blinked. “Hear what?”

“Mr. Marchetti said he has never heard anyone play ‘Albinoni’ so exquisitely.” I bet he wouldn’t say that if I smacked him upside the head. The ringing in his ears would then be the best music he’d ever heard.

I wished I knew Italian curse words to utter, but I had to settle for Russian as I flitted through every single one I had in my mental arsenal. And how dare he show up here looking so fucking hot. “Enrico Marchetti is one of our biggest donors,” he added.

I bet he was. Fucking criminal.

“How lovely.” I tilted my head, my lips twisting into something resembling a smile. I’d bet my life he could see it exactly for what it was. “Please excuse me.”

Displeasure flashed in the conductor’s eyes. I didn’t give a shit. It was better than me saying something rude. Like calling him a deceitful, cheating scumbag. Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and headed for my friends. I had to get out of here.

Each step away from Enrico drew another relieved breath into my lungs. Every so often, I was stopped, congratulated, and asked to join an after-party. I nodded, answered with vague “maybes,” and kept going.

My limbs shook, whether from the shock of seeing him again or the memories of that incredible night, I didn’t know. All I knew was that seeing him had made me feel lightheaded. And not in a good way.

My thoughts scrambled and my mind elsewhere, I turned the corner and collided into a wall of muscle. I winced, taking a step back.

“Excuse me,” I muttered at the same time that the masculine, citrusy scent registered. It was so unique, there was no misinterpreting who it was. Lifting my head slowly, I met his dark gaze, and then without a second thought, I turned and headed in the opposite direction.

“I wouldn’t recommend you leave me for a third time, Isla,” he stated casually. Fuck, why did his accent have to be so hot? “It will make me chase you all the more.”

The sound of my name on his lips sent yet another shudder rolling through me. It reminded me of the ways he grunted my name as he—

I shook my head. No, I couldn’t go there. That night had to be erased out of my mind like it never existed.

If only I didn’t have to see him. It was hard not to notice how good he looked. One hand in the pocket of his black pants and the other by his side, he towered over me. The pose was casual, but it reminded me of a predator’s. I could try and run, but he’d catch me. Sooner or later.

I’d have to deal with it. With him.

“Mr. Marchetti, what can I do for you?” I asked, thankful my voice didn’t betray my scattered emotions. The way his lips curved in a sensual way had me cursing at my stupid question. “Actually, scratch that. I’m busy and my time is limited. There’s nothing I will ever do for you. Now, why are you here?”

This guy could wreck me with a single strike, but I refused to play meek and nice. Fuck that shit. I’d go down fighting, even if it made me an idiot.

“Tick-tock,” I said, tapping my foot impatiently. “I have many fans to give my time to, Mr. Marchetti.”

Displeasure flickered across his expression every time I said his name so formally. So I kept doing it. Was I being petty? Probably. He should have thought about that before sleeping around on his wife. With me.

“Wrong,dolcezza. Your only fan is—and will be—me. From here on out.” My jaw slackened and possibly landed on the floor as he added, “Don’t act so surprised. You didn’t think we were finished, did you?”