Chapter 17
LIVVIE
It’s late afternoon.
Sunlight streams across the music room floor and warms the varnished wood of my violin as I draw the bow across the strings.
The melody is almost mournful, a challenging piece I’m creating as I go. Aside from composing to match my moods, playing keeps my mind and hands busy.
Otherwise, I’d be thinking about Kingston.
So when the door opens without a knock, and I hear footsteps, the tune falters for a few semi quavers.
I refuse to stop playing, though. This is my time and my space. Instead, I let the notes flow and ignore the fact he’s probably pissed that I’m ignoring him.
Unlucky, big guy.
However, his presence has struck a match and my concentration has turned to cinders.
Doing a one-eighty, I find him standing behind me, arms crossed. His shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbows and he’s holding a long black garment bag.
He hangs it on the back of the armchair across from me, then folds his arms and stares right at me.
“Who’s that for?” I ask, lowering my bow.
“You.”
“What is it?”
“A live grenade,” he deadpans.
“Ah,” I murmur. “Fashion and violence. You really know how to charm a girl.”
“You’ll need it later,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Be ready by seven and practice gratitude.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are we going to a funeral wake?”
“Not unless someone pisses me off between now and seven,” he replies dryly. “You and I are going out together. To Lincoln Center.”
My brows snap tight. “What for?”
“Mahler’s Fifth. The Philharmonic. A balcony box and a bottle of champagne.”
The words hang there a second longer than they should.
That symphony is chaos, grief, and devotion, all trapped in a slow, brutal climb. And hearing it come alive at Lincoln Center is on my list of life goals.
And Kingston is taking me there…
“Why?” I ask, full of suspicion.
His eyebrows drift higher. “Would you enjoy it?”
“I would, yes.”
His mouth curves into a cocky, knowing smile. “That’s why we’re going, wife. Date night.”
Then he turns on his heel and strolls away, leaving the door open and the suggestion of a date tangled with my confusion.
A thrill shoots through me and I tell myself it’s because of the music. That I haven’t heard a live performance in way too long. And that Mahler’s Fifth is one of the few pieces that manages to make sense of my chaos.
But deep down, under all of the rationalizing, I know what really has my pulse racing.
Him.
The espresso-sipping menace and emotional black hole who’s planned an evening for us. And not just any evening either. One that means something to me.
Kingston wants to take me to the symphony.
I unzip the garment bag, expecting something dramatic and gaudy like that hideous wedding dress his mother had commissioned for me. Ready to grunt at a red-carpet monstrosity meant to show me off as a lucky trophy wife, my breath stalls.
What greets me is understated elegance and one hundred percent my style. I’d almost think he visited my apartment and studied my life before him.
I know better than that, though. Kingston wouldn’t go to those lengths for a woman.
The gown is inky-black silk, as delicate as a shadow. It has a plunging back that sweeps so low it’s practically indecent. The neckline is high, the fabric sweeping. There are no swing tags or designer label which means it's one of a kind. Grossly expensive and… beautiful.
Somehow, he knew this would be the cut of dress I’d buy with O’Callaghan money, back in the days when I was too na?ve to notice bloodstains on the paper bills.
I take my time to do my makeup and pin up my hair so the curve of my spine is on display, then slip into the gown, doing a slow three-sixty in front of the full-length mirrors.
By the time I leave the bedroom and walk into the main living area of the penthouse, I’ve constructed every wall I’ll need for the night.
Or so I think, until my eyes land on my husband.
Kingston stands near the windows, a lowball glass in hand, the amber glow of whiskey catching the light.
He’s in a tailored suit and a starched white shirt, diamond cuff links peeking out from under his jacket sleeves.
No tie. So damn sexy, like he’s telling the world to fuck off, that he won’t conform to the societal expectations of a black-tie event.
The top two shirt buttons are undone, enough to make him look powerful, polished, with a subtle edge of danger.
His head turns at the sound of my high heels on the polished floor, and his eyes land on me.
My heartbeat goes haywire as his thoughtful expression falters ever so slightly.
The glass pauses halfway to his lips. His gaze moves from my pinned-up hair to the curve of my breasts and all the way down to my strappy sandals.
He just stares and a hateful rush of tingles blazes under my skin.
After a beat, he sets the glass on a side table and prowls toward me. A possessive hand slides around my waist and he pulls me flush against his chest. His other hand brushes across my jaw, his fingertips grazing the bare skin behind my ear.
His mouth lowers until his breath caresses the side of my face.
“The dress was a mistake,” he murmurs, voice thick and deep. “Because all I want to do is tear it apart at the seams and devour what’s underneath it.”
My breath hitches, but I do my best to recover as quickly as possible.
“Typical Viacava. You drop five figures on a gown and threaten to destroy it before I even step outside?” I whisper, tone dry even though my pulse pounds. “You have more money than sense.”
His thumb drags over my hip bone as he offers me a dirty laugh. “Can’t a husband treat his beautiful wife to a fancy gown or better—licking her wet pussy before they head out?”
“Your wife’s pussy is satisfied, thanks very much.” I grin. “I saw to that myself in the bathroom earlier.”
Kingston laughs. “Bet you wished it was my dick and not a boring vibrator.”
“Oh, it definitely wasn’t boring. And I was able to stuff it back in the drawer without having to humor it afterward.”
“I have something else for you, Livvie.”
I blink, thrown by his tone, almost thoughtful. He pulls out a small velvet box from inside his jacket pocket.
“Oh yeah?” I say, wary but intrigued. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you.”
Kingston opens the box and holds it out, revealing a delicate necklace made from gold, and hanging from it, a single musical note encrusted with tiny diamonds. The pendant isn’t gaudy or flashy. Just… perfect.
The gems catch the light like starlight and punch a low blow to my gut. My breath stalls. “You bought me jewelry?”
“I had it made for you.” His voice is low, serious. “Figured my wife should have things that make her smile.”
“Wow,” I murmur, my throat suddenly dry. “Romantic.”
He doesn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, he steps forward, plucks the necklace from the box, and reaches for me.
The chain slips around my throat, and when his fingers brush the back of my neck, I go still. Every nerve in my body draws tight like violin strings. He secures the clasp, then presses a kiss to my temple. The kind that shouldn’t mean anything.
But it does.
It so does.
When he steps back, his gaze lingers on me. Not on the necklace. Not on my lips or legs or any of the places men usually look.
On me.
And it’s too much.
So I smirk, dragging my fingers across the delicate pendant like I don’t care that my heart’s suddenly forgotten how to beat in rhythm.
“You really missed the mark, Viacava.” I cock a brow. “I was kind of hoping for signed divorce papers. Something practical.”
Kingston doesn’t flinch. He just crowds me with his scent and towering height. “That’ll never happen, wife.”
My pulse betrays me again, thudding hard.
“You’re wearing that tonight,” he adds.
“Bossy much, husband?” I mutter, fingers ghosting over the pendant.
“I like it when you call me that.” He winks and places his hand on my lower back, guiding me out of the apartment.
Neither of us speaks in the elevator but that musky cologne he wears does very tingly things to my body.
Reaching a black SUV in the underground garage, another suited man opens the back passenger door for us. Kingston stands back and lets me in first.
We sit close, our legs touching every now and again. His thigh, solid and strong, presses against mine in a way that’s unintentional but completely impossible to ignore.
When the driver pulls into the evening traffic, I glance sideways at Kingston.
He’s staring out at the city streets through tinted glass, the muscles in his forearms flexing under his fitted jacket, and I mentally berate myself for thinking about his tatted arms wrapped around me.
“So,” I say, smoothing the silk over my lap, “I take it this evening is another calculated move?”
He doesn’t turn. “Whatever do you mean, wife?”
“C’mon, Kingston. Lincoln Center. Mahler. Silk and pretenses. It stinks of a PR stunt.” I roll my eyes. “You could’ve staged an evening in a restaurant or taken me to a jewelry store and lined up paparazzi outside while you pay for my uber pricey diamond necklace. What are ya trying to prove?”
His mouth quirks. “You think I need to prove anything?”
“I think you like control,” I reply. “And taking me to a show I’ve always wanted to see is very unlike you.”
He finally turns his head to look at me, eyes dark and mysterious.
“What would it take,” he asks out of the blue, “to actually make you happy, Livvie?”
The question is so unexpected, so quiet and pointed, that for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“Hmm… a plane ticket to Europe, a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and maybe one week without anyone pointing a gun at me.”
He doesn’t laugh. “That’s a low bar.”
“It’s a realistic one,” I counter. “And I’m actually easily pleased when you get to know me.”
He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine, his voice turning huskier. “If you’re easily pleased, then why aren’t you thanking me for organizing a spectacular date night?”
“I’ll thank you after the event… when I’m convinced you aren’t up to something.”