A Wicked Song - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,55

flicking to Kace and back. “How’s it going?”

“Why, what do you mean?” I tease coyly.

Satisfaction etches her lovely face. “I knew it,” she says as if I’ve just told her I was marrying Kace, which is a crazy thought that comes out of nowhere. And his hand on my leg, I think. His touch is like a drug.

“Oh,” Crystal says, straightening. “I want to give you this before I forget.” She reaches into her purse and slides a piece of paper across to me. “Those are the wines I have to offer right now and a few I could get if you have a buyer. I’ve listed the prices we’d like to get to keep them off the auction block.”

I scan the list, excited about the offers. Even if Ed won’t agree to a retainer, there’s enough money here to help with Walker Security fees and carry me for a few months. Well, depending on the fee agreement with Riptide. I’m about to ask when Mark interjects. “Will we be seeing you in California, Ms. Alard?” Mark asks.

“Aria,” I correct, feeling Kace’s eye on me because I haven’t actually confirmed my plan to go with him. “And yes,” I add, squeezing Kace’s hand and looking at him. “I’ll be there.”

“Good to know,” he says, softly, a hint of a smile on his lips that melts me right there in my chair before I turn back to Mark. “I didn’t know you’d be there.”

“Now you do,” he says.

“Fabulous that you’re going,” Crystal interjects. “And since Mark didn’t explain, we own a gallery with Chris and Sara in San Francisco. We’ll be holding one of the events there.”

It’s becoming quite clear that the three of them are close friends, but before I can explore that idea, the waiter is already back, urging us to order.

“The pasta is actually worthy of your visit, baby,” Kace says leaning in close. “You’ll approve.”

Worthy of my visit. He’s speaking of my heritage and it’s surreal to actually claim that history. It’s good. Everything with this man is damn good. “Spaghetti and meatballs for me then,” I say, speaking to the waiter.

“We’ll make that two,” Kace chimes in, offering our menus to the waiter.

Once the waiter departs, Mark’s attention lands on me. “Tell me, Aria. How do you know so much about violins?”

“Sounds like someone was wrong about a certain violin,” Kace taunts.

He’s right, of course. Mark was wrong about the violin and he obviously knows. Mark sips his wine and just looks at me. “The violin was a very good knock-off, Aria,” Crystal says. “You actually saved our backsides. Our reputation is everything.”

“How pissed was your buyer?” Kace asks.

“He took the violin, at a discount,” Mark states.

Kace’s lips quirk and he swirls his wine in his glass. “That’s not an answer.”

“He got over it,” Crystal says. “And you, Aria, are the star of the moment. Mark says you have a client who spent time with the Stradivari family in Italy and he taught you to spot fakes?”

“That’s correct,” I say, but the bite of a lie to a new friend is a sharp one.

“Before the family went missing,” Mark interjects dryly. “Which is—lucky.”

“For you,” Kace reminds him. “She saved your ass, remember?”

Mark’s staring at me. “Did you know that the daughter of Alessandro Stradivari, the last living ancestor of Antonio, was named Aria?”

“I did, actually,” I say, having practiced this exact reply with my mother about a thousand times. “My brother is also Gio. Alessandro’s son was Gio.”

“Really?” Crystal says, leaning closer. “How did that happen?”

“My mother’s best friend was a violinist, who died tragically before finding any real fame. She was quite obsessed with Stradivarius. My mother named me and Gio after the family to honor her. I admit to having a bit of an obsession myself with the Stradivari because of the names, which is how I bonded so readily with the client who taught me to validate the instruments.”

“So much so that you did a better job than a woman who makes a living at being an expert,” Mark comments.

He knows, I think, and the truth is, my story might have rolled off my tongue, but it isn’t believable. I suddenly know why my mother said to avoid any connection to our past, which means the violin auction at Riptide. I stand out like a sore thumb.

Mark’s gaze turns to Kace and then flicks toward the bar. “I see Bigfoot’s following you around. Why?”

Kace must anticipate me running because he catches my hand.