Page 24 of Hard Wired

Chapter Eight

Dominic sat on the piano bench, waiting for Sylvie to draw the bow across the instrument. If she didn’t know how to play, she was certainly making a good show of it. But he wouldn’t put anything past this woman.

Maybe he’d won their first round a few weeks ago, but today he was off his game. He was still reeling from Sandford’s call yesterday. Maybe that explained it.

He hadn’t been able to reach Raymond, and now that Sandford was against them, he didn’t know how to get a message to Warren. He’d thought he was in limbo before, but this was so much worse.

Did he need to find a new attorney? But wouldn’t that just piss off Uncle Charles? Would his uncle view that as a potential sign Dominic was flipping—an act of war?

Sylvie was proving a very welcome diversion from his problems. When she’d first stepped into the room, he’d had a fleeting worry that she could be in danger if his uncle chose today to strike at him. But he’d dismissed the thought. Charles had given him some time before he had to make a decision. There was no real reason for concern and every reason for him to enjoy her visit.

Sylvie had worn a tight, cropped tank, which showed off both her perky little breasts and the tattoos that covered the backs of her shoulders and the top halves of her arms. All black ink, clearly by a single artist. Beautiful work. He had an urge to strip her bare and study them more closely, like she was a museum piece.

If only he had the slightest chance of that happening. Maybe she found him attractive, but after their last meeting and his asshole stunt, she wasn’t going to let him too close again.

So far, she’d called him a “moody emo guy” and a vampire. But it was better than murderer or mobster.

He did like listening to her talk, though. She kept saying surprising things. Making him smile, even if he tried not to show it. And making him talk, in a way he rarely did. In a matter of minutes, he’d told her about his family—leaving out Raymond, because that subject stung too much.

And this, right now, what she was doing? Even more surprising.

Sylvie had just started to play. Damn. She had skills.

She was playing Debussy’s Claire de Lune. The bow moved with fluid grace across the strings. The hypnotic melody sent chills to Dominic’s nerve endings.

Sylvie’s version was expressive. Tender. The softness of her touch proved she’d studied the instrument well. He watched her biceps flexing while her torso swayed slightly. Her tank rode up at the waist, revealing taut stomach muscles.

Her volume increased with the pace. Building toward a crescendo. He’d never heard this arrangement of the song before.

Fuck. It was like sex.

And his body was responding in kind. His pulse matched the beat of the music. His eyes roved shamelessly over the curves of her body as she played. Delicious zaps of pleasure ran along his spine and into his ball sac.

He wouldn’t let himself get hard because he doubted Sylvie would appreciate that. But he was starting to sweat from the effort of keeping himself in control.

So much of his life was ugly. And here she was, filling his day with beauty.

Suddenly, she stopped. The bow and violin lowered to her sides.

“Why didn’t you finish the song? You were just getting to the best part.”

She shrugged, replacing the instrument on the wall. “I proved my point.”

“Okay, so you can play. I should never have doubted it. I’d love to keep listening.”

Sylvie’s grin was devious. “I’m sure you would.”

Oh, that burned. And he completely deserved it.

“How’d you learn to play like that?”

She opened her mouth, and Dominic could already tell she was going to deny him again. So, he cut her off. “No, let me guess. Your parents were folk singers. You grew up at the feet of Joni Mitchell and John Denver in their glory days.”

“I’m not that old.” But she was still smiling. He kept going.

“But you were a rebel and only enjoyed music written at least a century ago. You entered a music conservatory in Vienna at the tender age of thirteen. Then…you were rescued by the American military from a war-torn country during your world tour, and that’s how you ended up indentured to a philistine like Max Bennett. You’re working off your debt.”

“That’s quite a story. And makes absolutely no sense.”

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