Gabriella Poole - Blood Ties (Darke Academy)

their room. ‘Here he is!’

Here, as a matter of fact, were both of them, though they obviously hadn’t planned to arrive together. Ranjit and Jake stood awkwardly,

as far apart as they could reasonably be, their body language screaming their discomfort. As Isabella flung the door wide, their relief was

palpable.

‘Hey, gorgeous.’ Jake’s stiff expression melted into a huge grin as he swung Isabella in his arms. ‘You look terrific!’

‘Do not sound so surprised!’ She kissed him with shameless enthusiasm. ‘Shall we go and be tourists?’

‘I am dying to be a tourist in my own city. Even if I can’t take you somewhere expensive,’ he muttered, with a slightly resentful glance at

Ranjit’s tuxedo.

‘Hey! Just being with you is priceless!’ Isabella punched his arm.

Meanwhile, Cassie found she couldn’t meet Ranjit’s eyes. She made herself clasp her fingers just to stop herself fiddling with her dress.

Oh, God. What if she’d got this horribly wrong? What if he was embarrassed to be seen with her? What if …

His shoes were right there, though, so she had to look up and smile at him. That was when she knew it would be OK. His expression was

one of startled awe, and there was even a hint of crimson in his dark cheekbones.

‘Cassie.’ He drew in a long breath, and shyly offered a yellow rose. ‘You look … beautiful.’

‘You too,’ she blurted before she could stop herself. It was true, though. The tux must have been hand-made for him, perfectly fitted to his

lithe body. She swore she could make out the lines of his muscles under the expensive fabric.

‘Well, you guys.’ Jake was clutching Isabella’s hand, hesitating at the doorway and clearly desperate to leave. ‘Have a good time.’

Ranjit cleared his throat. ‘You too. Enjoy yourselves.’

Isabella was stifling laughter. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ she mouthed at Cassie. Then Jake was pulling her out of the room, the door

swung shut, and they were gone.

Ranjit released a huge sigh of relief, and Cassie giggled.

‘Cassandra Bell,’ he grinned. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

It wasn’t a long ride by yellow cab, but Ranjit insisted they couldn’t walk – ‘not in those fantastic shoes’ – even though Cassie would have

liked the fresh winter air. She only realised they had a deadline when the cab was pulling up on the corner of 57th Street and Seventh

Avenue.

‘Oh my God,’ she breathed as she stepped out of the cab. ‘I’m at Carnegie Hall.’

‘How do you get to Carnegie Hall?’ smiled Ranjit. ‘Practise, practise …’

She giggled as she took his arm. ‘That’s a terrible joke.’

‘That’s a really old joke.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better take our seats. Come on.’

Cassie would have been happy sitting behind a pillar in the back row of the balcony, but they were guided to a box on the first tier, right

at the front and overlooking the stage directly. It was such an exposed position she would have felt quite self-conscious, if it hadn’t been

for Ranjit’s comforting hand in hers.

Then the curtain rose and she was instantly swept away by the music. Funny, she’d never heard anything by Richard Strauss in her life,

and barely a note by Tchaikovsky or Beethoven, but straight away the music felt as if it belonged to her alone. Mesmerised, she was only

vaguely aware of Ranjit’s glances in her direction, but her senses sprang into overdrive when his fingertips stroked her hand. Crazily, tears

pricked at her eyelids and she blinked them back. It would be stupid to cry, when she felt happier than she had in as long as she could

remember.

Still, too many feelings were coming alive. She couldn’t do anything to stop it, and she didn’t want to. She was supremely aware of

everything: the warmth of Ranjit’s hand and the sharp tingle of her own nerves in response; the music, overwhelming her brain and her

emotions, every single instrumental part sounding distinct in her head but every one harmonious with the next. She could taste the warmth

and scent of the audience, breathing out and in, some of them occasionally holding their breath until the music made them release it in a

rushing exhalation. She could hear the people as well as she could hear the music: the breathing, the rustle of silk and the occasional

squeak of a leather shoe, the creak as someone shifted in a seat; the scrape of a bow across strings, the feathery whisper as a page of

music was turned.

So it was inevitable that she’d feel a gaze if it was focused on her.

She was being watched. She knew it quite suddenly. Her forehead prickled with the stare, and for the first time she forgot the orchestra,

forgot the soaring thunder of the music. When she lifted her own gaze, she knew the exact direction and she found the watcher

immediately.