Overture - Skye Warren Page 0,4

dating anyone.”

“Oh, come now,” she says, coaxing. “There must be someone you’re interested in. I know that you attend St. Agnes. That must give you even more opportunity to meet boys than if you only had tutors.”

There is someone I’m interested in, but it’s wholly inappropriate. Wrong on every level. Completely forbidden. I barely even let myself think it, but Liam is the only person that comes to mind when I dream about kissing or sex. “It’s really just me and my violin,” I say, trying to sound breezy.

I think that’s how a woman of the world should sound. Someone who doesn’t have a crush on the man who’s been her guardian for the past six years. That crush feels painfully childish with this woman sitting in front of me, everything about her sexy and grown-up.

Thankfully she moves on to asking about friends and about school. Safe questions.

When she’s done, she closes her notebook with a brusque snap. “Thank you so much for talking with me, Samantha. I appreciate your time and your candor.”

My gaze hits the floor because I wasn’t completely honest. It’s not that I feel guilty about that exactly. I don’t owe a random reporter my deepest secrets. But I do feel guilty about having the secret, about having a crush on the man who’s only ever protected me.

That man waits in the hallway when Kimberly opens the door. “Just the person I wanted to see,” she says. “The rest of my questions are for you.”

CHAPTER THREE

The smallest violin comes in size 1/64th, perfect for children aged two and three.

LIAM

Christ.

Samantha stands behind the reporter, her eyes wide with curiosity. And something else. Betrayal? “Questions for me?” I ask, keeping my expression blank. I sure as hell hope she isn’t coming on to me with my ward in the same room.

Kimberly gives me a wry smile. “Part of my interview process. I like to speak to the important people in the musician’s lives, get their perspectives.”

I’ve been an important person in Samantha’s life for the past six years. It wasn’t a role I particularly wanted, but now that I’m here—the thought of her leaving makes me feel hollow. “I see.”

“We can use your office,” the reporter prompts.

“Right,” I say, hiding my reluctance. I don’t want to discuss my feelings for Samantha with anyone. They cut too deep for words. I don’t want to hinder her press opportunity. The way she stood up to me when she asked to speak to the reporter alone—it was a small thing, but it was new. God, she’s going to be eighteen in a few weeks. I can support her independence… even if it kills me.

I stand aside to hold the door open for Samantha to leave. The last thing I need is her watching me while I talk about… what, exactly? My perspective, whatever that means. There’s a dark undercurrent to my thoughts about her. Like the way I keep thinking of her expression as she moaned.

The betrayal in her wide brown eyes gets deeper as she passes by me on her way to the hallway. She’s hurt because I’m kicking her out of the room. She’d be hurt a lot more if she knew these thoughts I have about her. That’s why I plan on tamping them down—way down.

I close the door and glare at a knot in the wood. Get your shit together, North.

I’ve done some limited press for my company, making formal comments on the security for a high-profile client when it’s required. More than that, I’m on conference calls with some of the highest-ranking politicians in the country. Nothing rattles me.

The look of betrayal in Samantha’s eyes—that rattles me.

I don’t join the reporter at the armchairs. Instead I take a seat behind my desk, leaving her to sit on the other side. “Your questions?” I ask, my tone brusque.

She sits down in a businesslike manner. “Thanks for taking the time, Mr. North. I understand that you’ve had custody of Samantha Brooks for six years.”

“That’s right.”

“How is it that you became her guardian?”

“Her father passed away in—”

“Of course, the death of Ambassador Brooks is a matter of public record. I’m referring to the fact that you aren’t related to Samantha through either blood or marriage.”

The question hits me like a sledgehammer. I should have seen it coming. Years of military strategy should have prepared me for this, but I’m blindsided. For six years no one has asked me this question beyond the perfunctory reason that her father died. Her