Annabelle pulled away from him, a spark lighting her eyes. "I told you, I'm done with your games. If you have something to tell me, just say it."
They both stared at each other, neither backing down until Moriarty shook his head and laughed. He turned and walked into the study ahead of her. Annabelle followed and looked around.
Heavy curtains hanging over large windows were pulled shut so only a small crack of light broke through. A large mahogany desk stood in front of the window, and various pieces of antique furniture were positioned around the room as a fire roared in the fireplace. But it was the expanse of books lining almost every wall from ceiling to floor that made Annabelle smile. She walked over to a wall and ran her hand over the books carefully placed on the shelves.
"My mother loved reading," Moriarty said, nodding to one of two wing chairs facing the fireplace. "She would sit in one of those chairs and read to me until I fell asleep."
Annabelle looked at the chairs. She could almost see a little boy with dark brown hair curled up in one of them.
Walking over to a little stand against the wall, he pulled off the stopper from a glass decanter and poured himself a drink.
Annabelle frowned as she watched him. "Do you always drink before noon?"
"Always." Moriarty poured another glass and brought it over to her. "Here darlin'. It'll take the edge off." He held it out to her and Annabelle shook her head.
"No, thank you, I'm not a lush."
The corners of his mouth turned up. "Oh, but you are luscious, sweetheart."
Annabelle's cheeks turned pink as she defiantly grabbed the glass from his outstretched hand. She took a gulp and then looked at him in wonder. "This is only water."
Moriarty shook his head, sat down in a winged chair, and stared into the fire. "You're always thinking the worst of me, aren't you? Tell me, what did Sherlock say to convince you to hate me so much?"
Annabelle took a sip from her glass and sat in the opposite chair to his. She sighed, remembering her conversation with Sherlock.
"He said you had Mr. Blackstone killed so you could move me into his flat." Annabelle glanced at him. "Did you kill him?"
Moriarty laughed. "What Sherlock calls killed, I call convinced. Your Mr. Blackstone was actually Edward Foxworthy who changed his name because he had beaten his wife and small son almost to death. I believe his child is still in a coma. It didn't take much encouragement from me for him to hang himself. I guarantee Sherlock already knew his cause of death was suicide. Strange how he left that part out."
"So this didn't have anything to do with you wanting me around Sherlock?"
"Of course it did. It had everything to do with it."
Annabelle rubbed her forehead. "Why would you do that?"
Moriarty laughed as he looked at her.
Annabelle glared back. "What's so funny?"
"Sherlock and I dance together. He moves one way and I move another. But now that you're here, dearest, the steps have gotten much more complicated." Moriarty licked his lips. "I wanted to introduce Sherlock to my new dance partner."
Annabelle's brow furrowed. "So you're using me to get to Sherlock?"
Moriarty's eyes glowed as he leaned forward in his seat. "Your father continues to be the bane of the upper crust's existence. Even in death, he has them shaking in their Prada. The man was a genius!"
Annabelle's face went white. "Please, stop with your damn riddles. Who is my father and why does Sherlock want me dead? I'm sick of asking, James!"
Moriarty stood up and reached out to her. "Give me your hand."
She looked warily at him. "Why? Is this part of your game? I already told you I'm not playing."
His eyes narrowed. "Then you will spend the rest of your short life not knowing. In case you've forgotten, my darlin' Annabelle, I have the keys to all your questions and much, much more."
Annabelle looked up into his dark brown eyes and could see the reflection of the fire dancing in their depths. A chill crept through her. Should she find out what he knew or was she better off not knowing?
As if he read her thoughts, Moriarty gently touched her cheek. "Knowledge gives you power, Annabelle."
The words of her tutor sprang into her mind. Knowledge is power. Using that knowledge will make you invincible.
"Alright." Annabelle placed her hand in Moriarty's and met his eyes. "Let's play."
Moriarty's eyes gleamed as he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed them across her knuckles. She stood on shaking knees as he led her to an ornate mirror tucked away in the corner of the room. He placed his hands on her shoulders, making her stand in front of him. Annabelle looked at her reflection then her eyes moved to his.
He smiled as he gently moved some of her hair off her neck. Annabelle swallowed, trying desperately to stop herself from trembling at his touch.
"Who do you see in the mirror, Annabelle?"
Annabelle shook her head and took a ragged breath. "A captor and his prisoner."
Moriarty's jaw tightened. "Look again. Have you seen those mesmerizing green eyes before? Search your memories."
Annabelle paused as she looked from Moriarty to her own face. She shook her head. "No, I haven't."
Moriarty leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "Look harder."
He could smell the lilacs that touched the air at every turn of her head. He had a hard time resisting the urge to run his lips where his fingers had just been as he looked from her eyes to her translucent skin.
Annabelle turned, her face inches from his. "I was wrong. I can't play your games. I can't remember."
"You can remember and you will play," he growled.
Annabelle stepped back at the fierceness in his eyes. Moriarty tried to calm the desire that was blinding him as he saw her fear. He needed to concentrate on his plan and not on the fact that every inch of him craved her. He turned his back on Annabelle and walked to his desk.
"I told Sherlock you and I were going to write a concerto together and I didn't lie. This is where we start composing, Annabelle."
He turned to a picture hanging on the wall behind his desk. He grasped the edge and pulled the picture to the side to reveal a large vault inlaid into the wall. He punched a long stream of numbers into the keypad and pushed down a lever, pulling the heavy door open.
Reaching into the vault, Moriarty carefully withdrew his prize as Annabelle's mouth dropped open. Her heart pounded in her chest as he came around his desk, holding the most exquisite violin she had ever seen.
"Do you know what this is, darlin'?" His eyes lit up as he smiled at her. "It's the most valuable violin in the world."
Annabelle nodded. She was speechless as Moriarty stood in front of her holding the instrument.
"Tell me what kind of violin it is, Annabelle." he pressed his lips together as he waited.
"A Stradivarius," she whispered.
"There, see? A good musician is always aware of the tools of her trade. This beautiful piece of wood is valued at almost two million pounds." He chuckled as he turned the violin in his hand and studied its craftsmanship. "I won it in a card game with a Russian violinist. The ass was cheating the entire game, but what he didn't know is that I'm quite skilled at counting cards. I have a thing for numbers."
Moriarty held it out to Annabelle. "Here, sweetheart. Play it for me. I'm sure you can think of something that'll make it sing."
She looked at him like he'd lost his mind, but didn't move.
He studied her, not understanding her hesitation. "What's wrong?"
He inclined his head and gazed into her eyes. He could almost see the battle waging inside her. He gritted his teeth as he remembered hearing her play from outside Sherlock's window. "You'll play for Sherlock, but you won't play for me. Is that it?"
Annabelle shook her head. "It's too beautiful... and I'm frightened of it."
Moriarty leaned closer. "What do you mean? What are you afraid of?"
Annabelle lowered her eyes. "I'm afraid of what it'll make me remember."
Moriarty's eyes softened. "You don't have to be afraid of your memories, Annabelle. I won't let them hurt you. I promise you that."
She looked at him and knew he told her the truth. She took a deep breath and held her hands out. He gave her the violin and went back to the vault, retrieving the bow. Annabelle held the violin as if it would disappear in a heartbeat.
Moriarty put his hand on her lower back and gently guided her back to the fireplace and the wing chairs. He handed her the bow and took a seat.
Annabelle's brow creased as she rested the violin on her shoulder. Moriarty waited as Annabelle stared into the fire. Taking another deep breath she placed her chin on the rest, positioned her hand on the neck, and brought the bow to the strings.
Moriarty closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as the beautiful sound filled his study. He sighed as the music wrapped its fingers around him. The sound was like a sensual lover calling to him. He smiled, imagining his darling wrapped in his arms. But as her music continued, it changed from a deep, seductive sound to a penetrating, sorrowful melody. It was as if the violin itself was sobbing.
Moriarty opened his eyes and looked at Annabelle. Her eyes were closed as tears streamed down her face. She continued to play the violin but he could feel the despair in her heart as she poured it out to him through her music.
He stood up and gently touched her damp cheek as her head swayed. Annabelle's eyes snapped open and she immediately lowered the violin. They both silently looked at each other, neither saying a word.
After long moments, he took the violin and bow from her hands, and walking over to his desk, placed them gently on top. Coming back over to her, he pulled her into his arms, resting his cheek on the top of her head.
Annabelle sighed as her face nestled against his warm chest. She wrapped her arms around his waist and inhaled his masculine scent. She remembered the night when she had the nightmare and mistakenly thought it was Sherlock who had come to help her. She inhaled his scent again and remembered how James had held her for as long as she needed to banish her hellish dream. She remembered that horrible dream; her mother with a knife, her tutor staring at her...
Annabelle's eyes widened and she tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn't let her go. She tipped her head a little and the top of her nose grazed the underside of his chin. He inhaled deeply.
"James, I know who my father is."
He continued to hold her as he stared into the fire. "I know you do, love."
"It's my tutor, Charles Milverton. He's my father."
Moriarty stroked the top of her head with his cheek as his mouth set in a tight line. "His real name is Charles Augustus Magnussen, Annabelle. Now, let the games begin."
~~~~~
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