Overture - Skye Warren Page 0,1

because the famous solo cellist on the Billboard Top 100 was Harry March’s lover—until their dramatic breakup that was covered by TMZ. “It’s an incredible opportunity, especially considering I haven’t been touring.”

My cheeks flush because I hadn’t meant to say that. It sounds like an accusation, even though it isn’t. Well, not exactly.

Liam is the reason I haven’t been touring.

“Because you wanted a well-rounded education,” he says.

“Right.” The word comes out hollow because it doesn’t really matter what I think. Or at least it didn’t matter for a long time. If Liam had said I wanted to be a circus clown, I would have gone along with it as a scared twelve-year-old girl. All I’d wanted was a place to call home.

Liam gave me that, which means more than he can ever know.

Soon I’m graduating from that well-rounded education. I’m going to turn eighteen. And then I’ll leave on the tour, walking away from the only home I’ve ever known.

LIAM

The doorbell rings at exactly noon. I like punctuality, but I’d like it even better if members of the press never spoke to Samantha Brooks again. I’ve limited their access to her greatly—maybe even to her detriment, considering press helps her get concert invitations and recording contracts.

I never planned to have children, and at the age of twenty-eight I had hardly been in a position to be the father of a twelve-year-old girl. That’s exactly what happened when a judge signed the papers giving me guardianship of Samantha. Her mother had been long gone. Her father had just died. Her brother had no interest in a sister he’d never known.

Somehow the two of us, complete and utter strangers, became a family.

The sweet strains of the violin follow me downstairs. She practices every day before school. Every day after school. Every weekend. It’s become the dew that coats every part of my life, a fresh breath of daylight in a world of dark.

It’s hard to believe that in only a few weeks the house will be silent. I steel my expression into remoteness. It isn’t the stodgy old reporter’s fault that I resent the tour that will take Samantha away from me—and the press that’s naturally a part of it.

“Hello.” A woman in a sleek suit gives me a slow smile. “You must be Liam North.”

My eyebrows rise. This isn’t an aging gentleman with white hair and a plaid sweater vest. Maybe the magazine thought a woman would be able to connect better with Samantha. The thought gives me pause. Maybe she’s been missing a female influence in her life.

Dating has been the last thing on my mind the past six years.

“That’s me.” I shake her hand. “I’m going to sit in on the interview.”

She purses ruby-red lips. “Why?”

Already this interview is going differently than the last one. The older gentleman had spent more time reminiscing about meeting Fritz Kreisler to ask too many questions. When he remembered to do the actual interview, he asked the kinds of standard questions Samantha remembered at breakfast. What routine do you have to warm up? What’s the hardest piece you’ve played?

The man hardly noticed that I was in the room except to send me a reproving glance when he asked about her schooling. Why not attend a performing arts school? Did she want to move to New York City or London where she could have more exposure to professional musicians?

“Because I’m her legal guardian,” I say, not bothering to hide the steel beneath the words.

“Does that mean she isn’t allowed to speak her mind?”

Christ. I have half a mind to slam the door on this reporter’s face. I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her. If this were six years ago, I would do just that.

It could risk Samantha’s involvement in the tour, though. She earned the right to do this. I may be her legal guardian, but not for much longer.

“It means it’s my job to protect her from members of the press who are more interested in a juicy story than the privacy of an underage young woman.” I keep my voice level, but there’s no mistaking my meaning. If she tries to pull anything in front of Samantha, she’s gone.

The reporter smiles. “I’ll be on my best behavior then. And if I step out of line, maybe we can meet up after and you can teach me a lesson I won’t forget.”

I stare after her as she heads into the house, following the sound of the violin without knowing