Musical Beds (22 page)

Lydia looked around for some means of escape. She needed to be alone for a moment, to breathe.

“I need to go the ladies’,” she excused herself. “I’ll see you at the party.”

In front of the bathroom mirror, she stared at herself, at her pale face and her glassy eyes. What on earth was happening in her life? The idea of getting away from it all was a good one, the best suggestion she’d heard so far. It seemed that, whatever decision her head made, her heart reversed it for her.

“Never,” she said to her reflection solemnly, “ever, ever let a man treat you like shit again, Lydia. Just say no. It’s not worth it.”

She splashed her face with cold water, blotted it with a paper towel and left, shoulders back, chest out, taking the side staircase to the backstage area.

On the way up Sarah passed her, pelting down at full speed.

“Mind yourself!”

“Fuck you. Goodbye. I’m going.”

“Sarah.”

But she’d gone.

Lydia nearly screamed in shock when she reached the next landing and a hand closed around her upper arm, halting her, pulling her sharply back towards the wall.

“Milan!”

“Hello.”

“What are you doing?”

“Making decisions.”

“What’s wrong with Sarah?”

He grimaced and shook his head, indicating that Sarah was at the very outer margin of his concerns.

“I don’t care. I care about you.”

“When it suits you.”

“Lydia, I just ask you to listen to me now. This is my decision. I am going to get you back. Not by devious means. By being good enough for you.”

“I don’t—”

He put a finger to her lips, bending his forehead to hers.

“Don’t say anything. Just wait and see. We can start again. Go out for a drink… Okay, maybe not a drink… A movie. Be friends, yes? You can have me on a, what is it, trial basis. Three months, right? Three months’ trial. At the end, you come to me or you leave me.”

“These are your terms, not mine. I’m not doing anything on your terms ever again.”

“Right. Okay.” He inhaled strongly and appeared to ponder this, his brow deeply furrowed. “What are your terms?”

“My terms are…”

Lydia looked at him, his hair hanging over his cheekbones, his eyes blue flames, his pale swan neck perspiring a little where he had loosened his collar. God, nobody else could make her feel this way. Nobody could unleash this primitive, raw need in her.

“I can’t tell you now,” she whispered. “I’m going away for a few weeks, to think things over.”

“I have to wait?”

“You have to wait. But, before I go, I want to give you something.”

“What’s that?”

She put her fingertips on the side of his neck, feeling the warmth, the beads of moisture, the yield of his skin. It travelled into her, through her fingers, filling her with longing weakness. No other man had ever sparked this devastating chemical reaction. No other man ever could.

She lifted herself on tiptoe, sliding her fingers around to the back of his neck, pressing into the hollow there, looking up as he looked down.

Now his face was close and their noses touched. He smiled, the skin creased at the sides of his eyes, which were misty, now, and gentle.

“
Miláčku
,” he whispered.

Fuck, you should stop this now—you’re like a drug addict who can’t leave her fix alone. You’ll never be free of him.

But reason could not prevail now. Not now his arms were around her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other resting lightly on her back, ready to hold her in place, should she change her mind and try to escape him.

She touched her lips to his. The power of it was instantaneous and knee-weakening. She was back where she belonged, back in the only place she ever wanted to be—in a kiss with Milan, connected to him.

The hunger welled up inside her and she pressed herself into him, pushing him against the wall, hanging on to him by the shoulders. Tenderness turned to passion and their tongues curled together, probing with that old urgency she remembered so well.

She rubbed her leg against his, sighing into his mouth. He gathered a handful of her long concert dress and bunched it up in his fist, exposing one leg, ready to explore much further.

“Well, well.”

A voice forced their disconnection.

Lydia looked around, guilt written all over her swollen lips and damp face, to see von Ritter standing on the top stair above them.

“I think you win, Kaspar,” he said, turning away and leaving them.

“Shit,” whispered Lydia, falling into a crouch, head in hands.

“What’s the matter? It’s okay.” Milan tried to reassure her, dropping down to her level, but she pulled herself away.

“It’s not okay. It’s a mess. A big, unholy fucking mess. Oh, God. I’m collecting my violin from the dressing room and then I’m going home. I don’t want to see you or von Ritter or anyone for a month. At least.”

She broke away from Milan and flew for the stairs.

As she hurried up, she heard his parting words to her.

“I’ll wait for you,
miláčku
. I’ll be here when you come to me.”

Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

Food of Love: Highly Strung

Justine Elyot

Excerpt

Chapter One

Of all the days for a bomb scare on the Victoria Line, they had to choose this one.

Lydia Foster hugged her new violin case, stripped now of all the shiny stickers and stars of her battered but beloved student number, as the strip lights flickered on and off. Despite the ominous situation, most of the occupants continued reading their newspapers and listening to their iPods, well used to sudden and inexplicable standstills in dark tunnels. But Lydia could not be so sanguine. She checked her watch, agitated, and puffed out her cheeks when the long and short hands gave her news she didn’t want.

“Are you late for a concert?”

She almost jumped out of her seat. People just didn’t talk to you on Tube trains, but the white-haired gentleman to her left didn’t seem to know this rule.

“Um, no. A rehearsal, actually,” she said, when she’d made all the usual lightspeed calculations—
Is he a maniac? Will he ask me weird, pervy questions? Would it be very rude of me to ignore him?

“I always wanted to play the violin,” the man confided. “Are you in a string quartet?”

“No, an orchestra. It’s my first day. First rehearsal. So I really don’t want to be late.” She sighed, looking up and down the carriage as if this might set the train back in motion.

“An orchestra! Professional?”

“Yes. The Westminster Symphony.”

The man took a breath and nodded, gratifyingly awed. Lydia loved the reception she got when she told people she was with the WSO.
I have arrived
.

“You’ll be working with that Milan fellow.” The gentleman chuckled. “Quite a character. Did you watch
The Next Big String
?”

Lydia blushed. Of course she had. Her massive crush on first violinist Milan Kaspar had been a large part of her reason for auditioning for the orchestra in the first place.

“Of course, they always have to have the Big Bad Judge on those talent contests,” mused Lydia’s companion. “I’m sure he’s nothing like that in real life. Rather difficult to work with otherwise, I should imagine. Oh, but I shouldn’t be saying this to you on your first day. I’m sure your nerves are bad enough as it is.”

Lydia coughed out a half-laugh. “Uh huh,” she managed to say. Her face felt as if it were on fire. All she could think about was the crafty morning orgasm she had teased out of her tense body, thinking about Milan Kaspar judging her playing, finding it wanting and giving her a little private lesson of his own. But why would he be interested in her, when rumour had it he had been seeing Tilda Fox-Boyce, the patrician and perfectly-coiffed presenter of the television programme? Of course he wouldn’t.

“Good-looking chap, though. I’m sure he has his pick of the ladies.”

Before Lydia could reply to this inflammatory remark, the train juddered into life.

“Due to a bomb scare at Victoria, all passengers are advised to alight at Pimlico. I repeat…” The intercom droned on.

“Fuck,” Lydia swore under her breath. She would have to walk the last part of the journey, since Pimlico Station didn’t link up to any other Tube line.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

As the curving, white-tiled station wall slid past the windows, she readied her violin case, preparing for a shuffle, then a sprint.

Out in the sludgy, grey cold of a January afternoon in London, Lydia raced up Vauxhall Bridge Road. Her heart pounded and her legs turned to mush, but she didn’t stop until she arrived at the building, just off the end of the road, which acted as the orchestra’s rehearsal space.

Reaching the door, she gasped for breath, doubling over her violin case. She was half an hour late.

“Fucksticks,” she panted, entering the empty lobby and following the muffled musical sounds coming from a set of doors halfway down a staircase.

Nobody noticed her when she pushed one door open and sidled in as unobtrusively as she could, hiding in an obscure corner until an obvious moment to introduce herself arrived.

She took the opportunity to watch the orchestra, her eyes settling quickly and naturally on the person she most wanted to check out—Milan Kaspar.

Oh, my God
—there he was, in the flesh. She could only see his back and part of the side of his head, his violin wedged between firm chin and broad shoulder, his caramel-coloured hair flying as he bowed. He always gave the music his all, thought Lydia, starry-eyed, her pulse jumping high. It was as if he and his instrument were one. What were they playing? Something Viennese and waltzy, by the sounds of it. Oh, yes—Weber’s
Invitation to the Dance.

The music made Lydia feel joyous and light-spirited. Despite the long run up Vauxhall Bridge Road, she felt an urge to twirl around and dance. If only she were wearing a flouncy taffeta skirt instead of jeans and Converse trainers. She bounced discreetly on the soles of her feet, swaying to the infectious beat, moving forward into the room until the woman at the back on percussion caught sight of her, turned and smiled a welcome.

The music stopped abruptly and Josh Clayton shook his head and folded his arms. Lydia recognised him as the conductor who had auditioned her, along with two of the trustees and a random violinist—Milan had been away filming.

“No, no, no, this is dragging. Some of you aren’t following my beat.”

“Some of us aren’t
seeing
your beat.”

The deep, accented voice was unmistakable. Lydia almost dissolved in a pool of lust on hearing Milan’s famously dark tones.

“Yes, well, we’ve had this discussion before,” said Clayton irritably. “And it always ends up the same way. Keep your eye on the baton and you won’t miss a thing.”

“But we do!” a violinist to Milan’s right objected. “I didn’t catch the change in tempo at
vivace
at all.”

“What do you want? A signpost?”

Lydia grimaced at Clayton’s obvious exasperation.

“It might help,” said Milan dryly.

“Listen, I can’t make this any more obvious! I’ve never worked with such a bunch of mules in my life. What is wrong with you people?”

“Mules!” A cellist stood up, shoulders back, spoiling for a fight. Despite the aggressive stance, Lydia thought he must have been one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, if you liked pale, delicate youths with eyelashes like road sweepers. On balance, she preferred the more muscular Milan, but all the same, she found herself mesmerised by the cellist's bottomless eyes. “Do not insult us! We are musicians, not animals!”

“If you’re musicians, prove it!” thundered Clayton. Then, clutching his forehead, “Oh, you know what? Forget it. I’m done here. Fuck you. Good luck.”

He flung his baton to the ground and marched off, pushing Lydia out of his way with his shoulder so that she fell gracelessly to the floor in his wake.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” The female percussionist rushed over and knelt by her side, transmitting a strong waft of Armani Diamonds to Lydia’s nostrils.

“Yes, yes, fine, just a bump.” Lydia allowed the woman to help her up.

When she looked over towards Milan, she noticed him high-fiving the cellist, while a great deal of rowdy laughter and gossip seemed to be going on.

“Are you the new violinist? Sorry you’ve seen us like this, what an introduction.” The woman patted Lydia down, tutting. She was very Mother Hen-ish for such a sleek and glamorous-looking woman, Lydia thought. There wasn’t a hair of her black bob out of place, and her makeup looked professionally applied.

“I’m Vanessa, on percussion, as I’m sure you’ve worked out. Welcome to the WSO. Oh, dear. Milan’s so naughty.”

Vanessa shook her head as they both watched the first violinist hold court in the centre of the string section before mounting the conductor’s podium, taking his place as the orchestra’s leader.

He held his bow in the air and waved it with one powerful arm. Silence fell.

“Okay!” he said, eyes flashing, a picture of triumph and exuberance. “We are, once more, minus a conductor. But we still work! The music can still be played. For now, I lead from the violin. Yes?”

Some applause and a few ragged cheers indicated approval of Milan’s words.

“You are learning,” he said with a wicked flash of a grin. “In my country, we are experienced in revolution. More than you British. But you are learning.”

God, he was even more handsome in the flesh, if that was remotely possible. Lydia drank in his strong, rangy body, his arrogant posture, his high cheekbones and prominent nose. The gesture he had performed so often on
The Next Big String
—the sweep of the brow and toss of the hair—was such a familiar lust-trigger that Lydia’s knees weakened. He was six feet and one inch of undiluted charisma and he was…oh, God. He was looking straight at her.