VOLUME ONE
THE TENSE DUET
CHAPTER ONE
Sophia
"Do you like it?Some people have said it's too long. It's thick when you're holding it in your hands, isn't it?" The tone is masculine. It's low and throaty, emanating somewhere from my right.
Such is the conversation on subway trains in New York City. You'd think I'd be oblivious to it all by now. Most people who have lived here for decades have an innate ability to silence the staccato sounds of voices, traffic, and the underlying hum that is constantly hanging in the air in Manhattan.
For those of us who are considered recent transplants, the timbres of the city are still a part of its undeniable charm. I never thought I'd grow accustomed to the constant buzz beyond my bedroom window when I closed my eyes to sleep each night, but now it's the lull the helps me drift off. I've only been here for two years, but I know I'd crave the frenzied energy of this place if I ever decided to move back home to rural Florida.
"I'd like your honest opinion." I feel the slight pressure of a shoulder rub against mine. "Chapter seven is my personal favorite. Have you gotten that far into it yet?"
I glance down at the thick book resting on my lap. I now know, without a doubt, that he's talking to me. I've already had two, one-sided, conversations about the book today. The first was with a woman waiting in line at the dry cleaners. The other was just fifteen minutes ago with the man who owns the bodega by my office. In both cases, I just smiled, nodded and listened to them rattle on about the awe-inspiring detective novel I'm lugging around Manhattan with me.
"I haven't," I answer without looking at him.
No eye contact will make it easier for me to ignore him if he persists. I'm not a rude person, but I do know how to protect myself with a perimeter of ignorance. Men give up quickly if you pretend they don't exist. Most men do, that is. This one doesn't seem to be taking the hint.
"What page are you on?" A large hand brushes against my navy blue skirt. "You've made it past the first chapter, right?"
Physical touching is a no-no. I scoot more to my left, trying to gain a few more inches from him. This train is bursting at capacity with commuters. Part of that is the time of day, and the other is the route.
It's early evening, and I'm Times Square bound. It's one of the few places in the city I'd be happy never seeing again. It's not for me. There are too many people, too much noise; the smells are overwhelming, and the pace is frenetic.
"I'm not trying to accost you." He laughs. It's a sexy growl and a few women turn to see the source. Judging by the way they linger when they look at him, he's not hard on the eyes.
"I'm just trying to get to a book signing," I confess, hoping he'll leave me alone if I tell him, politely, that I'm not looking tohook up. "I need to get this signed for my boss. It's a birthday gift from his wife."
"You're hoping to meet the author? Nicholas Wolf? I heard the line for the signing is around the block. People have been waiting since this afternoon to meet him."
"Dammit." I finally turn to look at him. "You're not serious, are you?"
He's as good looking as I imagined him to be based on his voice. Seriously hot. As in, I-will-give-this-man-my-number-if-he-asks-for-it, hot.
Black hair, blue eyes and the stubble shading his jaw are the appetizers. A perfect smile, chiseled features and his lips, oh those lips, are the main course. He's wearing a dark wool coat and jeans so who knows what dessert is, but it would be delicious. I know it would be delicious.
"I'm serious," he says. "If you get in line now, the store is going to close before you get that book signed for your boss."
I roll my eyes. "I don't get the appeal. I have no idea why Gabriel likes it so much. He told me to read it, so I started to read the first chapter and…" I point my thumb toward the floor.
"Thumbs down?" He knits his brow. "You didn't like it?"
"It's too wordy. I was so bored I couldn't finish it."
He stares at the book before he speaks again, “I take it Gabriel is your boss? You're getting it signed for him?"
I nod sharply.
"Give it to me. I'd like to show you something."
It's not my book, and since we're moving at breakneck speed inside a subway car, it's not as though he can grab it and run. I slide it from my lap to his.
"What's your name?" he asks as his hand dives into a brown leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
I watch his every movement. "Sophia. My name is Sophia. What's your name?"
