Billionaire Romance Boxed Set 1(97)

Eliot shook his head and came back to the present. This was California. A chill ran down his spine, but it was not due to the cold.

Ten years ago. Ten years to the day.

Not for the first time, he thought of what would happen if his life were to end right now. He had nothing to show for the past decade but an endless muddle of pages of mathematical work in the wastebasket. Useless, really. The ghost of his wife haunted him in dreams and reality both. No matter where he looked, Clare was there. Hiding in the crowds, in the face of the women he passed on the sidewalk. He shut himself up and hid, because it was easier than seeing her face everywhere.

He felt numb. Always there had been something to sustain him, a new problem in mathematics or the touch of his lovely Clare’s hand. Now… he had shut himself up in his work and produced nothing. He had closed off his heart and loved nothing. A veil had fallen over his world, had crept over his vision slowly, until he could not see at all except through a haze. Bit by bit, obligations had replaced his desires and he had ceased, finally, to want anything. Air went in and out of his lungs, but he did not breathe.

Eliot did not know how long he had been sitting on that bench when he looked up and saw a woman standing in front of him, a coffee in her outstretched hand.





Valentina? That wasn’t my name. Why had I lied? I rushed up the stairs to the second floor, the magic of the past few minutes evaporating quickly in the warm crowded air of the library. Everything felt too strange for words, and I couldn’t get Eliot’s face out of my mind. That scar, and those eyes…

My study group sat at a long oak table near the back side of the room, by the windows. I could spot Quentin’s bright red hair a mile away, and he gestured wildly all around him as he talked. Mark sat across from him, the calm bespectacled geek. Together, we made up the nerdiest group of math majors on campus, but Mark and I took solace that no matter how bad it got, we could never outnerd Quentin. Outside, the snow fell against the glass, the only indication that this night was anything but normal.

“Brynn!” Mark waved at me, shaking his black hair out of his eyes. “You’re late!”

What’s up, Brynn?” Quentin gave a half-nod my way.

“Sorry,” I said, dumping my backpack onto the table. Pages of notebook paper scattered across the hard polished surface and one of them fluttered against the candle in the middle of the table. I grabbed the paper quickly before remembering that the flicker of light was electric. Silly me. “I… um, I was practicing down at the music hall.”

Again a lie. I never lied. But something in me wanted to keep the handsome man in the black coat a secret. Something special. Just for me.

“Oh cool, I didn’t see you there,” Mark said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Did you hear they might open up the midnight piano room on Sunday?”

“Really?” I asked.

“The what?” Quentin sounded annoyed. “Pianos? Really, people? Can we please get back to these proofs?” He had three pages of scrawled notes in front of him and looked as though he wanted to set the whole thing on fire.

“You’d like this,” Mark said, ignoring his protests. “It’s a ghost story.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Quentin said dryly. “Unless it’s the ghost of Euclid haunting this problem set.”

“That bad?” I said, not looking forward to the work.

“It’s the hardest problem set we’ve done all year.”

“No, but really. There’s a ghost in the practice hall,” Mark insisted, his eyes bright behind his glasses. “You’ve heard the story, right Brynn?”

“Sure,” I said. My eyes quickly scanned the problem set, which did indeed look menacing. “The midnight piano ghost.”

“See? Everybody who plays has heard of it.”

“The music department has a ghost? No fucking way.” Quentin’s voice was tinged with curiosity. “Tell me.”

Mark pulled the candle across the table and bent down so that the electric flame illuminated him from under his chin, reflecting in his dark eyes. When he spoke, he tried to sound eerie, but his somewhat-nasal voice spoiled the effect.

“There’s a room in the back of the practice hall that’s always been locked. Inside is a really old Bosendorfer piano.”

“Not just any Bosendorfer. A Grand Imperial Bosendorfer. Eight octaves,” I added.

“Thanks for the lesson, music nerd,” Quentin said. “What about the ghost?”

“Nobody’s ever seen it,” Mark said, his voice lowering. “But late at night, really late at night…”