A Need So Insatiable Read online

  My grip on the handlebars tightens. “Hold on, Lilli!”

  She slips her slender arms around my waist as the bike lurches forward. Bald Guy comes bounding up the path. I swerve, missing him by inches. Lilli screams behind me, starting to sob against my back.

  “We’re okay,” I say above the Honda’s roar. “We’re safe.”

  I burst through the open gate, the wheels skidding on the scattered autumn leaves.

  Somehow, the Honda rights itself as I twist the throttle, veering to the right, barely missing my neighbor’s Yaris. I flick my gaze to the mirror and catch a glimpse of Bald Guy shaking his fist in the air, while Tall Guy stands in the middle of the street, holding his head as if it’s about to explode.

  Holy crap! That was close.

  “We’re safe now,” I say, louder, stronger. Am I convincing myself or Lilli? We’re far from safe. In fact, I think it’s the beginning of something . . . I’m not even sure what.

  I speed through traffic as my dress, having escaped the prison of my thighs, bunches up around my hips. A flash appears in the car on my right, followed by hooting, but I’m too busy negotiating traffic and stopping my dress from reaching my shoulders.

  Talk about giving the morning traffic a show!

  By the time I drop Lilli at school, she’s trembling and my knees feel like goo. I readjust my dress as I scan the student-littered area for the men or their Sedan. Thank God, they don’t seem to have followed us.

  I turn to face Lilli.

  “You okay?” Oh, no! Did I just squeak? I need to get my act together before she starts to panic.

  She rubs her hands up and down her arms, looking away. I pull her into a hug. She stiffens, then relaxes and tentatively puts her hands on my waist. She moves back too soon.

  “Hey, listen. Why don’t you go to Dani and Jace’s after school?”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “Talk.”

  “Lilli, this is not the right time--”

  “You promised to tell me what’s going on,” she says, her voice rising. A few heads jerk toward us. “Those men . . . the bald one . . . I saw a gun hidden under his coat when we raced past them. Oh my God, they wanted to shoot us!”

  Crap. I rub a hand down my face as the school bell sounds.

  Thank God.

  At least I have until this afternoon to figure out what to tell her. She swivels around, her black and purple ponytail swinging in the air with every angry step.

  “Lilli.” She stops and glances over her shoulder, scowling. “Go to Jace’s after school. I’ll let her know to expect you, okay?”

  She stomps back to me, her eyes narrowed. “You have to stop ordering me around, Soph. I do what I want.” She spins away, then abruptly stops and looks over her shoulder again. “You know, this wouldn’t be happening if Mom was alive.”

  Dear God, no! Not now, not this. I know where this is heading, and there’s no way to stop it, or her, when she gets this emotional.

  “If it wasn’t for you, she’d be here.”

  I press a hand on my belly. I need to breathe before the lump in my throat chokes me.

  “I know. I’m so sorry, Lilli.”

  Her eyes widen in horror. She slaps a hand over her mouth, tears brimming. “I’m sorry, Soph,” she says in a hushed voice. “I am so sorry.”

  I’m used to her mood swings, but the pain is still there. I stopped wishing it away a long time ago; it reminds me that words spoken in anger can never be taken back.

  I close the space between us and pull her to me. “I know, Lil.” I smooth down her hair, pressing my cheek to hers. “I know.”

  She pulls back. Tears run down her flushed cheeks, taking the rest of her mascara with them. Unzipping her backpack’s side pocket, I pull out a pack of tissues, wiping her cheeks and eyes.

  “You’re too young to worry about life. I’m here, and I’ll take care of you. Promise me you’ll have a good day.” I place a finger under her chin and tug it up to meet my gaze. “For me.”

  She nods, her lower lip trembling as she tries to smile. “I love you.”

  And just like that, those three little words scoop up my shattered heart and glue it back together. I love you.

  Such powerful words.

  As soon as Lilli is out of sight, I press my eyes shut, summoning whatever energy I have left after our speedy retreat from the house.

  There should be a manual on how to handle teens. I’m way out of my league. And things might still get worse. She could end up joining cliques, or using drugs. My chest tightens, remembering how easy it was to be pulled into that kind of life. I have to keep an eye out for any signs, make sure she’s safe. She won’t take it well, but there’s no way I’m losing her.

  I pull my phone from my bag and dial Jace’s house number. She answers on the first ring.

  “Changed your mind about joining me?”

  I laugh. “Still trying to recruit me?”

  “I’m relentless,” she says, yawning. “What’s up, hon?”

  “How do you know something’s up?”

  “Are you seriously asking me that?” she demands.

  “I love you. You know that, right?” I say, walking back to my bike. Digging out my keys, I unlock the topbox and place Lilli’s helmet inside. “Can Lilli come over after school?” I ask, clicking the lid closed.

  “Sure.”

  I exhale loudly. “Thanks. Talk to you later?”

  “Definitely.”

  After ending the call, I race to Konrad Theater for my rehearsal with my dress tucked under my thighs, hoping to make it there on time without displaying anything other than my mad bike-riding skills.

  Rafael

  I GLANCE at my watch. Ten more minutes is all I’m giving him, then I’m gone. I haven’t been in Vienna more than a few days, and already, the reporters are pouncing.

  “Are we almost done here?”

  Beck pushes his glasses up his nose and peers into his notebook with an air of nonchalance. Does he think I’m stupid? That’s the worst act of indifference I’ve ever seen. I should know. I invented that act.

  He squirms in his chair. His hands shake as he darts a glance at me, his eyes dilated. I know that look: curious about what makes me tick; grateful that he’s lucky enough to interview me; eager to ferret out information that will place him ahead of the game; and fear of holding my gaze for more than three seconds. Not many people are brave enough to do that.

  I’m certain he also fears I’ll cancel this meeting, denying him the chance to strut around, beating his chest at his colleagues. I would have, if Simone hadn’t insisted I do this for good publicity. After my experience with the media, I’d rather walk around in high heels than sit with a reporter, talking about “my life”.

  Beck glances up again, tapping his pen on the notebook, and clears his throat. “I have some thoughts about how to create more exposure for you.”

  “I’m sure you do. Let’s hear them.” I lean back in my seat and flick two fingers to catch the waiter’s attention. He’s been hovering at the bar since we sat, ten minutes ago.

  He dashes forward, smiling. “Would you like to order now, Mr. Van Rees?”

  “Mélange, please,” I say, then lift a brow at Beck.

  “Just a glass of water, please,” he says, his eyes moving from the waiter to me.

  The waiter nods and walks away, looking entirely too cheerful. I glance around the café. I chose it because of its low occupancy during weekdays and dim lighting. The chances for having eavesdroppers are slim, but that fact seems to make Beck braver.

  Damn the reporter!

  I shouldn’t have agreed to this interview in the first place. Two weeks ago, this had sounded like something that wouldn’t take more than a few days. But the last two sessions, when he’d called me in Sydney, were too intimate for comfort.

  I watch him closely, putting on a bored air.

  He rubs his hands together. “Photos. Your house, your wardrobe, pets, anything--”

/>   “No.”

  He blinks, then lifts his hands, palms facing out as if to placate me. “See, this is for your--”

  “Interview only. No photos. Take it, or leave it.”

  What the hell? This is beginning to resemble an autobiography.

  The waiter returns with our orders. I have a feeling that, by the time I’m done with my Mélange, I’ll regret ordering it.

  Beck scribbles something in his notepad, then takes a sip from his glass. He presses the record button. “Where did you spend your childhood after St. Xavier’s boarding school?”

  Fuck. “Here and there. Mostly the Netherlands, and Australia with relatives and friends.”

  “Your father was a renowned theatre figure, and your mother, a prima donna in the opera.” He pauses, waiting for confirmation.

  I nod once. Short and to the point.

  “What about them, would you say, had the most influence on you? How did you--”

  “Their support and love.” I cut him off. He’s been bouncing questions relentlessly, as if seeking that tiny piece that defines me, that makes me who I am. The mysterious Rafael Van Rees, as people call me. Too bad. I’m not about to give it to him. I hold his gaze, a brow raised in challenge. My signature look, supposedly. I’d be a fool not to use it to my advantage.

  He drops his gaze to the space above my shoulder.

  Good.

  He frowns at his notebook. “After your parents’ death . . . the plane crash . . .”

  I grip the arm of my chair and try to breathe. Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?

  “You disappeared from the public eye at the age of thirteen, after your

  parents . . .” His gaze darts all over the place, everywhere but my face. He clears his throat. “Where did you go?”

  This is going downhill fast. Shut him down. “Sydney. Are we done here?”

  “I . . . think so. Next week, same time as usual?”

  “Don’t you have enough for the article?”

  “Almost, but the pictures would add a nice touch.”

  I glare at him. One wrong move--one wrong fucking word--would bring my world crashing down around me. I’m not about to go back fifty steps when it took me a hundred to get where I am.

  Seconds later, he stops the recorder, shoving everything inside his shoulder bag.

  “Goodbye, Beck.” And good riddance. He thrusts his hand into mine, then drops it as if scalded and scuttles out of the room.

  After paying the bill, I shrug on my jacket and step out of the café, heading toward my Jeep. Damn it! Thirty minutes with that reporter had nearly given me a heart attack. I need to hit the gym to take care of all this pent-up energy.

  I grab the tablet on the passenger seat and press the icon to show upcoming appointments. No reaction.

  I press it again. Nothing.

  Jesus. Why do I let Simone sweet talk me into carrying this damn thing around when I always end up running back to her for help?

  I toss it back onto the seat, slam the car door shut, and peel out of the lot.

  Fifteen minutes later, I start to slide into an empty parking spot in front of Konrad Theatre. A body dressed in white darts in front of the car and I slam my foot on the brakes.

  Bloody hell, woman! What kind of stupidity rushes in front of moving cars?

  She turns to scowl at me. I squint to get a better look so I can throttle her when I track her down, and she . . . flips me off. She fucking flipped me off! I laugh, not sure if I should be offended, or if I should run after her. When was the last time someone gave me the bird? I grab the keys, along with the tablet, and bound after the dark-haired beauty. My phone vibrates in my pants pocket and I halt. I pull it out and scroll down the incoming message. Whatever thoughts I’d had about stalking the girl in white vanish as I frown at the text.

  One of the cellists in tomorrow’s Night of Superstitions concert is hospitalized in Hungary. I’d spent the last four months flying in and out of Vienna, organizing this.

  Dragging fingers through my hair, I rest my hand on the back of my neck and squeeze the tension already building there.

  Shit!

  Sophie

  AS SOON as I park the bike, a few feet from Konrad Theatre, I swing one leg over and stand. Removing my helmet, I lock it inside the topbox, my jaw clenched to keep my teeth from chattering.

  Ugh, I’m cold. Everything below my waist is frozen, and I can’t feel my fingers and toes anymore. I should have worn a sweater under the jacket.

  Pulling up my collar to shield my neck from the cool breeze, I cross the parking lot, heading toward the main doors. I jump as a red Jeep screeches to a halt inches from my hip.

  Shit!

  “Watch it!” I glare at the driver hidden behind the wheel. I flip the idiot off, and make a mad dash for the doors. But instead of heading directly to Simone’s music room, I make a detour for the auditorium on my right. This was one of my favorite places when I was a kid. I remember sitting here for hours, watching Mom rehearse. It hasn’t changed much.

  I drop onto one of the crimson, velvet-covered seats just inside the door. What would Mom be doing if she were alive? Would she sti--

  The door suddenly bursts open, jerking me from my thoughts. I drop to the floor, scuttling deeper into the shadows, my heart hammering in my chest.

  I hold my breath and wait. Silence. No footsteps. Nothing. I peek above the seat at the tall figure hovering by the entrance, a coat slung over his shoulder.

  Definitely not one of the men I saw earlier.

  He moves to stand below the lamp over the door, and his face comes into focus. His longish hair is a hundred definitions of tousled, strands sticking out in every direction. His strong jaw is covered in stubble, and a dark tie is recklessly thrown around his shoulders, as if it had been yanked from its place in a hurry.

  Oh baby, those shoulders!

  I can’t see anything beyond them. They fill the doorway quite nicely, wrapped in a white, button-down shirt. He drags a hand through his hair, causing the muscles beneath the fabric to shift.

  Sweet Moses! I’ve seen men do the same thing a thousand times, but the way he does it . . . it’s like he invented that move. Like he owns it.

  Finally, my gaze lands on his face, set in a fierce scowl, and I realize who he really is.

  Freakin’ Rafael Van Rees. Mr. Untouchable.

  I clench my hands, trying hard not to leap up and fangirl all over this god of the opera world. He’d probably set me ablaze with that glower, but dear God, what a way to die! If only I could introduce myself. But nothing shouts crazy more than me jumping from the shadows.

  A moment later, he stalks out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Heart racing, I crawl from my hiding spot and follow, heading toward Simone’s music room.

  I halt at the door, the sound of Antonio Vivaldi’s “Summer” reaching my ears. Peeking inside the room, I see Simone sitting in her chair, her desk scattered with sheet music and books. Her dark head is bowed, her eyes focused on the framed photo of her husband in her hands. She touches the photo with a trembling finger, and I step back to give her some privacy. I’ve caught her performing that same gesture several times since I started working with her on Love Unfathomable. She’d lost him during their honeymoon, while she was three months pregnant. Apparently, he’d ventured into an area closed off for skiing, and when he didn’t return to the hotel, Search and Rescue had gone out to look for him. They’d found him buried in an avalanche. The stress had caused her to miscarry, and she’d never remarried after that.

  As if sensing me, Simone lifts her head and quickly wipes her eyes with her fingers, her lips widening in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “Am I too early?” I say. Seriously? Was that all I could come up with? I should say something to comfort her, but I’m never sure what to offer in situations like this. I could say, “I'm sorry for your loss”, but those words make the pain worse. Or, at least, they do for me.

  Sh
e pushes the photo aside, taking a deep breath. Her eyebrows shoot up as her blue eyes assess me, and her lips twitch.

  “Laundry day,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  She shakes her head and laughs. “Must have been a showstopper on the subway.”

  I clear my throat. “Actually, I rode my motorcycle here.”

  She gasps, slapping a hand on her chest. “Like that?”

  I nod, strolling in to stand before her.

  “Dear God, girl! It’s chilly out there!”

  “I’m warm enough,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor next to her desk.

  She chuckles. “Why am I shocked? You have the same free spirit your mother did.” She purses her lips. “How is Lilli doing? How are you holding up?”

  “Lilli is . . .” I say, searching for the right words. “Taking everything really hard.”

  Simone stands, hugs me, then pulls back. “Sometimes, you have to let someone help you, Sophie,” she says. “Let go of the reins for a day. I’m here to take over. I promised your mother as much.”

  My stomach twists with guilt. There aren’t many people in my life that care enough to offer what she is. But sometimes, to keep those you love safe, it’s best to spare them the truth. Smiling, I wrap my arms around her in a hug.

  “Thank you. You’ve kept your promise.” Even though I haven’t kept mine. “I was thinking of bringing Lil to rehearsal. Maybe it could help reconnect her with Mom.”

  “That would be lovely,” she says, handing me a music sheet titled “Love’s Misery”. “Ready to work?”

  I nod, and swallow hard. I’ve been having difficulties mastering the pitch. This is my first big opera production. I’m not about to let a damn song ruin it for me.

  “Love Unfathomable is about loving and losing. I need to hear that in your voice. I want the pain, the need. Loss. Love. I want to laugh, and cry. You have a very rich, dramatic voice. I know you can do this.”