of what Toni Hernandez had called “hostages to fortune.”
But right now, it looked as if Lydia could use a friendly hand. Her red hair was pulled back into a tightly scraped bun and her pale-gold freckles stood out against her skin like a dusting of golden pollen on the surface of skimmed milk. Lydia had real talent, but even in the short time he’d known her, Eric was afraid that the Juilliard pressure cooker would destroy any love she had for the music . . . assuming Marco Ashborn hadn’t done that already. Lydia was a technically flawless musician, but with her it was all technique, no heart.
“It’s