Smoke

THE SMOKY BLUES

Mountains, music, love.

IN PLAIN SIGHT

A concert violinist and musical prodigy, Francesca Giordano is internationally acclaimed and always in the spotlight—right where she doesn’t want to be. Not after she’s witnessed a murder. Suddenly on the run, she finds her way to Bristol, Tennessee, and to the music club Acoustics. There, as Chessie Hope, she can hide out in the open.

But with this newest gig comes a different kind of danger. Older and impossibly sexy, bluegrass singer Cooper Barstow is everything she’s ever wanted in a man, and his daughters are just as easy to love. Yet Francesca cannot enjoy the luxury of such a relationship, not even if he could protect her from the men on her trail or if she could be honest with him about who she is. Cooper is as wounded as he is strong, and he needs someone who will stay by his side for the rest of his life. Just as Francesca does. And the smoke on the mountains and the haze of desire almost make her believe that could happen.

SMOKE

A Smoky Blues Romance

Emily Mims

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

SMOKE

Copyright © 2016 Emily Wright Mims

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-944262-46-4

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

To Lucille Richardson, the awesome piano and organ teacher who taught me to love all kinds of music, from Beethoven to Broadway to the Baptist Hymnal

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Emily Mims

SMOKE

Prologue

Brooklyn, New York—October

At the tiny table, on the sidewalk in front of her favorite Italian bistro in Cobble Hill, Francesca Hope Giordano sat across from Tristan Pullman and sipped her Pinot Grigio. She grinned impishly at Tristan, who was tackling a late-night plate of linguini with great gusto. They had skipped dinner to make it to a rock concert on time and they both were starving. Now come on. You can’t convince me that band is going to be the next Journey or Foo Fighters. They weren’t even all that good, she insisted.

Ah, but I would disagree with that. They have a certain, shall we say, appeal to the baser senses of the listener? A certain earthy vibe?

Tristan’s eyes danced when Francesca made a face. They had plenty of bass, all right. The lead singer is hot. But that’s about all I could see they have going for them.

Hotter than me? You wound me, Francesca. Honestly. If that’s the way you feel, we simply have no future together. None at all.

The two of them laughed out loud. They had no future together anyway and they both knew it, but the talented young French horn player was the best friend-with-benefits ever, and the present they shared was more than good. You know, the problem with me is that I never really get past the bias, she admitted. I was brought up thinking that classical music is pretty much it and that the rest of what’s out there is kind of below that. You know? Francesca forked up a piece of her scaloppini.

Well, duh. Tristan swallowed a mouthful of Merlot. Look at who raised you. Sheesh, Frankie. Your mom’s the finest cellist of her generation, and your dad is the most brilliant instructor out there, as well as being a hell of a classical violinist himself. And I’ll bet they had a violin in your hands by the time you were what? Five? Six?

Four, actually. And only because I begged them for one.

My point exactly. You’re a virtuoso classical violinist and have been on the concert circuit since you were twenty. Of course you’re biased. That’s your music. Speaking of concert tours, when does your next one start?

Francesca smothered a sigh. I leave in a week and a half for four months on the road.

You don’t sound thrilled.

Francesca thought a minute. A part of me is raring to go and a part of me isn’t. The part of me that loves making beautiful music, and meeting my teenage fans and signing CDs for them is thrilled. I love that I’ve been able to turn so many young kids on to classical music. But four steady months on the road? A different concert hall every weekend? Dealing with conductor after conductor and orchestra after orchestra, some of which are good and some of which aren’t? Not thrilled at all. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose and shook out the fall of sleek brown hair cascading down her back and around her generous curves.

But you knew that was the name of the game when you started touring. And you’ve only been at it five years. Tristan looked at her thoughtfully. You have a lot of traveling and a lot of tours ahead of you, Frankie, if you stay on the course you’ve charted. Your mom’s been at it for thirty years and is still going strong.

I know. It’s silly of me. Any number of young musicians would kill to be in the position I’m in right now. Besides, what else would I do? It’s the life I’ve been prepping for since I picked up that first violin. I’ll be fine, Tristan.

I know that.

So how about you? Have you decided? Are you staying with the Philharmonic?

A shadow crossed Tristan’s face. I don’t know. I want to, but Dad’s been on me lately about relocating. Says I would have a better chance for first chair in a smaller orchestra somewhere. He wants me out of town.

Why? Haven’t the two of you always gotten along?

Tristan nodded. We have. He hesitated. It’s something else.

What?

Uh, just some family stuff. Don’t worry about it.

Tristan quickly changed the subject and they dawdled over their meal, enjoying the cool air of autumn and the youthful, energetic bustle that characterized Brooklyn. It was almost midnight by the time they finished their dinner and their waiter brought them the bill. The traffic in the streets and the pedestrians on the sidewalk had finally thinned out, leaving the neighborhood quiet and peaceful. They sauntered hand in hand around the corner and down the dark, shadowy side street toward Tristan’s third-story walk-up in the Gowanus neighborhood and were almost to his building when a nondescript sedan pulled around the block and parked across the street. Francesca barely noticed it until Tristan inhaled sharply. Shit. I didn’t think he really meant it. He looked around and, spotting a narrow alleyway between two houses, shoved Francesca into the alley. "Don’t come out until I tell you to. No matter what goes down. Do not come out."

Tristan? What? Francesca whispered. But Tristan was already back out on the sidewalk, heading in the direction they had been walking.

Francesca flattened herself against the wall. She grabbed her phone and fired off a text to 9-1-1 and then peered out of the space between the brownstones. Tristan pretended not to notice three men climbing out of the car and crossing the street, and it was only when they surrounded him that he stopped and acknowledged them at all. From what she could see on the dark sidewalk, they were young and well-dressed and wouldn’t draw a second glance in a busy mall. But Francesca nevertheless sensed they were a threat.

Can I help you guys? Tristan asked. Francesca could tell he was frightened and hoped the men didn’t pick up on it.

In a manner of speaking, their leader said. Your daddy ever mention any business dealings with Leo Aultgelt? He had a thick Southern accent and in the dim light appeared to be blond.

What the hell? Leo Aultgelt ran the biggest construction company in New York. For the most part his dealings were reputed to be ethical, but there was the occasional whispered rumor questioning his strong-arm tactics. What business did Tristan’s father have with him?

No, I can’t say that he has, at least not to me.

The three men looked around at one another, and Francesca sucked in her breath. Tristan was lying and they all knew it.

Really, now. I find that hard to believe, especially since your daddy stole a shit-pile of money from him in a Ponzi scheme. Him and a whole lot of other people.

Dad wouldn’t do something like that. He works for one of the most reputable stock-brokering companies in town.

Perfect cover for him to steal his clients blind. Only Mr. Aultgelt found out about it. Didn’t take too kindly to it, either. He sent a little warning to your daddy this afternoon. Gave him until midnight tonight to make good and pay up. Apparently your daddy didn’t believe him. Because it is now twelve twenty-three and the money hasn’t been returned. I guess it all went on that fancy apartment he’s got your stepmother fixed up with.

I-I wouldn’t know anything about that, Tristan stammered.

Francesca cringed. The penthouse had to be worth well into the millions, more money than even a successful stockbroker could afford.

So what do you want from me? Tristan asked.

Well, we want to deliver a little message to your dad. He needs to learn not to fuck with the likes of Leo Aultgelt.

The man in front of Tristan pulled out a long pistol sporting a silencer, and before Tristan could react, pumped five bullets straight into his heart. Francesca gasped and bit her lip to keep from crying out. Tristan! God, no. Not Tristan. She shrank even farther back into the shadows as the men bent over Tristan, now bleeding out onto the sidewalk. Maybe your daddy will think twice before he cheats Mr. Aultgelt again.

Francesca watched in shock and horror as Tristan’s body convulsed once and lay still. She started to text the authorities again, but the light of the screen would give her location away to the killers. Instead, she strained to see as much as she could from her hiding place, memorizing the shape of the car and the sizes and body types of the men and what little she could see of their faces as they wrapped Tristan’s body in a tarp and tossed it in the trunk.

They started to get in the car but the leader stopped them. Was he alone when we drove up?

Had they seen her? Francesca stifled a gasp and eased farther into her inky hiding place.

How would I know? I wasn’t looking at him. I was following the signal from his phone.

He turned to the other killer. What do you think?

Don’t know. Wouldn’t hurt to look.

Francesca shook in her shoes as they started across the street. She didn’t doubt for a minute that if they found her, she would be as dead as Tristan. Her heart pounded in her throat as they came nearer and nearer, but as they stepped onto the sidewalk beside the alleyway she heard the faint sound of a police siren drawing nearer. Cursing, the men ran back to their car and took off in the opposite direction.

Shaking violently, Francesca waited until the police car had pulled onto the block and stopped before stepping out from in between the houses. The policeman took one look at her white face and her shaking legs and the huge puddle of blood in the middle of the sidewalk and guided her to the car. Sit down, miss, and tell me what happened.

They killed him. They shot Tristan to send a message to his father. Francesca’s voice slowly lost its quiver and became stronger. I watched them kill him and I heard them say who was behind it. She turned to the policeman, tears of grief and anger pooling in her eyes. And I’ll testify to it. I’ll tell the whole world what I heard and saw tonight. I’ll finger that bastard in a court of law if it’s the last damn thing I ever do. For Tristan…

Chapter One

Bristol, Tennessee—March

Cooper Barstow stood at the back of the new and improved Acoustics with his good arm crossed over his ever-present prosthetic and waited impatiently for the lights to dim and the next set to begin. The crowd was lively tonight, with a mixture of locals and a higher-than-usual number of young tourists, thanks to an unexpected warm snap and the tail end of Spring Break. He sat down at the end of the bar with a weak scotch and soda and settled in to listen to the entire set of the next performer. She was a young fiddler out of nowhere in particular who, according to her resume, had played all over and most recently had been performing around northern Georgia with a recently disbanded folk group. Normally he would have caught the first number or two and gone in the back to do a little paperwork before The Barstows took the stage, but tonight there was no paperwork to do. That was new manager Ren Navarro’s responsibility now. But it would be Cooper and Kylie’s job to decide whether to hire her to fiddle for The Barstows. He wasn’t particularly hopeful that she could fill the spot, if she was as dismal a prospect as the last three who’d auditioned, but if there was the remotest chance she could play with the band, he wanted to know it. And to know that, he had to listen to her play.

Finally, the lights dimmed and the young woman stepped into the spotlight. And young was the operative word. Her resume claimed she was twenty-five, but the girl on the stage didn’t look much older than his own eighteen-year-old daughter. She was small, petite even, with shapely but still youthful curves, facial features that reminded him of his grandmother’s cameo brooch, and thick, curling blonde hair that was probably dyed, if her dark brown eyes and alabaster complexion were anything to go by. She was dressed a bit formally for a performance at Acoustics, but the dark blue dress clung lovingly to her every curve, and stiletto heels made her already long legs seem to go on forever. Cooper felt himself staring at her as she tested her fiddle one last time and made a miniscule adjustment of the A string. Girl or no, she appealed to him more than any woman had in a long time. And considering his track record with the opposite sex, that was saying a lot.

The crowd quieted and she took an oddly formal bow before tucking her fiddle under her chin and without fanfare launching into Wildflowers, a soulful tune about love lost forever. Cooper watched and listened with rapidly escalating astonishment as the girl took the old fiddle song and made it something he’d never expected to hear tonight. Technically, her playing was perfect, every note clear and sharp, and her timing spot-on. Whatever her murky background as a musician, she’d had formal training somewhere. But at the same time there was a powerful undercurrent of emotion there, a pathos that reached beyond the melody itself and drew the audience, and Cooper, into the heart of the music.

She finished her first number and launched into another, again enchanting her audience, and Cooper listened with increased confusion. Clearly the girl was not just talented, she was gifted, incredibly so. So what was she doing drifting around, playing here and there? With her talent, she should have been in Nashville or New York, or if she wanted to play bluegrass, fiddling for a major group. Why was she auditioning for a spot in a small-time band like The Barstows?

And why the hell did she seem so familiar to him somehow? Why did he feel like he’d seen her somewhere before?

Cooper sat and sipped his scotch as the girl made her way through a number of standard old fiddle tunes, but unlike most musicians didn’t throw in a newer, more modern number or something she or a friend had written. Unusual, but as long as the crowd was happy, it really wasn’t anything to him. He watched and listened, trying to remain objective about her talent and her abilities, but pretty soon he felt himself falling under her spell right along with the rest of the crowd. She had a commanding presence on the stage. She took ownership of it and of the audience in front of her, holding them in her grasp while she poured her heart and soul into the music she made. Or was he falling under her spell because he found her so enchanting as a woman?

There was only one way to find out, and that was to talk to her when she finished. He and Kylie would interview her and she would sit in with The Barstows and see if she played well with his band.

Not that there was all that much left of the band these days. Cooper threw back the last of his drink and slammed the glass down on the bar a little harder than necessary. They were down not only their fiddler, murdered last fall in a fallout between drug dealers, but his late cousin’s wife Timberlynn had miscarried the night of the murder and had not been back since, leaving them down a regular banjo player also. Bradley was filling in on banjo but couldn’t play it worth a damn, and Ren was so busy running the club and scouting for a place to locate a second one he wasn’t available often enough to do them any good. His girls, God bless them, had been filling in some on the fiddle and his nephew on guitar, but they were just kids and he couldn’t expect them to play half the night and keep their grades up and their teachers happy.