Tongue of Fire

Chapter 1

"No."

The silence that follows that single word Abigail Stone has just spoken is more devastating and effective than any scream.

On the other end of the phone, one of the Fux Music executives seems to have forgotten how to breathe.

She inspects her nails with indifference while she waits for the man to find his voice.

"Ms. Stone, I think you didn’t quite understand the terms we’re offering your…"

"I understood them perfectly," she cuts him off in that silky voice, sharp as a razor’s edge. "And my answer is still the same. My client is worth three times what you’re proposing, and we both know it."

Abigail swivels her chair toward the window in her Manhattan office and crosses her legs, the red soles of her heels on display. The view of Central Park—one she knows by heart—seems more entertaining than this conversation.

"But the current market…"

"The current market is exactly what we say it is," she cuts in again with that particular ice-cold tone whose chill could seep through the receiver and frost the line. "If you don’t know how to value what I’m offering, there are three other labels waiting. Have a good day."

She hangs up without waiting for an answer.

It’s a very risky move and Abigail knows it, but she didn’t get where she is by playing it safe.

The proof is on the wall to her left, where dozens of photographs show her with all the stars she’s forged in the music scene.

Singers who now grace the covers of the biggest magazines, voices that fill stadiums, careers she built from scratch.

Each of those photographs, including a Best New Artist Grammy for Martin Reed, three years in a row, two Platinum Records for singer Isabella Cruz, and the Executive of the Year award she accepted with the same coolness she accepts everything else, is a small reminder that Abigail Stone can hang up on whoever she damn well pleases.

Exactly seven minutes later, her phone rings again and her secretary announces it’s the same Fux Music executive. Abigail lets the corner of her mouth curl before answering.

"Abigail Stone," she answers, as if she didn’t know who it is.

"Ms. Stone, we’ve reconsidered the offer."

Of course they have. They always do. Twenty minutes later, Abigail ends the call having hammered out new terms that beat the initial proposal.

She allows herself a moment of satisfaction, leaning back in her chair, then goes back to work, focused and calculating, but she’s interrupted when her office door opens without warning.

Only one person in the world dares to walk in without knocking: Liam Cottet, her partner and friend, who appears with a grin and two cups of coffee.

"I heard you finished castrating that poor guy from Fux Music," he says with an amused smile. "Who was it? Eric? Oliver?"

Abigail lowers her laptop lid a notch and looks up.

"No, I think it was James, though I’m not sure," Abigail replies with a flash of wickedness in her eyes.

"For God’s sake, he’s a kid. He must’ve shit his pants," Liam says, nudging the door shut with his foot.

Abigail hates when he does that because he can’t gauge how hard he closes it and the sound annoys her. She also hates that he comes in without knocking, but after fifteen years of seeing his face almost daily, there are certain things she lets slide.

Liam is tall, almost six foot three. Lean, with very dark hair.

He has light eyes and ridiculously long lashes which, added to his almost perpetual smile and the fact that he doesn’t look fifty-two, make him very attractive.

But he’s a man out of reach for anyone who looks at him, because he’s in love with his wife, Vanessa, and only has eyes for her.

"So, did it go well?" Liam asks, handing her a coffee before sitting down.

"Let’s say the terms were negotiated satisfactorily for us," Abigail answers like a robot.

His smile stretches like chewing gum as he settles in, crossing one leg over the other, probably doing mental math about what they’re going to make.

"Do you want something?" Abigail asks, cutting off his satisfied expression.

"Jesus, Abby, seriously, you need to work on your people skills," he complains, blowing on his coffee delicately.

"Liam, I have work to do," she says, not in the mood for the usual lecture.

"Okay, I need you to do something."

Abigail arches a brow.

"You need me to? Am I your secretary now?" she snaps, pinning him with a withering stare.

He raises his hands in a clear peacekeeping gesture. He knows how to handle her—or at least he thinks he does—but sometimes he forgets, and now Abigail Stone is looking at him with those gray-green eyes that seem about to unleash a storm.

"No, damn it, you’re not my secretary," Liam replies. "You should go out more, seriously. Anyway, never mind. Do you remember Jimmy Walt, the one who landed us the McKenzie brothers in Nashville?"

Abigail could pretend she has to think, but she doesn’t need to; her memory is excellent, even when she wishes it wasn’t.

"The one who always smells like bourbon? What about him?" she asks.

"He called me this morning. Says there’s a voice in some lost town in Tennessee that’s going to blow our minds, literally." Liam grimaces and opens his eyes wide. "His exact words were it was like Aretha Franklin had had a baby with an Andalusian gypsy."

Abigail arches one of her perfect brows and looks at him like he’s an idiot.

"Jimmy Walt says a lot of things when he’s been drinking. I don’t know why you listen to him."

"Because he wasn’t drinking when he told me, that’s why I’m listening," Liam replies. "In fact, he sounded more sober than ever. He says the girl sings Friday nights in a bar in a place called…"

Liam lifts a hand and asks her to wait while he pulls out his phone and checks his notes.

"Smithville."

"Smithville? What’s that?" Abigail asks with disdain, though the name rings a bell.

"A town of just over five thousand people. According to Jimmy, it’s in the middle of nowhere, but he says the trip’s worth it."

Abigail leans back in her chair, fixing Liam with a stare so penetrating he feels like she’s reading his every last thought.

"Sounds perfect to me. Have a great trip."

"Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I can’t go. My mother turns seventy this weekend, and if I don’t show up, she’ll disinherit me. You know how dramatic she gets, and Vanessa adores her; she’ll ask for a divorce if I tell her I can’t go."

"You’re a millionaire; you’ll survive. And Vanessa would never leave you; she looks at you the same way you look at her. It’s nauseating," Abigail replies.

"Come on, don’t do this to me, Abby, I’m serious," Liam says. "You have to go."

"Me? Send Lee or Jennifer. What the hell do we pay them for?"

"Lee’s recording in London and Jennifer’s negotiating Isabella’s contract in Los Angeles. If you left this office more often you’d know that. It’s just you and me," Liam explains.

"Tomorrow I have three meetings scheduled, a dinner with another Fux executive on Saturday, and Sunday I have to review several contracts that…"

"You can do all of that from anywhere with an internet connection," Liam cuts in, "and besides, you shouldn’t be working on the weekend."

"But you want me to go to that town," Abigail accuses.

"That’s different. If there’s even a remote chance that this girl is as good as Jimmy says…"

"She can wait until Lee or Jennifer are free—or you—so you can relish listening to her next week. I’m not wasting my weekend traveling to some godforsaken place to hear another bar singer with big dreams."

"You’ll go," Liam says, standing, "because we never let an opportunity slip by; we always get there first. That’s why we have the reputation we have."

Abigail clenches her jaw.

"And because you’d never make my mother celebrate her birthday without me."

"You’re an asshole," Abigail spits, planting her hands flat on the desk as if she’s about to throw something at him.

Mrs. Cottet, with her eighty kilos of unconditional love and her tendency to make lasagna for the whole neighborhood, is the closest thing to a mother figure Abigail has known—and that’s saying something, since she has her own.

Her prodigious memory makes her relive a memory without permission as if it were happening right now, only back then she was ten, not forty-two like she is now.

Abigail was holding a golden trophy because she had just won a debate contest at school.

Her cheeks were flushed with pure excitement and a radiant smile lit her face as she ran to her mother.

All she wanted was a hug or a simple congratulations, any gesture to show she was proud of her, but instead she met the cold gaze of Brigitte Stone, rigid as a marble statue.

"Success isn’t celebrated; it’s stockpiled, Abigail," her voice was like thunder then and it echoes with the same clarity in her head now. "Emotions are for the weak, and you are not weak."

"Abby," Liam says. "Where’d you go?"

She blinks, confused for a second—but only a second, because she’s a woman made of steel.

"Fine," she concedes. "I’ll go to your damn nowhere town to listen to the bar singer, but I’m doing it for your mother, not for you."

"Of course," Liam smiles. "We’ll save you a slice of cake."

"Fuck you. I just hope she doesn’t blow out my eardrums."

"Trust me, Jimmy’s a fucking drunk, but he’s got an ear for this stuff."

"Jimmy only hears the clink of ice in his glass when it’s empty," Abigail objects.

"Yeah, that too. In any case, think of this as an adventure…"

"Liam," Abigail cuts him off. "Now would be a good time to remind me why we’re friends."

"Because you love me, and because I love you even though I can feel the cold coming off you from this side of the desk."

Liam gets to his feet.

"Call me when you get there, and for God’s sake, also when you hear her. I need to know if she’s really that good."

Five minutes after Liam leaves, Patricia, her secretary, pokes her head through the door he left open. Another thing that annoys Abigail and that he has undoubtedly done on purpose.

"Ms. Stone, do you need me to make any reservations?" the woman asks.

"Yes, a flight to Nashville for tomorrow morning, and a rental car. And find the most decent hotel in a place called Smithville, Tennessee—assuming such a place exists."

The comment is pure sarcasm. The town exists; Abigail checked as soon as Liam left, which is why she knows her fastest option is to fly to Nashville and from there drive to that out-of-the-way town whose name still sounds familiar, though she’ll amuse herself later figuring out why.

"Right away, ma’am," Patricia says.

When the woman leaves her office, Abigail picks up her phone to call Liam.

"You can’t be backing out already," he answers from his office.

"You didn’t tell me the name of the bar," she says, pen between her fingers and her hand poised over her planner, waiting impatiently.

"I know, I have to talk to Jimmy again. I’ll call you when I have it."

"You know I hate working with incomplete information. And the girl’s name? You don’t know that either? No, of course you don’t," she answers herself.

Liam lets out a guilty little chuckle.

"Her name is the least important thing right now; all we care about is her voice," Liam says. "So keep an open mind, please. You know diamonds in the rough are sometimes…"

"Diamonds in the rough are where I choose to look," Abigail interrupts abruptly, thinking of prestigious conservatories, national contests, or clubs in Las Vegas and Nashville—not a bar in a hidden town.

"Yes, there too," Liam confirms in a teasing tone. "I’ll call when I have info. Go home and get some rest."

Liam hangs up. Abigail doesn’t like being told what to do, either.

She spends the next few hours reviewing contracts, answering emails, and scheduling calls for the following week.

The office empties out without her noticing, the way it does almost every day.

It’s almost midnight when she closes her laptop and stands to grab her purse and suit jacket.

"Good night, Ms. Stone," says the building’s security guard.

"Good night, Robert."

When she steps through the door, her chauffeur, a fifty-year-old Black woman with her hair full of braids who never complains about Abigail’s hours, is waiting by the car with the back door open.

"Thank you, Loretta," Abigail says, gliding inside as if she were floating.

Loretta shuts it with a bang and Abigail sighs.

The woman is a bit rough around the edges, talks more than she’d like, and sometimes hurls curses out the window and leans on the horn like a maniac, but Abigail has never felt unsafe with her and has never been late anywhere, so Abigail decided long ago not to fire her, even if Loretta sometimes ties colored ribbons in her hair or talks to her about recipes she’s never going to cook.

"You know owls never really sleep?" Loretta says, watching her through the rearview mirror.

"Apparently they always keep one eye half-open, just in case. My grandmother used to say some people are born that way—with a soul that keeps vigil. Maybe you’re one of those," she adds, gesturing at the car’s clock.

Abigail looks at her for a moment, then turns back to the window without saying anything, thinking about what she’s said.

"What time should I pick you up tomorrow?" Loretta continues.

She never takes offense at Abigail’s silences; she’s used to them, and though she feels the chill Abigail gives off, she just sees a girl who needs some sun. That’s why she likes working for her.

"Four in the morning. You need to take me to the airport."

"Of course. When are you coming back?" Loretta asks.

"Sunday. Patricia will send you the details."

Abigail doesn’t take her eyes off the window. She likes riding in the car; these are probably the only minutes in the day when she manages to relax. The rest of the time, she’s always tense.

"Oh, God! I love this song," Loretta shouts, making Abigail jump. "Do you mind if I turn it up?"

"The volume’s fine as it is," Abigail replies in an icy tone that seems to drop the car’s interior temperature.

"Right," Loretta agrees, and starts humming along, much to Abigail’s annoyance.

The Mercedes stops in front of her Upper East Side building, and Abigail heads up to her apartment without the slightest idea that starting tomorrow, her heart will begin to beat differently, and there will be nothing she can do to control it.