Symphony of Light and Winter Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Warning

  ~ Dedication ~

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  ~ About the Author ~

  ~ More Fantasy from Etopia Press ~

  Symphony of Light and Winter

  Renea Mason

  Copyright Warning

  EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published By

  Etopia Press

  1643 Warwick Ave., #124

  Warwick, RI 02889

  http://www.etopia-press.net

  Symphony of Light and Winter

  Copyright © 2013 by Renea Mason

  ISBN: 978-1-940223-10-0

  Edited by Kyle Lewis

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Etopia Press electronic publication: June 2013

  ~ Dedication ~

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful husband and adorable sons who were patient with me while I multitasked my way through the past year. And to my family and extended family who encouraged me through it all. I couldn’t be more blessed.

  And thank you to all who took the time to support me through the many revisions: Patti Amato, Heidi Meason, Jena Baxter, Day Jamison, D. C. Stone, Jennifer Printy, Kishan Paul, Lea Bronson, Elle Clouse, Luck Hawkins, Michaela Miles, Marianne Willis, Tina Pollick, the Coffee Talk Writers, the Ladies in Red, and to the countless others who helped bring this project to life.

  Preface

  There was no warning. No ambiguous fortune in a cookie, no wrinkled blind woman who answered to the name Oracle, no chain letter in my e-mail predicting the disaster my day would become. Nothing.

  Yet by the end of the day, I would ruin my reputation, doom my career, and be forced to reevaluate my entire existence. But only after being thrust back into a world I had always believed was nothing more than a delusion.

  Chapter One

  Guest

  “Damn! You look like a leprechaun’s wet dream.” Clarence’s slight Southern drawl emerged when he teased. “Are we so far behind you had to take up hookin’?” Gesturing at my far from typical attire, my accomplice, employee, and friend took a seat beside me in the Mezzanine Lounge. The final movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony resonated from beyond the red double doors of the concert hall.

  “Very funny. It’s not the goal. It’s the target.” Glancing down at my plunging neckline, I realized the diamond necklace, a gift from my late husband, was the only thing I wore in good taste.

  My objective was simple—convince two wealthy businessmen their financial contributions were key to the orchestra’s survival. After weeks of poring through hundreds of files and identifying the perfect prospects, I had selected esteemed guests for the night’s reception.

  Clarence reached over and tugged on wispy strands of my hair. “The green shirt really sets off your fiery mane.”

  “The lady at the salon did her best to tone it down.” I patted the locks, pinned in a loose bun. My brilliant copper-red hair was inspired by a documentary on South American tree frogs. Their vibrant cloaking cautioned predators to stay away. Fearing I had something in common with the frogs, I broadcast my own warning. Our secret? Venom. Waking next to a corpse on my honeymoon had been a pretty big omen. I could take a hint.

  Unfortunately, this job called for a different strategy. Attraction was essential. I slid a folder toward Clarence.

  “So you’ve decided on our final victim, Ms. Senior Director of Fund-raising.” He opened the front cover. “Martin Willoughby. That explains everything. Well, if anyone can loosen his pockets, it’s you.” Clarence stroked his impeccably trimmed goatee, which accented a hard-to-forget smile.

  I glanced at the file and tapped a finger on the cover. “I’ve tried to avoid him, but Willoughby is our best chance. We only have a few more weeks to make our goal.” I looked down and adjusted my shirt. “The outfit ensures I’ll keep his attention long enough to make the ‘ask’, but it’s not without risk. Do you remember what happened to Allison last year?” I shifted on the slippery bar stool and tugged my short skirt, making sure it covered my ample bottom.

  “How could I forget? She moaned for days about how hard he pinched her ass.” Clarence laughed, and the lights hanging above the bar highlighted small wrinkles on his smooth-shaven head.

  I slapped another folder against the bar, harder than I intended. “Our second prospect is Stanton Overton. He’s bringing a guest.”

  “Is Overton the one who wore the black pin-striped James Bond suit to the gala?”

  I nodded. “I didn’t get a good feel for his giving potential because he kept refocusing the conversation on me.”

  “Linden, the man is so fine he can keep his money. I’ll take his phone number.” Clarence cracked his knuckles as he let out a sigh, but I noticed the blush in his coffee-colored cheeks.

  I needed to keep him on task. “I’m depending on you. I’ll get things wrapped up with Willoughby as fast as possible so I can see if Overton’s guest has potential.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s all business.” He winked.

  I shot back a suspicious half smile and leaned across the bar, stowing the folders out of sight.

  The bustle of patrons exiting the concert hall filled the corridors. A few musicians arrived and assembled a string quartet in the corner of the lounge, adding to the ambience of the evening’s event. I waved to them and mouthed thank you from across the room.

  From behind, a large hand snaked around my waist, causing me to slide off the barstool. I stumbled. Martin Willoughby steadied me, and then pulled me hard against his chest. He kissed me first on one cheek and then the other while his eyes lingered on my cleavage between kisses. “Ms. Hill.”

  I stared at him for a moment, trying to regain my wits. “So nice to see you again, Mr. Willoughby. Did you enjoy the performance?”

  “Yes.” He pulled back and let his gaze roam the length of my body. “You look delectable.”

  I blushed, tilted my head, and flashed a seductive smile. “Thank you. Can I get you a drink? Scotch, double malt, if I remember correctly?”

  He beamed. “My dear, you certainly have a good memory.”

  I smiled, hiding the truth—the subtle nuances my research had revealed about this man.


  “One moment.” I steadied myself in my three-inch heels. When I turned to flag the bartender, Willoughby cupped my left butt cheek and squeezed. Even though I knew to expect it, the pinching took me by surprise. I stiffened.

  He probably did too.

  Nothing quite like Viagra bravado. He brushed a hand through his graying hair and gave a toothy grin.

  I reminded myself how much the orchestra needed the money. Masking a grimace behind a coy smile, I mouthed oh, my. He may have been attractive in his day, but the liver spots and deep-etched lines on his face confirmed years of hard living.

  I nudged Clarence, who still stood at the bar waiting for Overton, and motioned for the bartender.

  Clarence grinned, then leaned in whispering, “How’s your ass?”

  “Screw you.”

  He snickered, leaned forward on his elbows, and took a drink.

  I elbowed him in the side.

  “Two scotches, double malt.” To hell with the girlie drinks. I needed the good stuff.

  Schubert’s String Quartet no. 14, Death and the Maiden played as I accepted Willoughby’s outstretched arm and he guided us to a quieter spot in the room. When I offered him the scotch, he snaked his arm around my waist. “So where were we, Linden?”

  “The performance.” I didn’t give him time to interject. “Next year, if I can raise all the necessary funds, your seats will have improved acoustics. We’re also adding a few private boxes for our patrons who like…discretion.” I shouldn’t have, but I threw him a tempting smile.

  Segueing into the pitch early was risky, but if I didn’t get started, he might need to be surgically removed. Overton would be arriving at any moment. Time was not a luxury if I wanted any chance of hitting up his guest for a donation too.

  “Is that so?” He pulled me into a tight hug. “And what would be required to get on the list for one of those boxes?”

  I stood several inches taller than Willoughby, and his embrace positioned his face far too close to my not-so-well-contained cleavage. I held my glass in front of me, putting distance between us. “If you are able to make a sizable donation this season, I’ll make sure you are first in line.”

  He leaned in, his breath smelling of scotch, cigar smoke, and bad teeth. “Oh sweetheart, you can put me second in line behind you and I’ll show you how sizable my donation can be.”

  I grimaced, willing my stomach not to heave as I struggled to laugh at his disgusting joke. Before preparing a forced flirty comeback, I glanced toward the door and saw Overton and his…oh God.

  Electricity ignited my skin as the stranger entered the room. The hairs on my arms tingled. My heart halted beating. Words stuck in my throat and mind. My chest tightened. All motion slowed as if the world were suspended in liquid.

  Overton’s guest removed a pair of dark glasses, tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket, and stared directly at me. From the corner of the room the music crescendoed, and his penetrating gaze caused the glass to slip from my hand. The caramel-colored liquid made large wet splotches all over Martin Willoughby’s dress pants. Motionless, I returned the man’s scrutiny.

  It was him. Impossible. Ten years ago, I held Overton’s guest as he bled out onto the snow. He died. This could not be real.

  “Damn it!” Willoughby’s exclamation and step backward pulled me from my stupor.

  “Oh! I am so sorry. Let me get that.” Long, clumsy strides took me to the bar for a stack of napkins, then back. I dropped to my knees and wiped at the amber liquid. Anything to break eye contact. My hands shook, making the task difficult.

  I mumbled apologies to Willoughby and looked up to see him staring down at me. The mischievous grin told me he could see down my shirt. From my knees, I ventured a guess at the fantasy running through his head.

  I rose to my feet, careful not to look anywhere but at Willoughby. “I’m so sorry. Please let me pay for your dry cleaning.” Sincerity proved difficult when my mind couldn’t care less about the smelly man or his pants, given the new development.

  “Nonsense. It’s just a little scotch. It will come out in the wash. Besides the image of you on your knees was payment enough.” He winked.

  I faked a giggle and hid my trembling hands. A familiar heat coursed through my body, disturbing and undeniable. I needed a moment to gather myself. “I should probably go freshen up. I got scotch on me too.”

  Willoughby grabbed my arm and looked into my eyes with surprising and welcome concern. I don’t know what he found. Fear? Exhaustion? Confusion?

  “What’s wrong, Linden?”

  “I feel bad about your pants,” I lied. “I didn’t ask you here to ruin your night.”

  “I know.” He reached out and brushed one of the strands of hair from my face. As he did, I glanced up to verify the man who accompanied Overton remained in the room. He had not wavered.

  Willoughby seemed to pick up on my emotions. “Ms. Hill, we both know what these gatherings are about. As much as we love the pretense, let me make this a little easier. How much do you need?”

  I hoped he had a tight grip on his drink when he learned the amount. I gave him a weary smile. “Fifty thousand.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be first on the list for one of the boxes?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused and stared into my eyes. His gaze then drifted to my cleavage. He sighed. “Done. I’ll have my assistant send over the check in the morning.”

  “Thank you so much.” I extended my gratitude not only for the money, but also for the distraction. “Really, thank yo—”

  “As always, Ms. Hill, it was my pleasure. My wife is waiting for me in the car. Call me when the box assignments are made.”

  “Certainly. Thank you, again.”

  He threw his arms around me and pulled me into a fierce hug, which landed his nose between my breasts. After one last squeeze of my bottom, he turned to leave.

  Who would have thought I would be sorry to see Martin Willoughby go?

  Overton stood at the bar conversing with Clarence, his guest no longer in the doorway. Exhaling a sigh of relief, hoping I imagined everything, I heard his voice come from behind me. Different accent; same tones. Light tremors racked my body as he drew near. Even though I could not see him, the pulsing under my skin alerted me to his proximity. His scent, unmistakable.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Green?” The words slid like velvet from his tongue as he approached.

  By some miracle, I managed to respond, “Yes?” My back to him, eyes closed. Michael, my late husband, convinced me I had concocted the man’s entire existence. I had always secretly hoped he was wrong, hating to think someone imaginary had affected me so deeply—that I was still in love with a dream. Wait, he called me by my married name? No one knew I was a widow.

  “I’d like to introduce myself.” His words were almost a whisper, and so close his hot breath tickled my ear.

  I turned to face him, trembling. Our eyes met, and the intensity nearly buckled my knees.

  He extended his hand. “Morgan Peters.” Same blue eyes.

  Deep breath. In slow motion, I slipped my hand into his. Electric, just as I remembered. A low voltage ran through my body. His touch simmered my blood and I worried my bones might turn to liquid. He was the nexus. My stare drifted to his hand, large and masculine, tightening around mine, then looked up into his wide, surprised eyes.

  My tongue felt thick and dry from anxiety; beads of perspiration peppered my skin. I swallowed hard and exhaled. “It’s nice to meet you…Mr. Peters.” Cyril Aristin was the man I watched die, not Morgan Peters.

  He searched my face, his smile holding a hint of snide satisfaction. “Do I make you nervous? You seem a bit… Out of sorts.”

  I took a deep breath and shook my head. “No. Ah…not at all, my apologies. I spilled my drink on someone and I feel awful. Can we start again? I’m Linden Hill. Did you attend the performance with Mr. Overton?”

  “I did.” My memory, or imagination, had not done
the ocean-blue of his eyes justice. So captivating. “Stanton and I are old friends. We’ve conducted many business transactions over the years. He told me of the superb orchestra you have in this city. Since I’ve never had the pleasure, I decided to accompany him tonight.” He took my hand in his once more, raised it, and kissed the back of it. “And what a pleasure it has been.” Even though the contact with his lips was only a quick passing, the sensation branded my skin with delightful heat.

  When he released me, I instantly longed for his touch. I breathed in a scent that brought memories of teenage fantasies.

  Attempting to reclaim dignity, I cleared my throat. “Di-did you enjoy the performance?”

  “Yes, very much. Stanton told me you are undertaking quite the renovation project. Is that true?”

  “Yes, we’re updating a lot of the original features, adding the private boxes, and remodeling backstage to help attract better touring companies.”

  His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. The intensity in his gaze frightened me. His hand rose toward my face.

  Turning my head toward the bar, I pointed, and in the process dodged his touch. Unsettled by his expression, I broke the silence. “Can I get you a drink, Cy…Mr. Peters?”

  “No, thank you. I must be going. Stanton told me on our way here tonight that you made a promise to make sure he upholds his obligations to the arts. He’ll be in touch.” He shot me the first true smile since our introduction.

  “I look forward to speaking with him.” I smiled back, hoping my anxiety didn’t show.

  “Again, my pleasure, Mrs. Green.” He brought my hand to his lips, but paused before touching my skin. He inhaled and released his breath with a long sigh, and it blew hot across my skin.