A Reckless Note (Brilliance Trilogy #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,1
one here has to know who I really am. Ever. They can never know. We disappeared with my father, our historic bloodline ended forever. That’s what we let the world believe of my entire family. “I’m with Accent Collectibles,” I add. “Is Sofia here?”
Her brows furrow. “Sofia?”
“I was told she works here.”
Her brow crinkles and she says, “No. There’s no Sofia here.”
Disappointment stabs at me. “I must have the name wrong. I’m interested in attending one of your auctions.”
“Of course.” She slides a piece of paper in front of me and presents me with a list. “These are the upcoming auctions.”
I scan a summary list of the hot ticket items I’m hoping for, but the list is long. “I’m looking for a violin I was informed you’d be auctioning off.”
“Let me check for you.” She punches keys on her keyboard and then frowns. “I don’t see anything about a violin.” She glances over at her co-worker. “Brenda, is there a violin being auctioned off?”
“I do believe there is,” she says, “but that’s for the VIP event. It’s closed to the public, invitation only.”
Another female employee steps to Amber’s side, and glances at me. “Apologies. I’ll be just one moment.” She lowers her voice and speaks to Amber. “Where did Mr. Compton go for lunch? I have a document he told me to rush over to him and I—well, I forgot the restaurant’s name.”
“Monroe’s,” Amber replies.
The other woman thanks her, apologizes to me again, and then leaves. Amber refocuses on me. “I’m sorry. You would have to have an invitation from Mr. Compton himself.”
“How do I meet Mr. Compton?”
“You can try attending the auction Friday night. I know he’ll be there.”
It’s Tuesday. Friday night is forever away when my brother’s missing and that violin is absolutely what my brother was after. “Do you happen to have any details about the violin?”
Amber eyes Brenda. Brenda replies, “We’re not at liberty to release any information for the VIP event, and honestly, I’ve said too much as it is.”
Defeat threatens, but I reject it. “Thank you,” I say, turning away and stuffing the auction schedule into my briefcase. I’m already googling Monroe’s before I even step outside the building.
I pause just outside as I pull up an address only a few blocks away. My brother is looking for a violin. He has to believe this one is special, perhaps one of the three our father owned, one of which our mother claimed hid a secret—the “recipe,” as Sofia had said, writing in obvious code, to make the renowned Stradivarius violin worth tens of millions of dollars. But I don’t care about the recipe. I care about finding my brother.
I hurry down the street and into the crush of the New York City sidewalk, the scent of roasting nuts from a street vendor teasing my hungry belly. Eating hasn’t exactly been on the top of my priority list the past few days but there is no time to stop now. I need to catch Mark before he departs from the restaurant. The walk is short and I quickly reach my destination, but I’m forced to step sharply behind a concrete column as the woman from the gallery exits the restaurant. Once I spy her heading down the sidewalk, I close the space between me and the dining spot but pause at the door to do my best to hand brush my hair into decent form.
Giving up, I decide I just have to do this. I enter the restaurant, and since I’ve read the Riptide website in detail, I scan for Mark Compton, based on his photo.
The hostess greets me. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I do,” I say. “I’m with Mark Compton, but I’ll find him. I just need to head to the ladies’ room first.”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s to the far-right and so is his table.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Thank you.”
I inhale and force my nerves down hard and fast, pulling forward the courage my mother showed when she raised us and protected us. I can do this. I will do this. For my brother.
CHAPTER TWO
The restaurant is dimly lit, with a navy-blue theme that carries through to chairs, square lights hanging from the ceiling, and apparently, even to the glassware. I’m fairly certain based on the level of fluff, that a lunch plate would cost my weekly grocery money, but my belly doesn’t care. It rumbles loudly and the idea of my roasted nuts promises relief. For now, I weave through tables, forcing away