Never Tell Lies (Never Tell Trilogy #1)

Prologue

ALFIE.

T he New York Philharmonic Orchestra waited on stage, instruments in hand, poised to attack as they waited for their leader to sound the charge. The soloist, whose name I didn’t care to learn, entered the stage to raucous applause. She raised her violin to the audience in acknowledgement.

She brought the instrument to her shoulder and rested her chin in the groove, her eyebrows knitted and her chin and mouth puckered in concentration.

Her dress was ugly, a floor length brown thing that could have been sensual if it fitted properly.

It was off the rack no doubt. I made a mental note to send her a selection of gowns to wear for future performances.

I would see her perform many more times and I hated to be distracted by an ill-fitting gown.

Her rich, blond hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail and hung almost to her backside. I imagined it wrapped around my fist, used as leverage to hold her in place as I fucked her to the rhythm of her own symphony.

With her eyes closed, she set her bow. Just when I thought I might jump out of my seat with impatience, the opening notes of Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons" began to ring out.

I closed my eyes and soaked in the Spring section. I felt like an impostor listening to this jubilant music. Autumn suited me better with its dark tones.

How long would it be before I heard her play again? Two weeks at the most. I was returning to England tomorrow but only briefly, then onto Milan, then I could come back to New York to see her again, even for just one show.

I had no interest in her, of course. She was just a vessel for the only thing that gave me any sort of feeling any more. Vivaldi could speak to me in a way nothing else could and represented an old life that I hadn't lived for ten years.

The notes echoed across the hall and soothed my racing heart, my clenched fists, my tension headache.

This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out, yet I was so used to my life now it was hard to remember who I’d been before.

The man I was before felt like a dream, a hypothetical me, an imagined Alfie Tell.

An Alfie Tell who was determined to be adventurous and playful forever.

To be free of the ties that had bound him.

If I were in Neverland, that would be an acceptable dream, but here in my world, Peter Pan must grow up.

I had a family name to uphold, expectations to fulfil, and a terrible debt to repay.

Somewhere, underneath my Armani suit and Cartier watch, was an exhausted shell of a man, wearing the kind of weariness that seeped into my bones and never seemed to leave no matter what I did.

Everything was the same. Everything was cold and expensive. None of it was of consequence, none of it was genuine. I had nothing in my life that would still be there in the absence of money.

When I was feeling foolish and hopeful, I wondered if there was someone alive in the world who was as real, as alive as a Vivaldi concerto.

Who breathed clean air, who smiled and danced and was as fierce as the devil.

I wondered if there was a woman who could roll with my punches.

Who could crack me open, see everything that I’ve done, and still want me.

Did women like that exist? I doubted it.

Women were another thing that wouldn't exist in my life in the absence of money. I knew that, as truly as I knew my own name, but still, when I was feeling foolish and hopeful, I wondered if she might be real. If she would ever find her way to me. No doubt she would be sorry if she did because if I ever found her, I’d bind her to me so tight she wouldn’t be able to breathe without me. Once bound, she could never leave me.

There was an irrational madness to my logic, a madness only an insane woman could love. Or a good woman could heal.