The Protector (Lone Wolf, Book 1) by Bridget Essex Read Free Book Online

the
letters had to grow around the painted instrument.
    The front window had several
violins on display—several regular sized ones, propped up against their cases
and then some extra small fiddles for the really little kids.   The familiar, soothing chime of the front
door bells rung when Layne pushed the door open and held it for me to enter.
    The inside of a violin shop has one
of the best smells on earth:   well-oiled
wood and beeswax.   I inhaled deeply, and
a warm smile came over my face as I spotted Verity behind the front counter.
    She was in the middle of stringing
a red child-sized violin, but stopped the moment her eyes flicked up to meet
us, and she saw who it was.   Verity is a
pretty impressive lady, with her shockingly (for the age she is—she’s only in
her mid-forties) white hair drawn back into a smooth ponytail, and her bright
blue eyes assessing every situation smartly behind the most retro-looking cat
glasses you could ever see.   She was
dressed in her usual chic black turtleneck and immaculate pencil skirt, black
tights and black flats, and as she came from around the counter to greet me
with a quick hug, her normally smooth and serene features contorted into a
grimace as she stared aghast down at the crutches.
    “Oh, honey, what happened?” she
asked.   Verity’s eyes flicked to Layne,
but she, thankfully, didn’t comment on the fact that an extremely attractive,
never-before-seen woman was gripping me around the waist and practically
holding me up.
    “Oh, you know, just a little
accident,” I smiled wanly at her, but returned the hug, looping an arm around
her shoulder awkwardly.   “Sadly, I come
with grave news:   my violin met with an
untimely end,” I told her with a grimace.
    Verity stared at me in shock for a
long moment, her bright blue eyes wide, then she smoothed down her features
again, and she became all business.   “Then it’s a very good thing I have something for you,” she said,
tapping her finger against her nose as she grinned and rushed behind the
counter, into her back room.
    Beethoven’s pastoral symphony—his
sixth—was being piped through the speakers overhead as Layne helped me to the
front counter so that I could lean on it and “stand” without her help.   Then, curious, she began to roam through the
shop, pausing to look at the back wall display, an entire wall covered in
different violins and bows on pegs, ranging from the standard student model
that was only around a hundred bucks, to some of the better concert-ready
violins, in the fifteen hundred dollar range…and some higher than that.
    I watched Layne, doing my best to
be surreptitious about it.   She was
genuinely curious as she crossed her arms and rocked back on her heels,
whistling in a low tone as she stared up at a particularly pretty violin.   It was plain, but burnished so brightly, it
seemed to glow.   I happened to know that
that one was two-hundred years old, refurbished because it’d been in such bad
condition when Verity had gotten hold of it.   I’d almost bought that particular violin off Verity a bunch of times,
actually, because I’m a sucker for a violin with a past, but particularly a
sucker for a violin with a past and a pretty juicy story.
    “You know, that one has a story,” I
commented to her then, leaning heavily on the counter with my elbows as I tried
to ignore the pounding in my thigh’s stitches.   Normally, I wouldn’t offer to talk up a violin to any random
person.   I mean, it’s kind of nerdy to
be so obsessed with musical instruments, I fully admit it.   But the way she was looking at that
violin—it seemed that she was at least a little bit interested.
    “Really?” Layne asked, turning back
to me.   There was a soft smile turning
up the corners of her mouth that stole my breath away just then, and it took me
a full moment to realize that she wanted me to go on.   I blinked, then cleared my throat, shifting my weight a little as
I rested