He downshifted as we moved off the parkway and into the city. I loved New York, but it always felt claustrophobic after being out in the country, if you could call Chappaqua “country.” I looked out the window, trying not to feel wounded by his obvious disinterest in getting closer to me. It was starting to rain.
“What kind of dog do you have?” I asked.
“A rescue greyhound. A black retired racer I call Blue.”
“How subversive of you,” I joked.
“I try to be subversive.” He glanced at me with a quick smile. “I call him Blue because he mopes around. His racing name was Bluebeard, but it doesn’t fit him. Do you have any pets?”
“No. I’ve been moving around too much.”
“The traveling virtuosa.”
“I’m trying to be more settled,” I said, which was the truth. “Now that I have a place, maybe I’ll get a low maintenance pet, like a fish or a cactus.”
“Hmm. Know your limits.”
He was still smiling. I drank it in, enjoying my last moments of Milo, knowing we were almost to my street. We stopped at a light and he pointed to a tall building with a clock tower. “That’s where I live.”
“The Bridgeport? Wow.”
His finger tapped for a moment on the gearshift. “It’s a nice building.”
“The Michelin’s just a few blocks farther, on 63rd.”
“I know.”
Argh. Give it up, Alice. He’s not that into you.
“It’s been so great to see you again,” I said, preparing myself to say goodbye. “And to listen to beautiful violins.” The Prokofiev mixed with the heightening patter of rain outside.
“It’s always great to talk to someone who appreciates beautiful violins,” he replied. The light turned green. I stared at his knee, and his hand on the gearshift. His strong, masculine fingers made me think of sex. Damn. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
“Is it true you have a Stradivarius?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I squeezed my hands into fists. “Can I see it? If it’s not too late? I mean, you already drove me all this way, but now that we’re here, I’d love to see it, because I’ve never seen one.” That was a lie. He probably knew it was a lie. My hands were sweating and my legs trembled against the seat.
He looked surprised, maybe wary of my request. A moment later, he flicked on his turn signal. “Okay. Sure.”
*
Milo’s apartment was a huge, high-ceilinged altar of masculinity done up in taupe drapes, dark wood fixtures, and deep brown leather couches. My Scandinavian side approved of the lack of clutter, but our apartments had always been lighter and brighter as I was growing up. This wasn’t an IKEA apartment. It was a Roman stronghold, all the way.
We took off our shoes by the door, then Milo turned on the lights and walked to the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Maybe. Yes.” Get me drunk. Take me to bed. I didn’t know what to ask for, but it didn’t matter, because he reappeared a minute later with a small glass of burgundy wine. Dessert wine? So Italian. I took a sip and gave a soft moan of delight at the sweet, rich flavor. “You’re not drinking?” I asked.
“I don’t drink and handle the Strad.” His dark eyes flicked toward the hallway, then away. “Maybe later.”
I heard the click of nails on wood, and a large black greyhound loped into the living room. I put my glass on a side table and moved toward it. “I guess this is Blue?”
Milo lifted a brow. “Yeah. I’m amazed he made an appearance. He’s pretty shy.”
“He’s so handsome.” I backed away from the dog so I wouldn’t scare him, and sat on the couch. Blue studied me with dark, liquid eyes, pointing his long nose at the floor, then turning toward his owner.
“It’s okay.” Milo gave his dog’s ears a thorough scrub as he spoke to him. “This is my old friend Alice. She’s nice.”
“What a sweet boy. Can I pet him?”
“Sure, if he’ll let you.”
I held out a hand and the dog inched toward me, checking me out. He must have decided I was safe, because he lifted his head and came closer, took a prancing step, then jammed his pointed muzzle against my outstretched fingers.
I smoothed my nails over his sleek fur, scratching his ears as Milo had done. “What a beauty you are,” I crooned. “You’re super fast and strong too, aren’t you? You pretend to be shy, but deep inside you’re a monster.”
Milo laughed. “Monstrously lazy. But he’s retired, so he’s allowed to be lazy.” He watched as I stroked the greyhound’s lean shoulders and gently arched spine. “He likes you, Alice. He rarely shows his face when I have visitors, much less lets them pet him.”
“I like him, too.” I smiled at the dog. “So the feeling is mutual.”
“He’s not allowed in the instrument room, though.”
The Stradivarius. That was my reason for being here. I stood, patting Blue on the head. “Sorry, sweetie. I have to go see this.”
I took a last swig of wine and followed Milo down his apartment’s central hallway. “This place goes on forever,” I said, looking ahead to a far-away glass wall and balcony.
“I bought a whole floor of the building. I like a lot of space, and the open plan means Blue can run up and down when he’s feeling frisky. This is the room.” He stopped outside a heavy door halfway down the corridor and turned the knob. It opened to a small, dark space that felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.
“It’s climate controlled,” he said, flipping on a muted light. “Come in and I’ll close the door.”
I stepped forward, gawking at the cabinets lining the walls. Inside the glass-enclosed structures, there were at least two dozen violins, violas, and cellos of every size and color mounted on pegs, displayed in an artistic arrangement.
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “This is marvelous.”
“I think so. All these instruments are special to me for one reason or another. The way they vibrate, the way they sound, even the curves of their bodies. They inspire me in my work.”
As I walked around, taking in the beautiful instruments with their ornate scrolls and richly polished bodies, he moved to a cabinet in the corner, unlocked it, and took out a case. Inside lay a plain, lightly varnished violin. It wasn’t the first Strad I’d seen, but it was the oldest. “What year?” I asked, staring at the priceless instrument.
“1682. You can tell the vintage by the color, and the shorter neck. I like that it’s on
e of his earliest ones. They talk about Stradivari’s Golden Period, but I’m partial to his beginning instruments. He took more risks then.” He held it out to me. “Want to play it?”
“No.” I honestly, truly didn’t want to. It looked too delicate, too magical. I was afraid I’d break it from pure nerves.
“No?” He gave me a look. “You’re the one who wanted to see it.”
“I know.” I squeezed my hands together, my pulse rushing beneath my palms. “I’ve been drinking, right? If I did something to it, I’d never forgive myself. You play it, please. You know your instrument better than me.”
A smile I could only describe as sensual curved the edges of his lips. “I know her like my own heart.”
“She’s female?” I asked.
“Of course.”
He took a bow from another case—good God, a Peccatte—and sat on a leather-topped stool, propping the violin beneath his chin. There were no other places to sit, so I stood in front and slightly beside him, listening to him pluck and tune for a few seconds. He had a quick ear for tuning. Anyone who made violins for a living had to be highly attuned to sound.
Even during tuning, I could hear the rich tone that Stradivari’s instruments were famous for, but when he drew the bow across the strings in the first notes of a lilting Bach piece, my soul rose, perceiving magic.
After the Prokofiev in the car, I’d expected him to play something edgier, or something showy like Monti’s Czardas, but the Bach was sweet and beautiful. Resonant notes filled the room, lovely and measured, tonally perfect. I stared at him as he played, watched his dark brows rise and fall with the intensity of the music, his lips purse, his black eyes widen during an expressive passage. I watched the tendons move in his neck and fingers, and clasped my hands together to keep from tracing over them.
There were so many things to fetishize: the way he sat astride the stool with his knees splayed, the flawless fit of his suit, the way his hair fell over his collar, with the fabric parted just so. But what I really fell for was the music. He made the bow and the strings sing, and there was that love, written so clearly in his features. I felt moisture on my cheek, and reached to touch my face. Milo looked over, his smile fading.