After Burn (2 page)

and Damon, star-crossed lovers whose careers had kept them apart. They’d never had a chance to spend more than a few months together at a time, and always promised to date other people when they were apart, but neither had found a relationship, and now that Emma was back in the U.S. they were going to get serious.

By the time they left that night everyone knew and loved Emma.

Chicago, one month later

“
Lyubov moya
, you are an angel of music.”

Tasha sauntered forward as Marco, still in his tux, emerged into the lobby. She

looped an arm around his neck, hooked her leg over his hip, and kissed him. She heard the click of cameras.

Breaking the kiss, she wiped the smear of lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

“What does that mean in Russian anyway?” he whispered, trailing his fingers

down her back, which was almost completely bare in the risqué dress she’d worn to

opening night of the new season.

“My love. It means my love.”

Marco smiled, his blue eyes sparkling. “I was expecting something dirty.”

Tasha curled her arm through his and posed at his side. The photographers

accepted the implied invitation and crowded closer.

“This dress isn’t dirty enough?” Black and slinky it had a high collar and from the front seemed almost modest—except the material was practically see-though, and there was a slit on the left leg that went all the way to her hip, plus the nonexistent back.

Anyone looking at her would easily see that she was sans bra or panties.

“Shall we go scare the donors?” Marco asked.

“Scare them? I thought you said the Chicago Symphony had record

contributions.”

“That’s because of my musical genius.”

Tasha pinched him. “It’s because you started bringing an insane Russian model

to the parties and for the first time in memory, classical music is scandalous.”

Marco grinned. “Or that.”

Tasha smirked and looked bored, occasionally flirting with someone so that

Marco could yank her away and play the jealous lover. It was her fifth appearance as Natasha, and she was confident that the entirety of the classical music community in the U.S. knew about the famed Marco Polin’s new lover. A few favors from the Trinity

Masters had placed shots of her in various obscure magazines, legitimizing her claim of being a model.

She’d decided to use her legal name, Natasha Kasharin, which meant she didn’t

need another new identity. Because she’d turned CIA asset at such a young age the

only things associated with it were her real birth certificate and her parents’ deportation paperwork. She’d even attended college under a pseudonym.

There was a risk that someone would ask why her parents were in a Russian jail,

but the details of the case were sealed and the music and fashion bloggers who were interested in her wouldn’t have the resources to uncover the truth.

An hour later they were back at Marco’s condo, which was starting to feel like

home to Tasha. She was keeping her things in the guest room because actually sharing a bedroom was too overwhelming right now, but when she was here, she slept in

Marco’s bed.

She shoved the jacket off his shoulders as the door closed.

Marco pushed her against the wall, found the slit in her dress and slid his hand

inside. He teased her pussy, which was wet and ready. Tasha moaned as he thrust two fingers into her.

“Did you fuck Damon last night?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How many times did you come?”

“Three… four.”

“I can do better.”

Marco dropped to his knees, pushed her dress aside and buried his face in her

pussy. Tasha gasped and closed her eyes.

She’d been ping-ponging across the country to make appearances as both

Natasha and Emma. Two weekends ago Marco had flown to L.A. and they’d spent three

glorious days together. Since then the men seemed to have some sort of bet going as to who could satisfy her the most.

Tasha was more than willing to let them play that game.

When she came, fingers scrabbling at the walls, Marco carried her to the kitchen

counter, pulled his cock from his pants and fucked her. His phone started ringing.

Tasha fished it from his pocket. It was Damon placing a video call. She answered

then lay back on the cold granite. Propping the phone against a saltcellar, she made sure Damon could watch as Marco fucked her.

By the time Tasha came again, all three of them were breathing hard.

Malibu, eight months later

It was a beautiful wedding.

Marco watched Tasha coming down the aisle—her hair was browner than he

normally saw it, as were her eyes, and the shape of her face was different, but it was Tasha, his Tasha.

Damon was handsome as Marco had ever seen him, and looked both excited

and nervous, which seemed normal for a groom. Marco patted his pocket where the ring Tasha would wear waited.

It was a small crowd, less than fifty people, but Damon’s parents, and his own,

were sitting in the front rows.

Marco wished he could tell his mother and father that the woman he loved was

the one walking down the aisle, and not the slim blonde who sat beside them. The

woman posing as Natasha for the day was an Albanian model, who looked enough like

Tasha that all it took was a bit of makeup and a pair of sunglasses to have her playing the part. Tasha had arranged to have her doppelgänger here, and said the other woman was part of “the admiralty,” but Marco hadn’t quite understood what that meant, and there hadn’t been time to ask.

The past month, leading up to Damon and Emma’s wedding, had been insane.

Marco had come to L.A. regularly, and even attended a few events with Damon and

Emma. Though his friendship with Damon hadn’t been a secret, for the most part they’d stay away from each other in public, since in private, their activities always veered towards the risqué. On Tasha’s orders they’d changed that. Though Marco was hardly a paparazzi target, he was a frequent mention on gossip blogs and Page Six reports. In the past six months there had been plenty of photo captions that read “famed cellist Marco Polin and his longtime friend and prosecutor for the U.S. Attorneys’ Office, Damon Corzo” which meant no one was surprised that Marco was standing up as

Damon’s best man.

Tasha wore a lace dress with a pale gold sash and carried a bouquet of lavender.

Carlene Kenan, owner of Nexus Six and member of the Trinity Masters, was posing as Emma’s best friend and Maid of Honor. She wore a lavender dress, and her husbands

were in the back row on the bride’s side.

The wedding was taking place in the Malibu backyard of one of Damon’s former

bosses. Marco had privately worried he’d be jealous watching the two people he loved most enter into a relationship that didn’t include him, but as the ceremony progress it was joy, not jealousy that filled him.

He played the prelude from Bachś
Cello Suite No. 1
for their first dance, smiling as they waltzed. Damon wasn’t graceful, and he could tell that Tasha was trying to lead, but what their dance lacked in style it made up for in emotion. When Damon dipped her at the end, everyone clapped.

Marco put away his cello and let the band take over. Grabbing the fake Natasha

they danced for a few songs before Marco went to dance with first his own mother and then Damon’s. Midway through the evening, he snagged the bride for a dance. It took everything he had not to pull her close and kiss her.

Hours later, at a hotel on the beach, no one noticed Marco slipping in to the

honeymoon suite to join the newlyweds. They’d waited—Tasha still in her dress, but devoid of the other trappings of Emma, Damon in his tux shirt and pants. Lace and

black wool pooled on the floor as they came together, their lovemaking quiet and

intense.

*****

As the sun rose, Tasha sat up. She’d been sleeping on Marco, her legs thrown

over Damon. The sheets were a tangled mess on the ground. It had been less than an hour since they’d fallen asleep, but she had to get Marco up so he could leave.

“Marco.”

“I know. I’m going.” He rolled off the bed and stretched. “I’ll see you in Paris next week.”

Tasha gave him a quick kiss. “I look forward to it. I’ve never been to the Paris

Opera House.”

“If you’re lucky I’ll bring you backstage and fuck you. The lovely young bride

seduced away from her doting husband by the dastardly musician.” He wiggled his

eyebrows.

“Promises, promises.” She tossed a pillow at him, which he caught and tossed

back.

“Don’t have too much fun on your honeymoon before you get to Paris.” Marco

was sorting through the tuxedo pieces strewn around the room.

“Are you okay?” Tasha asked him. “Yesterday must have been hard for you.”

She smiled softly. “When I was walking down the aisle I was walking to both of you.”

“I know.” Marco pulled on his pants. “I’m okay. I’m worried about Damon.”

Tasha looked over her shoulder at the man she’d married yesterday. “It will be hardest on him, in the end.”

“I wish it didn’t have to be,” Marco said as he finished dressing.

“Me either. But there’s six months between now and then.”

Marco slapped her ass. Tasha jumped. “Then I expect you to make sure he enjoys

those six months.”

Tasha laughed as Marco slid out the door. Turning to Damon she thought about

letting him sleep, but where was the fun in that?

Boston, six months later

It was the most anticipated show of the season. Sold out and star-studded, there

were even a few local news vans outside Symphony Hall. The Boston Symphony

Orchestra was doing a one-night tribute to bossa nova, with musical guests from around the world and a highly anticipated appearance by American cellist Marco Polin, who was set to play his take on
Chega de Saudade
—a standard of the bossa nova genre.

The concert was a wild success. Those lucky enough to attend were taken

though the cool, mellow lows of jazz to the frantic up-tempo of samba. The musicality was genius level, the songs interpreted and played in ways they never had been before and never would be again.

A reception followed the show, and the lobby and upstairs rooms were full of

people who weren’t willing to let the amazing night end.

The musicians were now out and mingling. Marco Polin stood with his famous

lover, the Russian model Natasha, and his college friend Damon Corzo, a respected

prosecutor for the U.S. Attorneys’ office, and Mrs. Corzo, an agricultural engineer and humanitarian.

The music correspondent for
The
Boston Globe
’s had just walked up to the group when Emma Corzo grabbed her husband’s arm and swayed on her feet.

“Emma? Emma, baby, are you okay?”

Emma whispered her husband’s name and then dropped to the floor.

The Chief of Surgery at Massachusetts General was in the crowd and ran to the

fallen woman’s side. The doctor looked grim as she examined Emma, and when she

looked up she shook her head. All around the room people pulled out phones, flooding 911 with calls. Emma Corzo was rushed to the hospital, her husband by her side.

The next day the arts section of
The Boston Globe
carried the headline, “Tragedy at the Symphony.”

Emma Corzo died at the age of twenty-nine. A
Taenia solium
infection in her brain, contracted while living and working in places with inadequate sanitation, had gone undiagnosed until it caused a massive aneurism, killing her instantly. The funeral was well attended by Damon’s friends and colleagues, and members of the Trinity

Masters posing as Emma’s friends and acquaintances. The widower was stoic

throughout the service, even during the eulogy. Marco’s speech had most of the

audience in tears as he spoke of Damon and Emma’s relationship, and how privileged he felt to have witnessed true love.

Her body was cremated and her ashes spread at sea with only Damon, his

parents, and his best friend in attendance. The boat was piloted by a slim blond woman wearing overalls and a baseball cap.

Los Angeles, after the funeral

Tasha climbed into Damon’s bed—the bed they’d shared for the last six months

as husband and wife. Marco slid in behind her.

“I need a minute,” Damon said. He rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s stupid to

be sad, you’re right here.”

“I am. I’m right here, but Emma’s not,” Tasha said, her heart aching for Damon. It had nearly killed her watching him spread the box of fake ashes at sea while his mother wept.

“I didn’t love Emma.”

“Yes, you did, because you love me. And you lost Emma—you lost your wife who

went with you events and hosted dinner parties. You lost the woman who made you run a charity marathon and picked your parents up from the airport before making a

disastrous Thanksgiving dinner.”

Damon closed his eyes, sadness seeming to age him. Tasha curled against him.

“I’m sorry it has to be like this,” she whispered.

Marco reached over her, lacing his fingers with Damon’s. “I would change places

with you if I could,” he said.

Damon would never marry again. To the outside world he’d live his life as the

widower forever grieving his lost love. Until they could find a way to be in the same city that meant Damon would be alone, while Tasha and Marco lived together in Chicago.

“I know. I’ll be okay.” His voice was weary.

They lay that way for a long time. When Damon turned to them, seeking the comfort of their touch, Tasha and Marco welcomed him with open arms.

Los Angeles, one month later

Damon sighed and dropped his keys on the counter. Marco laid a hand on his