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“Weren’t you just a teenager then? She wouldn’t bow to a kid.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “People have bowed to me ever since I can remember.”
“In Caleva, maybe.” She still couldn’t picture an adult bowing to a four-year-old Gabriel.
He shrugged. “Marisela makes me feel like a musician, not a royal. I value that.”
In an upside-down way, it echoed her experience with Mikel. Since her conviction, she had been labeled a criminal, but Mikel had overlooked that. He had hired her for her talent at tracking bad guys and never mentioned her record. “I understand. Having someone see you for yourself is a gift.”
“Yes!” Gabriel slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “You give me that gift too.”
She snuggled into his warmth, but he was wrong. She was heart-wrenchingly aware that he was a royal duke. Watching someone like Kyran Redda—a non-Calevan and a superstar—react to Gabriel with awe reminded her that the man she loved was far out of her league. She was going to have to let him go.
“I plan to practice for a couple of hours when we get to the hotel,” Gabriel said. “There’s no reason for you to be stuck there, though. Vincent will take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Only if he wants to get fired. Mikel gave strict orders about us staying in the hotel room when we weren’t committed elsewhere.”
“Madre de Dios, I hate that you are in danger because of me.” Frustration vibrated in his voice.
“I’m happy to stay in. It will be much more fun to hang around in a luxury suite at the Wooster 44. That’s an experience not to be missed.” She wasn’t lying. She had never heard of the hotel before, so she had looked it up. It was so exclusive that only celebrities, world leaders, and, of course, royal dukes stayed there.
She cupped his cheek and smiled. “Besides, I have to check to make sure your fingers aren’t bleeding.”
“No working, though.” He turned his face to kiss her palm. “You will soak in the whirlpool tub, drinking champagne and savoring the view of the Hudson River.”
“Not to mention listening to you play the guitar, which is the best part.”
She intertwined her fingers with Gabriel’s. She could hold on to him a little longer.
Chapter 32
The next morning, they were back in the limo, on the way to meet with Marisela. The tension rolling off Gabriel was so thick that Quinn felt like it fogged the interior of the car.
“If you want to talk, I’ll talk,” she said, stroking her hand over his thigh to sooth its nervous jiggling. “But I understand if you prefer not to be distracted.”
He blew out a breath and gave her a tight smile. “Sorry.”
“No apology necessary. I know this is important to you.” Even if she thought that he shouldn’t put his fate in the hands of a virtual stranger.
He nodded and went silent again.
She gave his thigh a squeeze and let him fall back into his thoughts. Sliding her other hand into the cross-body bag she carried, she checked that the Glock was still positioned where she could grab it quickly.
Of course, Vincent was driving them to the theater while Anneliese and the other two men were following them in a nondescript sedan. All would stand guard while Gabriel was auditioning. However, Quinn wasn’t going to take any chances that a random stagehand might turn out to be on Dupont’s payroll.
She was more worried about what Marisela would say to Gabriel, though. If the guitarist killed his hope, it would almost be worse than an assassin’s bullet. Quinn hoped the tocaora knew how much was riding on her opinion today.
If she reacted negatively, Quinn planned to do everything she could to persuade Gabriel to ignore her. Yet she understood that performers and artists were perfectionists. They could never live up to their own standards, which might be why they needed to hear what other people thought of their work. It gave them some perspective.
She sighed softly.
Last night, Gabriel had wrapped himself around her as though he were drowning. Maybe he felt like he was. Today, he had disappeared into his own private world, shutting her out.
The limo coasted to a stop in front of the Teatro Lorca, the venue where Marisela Alejo was performing for the next two weeks. The tocaora had asked Gabriel to meet her there since she was in the midst of stage rehearsals.
As instructed, Quinn waited for Vincent to come around and open the door. Gabriel didn’t even seem to notice that they’d arrived. He was pressing his fingers against the leather seat in an intricate pattern that meant he was playing through one of the pieces in his mind.
The door swung open, and Quinn scooted out in front of a Moorish Revival façade. The entrance doors were framed by pointed arches with ornate blue-and-white tilework. An old-fashioned marquee announced Marisela Alejo’s name in large black letters.
