She froze. It wasn’t easy to shock my mamá, but this news stopped her in her tracks.
“He’s what?”
“He was murdered this afternoon during the sound check. Someone stabbed him in the back.”
Pastor Collins patted my hand comfortingly. “My deepest condolences,” he said.
“Thank you.
Mamá’s eyes narrowed. “Who killed him?”
I hesitated. “We don’t know. The police think Fred did it, but I’m sure it wasn’t him.”
She bristled. “Well, that is very disturbing news. Until the board of directors hires a new conductor to replace Fred, there will be no more rehearsals and no more performances.”
The whole idea of a board of directors was a sham. Mamá was the chairwoman and the board did whatever she bullied them into doing. If she said we couldn’t perform, then the board would back her on it.
My heart dropped to my stomach. “Mamá. It’s sad that he’s dead but there’s no reason to—”
Her gaze burned into me. “I’ve said all I have to say on the matter.”
No. I had to find a way to salvage the performance. “Please, Mamá. What if the real killer is caught and Fred is proven innocent?”
She set her jaw and I thought she was going to reject my plea, but her eyes snagged on mine and she must have seen the desperation there because she said, “Thenand only then—the concert may go on.”
That meant the killer had to be found in the next ten days.
The doorbell rang off in the distance, and Mamá arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Whoever was at the door, she wasn’t expecting them. My curiosity piqued. Uninvited guests were a rarity at Rosings Park.
Movement caught my eye, and I turned toward the open door where Mr. Jenkinson ushered in the most exquisite man I had ever seen. He was tall and lean, wearing jeans that fit like a dream and a black T-shirt that showed off sculpted forearms. His deep brown eyes met mine, eyes that I could lose myself in. The hint of a smile played on lips that were meant to be kissed. I knew this because I kissed a picture of them every morning on my way into rehearsal. This couldn’t be real. I blinked, but he was still there, standing in my living room.
Ernesto Garcia.
Chapter 4
Myheartthunderedinmy chest because¡Qué guapo!Three dimensional Ernesto was exquisite. He turned to Mamá, and the loss of his gaze on me felt like moving from a hot tub to an ice bath.
“Lady Catherine, I’m sorry to intrude,” he said. I knew that voice from numerous clips and concert videos, but here,in my living room, it was sultrier than ever. “I’m Ernesto Garcia and I’m a friend of Fred Brown. I was hoping to borrow Anne for a moment.” His eyes flickered back to me before returning to Mamá. “It has to do with the Christmas concert.”
He waited respectfully, his stance relaxed and open, unflinching as she examined him with her steely gaze from her wing-backed green velvet chair. After what felt like an eternity, she said, “Certainly.” I had no idea how Fred knew him or why he would want to visit me, but I wasn’t about to question a Christmas miracle.
He bowed his head slightly to my mamá, then to the Collinses before turning the full force of his brilliance on me. “I’m sorry to hear about—”
“I’ll show you to the music room,” I said, taking him by the hand and pulling him swiftly to the hall. Now was my chance to escape before Mamá descended upon the situation with the full force of her attention. When we’d gone around the corner, my brain caught up to my limbs and I realizedI was touching Ernesto Garcia. I dropped his hand quickly, but not before I picked up on the guitar string calluses on his fingertips.
“Sorry about that,” I said when we were far enough down the hall to be out of earshot. “My mamá can be a little overbearing—well, a lot overbearing—and so can Pastor Collins if I’m being honest, and I was afraid if we stayed in there any longer we’d never get a chance to talk.” I took a gasping breath, having extinguished all of my oxygen with my rambling.
The corner of Ernesto’s kissable mouth ticked up. “No need to apologize. My mom can be overbearing as well. I’ve been living on my own since I was seventeen, but she still sends me with homemadepozoleevery time I go on tour.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She is.”
We reached the music room and I shut the door behind us before sinking onto the settee where I’d placed my violin. I rested a hand on its case, letting the familiar feel of it ground me because I was dangerously close to melting into a puddle at his feet. “Have a seat,” I said, finding my voice.
Ernesto sat down on a striped chair across from me and clasped his hands together between his knees.
I took a deep breath. I could do this. I could make small talk with my celebrity crush. “So, how do you know Fred?” I asked.
