Meg Baker sighed as she watched the setting sun slip below the horizon. So much for all my planning, she thought, feeling the now-familiar twinges of fear and uncertainty that had plagued her from the moment she’d stepped out of the safe confines of Manhattan’s posh Plaza Hotel the night before. She had purposely waited until after Daylight Savings Time to leave, just so she would be able to take a bus that would both depart after ten p.m. and arrive in Nashville before dark.
“The best laid plans of mice and men,” she whispered, paraphrasing Robert Burns’ famous line.
Meg stared out at the passing landscape, so flat here in northern Tennessee but also so incredibly green. She had never ridden on a bus before, nor—to her knowledge—had she ever driven on an Interstate, beyond what it took to get from various airports to their city centers. Hers had been a life of chauffeured limousines, first-class trains, and first-class planes. Now, after almost twenty-four hours of seeing how the other half traveled, she was exhausted. And frightened, she had to admit, but also determined to see this through.
As a world-class violin soloist, she knew she could get a job playing somewhere, if only she could manage to not be recognized, and she’d thought Nashville would be a good place to start. It was a city of music, but music so unlike what she normally played, that perhaps she could manage to stay under her father’s radar for the time it took her to establish herself in another place, another career.
Good luck with that, her inner voice said, making her stomach clench yet again.
That little voice was right, of course. If her father did not already have a private investigator on her trail, she would be surprised. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise her to see her father waiting for her at the bus terminal in Nashville, but she hoped not.
She had been careful. Her father always, without fail, disappeared into his suite at nine-thirty sharp on any night she wasn’t performing. He was rarely alone and always left orders not to be disturbed. Having lost her mother at a very early age, Meg had no illusions about what her father did with the beautiful women who seemed to always be available to him in whatever city they were visiting, and she had learned early to cherish these rare nights of knowing her father was otherwise occupied.
Meg had her one soft bag and her old violin packed and ready to go, along with her new ID and the cash she had been stashing away over the past six months, thanks to various maids and bellhops who were only too happy to change the one-hundred dollar bills her father insisted she carry to impress people for much smaller denominations in exchange for a generous tip. Dressed in jeans, simple walking shoes, and a warm, serviceable coat she had purchased from one of the hotel maids, she’d slipped out of her suite just after her father had turned in for the night, taking the stairs instead of the elevator to the opulent lobby below. Before stepping out of the stairwell, she’d donned a plain, navy blue baseball-style cap, pulling her white-blond tail out the hole in the back—like she’d seen women on the streets do֫—then wrapping a scarf around her neck to both ward off the chill night air and hide the rest of her hair. She’d thought about getting a Yankee’s cap, but had opted for a plain one, since she was headed for Nashville and didn’t want to stick out as an out-of-towner once she reached her destination. Her eastern-educated, upper-class accent would be enough of a giveaway.
Walking the first three blocks, she’d timed her arrival at Carnegie Hall so the musicians would be heading out after an evening concert, because while most of them still wore their concert clothing, with a winter coat and a violin strung over her shoulder, she fit right in with the crowd of people looking for taxi cabs. She managed to flag one down, directing the driver to take her to the 42nd Street Port Authority Bus Terminal, where she quickly used cash to buy a bus ticket to Cleveland, Ohio. She had been researching the best way to get to Nashville and had opted for a Greyhound Bus ticket, with five stops between New York City and Nashville and two transfers. In Cleveland, she had bought a ticket only as far as Louisville, Kentucky, and from there, she purchased a ticket for the final leg to Nashville. She’d done something to change her appearance in both Cleveland and Louisville. In Cleveland, where she’d had almost a two-hour layover, she’d found a meal and traded her warmer New York coat, for a lighter, short jacket in a thrift store near the terminal. She’d also traded her blue ball cap for a brown one and her white woolly scarf for something lighter weight in a buttery-yellow.
She sighed, now, praying all her efforts hadn’t been for naught. The bus in Louisville had been delayed by a half-hour, which had put them right in the middle of rush-hour traffic coming south on I-65. Now instead of dusk, she was arriving in Nashville at full dark. She would need to find someplace to stay, and she didn’t really know where to start. She hadn’t dared research hotels in Nashville from her own computer, because she was certain her father would check there first. She’d found out about the bus schedule, thanks to a former classmate at Julliard, who’d come from Nashville originally and had let her play with his new iPad, when they’d had coffee together just before Christmas. (She’d hoped it was long enough ago, that her father wouldn’t think to ask Bryan about it.)
Meg straightened in her seat and strained to see forward. Traffic picked up as I-65 merged into another wide Interstate to pass through the city. They stayed on the new highway—I-24 this time—but then shortly took an exit ramp that wound down sharply to the right before making a left turn onto the city streets.
As the passengers around her began collecting their belongings, Meg tucked the Nashville tourist book she had found in the Louisville bus terminal into her jacket pocket. She then wrapped her hands around her violin case strap and pulled her small, canvas travel bag from under the seat in front of her. There was something quite liberating about being able to carry everything she owned in these two small bags. With the exception of her violin—which had been a birthday gift from her grandmother on her thirteenth birthday—everything she carried had been purchased recently, either from hotel maids or thrift stores. She owed nothing to anyone and was free to be herself for the first time in her life.
Whatever happens, I’m not going back to that life, she promised herself. With New York behind her and Nashville ahead, she took a deep breath and waited for her new life to begin.
* * *
“Fourth Avenue and Symphony Place, please,” she said to the driver, as she slipped into the back seat of a taxi she found waiting at the bus terminal and named the cross-street her friend from Nashville had given her, because she couldn’t think of anything else that would get her away from the bus station as soon as possible. It wasn’t only the fear of being followed that had her moving quickly. Unlike the New York terminal, the Nashville bus station seemed to be in a very dark, very remote part of town—definitely someplace she didn’t want to be alone at night. The taxi was cleaner than many in New York, though this one smelled of cigarettes, which rarely happened in the east.
“Dressed like you are at this time of night, you’ll prob’ly have better luck over on Broadway with that fiddle of yours,” the driver said, grinning at her.
“You may be right,” she said, opting to respond to the man’s friendly banter in like manner. “I just wanted to see the big house, first.”
He laughed. “It is big all right.”
You New Yorkers don’t know what friendly is, Bryan had always insisted. Now, where I come from, people actually make eye contact with strangers and say good mornin’ like they really mean it.
After only a few minutes in Nashville, Meg was already beginning to experience that friendliness for herself. She did remind herself that she couldn’t trust everyone—she’d be a fool to let down her guard completely with strangers—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be pleasant to the people who were pleasant to her. And what better way to blend in? If she remained remote in this town, people would notice and wonder about her—and they’d remember her, when her father’s PI came asking about her. She doubted very much that anyone tonight would recognize her from either a description or a photograph someone working for her father might have.
In a surprisingly short time, they pulled up beside the forbidding structure of the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. It was beautiful, Meg thought as she alighted from the taxi after paying her fare with wrinkled small bills. The Roman columns marched proudly along the street, enclosing a beautiful outdoor space rather like a miniature Roman forum. It was small scale—everything she had seen of Nashville thus far seemed small after spending most of her life in some of the greatest cities throughout the world—but it had an unmistakable charm about it, and from Bryan’s iPad, she knew it housed multiple performance spaces for a variety of music styles. She sighed, wondering how one went about auditioning for a chair in Nashville’s Symphony Orchestra.
Curious, she turned right down the broad pedestrian way that ran along the front of the main hall. Trying not to think about her appearance, she hurried up the steps before she could change her mind and entered the lobby, where ushers were posted at the doors to the hall. One stepped forward to meet her.
“I’m sorry, miss, but the concert’s already started, and you can’t go in until intermission.”
She smiled. “That’s all right. I’m not here for the concert. I only wondered if I might buy a program?”
“Oh. Sure.”
He directed her to a small sales counter across the lobby, and smiling her thanks, she hurried over.
“One program, please,” she said to the young woman working the counter.
“Are you comin’ on another night, then?” the girl asked, as she made Meg’s change.
“I hope so. Thank you.”
Meg tucked the program into a pocket of her bag then made her way back outside. Can’t know the players without a program, she remembered her grandmother used to say. With a concert program, she would have both names and contact information. All she needed now was a library with computers, where she could set up an e-mail account and contact the symphony. She quickly retraced her steps down the grand stairway then turned back to 4th Avenue and turned right toward the lighted intersection ahead. Another block and she was on Broadway in the heart of Nashville’s nighttime music scene.
Like New York’s Broadway, the sidewalks were crowded with people enjoying the nightlife, but that was where any comparison ended. Besides being much shorter in length, the buildings that lined the street were no more than three or four stories high, their walls mostly red brick, though some had been painted outlandish colors. While the occasional modern tower could be seen from a distance, this old part of town, the entertainment district, was old and worn. Like an old lady, it used bright lights, decorations, and color, in an attempt to mask its wrinkles. Cowboy boots and hats seemed to be the style of choice for both men and women, and the facades of the various eateries and music venues boasted huge guitars, fiddles, boots, and hats, all outlined in flashing neon lights. Businesses ranged from boot and tourist shops to saloons and bars offering live entertainment from “real” country music to karaoke to hillbilly to honky-tonk. One or two even displayed banners bragging “smokers welcome.” She shook her head in disbelief and began to look for a place she thought she might safely enter on her own. Whatever the entertainment, she was hungry after her long trip.
Then she saw it. The sign on the narrow red-brick building across the street said “The Fiddlers’ Cave,” and she quickly moved to the corner, waiting for the light with the rest of the crowd before crossing to approach the place. The windows and door frames were painted a solid, stop-sign red, and the windows displayed vintage photos of what she assumed were famous fiddlers. She could hear the music pouring through the front door, which had been left open on what she assumed was an unusually balmy mid-March evening.
As she approached, she saw the welcome—to her— “no smoking” sign in the front window as well as a posted menu. They offered mostly bar food and one main dish, which changed daily. She checked Tuesday and decided she could handle a burger and fries this once, and headed inside.
The stage was situated on a rough platform just inside the door, with a railing of split rails for safety. The floor between the stage and the front corner of the long bar that ran the length of the room was crowded with couples dancing to the lively music. Meg made her way around the dancing crowd and saw the room was three or four times longer than it was wide. The walls were decorated with vintage signs, radios, gramophones, and larger-than-life musical instruments. Half-tables were attached to the wall opposite the bar, each with two or three stools. An equal number of tiny round tables ran down the center of the room. Along the bar, more of the same kind of stools sat. Most were occupied by a variety of people ranging widely in shapes, sizes, and dress.
Meg made her way over to the bar and sat on one of the unoccupied stools at the short “L” of the bar. She half turned toward the front of the room, taking in the stage, where four young men performed. They looked as though they must be in their twenties and related, for they were all very tall, and well-built, broad-shouldered and slender-waisted. They sported the same thick dark wavy hair, and their faces seemed chiseled by the same craftsman. But it was their eyes that really caught her attention, for they were a deep golden color, even from a distance. She had never seen the like anywhere in the world.
It was the smallest of the four who really caught her attention, though, for he stood to one side, hipshot, his fiddle under his chin, his eyes half-closed. She might have thought he was asleep but the music pouring from his fiddle was amazing, and unlike any she had ever heard before. They all played acoustical instruments—guitar, double-bass, drums, and fiddle—and while she saw there were microphones, they didn’t depend upon them for their sound. The fiddler was an absolute magician, though, for he played without any pausing, any hesitation, and the music simply rolled off his fiddle.
“I.D., please.”
Startled, she turned to see the bartender had come to her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s after six. I need to see some I.D., if you’re gonna be here.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Meg relaxed instantly and reached for her wallet, handing him the new, laminated I.D. card she had recently obtained. She didn’t have a driver’s license—she’d never needed to learn to drive—but she had photo identification from the New York D.M.V. It was newly purchased, after recently learning that while her father had changed her name publicly, he had never done so legally. Part of her escape plan had been to go back to using her real name, and once she’d found her birth certificate—thanks to a rather unorthodox search of her father’s home office—she had been able to get the I.D., for which she had paid cash.
The man eyed it closely, with an attention she hoped was due to the card being from out of state rather than newly minted. There was nothing wrong with it, though, and it passed muster.
“Welcome to Nashville, Ms Baker,” the man said, handing back her card. “What can I git for you?”
“A glass of whatever you have on draft would be fine,” she said. Meg rarely drank beer, but she needed to order something, if she was going to stay here.
She found her eyes returning to the fiddler.
“Pretty good, isn’t he?”
Meg started when a huge man came up beside her.
“Yes. Yes he is.”
“You play?” he asked, nodding toward her violin case.
She snorted softly. “Not like that.”
He smiled warmly, and she froze, really looking at him for the first time. His size and coloring were the first hints, but it was the deep gold of his eyes that sealed it.
“Relatives, maybe?” she asked, nodding toward the stage.
His smile turned to a grin. “Nephews. My oldest brother’s boys.”
“Ah.”
The bartender returned with her glass of beer. “Can I get you anything else?”
“May I have one of your Tuesday specials, please?”
“Sure.”
“Bring it over to our table,” the stranger said.
“Oh, but…”
Before Meg could protest, the bartender had nodded and turned away, and the big stranger was picking up her bag and violin.
“Come meet the rest of the family,” he said, nodding to a group of three women across the room.
Without any choice but to follow, since he was carrying her things, Meg took up her beer, and after taking a fortifying drink, followed him.
* * *
They had pulled one of the small round tables over to the wall, so they could sit together, and all three women were smiling at her in welcome as she followed the big man.
“Have a seat,” one of the women said, indicating an empty stool. Meg could barely hear her over the music and noise of the bar.
“Thank you,” Meg mouthed. Giving in, she took the offered stool, following the big man with her eyes as he stashed her violin and bag under the table against the wall.
“My new friend here is getting a special,” he said. “Anybody else want something?”
“I wouldn’t mind a basket of those fries, Uncle Bart,” the small blond said.
“Coming right up. I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Meg said, feeling a little uncomfortable. She wasn’t used to strangers, anyway, but this was turning out to be a surprisingly intimidating group.
“You’re not,” the dark-haired beauty said. “We noticed you were watching John and his fiddle, so we sent Bart to invite you over.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry about that,” the tall one with the stylishly cut sandy blond hair said. “We shouldn’t have sent Bart—he can be kind of intimidating—but he is really easy to follow across a crowded room.”
They all laughed, and Meg felt herself relaxing somewhat.
“I’m Mel,” the dark-haired woman said. “This is Addy and Candace,” she added, pointing to Sandy and Blondie in turn. “That was Uncle Bart.”
“Uncle?” Meg asked, surprised.
Mel laughed. “Well, he’s really the boys’ uncle, but we’re married to three of them, so we call him that just to make him feel old.”
“I’m Meg,” Meg said.
“Don’t listen to them, Meg,” Bart said, coming up behind her and sliding onto the next stool.
Meg had to look up—and up—to see his face. Like his nephews, he had to be well over six feet tall.
“I would have guessed you were related, anyway,” Meg said, naturally siding with the women.
“Was it my good looks?” he asked, giving them his profile.
“Maybe,” Meg said, and Candace giggled.
“But mostly I think it was your eyes,” Meg said then wished she hadn’t. She took another big drink from her beer.
Mel gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, yeah. They kind of got to me, too.”
Meg watched as all three women put their chins on their hands and sighed, their gazes locked on the men on stage.
“Did they tell you they’re married to three of them?” Bart asked Meg.
“Yes, they mentioned it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said in her ear. “The fiddler’s still available.”
Meg looked at him, startled, then feeling her face heat, dropped her attention back to her beer. At the rate she was going, she’d need another to go with her dinner.
The music ended, and in another moment, Candace bumped Addy with her shoulder.
“I think they want us.”
Meg looked up and saw the men on stage gesturing toward them.
“Oh, all right,” Addy said.
Mel sighed. “They’re going to play my song.”
“Yours?” Meg asked.
Mel nodded. “Addy gave it to me for a wedding present. She and Candace have recorded it with the boys, but it’s hard to get her on stage live to sing it. Wait until you hear it.”
“Addy wrote it,” Bart said, “but Matt sings it to Mel every time.”
Meg felt her heart melt as the song began, and she noticed Mel’s bright eyes. Matt—it must have been Matt on the guitar—was singing the lead, and when he sang, “Love Me Always,” it was clear he had nothing to worry about, because his wife would do just that. All six of them sang beautifully together, the bass and baritone of the male voices blending well with Addy and Candace’s alto and soprano. It was obvious to Meg that each of the other brothers felt the same way about their respective wives as they sang with them. Even the crowd had quieted for this one, the dancing couples moving into each other’s arms for the slow dance, and Meg found herself smiling. John had switched to mandolin, and she realized quickly he was as adept at playing it as he was his fiddle.
“We decided the boys should call their band the Four Saints, ’cause that’s our name,” Bart murmured in her ear, “but when they sing like that, I’m bettin’ heaven notices.”
Meg smiled and nodded.
When the song ended, there were whoops, whistles, and applause from the audience—plus a few moans from some of the men—and Matt announced they’d be taking a short break. Setting aside their instruments, they came and pulled a second round table and more stools over, which allowed the nine of them to sit together. Meg decided the women had planned to have her tucked neatly between Bart and John. Her burger came, along with five more for the Saint brothers and Bart, with baskets overflowing with fries to be shared among them. Meg dug in with the rest, suddenly ravenous as she remembered she hadn’t eaten since Cleveland. Two pitchers of beer soon followed, and before Meg could protest, her glass was being filled again.
“You’ll have to try Meg, here, during rehearsal sometime,” Bart suggested as he poured. “She brought her instrument with her.”
“Oh, no,” Meg protested. “I can’t play like that.”
“You got a fiddle, don’t you?” he said.
“No. I have a violin,” she said firmly.
“Fiddle, violin. What’s the difference?”
“You’d know, Uncle Bart,” John said, winking at Meg, “if you’d ever listened to a real violinist.”
Bart shrugged, but all Meg could do was try to keep from staring at John. She took him to be the youngest of the four brothers, but he was definitely the best looking of the group.
Maybe I only think that, because I know the other three are married, she thought, desperately seeking some explanation for the fact that her right side—John’s side—was a lot warmer than her left.
“I really like the mandolin,” she finally said, looking for a distraction. “I’ve never played one before.”
“It plays just like the violin, fingering-wise,” John said. “I can teach you how to play it.”
She glanced up sharply, only to find her pale green eyes trapped by his golden ones. “Really?”
He smiled. “Sure. Where are you staying?”
“Um, well, actually, I came here straight from the bus station, so I don’t know, yet.”
“That’s perfect,” Addy said from across the table. “You can stay with Mark and me.”
“I can’t do that,” Meg said. “I mean…”
“Sure you can,” Mark said. “We have plenty of room.”
“We bought a house with three apartments in it,” Bart said. “Matt and Mel live on the top floor, Mark and Addy in the middle—the biggest apartment—and Luke and Candace have the ground floor. John and I share another house across the alley. We’re in the middle of renovating it into another multifamily—two apartments this time.”
“We still have a long way to go,” John said, “but playing in the upstairs living room right now is kind of like singing in the shower—terrific acoustics.
They all laughed, and Meg began to reconsider. Perhaps I can do this, she thought. What better place to stay than with new friends, where my father is less likely to find me?
“Come on, Meg,” Candace said. “Say you’ll stay with us. You don’t want to be wandering around Nashville all by yourself in the middle of the night looking for a hotel, do you?”
“No,” Meg said, certain of that much. “And I’ll thank you in advance for your hospitality.”
“You’re welcome,” Mark said, toasting her with his beer.
“Oops,” Matt said, seeing the bartender’s signal. “We’d better get back to work.”
He and his brothers polished off their burgers and downed the rest of their beers then stood to head back to the stage.”
“Will you head home soon, darlin’?” Matt asked Mel, kissing her lightly.
“Probably. You can all come in the van, can’t you?”
“You betcha,” Luke said, kissing Candace. “We’ll see you at home.”
“You’ll walk them out?” Mark asked Bart.
“Of course. Don’t worry about it. You get back to work.”
Mark grinned, dropped a kiss on Addy’s lips then followed his brothers back to the stage.
Meg and the others stayed through another set then the four women headed out to Mel’s car, which they told her was parked not far away. Bart escorted them as promised—as Meg learned was his habit.
* * *
They left the confines of the bar, and Meg breathed deeply of the warm night air. Even without the cigarettes, the place had been stuffy, and it felt good to be outside. They went to the corner and turned right, presumably headed to Mel’s car, though it was much darker off the main street, and she couldn’t see a thing. Then suddenly, three huge shadows separated from the wall.
“Hey, there! How come you got four women, and we ain’t got none?”
“Oh, let me count the reasons,” Candace hissed under her breath.
“Easy, darlin’,” Bart said, shifting Meg to the outside of him. “Just get to the car.”
“He asked you a question, old man!” another of the shadows growled. Then they moved away from the wall, and Meg could see three burly men, dressed in cowboy attire and reeking of alcohol.
“You don’t want to mess with these ladies,” Bart said on a growl. “Their husbands won’t like it.”
“Well, I don’t see no husbands. Do you, Zeb?”
“Naw. I just seen one old man.”
“He’s has to be kidding,” Meg muttered. Bart old?”
“Just get in the car,” Bart said.
They had reached a light-colored midsized sedan, and Mel was unlocking the doors.
“I don’t think so!” the third man sneered.
Meg braced herself, knowing she would be useless if there was going to be a fight, but there was a sudden roar right next to her, where Bart had been standing. She yelped and jumped away, but Mel was there to catch her and bundle her into the back seat, her bag and violin quickly following. The wash from the interior light of the car reflected briefly on a tawny hide as it streaked away, and she heard something that sounded like the scream of a big cat.
“Get in the car, Candace!” Mel was shouting, and Candace jumped in the back seat, forcing Meg to the other side. The back door slammed, and Candace hit the lock, but Mel—who had run around the front of the car—had only opened her driver’s side door. She just stood there, peering into the darkness, where low growls and sounds of a scuffle continued.
Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Bart appeared out of the darkness, his arm wrapped around Addy’s shoulder.
“Get in the car, darlin’,” he said, opening the front door for her.
“Maybe I should come back with…”
“You go on home.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, kissing her on her hair.
Without further argument, he handed Addy into the car and closed the door behind her.
“Go on, now, Melinda,” Bart said, coming around the hood of the car to hand her into the car, too. “I’ll be fine. You just get on home.”
“You be careful. Hear?” she said, standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.
“Don’t worry. They’re out like a light. Drunk as they are, they won’t even remember this in the mornin’.”
“You get one or two of the boys to go with you to get the van, later,” Mel said sternly. “Don’t you dare go out alone.”
“I won’t, darlin’. Now go.”
Without another word, Mel hopped in the car, closed the door, and in seconds, they were on their way.
On our way to where? Meg asked herself. And now what?
The others were quiet, and Meg wondered if they could hear her heart pounding.
“Are you okay?” Candace asked after a moment, her voice tiny in the darkness.
“I think so,” Meg said, though her voice shook.
She felt Candace’s hand close on her own and was somewhat comforted to feel the other woman was trembling, too.
She thought back to what she had seen in the bar—and what she thought she’d just seen on the street—and reached an unexpected conclusion.
“It’s the eyes, isn’t it?” she said, unable to keep the wonder out of her voice.
“Yes,” Mel said. “They’re all ‘Shifters.’”
“Bart was…”
“He and the boys all become bears,” Mel said. “It runs in the family.”
Meg couldn’t miss the smile in her voice.
“Addy?” she asked, fairly certain the woman had not become a bear.
“I…”
“Addy becomes a mountain lion,” Candace said, when Addy didn’t finish. “She’s probably the only one in her whole family, though, so it’s harder for her. Right Addy?”
Meg saw Addy nod in the darkness and then take a deep breath.
“If you’ll feel more…comfortable staying with Mel or Candace, I’ll understand.”
Meg heard the sadness in Addy’s voice, and her heart went out to her new friend. Reaching forward, she laid a hand on her shoulder.
“If it’s all the same to you, Addy, I’ll feel safer with you until the boys get home.”
Mel chuckled.
“You’re all right, Meg. I think I’m going to like you. A lot.”
“Me too,” Candace said, patting Meg’s shoulder.
Addy looked at her, and Meg could see the other woman’s smile as they passed under a streetlight.
“I think I already like all of you,” Meg said, leaning back in her seat. “I can’t even imagine where I’d be tonight, if I hadn’t heard John’s fiddle from out on the street.”
“Let’s not go there, then,” Mel said firmly, pulling up at a red light.
“Do they have Shifters where you come from?” Candace asked.
“In New York City?” Meg thought for a minute. “Not that I know of, though there must be, I would think. I’ve heard about them, but I guess I didn’t really believe they were, well, real.”
“It would be hard for our kind in a really big city,” Addy said. “It’s hard enough in Nashville.”
“Don’t worry,” Mel said, patting Addy’s leg then accelerating as the light turned green. “We’ll be heading back home for a spell over Easter. You can get your mountain fix, then.”
“Where is home?” Meg asked.
“Eastern Tennessee,” Mel said. “Both north and east of Knoxville.”
Addy seemed to sigh with relief. “I can’t wait.”
“I’m really looking forward to meeting your Gran, Addy,” Candace said.
And suddenly they were talking about Easter vacation as though they hadn’t just had a scary encounter on the streets of the city. Meg shook her head in wonder. Then she thought about these women and their men, the normal life they seemed to lead, the closeness of the family, and she felt her own pulse slow. For some reason, these strangers liked her. They were inviting her into their homes and into their lives.
Then she thought about John, pictured him standing with his fiddle, enjoying his music like she hadn’t in a very long time. I think I’ve come home, she thought, perhaps for the very first time. God, I hope it lasts, because I never want to leave…
* * *
The morning sun streamed through the new green leaves of spring, while a profusion of daffodils in full bloom danced in the breeze. Meg thought about New York—the cold that lingered there well into March—and marveled as she walked along, her long slender fingers clasped loosely in John’s big hand, exploring the neighborhood around his home. She wasn’t quite certain of just how she had gotten to this point, except that the entire family had gathered in Addy and Mark’s apartment for a big breakfast at around nine o’clock this morning, and before she could offer to help with the dishes after, the others had sort of scooted her and John out the door with orders to enjoy their walk.
Okay. So I’ve never walked along a street with a man before. I’ve never met a Shifter before, either, and now I can call six of them my friends. I’m not in New York anymore, Toto, that’s for certain.
“What are you thinkin’, darlin’?” John asked, swinging their arms to get her attention.
Meg glanced up at him shyly. “I’m just wondering how I got here, that’s all,” she said.
“In Nashville or with me?”
“Both, I guess. I’ve never done this before.”
“What? Taken a walk on a sunny day or taken a walk with a guy?”
“Both.”
He stopped, and pulled her up short. “You’re not kiddin’, are you?”
She smiled. “No. My father was always very strict. I led a very sheltered life.”
“I can’t even imagine a life like that,” he said, turning back down the sidewalk, but keeping her hand in his.
“I’m only just beginning to realize just how sheltered I’ve always been,” she said.
“You never got to play outside as a little kid?”
She snorted. “I don’t think I ever was a ‘little kid,’ to tell you the truth. I started to play the violin when I was three.”
“I started with Grandpappy’s fiddle at about the same age. We’d sit around the house most evenin’s, playin’ this tune or that. Then when we got better, we’d play at a local place—there was this tavern where we sometimes played, and during the summer, we’d play on the green when there’d be a picnic and folks wanted music.”
She sighed. “It all sounds so normal.”
“What about you? Where did you play as a kid?”
She sighed again. “I started my studies at Julliard at ten and played my first concert at Carnegie Hall when I was thirteen.”
He stopped short again, a look of disbelief on his face. “No shit?”
Meg laughed. “No shit.”
“Holy cats. Where else have you played?”
“Oh, Rockefeller Center, in New York. The Royal Albert Hall in London. Vienna, Berlin, Paris, Bucharest, Moscow. I’ve been all over the world with my violin.”
“Holy cats.” He shook his head, “I’ve never even been out of Tennessee.”
She gave his hand a squeeze and began walking once more, pulling him along. “I might as well have stayed in New York for all that I missed seeing in all those places. It was nothing but airports, the inside of limousines, fancy hotels, and concert halls. I never actually got to go exploring. Not like here.”
She grinned, and hugged his arm to her. “Maybe that’s why I’m having such a good time in Nashville. I’ve been having a real life adventure.”
“Does your father know where you are?” he asked.
She sighed. “No. Or at least I hope not.”
“And your mama?”
“She died when I was just a baby, so I have no memory of her.”
He pondered that for a moment.
“So, you’re tellin’ me you just ran away from home?”
“Something like that.”
He stopped once more. “How old are you?”
She laughed. “I was twenty-three in September. Don’t worry. I’m plenty old enough to be on my own. I’ve finally just had enough of the concert circuit.”
“You don’t have any broken contracts or anythin’, do you? Mel’s a real stickler for contracts.”
“No. I don’t,” she said. “My father has undoubtedly lined up a whole season of concerts for me, but I haven’t signed any contracts. I’ve been telling him for months now that I need some time off, so if he has signed something for me, when I told him not to, he’ll just have to deal with the consequences, because I’m not going back to that life. Not ever!”
Her voice had hardened, but she couldn’t help it. She was burned out, and she was through.
“So, you think you’ll be stayin’ here for a bit?” he asked, gently cupping her cheek with his hand. She felt the calluses on his fingertips, so much like her own, and reaching up to take his hand, she turned her face and kissed his palm before intertwining her fingers with his.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m happier at this moment than I’ve ever been. For the first time in my life, I’m free—free of expectations, free of responsibilities, free to be myself.” She sighed. “Free to find out just what that might be.”
His smile warmed, easily reaching his golden eyes. “Maybe I can help you with that,” he said, his voice as gentle as his touch.
She returned his smile. “Maybe you can.”
In another moment, she was reaching up to pull his face down and kissing him. He kissed her back, and her mouth opened under his at his gentle probing. His kiss wasn’t demanding, but she felt something shift inside her as his arms came around her, and their kiss deepened further. It was not as though she had never been kissed before. She had done that and a lot more with various famous musicians and conductors around the word, all at her father’s urging. This was different, though. John was different. She had met his brothers and their wives, and over the past twelve hours she had been welcomed into his family with open arms. Suddenly she knew things could be very different with this man, and she’d never felt such a yearning.
The honking of horn and a shout brought them abruptly apart.
“Get a room!”
They hastily broke apart, and Meg felt herself blushing deeply. John only laughed and pulled her back into his arms for a hug before turning her back the way they had come.
“How about we go up to my place, so I can teach you how to play a mandolin,” he said with a wink. “You did say somethin’ about wantin’ to learn, didn’t you?”
Meg kept her arm around his waist and tipped her head against his shoulder.
“Is that what they call it down here?” she teased.
John laughed and pulled her tighter to him as they picked up their pace.
* * *
They did stop at Mark and Addy’s apartment to pick up Meg’s violin before heading over to John’s place. The band had the full day off, so there was no hurry to go anywhere. Mel had to go to work—she worked at the Konstantine Talent Agency, which represented the band—and Bart was going in with her to work on more negotiations with Mel’s boss. Addy and Candace were taking the family’s SUV to the grocery store, as all of their larders were bare, and Matt, Mark, and Luke were headed out with the old beater van to see about trading it in on a newer model. No one seemed at all surprised that John and Meg were spending the day together at his place, and if anyone suspected music was just an excuse, no one said anything. Meg still found her face heating as they headed out under knowing eyes.
In all fairness, they did spend the first hour playing music.
“You heard me last night,” John said, as they rosined their bows, “so why don’t you give me a taste of the kind of music you play?”
“All right. What should I play?”
“What’s your favorite?”
She thought for a moment then smiled. “Rimsky-Korsakov. Scheherazade.”
“What’s that?” he asked settling himself on his worn couch.
“Not what, who.”
He grinned. “Okay. So who’s that?”
“Rimsky-Korsakov is one of my favorite composers. I’ve always loved the Late Romantics, especially the Russians. They wrote a lot of what’s now known as ‘program’ music—it tells stories, like Scheherazade, which is about a woman who tells stories to an Arabian sultan, and through a thousand and one nights, he falls in love with her and makes her his queen.
John laughed. “Cool. So when did he write?”
Meg laughed to here the great composers referred to as “dudes.”
“The late Romantic composers would have been born in the second half of the nineteenth century. There was just something about that period. Whether it was the climate, the beginning of the industrial revolution, the political upheavals throughout the world, whatever…”
Sighing, Meg tucked her violin under her chin and began to play. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and she let it carry her along with it. She didn’t play the entire movement, but came to a stopping point, and sighing once more, she dropped her violin and bow to her sides. Then she looked at him and shook her head in wonder.
“I’ve played that hundreds of times, but I haven’t felt it—really felt the music—in a very long time.”
“It was real pretty,” John said. “You’re real pretty.”
“Thank you.”
She set her violin and bow gently aside and reached for his mandolin.
“Show me,” she said. “Please.”
He got off the couch and went to her. “Like I said, you finger it the same as a fiddle.”
He wrapped his arms around her from behind and helped her place her fingers on the strings, then handed her a pick, and held her right hand in his, to show her how to pluck the strings. She leaned against him and let her fingers find the melody she had just played. It sounded so different on the mandolin she giggled.
“No, you need to move the pick from your elbow, not your wrist,” he said, showing her how as she continued to finger the melody.
Then they were both laughing at the awkwardness of their positions.
“I’m not certain Nikolai would appreciate my efforts,” she said, laughter ringing in her voice.
“Who’s Nikolai?” John asked with a frown.
“The Russian composer I told you about. His first name was Nikolai.”
“Oh, that Nikolai.”
Meg laughed out loud then turned in his arms, leaving her trapped between the mandolin and his hard body. It took her only a moment to notice there was a part of him that was suddenly particularly hard, and she caught her breath. Hesitantly, she reached up to gently touch his face.
“Do you want me, John?” she whispered.
He closed his eyes tightly then stepped away from her just long enough to lay his mandolin back in its case. When he turned back to her, Meg saw his golden eyes darken. Then she was in his arms, and he had his hands fisted in her long, silky hair.
“I’ve wanted you since you first walked in last night,” he told her, his voice tight with emotion. “I think I’ve wanted you my whole life.”
“Then take me. Now. Please.”
“Are you sure? ’Cause once we get started, darlin’, I won’t be able to stop anytime soon.”
She smiled. “I certainly hope not.”
With a growl reminiscent of his uncle’s last night, John laid his lips on hers and lifted her effortlessly, wrapping her long legs around his waist so she could hold on tight for the ride into his bedroom. The furniture there was still as sparse as that in the rest of the unfinished apartment, but when he laid her down and came over her, she felt the mattress’ firm support and decided he had at least managed to buy a new bed. Then she couldn’t think about anything but John, as his big hands roamed her body, inflaming every place he touched.
“Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.” It was a chant in her head as well as on her lips, but he didn’t seem to be swayed by it.
“We have all afternoon, darlin’,” he told her, only slowly unbuttoning her blouse.
“I can’t wait that long,” she gasped when she felt his mouth close over her breast. She felt his tongue working her nipple through the satin of her bra and arched her back, begging for more.
She felt as much as heard his chuckle and reached for the front of his jeans in retaliation.
“Hang on, darlin’,” he said.
Shifting away from her touch, he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and pulled them up over her head, leaving her open to his ministrations but unable to reach for him.
“I can’t,” she cried, moving restlessly in frustration.
“Sure you can.”
“No. No. No.”
He silenced her with his mouth, and their kiss went deep as he used his free hand to finish undressing her. When he finally released her wrists, she frantically struggled with her own clothing, suddenly desperate to get it off. She used her toes to kick off her shoes, one at a time, then opened the top of her jeans so he could slide them and her panties down and away. The front clasp of her bra made it easy to open, and he pulled her to a sitting position just long enough to pull both her blouse and bra off.
“Too many clothes,” she panted, tearing at his t-shirt, now, struggling to pull it free of his tight jeans.
“I got it,” he said, pulling it out and over his head.
“Oh, my,” she whispered, spearing her fingers through the thick, dark curls covering his chest. He was unlike any man she had ever seen. All the others had been mere shadows of this man: men too civilized, sculpted by exercise machines, coiffed unnaturally by five-hundred-dollar-a-cut hairdressers, stripped bare by wax treatments, and dressed in silk. She had never before cared one way or the other whether or not the lights were on, but now she was pleased beyond measure that the noonday sun was streaming in through the windows so she could see all of him.
Meg pushed on his shoulders and knew satisfaction when he allowed her to tumble him onto his back. She straddled his thighs and ran her hands over his abs and chest, feeling the hard strength of him beneath the soft curls and knowing there was nothing the least bit artificial about him.
“You are so beautiful,” she whispered, awed as she explored him and felt his muscles contract with each light touch of her fingertips.
His chuckle sounded pained and it turned to a growl when she reached for the button on his jeans.
“Careful, darlin’,” he said, blocking her hands.
“What’s the matter, big guy?” she asked, playfully teasing the furry line that disappeared beneath his waistband.
“Just a little concerned about zipper burn,” he managed to gasp as she slowly slid the fastener down.
She giggled. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
He was sweating, now, and once she had lowered the zipper all the way, she saw why.
“Oh, my,” she said again, swallowing hard. He wasn’t wearing shorts, and he sprang into her hands, filling them completely.
“I’m not sure this is going to work, John,” she said, sounding worried even to her own ears.
He laughed and hugged her to him, flipping her over onto her back. He stepped away just long enough to shed his boots and jeans, then he was back, pushing her knees up and apart so he could kneel between them.
“Trust me?” he asked, kissing her lightly on her lips then raining quick kisses along her jaw and down her throat, until his hot breath was on her breast.
When he didn’t kiss her there, she looked down and saw the question in his eyes.
“Yes!” she gasped, reaching for his head and pulling him to her.
He suckled first one breast and then the other while she held him close and writhed in anticipation. Then he lightly bit one nipple while at the same time reaching down to touch her intimately.
Meg came apart on a scream and she felt the wetness on her thighs as he swirled his fingers, preparing her for him.
Then that other part of him was there, pushing inside. He was bigger than anyone she had ever known, and she felt herself tensing in anticipation of expected pain. John didn’t let it happen though, as he slowing pushed forward and pulled back, taking complete control of their joining. Meg’s hands clasped his shoulders, and she could feel the sweat and strain of his control.
“John…?”
“Just hang on, darlin’,” he whispered. “We’ll get there.”
It took both patience and effort on both their parts, but then he was seated deep inside her, touching places she had never even known existed before. And as he began to move in a rhythm older than time, her muscles contracted around him, and she felt herself coming apart once more.
“John!”
Just as she thought the pleasure/pain would never end, he reached down to touch her where they were joined. She cried out once more as she climaxed, and she heard his answering roar as he followed her over the cliff..
* * *
“You don’t have to do this you know,” John said as they approached the symphony hall.
“Yes, I do.”
After spending a great deal of the past two weeks in John’s bed, Meg was a little sore, but otherwise she felt terrific. She’d been practicing again, playing just for the joy of it, trying to emulate John’s improvisation some of the time, but spending most of her playing hours on audition material. She’d finally heard back from the Nashville Symphony’s conductor, and she had an audition appointment. Now all she needed to do was impress him just enough and hope he didn’t recognize her.
Meg almost didn’t recognize herself these days. Mel and taken her to a hairdresser, who had cut and shaped her hair into a layered, breezy style. It was still long enough for her to pull it back into a pony tail—per John’s request—but it was shorter in front, and she couldn’t sit on it anymore, which made it a lot easier to take care of.
Having John in the shower with me to wash it helps, too, she thought, suppressing a grin.
They entered the Symphony Center through the offices as directed, and Meg was shown to an audition room, while John waited for her in the reception area. He gave her a quick kiss for luck as they parted, and she savored it, knowing he would be there for her when she came out again, no matter what happened in the audition.
Meg told herself to relax. This was not something she hadn’t done before, though it had been some time since her last actual audition. Still, she had performed for more exacting audiences in her time. Of course, only one man’s opinion would matter today.
And if he doesn’t like my playing, then I’ll learn to play fiddle, she told herself.
Twenty minutes later, she was warmed up and pacing the insulated practice room nervously, waiting for the maestro.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, when he finally appeared. “Miss Baker, is it?”
“Yes, Maestro Campagnone.”
He was tall and dark, as handsome an Italian male as any for whom she had played in Rome or Florence, or Vienna. Only a slightly raised eyebrow indicated that he was favorably impressed by her correct pronunciation of his name. His own speech had very little accent.
“I am afraid that I am a little pressed for time, today, but we do have need of a mid-season addition to our violins, so by all means, let me hear what you have for me.
“Thank you for your time, Maestro.”
Meg had spent years around men such as Maestro Antonio Campagnone, so she knew how to play the game. Without further delay, she began her prepared piece. She played Scheherazade, because it was more ensemble work than solo, but mostly because it was her piece. She put her heart and soul into the music, as though she were channeling Rimsky-Korsakov himself. She’d barely made it into the first solo, however, when she was interrupted.
“Enough! Enough!”
Meg broke off and stared at him, almost frightened by his fierce gaze.
“Is this some kind of joke? Some kind of lark you’re on?”
“I beg your pardon,” Meg said, falling back on the formal politeness that had been ingrained in her from a very early age.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you? The great Mademoiselle Marguerite Fournier? The toast of Europe?”
Meg straightened her spine and took a deep breath. “I’m not that person anymore.”
“What?”
“My name is Meg Baker. I’ve recently moved to Nashville, and I need a job playing the violin. If I’m not good enough for your orchestra, then…”
“Stop!” he commanded, when she turned toward her violin case.
She did, but she returned his glare. “I was not trying to trick you, Maestro. I simply came to audition for you. I need a job.”
He snorted, but when he continued, it was in a thoughtful manner. “I get it now. ‘Fournier.’ That’s French for ‘baker,’ isn’t it?”
She sighed. “My former manager’s idea. My legal name really is Margaret Baker.”
He paused, rubbing his chin as he studied her closely. “I seem to remember reading an article about you recently, something about an anonymous buyer paying some ten million dollars for a Stradivarius violin at auction. It was reported that he intended to loan it for life to a certain violinist, so she could tour with it.”
Meg tucked her own well-loved violin under her arm and began to loosen the tension on her bow. “It was twelve-point-two million,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “So why aren’t your touring Europe with the Stradivarius?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.
She looked at him directly, then, her gaze fierce. “Because Monsieur Anonymous also wanted me to perform privately for him in ways that had nothing to do with the violin.”
She felt herself relax in direct proportion to Campagnone’s outrage, which seemed to be genuine as he let loose with a string of curses. She gave him the benefit of the doubt—there was no way for him to know she not only spoke fluent Italian, she also recognized the slang he was using—she had picked it up from one of her classmates at Julliard.
“Your manager was going to allow this?” he finally asked sharply in English.
She sighed. “He actually insisted I do whatever was necessary to keep Monsieur Anonymous happy.”
Campagnone cursed once more, stood abruptly, turning his back on her and running his hands through his hair. He then became still for a long moment before turning back to her.
“Can you even play within an orchestra, Miss Baker?” he asked, and his tone had become polite, uncritical. “When was the last time you played any ensemble music?
“It has been awhile.” When he raised that eyebrow again, she relented. “The better part of ten years, at least.”
She was startled to see the corner of his mouth twitch, and she was almost positive there was a new twinkle in his eyes.
“And you’re now what? The ripe old age of twenty-five?”
She sighed. “Twenty-three.”
He really did smile then. “Okay. All right.” He shook his head but his chuckle gave her hope. “We’ll give you a try. I confess I’m rather desperate at the moment.”
“Why?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
“Our assistant concert master unexpectedly needed to go on maternity leave immediately. She’d been planning to wait until the end of our season—in June—but she’s been having some difficulties and her doctor has ordered bed rest for the duration.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, automatically.
“But not too sorry?” he asked, and that twinkle was back.
She smiled sheepishly. “No. I guess not. Though I do wish her well.”
He chuckled again and turned toward the door.
“I really have to go, now. See Miss Dennis on the way out, Miss Baker. She’ll have all the required paperwork for you. Oh, and your first rehearsal is at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“I will be there.”
He turned at the door and looked back.
“By the way: we’ll be playing Scheherazade in April, so your timing is perfect.”
Meg managed to wait until the door was closed before she grinned and pumped a fist into the air in victory.
* * *
“Ho-ly cow.”
“What?” Meg looked up to see her new friend, Janice—a second violinist whose locker was right next to hers—staring toward the door, her mouth opened in shock.
“Who do they belong to?” Janice asked.
“Down, girl,” Patty said. Patty was a fifty-something flautist who considered herself a den mother of the younger set in the orchestra.
Meg followed Janice’s gaze and found herself grinning as John and Bart came in for the backstage meet-and-greet following the evening’s performance.
“That would be me,” she said, trying hard not to sound as though she were gloating.
“No way,” Janice said.
“Way,” Meg said, and there was laughter in her voice. “Excuse me, ladies.”
She made her way through the crowded room to where the Saint men had stopped to talk with the pianist who had played the Mozart tonight. She was nearly upon them when John noticed her, and he grinned.
“Excuse me just a minute,” he said and broke away to come meet her. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet to swing her around before setting her back down and laying his lips on hers.
Somebody whistled, and Meg quickly stepped back, blushing furiously.
She heard laughter, but it was friendly. Meg didn’t know how much of her story Maestro Campagnone had told to whom, but the entire orchestra had quickly adopted her, with many of them openly helping her to fit in.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been lassoed by a cowboy, Baker,” George, the concert master, said in a teasing voice as he came up behind her.
“Actually, John is a fiddler.”
“Really? Where do you play?”
And they’re off, Meg thought with a laugh. She had found a good many of the violinists in the orchestra were big fans of the country fiddlers, and she had enjoyed sharing what she was learning from John with them.
“You were fine, tonight, darlin,’” Bart said, coming up to put his arm around her. “I’m real proud of you.”
“Thanks, Uncle Bart,” she said, enjoying her new status at home, as well. No one in the family had batted an eye when John had announced that Meg would be staying at his apartment, and Meg felt doubly safe having this big bear of a man—literally—downstairs. She knew it was only a matter of time before her father tracked her down, and she was infinitely blessed to have her new family about her.
“Where is everyone else?” she asked.
“Oh, they’re hangin’ around the lobby. We figured two of us would be plenty back here.
Meg laughed. You’d all have been welcome, but you’re probably right.”
“Do introduce us,” Patty said, coming up beside them. She was barely five-foot-two, and Bart towered over her.
Meg smiled warmly. “Patricia Coleman, Bart Saint. Uncle Bart, this is Patricia Coleman. You probably noticed her this evening on flute.”
“I did,” Bart said. “I enjoyed the concert very much.”
“I’m so glad. And I am so glad to finally meet Meg’s friends here in town. We’ve been blessed to have her step in for poor Sarah.”
“I’m blessed to have the opportunity,” Meg said.
She wasn’t certain of what else might have been said, but a rumbling disturbance from the stage door interrupted all conversation.
“You!” The enraged, familiar man was nearly apoplectic as he stormed back stage, flanked by two burly bodyguards.
He headed straight for her, and Meg knew she had never seen him this angry.
“How dare you!” he raged. “How dare you lower yourself to hide out among these…these plebeians?”
“Now wait just a flaming minute!” Maestro Campagnone appeared at her side almost instantly, and she felt as glad to have him there as she did John and Bart. “Who are you, and what is the meaning of this outrageous display!”
“I’m here to take back what’s mine,” her father said. “She’s under contract to tour this year starting the first of next month, and…”
“My last contract with you was fulfilled before the end of December!” Meg said. She stepped forward but kept her hand in Bart’s. “I told you then I wasn’t going to tour with the Strad, and I certainly have not changed my mind!”
“I’ve invested too much in you over the years, girl, and I’m not giving you any choice! The contracts are signed!”
“If they are, then it is your doing. I’ve not signed anything.”
“Actually, she has,” Campagnone said, putting a proprietary hand on her shoulder. “Miss Baker has signed a contract with this orchestra which obligates her to perform with us through the end of next season. So you see, she is no longer available for touring.”
Meg tried not to react in any way to Campagnone’s bold announcement. The contract she’d signed that first day had only been for the end of the current season—through this coming June.
“And I tell you I have the contracts!”
“If you signed them in my stead, then they are forged—and your responsibility. I am under no obligation to you.”
He straightened to his full considerable height in an attempt to intimidate her. “This is madness! You owe me everything! You are a soloist! A virtuosa! How can you possibly leave that life and lower yourself to…to this?”
“As far as I’m concerned, this symphony is a tremendous step up from where I was before!” Meg said.
“But…!”
“I don’t know of any other way to put this,” she said, fighting for calm, “but I am declaring my independence. I will not go back to New York at any time in the future, with or without you!”
“Seems pretty clear to me,” John said, stepping up to her side
“I don’t know just who you think you are,” her father began.
“I’m the one who’s protectin’ the lady, here, from your unwanted attention,” John said.
“John…” she whispered, suddenly afraid for him.
“That won’t be necessary,” Campagnone said.
His signal brought some uniformed guards forward to escort her father and his bodyguards from the premises.
“This isn’t over!” the older man shouted as he was being hauled out of the room.
“Yeah, it is,” John said.
The room was silent for a long beat, and Meg had to force herself to look at Campagnone.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“No,” he said sharply. “It is not for you to apologize.”
“Darn right,” John said, putting his arm around her shoulders.
“But you lied for me,” she said, wanting desperately for Campagnone to know how much she appreciated his support.
“I didn’t lie,” he said in mock horror. “I only…exaggerated a little bit.”
“By twelve months!” she said.
Campagnone only smiled and shook his head. “It is not the length of the contract I exaggerated. Rather the fact that you have not yet signed it for me.”
She looked at him in a mixture of shock and hope. “You want me to stay.” It wasn’t quite a question.
“Well, of course I do,” Campagnone said. “Do you really think I’d let you go after the way you have been performing? We are lucky to have you.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.
Patty Coleman started clapping, and soon everyone joined in. Meg found herself blushing once more.
Laughing, Campagnone put his arm around her and murmured in her ear. “Just remember, mia bella ragazza: I still cannot pay you a quarter of what you were earning touring Europe.”
“But I don’t need a quarter of what I was earning to live in Nashville.”
“True enough!”
He stepped back and looked at John. “You will bring her to us first thing in the morning, so she can sign the contract, yes?”
John grinned. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He reached out to shake hands with both John and Bart. “Now take her home and keep her safe.”
“You bet.”
But as they left the hall, Meg was left to wonder what else her father had in mind. She knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t give up so easily.
* * *
“We’ve picked up a tail,” Matt said, glancing in his rearview mirror as he drove them toward home.
“I thought that was too easy,” Candace said.
Once they had all piled into the SUV safely, Bart had filled everyone in on what had happened at the reception.
“Let ’em follow us home,” Mark said. “We’re ready for ’em.”
“No!” Meg said. “Please. Shifting will not protect you from bullets, and I know my father’s companions are armed.”
“She’s right,” Mel said. “And besides that, we don’t know what kind of trouble he can make for this family, if you all become bears and beat up on him.”
“I had somethin’ else in mind, darlin’,” Bart said, pulling out his cell phone.
After a moment, someone answered.
“I need to speak with Lieutenant Ferguson.”
“Who is Lieutenant Ferguson?” Meg asked Mel.
Mel smiled. “Listen and learn.”
“Ferguson? Bart Saint, here. We may be headin’ for a little trouble tonight, and we could use your help.”
Five minutes later, Bart ended his call.
“Who is Lieutenant Ferguson?” Meg asked once more.
“He’s a very nice police officer who helped me,” Candace said.
“He’s a Shifter, too,” Addy said, “so he understands.”
“And knows how to keep a secret,” Luke added.
“What do you want me to do, Uncle Bart?” Matt asked from the driver’s seat.
“Just head on home, Matt.”
“You’re going to confront them,” Meg said fearfully.
“No, we’re not,” John said, taking her hand. “Lieutenant Ferguson is. Right Uncle Bart?”
“That’s right. As soon as we pull in, Mel, I want you and the other the ladies to head up to your apartment. Go inside, lock the door, but don’t turn the lights on.
“Addy, as soon as you’re in, I want you to Shift. Sittin’ in the dark, you’re gonna need the eyes, ears, and nose of your cat, just in case somebody’s stupid enough to try to get in through the front or up the fire escape.”
“I’ll be ready for them,” Addy said.
“I’m countin’ on it.”
“What about all of you?” Mel said, sounding worried.
“Well, we’ll be waitin’ for the old man and his bodyguards in the parkin’ lot.”
“But…!” Meg began.
“Now, don’t you be worryin’ none, Meg, ’cause right behind your father and his men, there are gonna be a handful of police cruisers pullin’ in with their blue lights flashin’.”
John grinned. “I’m guessin’ if your daddy’s men are armed, they’re gonna be spendin’ the night in jail.”
“At the very least,” Mel said.
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the parking area behind the big house, and the women scrambled out. Mel led the way up the back stairs to their apartment, leaving the lights off as they entered and locking the door behind them.
“Let’s sit in the living room,” she whispered. “Come on.”
Mel, Candace, and Meg sat on the couch, side-by-side, and in another moment, Meg saw one of the room’s shadows Shift. The next thing she knew, there was a huge, yellow cat leaning against their legs.
Mel absently scratched Addy’s back, and Candace rubbed her ears. Meg sank her fingers into that thick, tawny fur and held on.
“Look! Blue lights!” Candace said.
Sure enough, they saw blue lights flashing from down the hall through the bedroom windows. Addy left them, then, and began to prowl around the apartment. She finished in the back bedroom and soon rejoined them as herself.
“I think we’re all clear, now,” Addy told them. “The two big guys are in handcuffs. I saw the police puttin’ them into the back of their cars. I’m guessin’ the driver and your father aren’t armed, on account of they’re not bein’ arrested.”
A few minutes later, they heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the back stair and the deep voices that told them it was the Saint men. Matt opened the front door with his key and flicked on the lights.
“Everybody okay in here?” he asked.
“Just fine,” Mel said stepping into his arms.
Meg followed her example, stepping into John’s arms and holding him close.
* * *
Adrenaline carried Meg back to John’s apartment, and she paced restlessly once they were inside. John moved to light the gas fireplace, though it wasn’t cold, then settled on the couch to watch her.
“Anything could have happened out there,” she said. Her hands were shaking and she clasped them together tightly at her waist.
“Not ‘anythin’, Meg.’”
She turned on him in exasperation.
“How can you just sit there after what my father threatened to do to you tonight? And what about tomorrow and the day after and next week? You have to know he’s not going to give up.”
“Actually, I don’t know that.” He leaned forward and reached out to pull her toward him. “He’s gotta know by now that you can’t be intimidated into comin’ back to him. And what’s he gonna do? Kidnap you? You’re no good to him, iffen you’re not playin’ that stupid violin that moron bought for you. And it’s not like he can make you play anythin’, is it?”
“He might be able to,” she said, reaching out to touch his face with trembling fingers, “if he threatens the people I care deeply about.”
John took both of her hands in his, squeezing them tightly. “You’re just gonna have to get used to the idea that we Saint men do everythin’ we need to do to protect our women folk. That’s the way it’s always been and always will be.”
Meg felt tears threaten and closed her eyes tightly. “And you Saint men need to get used to the idea that we women worry about you while you do.”
“That’s good to know,” he said, tugging on her hands until she came down into his lap.
He placed her hands on his shoulders then pushed her legs open until she was straddling him, her full skirt flowing around them both. She wore stockings with her black concert dress, and she felt heat as her thin panties rubbed against the hardness at the front of his trousers. He took her face between his palms and kissed her, his lips soft against hers, until after another moment, she changed the angle and bore down on him, deepening their kiss until he moaned with pleasure.
“Please love me,” she whispered against his mouth, when she finally came up for air. She rubbed herself against him and felt her dampness increase. “I have such a need for you.”
“Oh, darlin’,” he murmured against her ear as he nuzzled her there. “I need to love you like I need to breathe.”
She sat back then, staring into his deep golden eyes. “Then show me,” she whispered, reaching for the buttons on his shirt.
He’d taken off his tie in the car, but his dress shirt had tiny little buttons that threatened to defeat her as she fumbled with them with trembling fingers. Then he helped her finish the job and sat forward far enough to shrug out of his jacket and shirt, which she pulled away and tossed aside. His t-shirt followed, and she ran her hands through the fur on his chest before leaning forward and letting her lips trail her fingertips.
“You still have too many clothes on, darlin’,” he growled, and the next thing she knew, he had slid the zipper down the back of her dress.
The weight of the velveteen pulled the dress away from her shoulders, and he finished the job with quick fingers, baring her to the waist. The black lacy confection beneath was no challenge at all, and in another moment, he grasped both her bared breasts in his big hands, lifting them to suckle. Meg arched back on a soft cry, and she clung to his arms to keep from falling as she continued to rub herself against the now bulging front of his pants.
“Please, John!”
He chuckled. “We’ll get there.”
“Not soon enough!” she complained.
“We can start by getting’ the rest of this contraption off you,” he said, gathering up her skirt and pulling the whole dress over her head so he could toss it aside.
She now sat astride him in nothing but stockings, a garter belt, and lacy panties so insubstantial that he simply tore them away, leaving her bare and vulnerable.
“Now it’s my turn,” she said, as she ran her hands down his belly.
“I reckon so,” he murmured, reaching for his belt. “Lift up a bit.”
She raised herself on her knees while he dealt with his shoes, pants, and shorts, sliding them down and off. Then she lowered herself, rubbing against him and feeling the wetness.
“We’d better take it a little slower this way, darlin’,” he said, taking her waist in his big hands. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
But she would have none of it, taking him into her hands and guiding him to her opening then coming down hard on him. She cried out, the pain/pleasure taking her by surprise, but she wouldn’t allow him to control her motion, as she set a fast pace, rising and falling on him like a piston.
“You’re a wild thing, you are,” John said through clenched teeth, but she heard approval in his voice as his hands shifted to her breasts, allowing her to take the lead in their coupling.
She didn’t speak—she couldn’t, for she was too caught up in the pleasure.
Then he suddenly placed his big hands under her arms and lifted her off him.
“No!” she screamed at the loss.
But he only laid her on the floor, pulled her legs up over his shoulders, and entered her in one long, hard thrust. She screamed again at the startling invasion then sank her teeth into his shoulder. He roared his pleasure, flooding her with his seed.
A long time later, Meg stirred, feeling the warmth of the fire on one side and the cool air of the room on the other. His weight had her pinned to the hard floor.
“John?”
She felt him inhale deeply then he rolled to his side, keeping her between him and the fire. In another moment, she felt the afghan from the couch settle over them. He pulled her leg over his hip. He was still deep inside her, and feeling him stir, she squeezed her inner muscles.
John chuckled. “Can’t get enough, eh?”
“What just happened?” she asked, in a tiny voice, utterly shocked by her own behavior.
“I’m thinkin’ we might have made a baby.”
She stiffened then abruptly relaxed. “Do you really think so?”
“I’m hopin’ so, Meg darlin’, ’cause I sure want to give you a reason to stay with me.”
She managed to lift her head far enough to look down at his face. “I don’t need another reason,” she said, reaching out to trace his lips with her fingertips. “I wasn’t planning to go anywhere. I love you.”
He nipped at her fingers and smiled.
“I’m right glad to hear that, ’cause I surely love you.”
“If we did make a baby,” she said, moving her hand to play with the fur on his chest, “it would probably be a good idea for us to get married. Don’t you think?”
He reached up to caress her face. “I think that’s a really good idea—even if we didn’t make a baby just now.”
“Okay.”
She laid her cheek on his chest with a sigh and heard his chuckle. “’Course, we might want to try again, seein’ as how a baby would be a really good thing.”
“Maestro Campagnone might not think so, losing a second violinist to maternity leave so soon.”
“He’ll get over it,” John said rolling over and covering her once more.
Meg smiled. “I guess he’ll have to,”