just what she appeared to be, a female writer from a third-rate publication devoted to gossip.
His only hope was to persuade her not to print anything too derogatory. As it stood now, she would either expose him as a horrible pockets-to-let slob with delusions of grandeur, or as a pompous fraud who had enslaved a gifted simpleton and used him to ghostwrite his music. The situation didn’t look good, to say the least.
Play dumb and think. He drew his knees up and rested his head on them, letting his tousled hair curtain both his face and the violin.
“By chance, is Jon your brother? Your eyes look like his.” She explained her assumption with a tender smile. Jon started violently when she touched his head. “Don’t!” he muttered, jerking away.
“I won’t hurt you, Pip,” she crooned. “I can help you.” He faked a shiver. “Go away,” he whispered. With feeling.
She responded immediately by scrambling to her feet. He hoped she would take herself on back to London now and let him be. It would be his word against hers if she guessed the truth. He would sue her frilly drawers off if she printed a single word of this.
And he would still be ruined. Jon sighed heavily.
“Don’t you worry, Pip. You’re coming with me! Come on, get up now. We’re going to find you some clothes and get you out of here. Your brother’s very wrong to make you stay in this dismal place.” She shivered, more with disgust than from a chill. “Aren’t you cold? Are you hungry? Did the wretch think to feed you?”
Jon waved toward a discarded rind of cheese and the remainder of the coarse bread loaf Grandy had left for his midnight supper. He kicked at the empty wine bottle peeking from beneath the first page of the overture. “You eat?”
“Oh, you dear thing! You’d share it, wouldn’t you?” She sighed and squatted down again to lay her hand over his. He thought he detected tears swimming around those rich brown orbs. “Oh, Pip, how can he do this to you?” she moaned.
“Jonny likes me,” he said defensively, thinking a large lie from him was no more damning than allowing her to make up her own. And it was a lie. He certainly didn’t like himself much at the moment. On second thought, he didn’t like himself at all.
She pulled a wry face and sniffed. “No doubt he likes you very well, since you’re making a bloody fortune for him. I simply can’t believe this, even of someone like him.”
Jon felt a small swelling of warmth in his chest at the thought that anyone would really care if he was used and mistreated. Even though she thought him a half-wit, he could tell she meant what she said and wanted to do all she could to right the situation. It had been so long since anyone bothered about his feelings. He couldn’t even recall the last time. However, he reminded himself, in this case he was also the villain of the piece.
The whole predicament was so ridiculous, he felt like laughing. Until he remembered his whole career hinged on whether he could keep up the Pip act and retain her sympathy.
Jon needed to get rid of her so that he could think about this. Keeping his thoughts straight was proving difficult. Lack of sleep and that marvelous scent of hers were making him dizzy.
Lilacs. The fragrance cut right through the smell of his own sweat and the rancid wax of the cheap candles. Even the odor of the mildewed walls retreated behind it. Heady stuff, in spite of its subtlety, maybe because of it. Way too distracting. It made him want to take her to bed. Now? Ha! She’d love that, wouldn’t she! Hell, maybe she would.
“Sleepy?” he asked, blinking up at her stupidly, savoring a wicked inner vision of sharing Kathryn with old Morpheus.
She squatted down very near him and put one of those expressive little hands on his bare shoulder. He felt the heat shoot right through her glove, his skin, and into his bloodstream. God, he was hot. And hard, of all things.
Jon squirmed a little and tried to recall the last time he had bedded a woman. A month? Two? Too long ago, apparently. His appetite never flared up so rapidly as this, at least not since he’d grown old enough to control it. No way to approach her with any kind of proposition now, though, without revealing his identity. He shifted the violin to cover his lap.
“Poor fellow, you look exhausted. Where does he make you sleep?”
Jon let his eyes wander around the chaos of the room and then up. He motioned toward the ceiling.
“Upstairs?” she asked, and took the hand that was still raised to point. “Come on, Pip. I’ll just see you settled for the night and come back with my carriage first thing in the morning. You’ll like where we’re going. All right?” She smiled in a reassuring way and tugged on his hand.
Jon got to his feet rather clumsily; no task to fake, really, considering how long he had gone without sleep. He never got a wink the night before a performance, and tonight’s sudden inspiration had kept him from collapsing afterward. It had been at least forty-eight hours since he rested. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. It might not hinder his creativity, but it certainly didn’t provide a clear head for dealing with disasters.
He ought not to continue this stupid charade. Even in his current muddled state, he knew it was madness. But, hell, almost everything he did was mad.
His mother, his tutors, his old bodyguard; every one of them had always drummed into him the necessity of thinking before he acted. “Look before you leap” had become a litany. So he’d looked. And usually leapt anyway. The failing persisted, in spite of all their best efforts and his well-intentioned promises.
Jon tugged at the fourth finger of his left hand, a crooked reminder of the impulsive act that had almost destroyed his budding career. He massaged the souvenir of the bloody fistfight that had settled the outcome of the wildest horse race in history.
Maman had brought them home to Timberoaks to sell off the paintings and silver. He had been a strapping thirteen then, drunk with freedom in one of those rare, stolen moments away from Maman’s watchful eye. His stallion, Satan’s Imp, had carried him to a closely-won finish with Bick Wallerford. Old Bick had conceded the race only after Jon broke the fellow’s nose with a powerful left hook. An hour or so later, at the sight of his mangled hand, Jon’s mother had collapsed. So had his racing ambitions, when she reminded him of his vow to his dying father. That had been when he knew without doubt his father had made a dreadful mistake, demanding that Jon give total obedience to Maman. The man couldn’t have wanted a son who quailed at a few fisticuffs. Jon had told her as much, and Maman reluctantly agreed.
A lad of his size and build—especially one who admitted to being musically inclined—couldn’t swear off fighting even if he wanted to. Fortunately, Maman had agreed with him and hired a strong dockworker as a bodyguard soon after the incident.
Sato Nagai, a young Japanese expatriate, relished his new post, anglicized his surname, and became Long San. Understanding Jon’s need to fend for himself and yet protect his hands, Long San had taught him to fight with his feet. The method of fighting had come easily to Jon. Learning precaution and avoidance of a confrontation had proved a much harder task, one he wasn’t certain he had mastered even yet.
Judging by his reaction to Kathryn Wainwright and the threat she posed, he must have regressed farther back than lesson one in sidestepping a conflict. He sure as hell had a conflict here. And his well-trained feet weren’t going to help him at all.
Jon laid the Strad and the haphazard stack of music on the table by
