One arm around her shoulder, he escorted her out into the shocking cold of the street.
“It’s freezing!” she exclaimed, as the wind bit into her wine-warmed cheeks.
“I can warm you up if you like.”
“Oh?” She turned her face up to him, knowing what was coming, wanting and dreading it, ready to be doomed.
He bundled her against him, slid a hand to the back of her head and guided her into a world away from the bitter city pavement, a world of hot breath, firm lips and exploring tongues. Lydia’s body and soul flooded with blissful desire as he opened and closed his leather-gloved fingers on the soft flesh at the nape of her neck, probing through her hair. He felt like nothing she had experienced before; he felt like passion. This is passion, the thing I’ve only felt for music before. Innumerable buses and taxis had rumbled past before he released her from his savage caress, leaving her blinking, lips aflame, in the sleet she had not noticed until now.
“What now?” she stammered.
“Come with me.”
They took a taxi to the Barbican, a place where Lydia had enjoyed many an evening of top-class musical entertainment.
“We’re going to a concert?” she asked, puzzled.
“No,” said Milan, helping her out of the cab. “I live here.”
“In the Barbican? Wow! In one of those huge flats?” She pointed up at the floor-to-ceiling windows, many of them lit up like Christmas. She had often wandered around the fountains during concert intervals, imagining the sophisticated scenes taking place inside the exclusive condominiums. Now it seemed she was going to star in one of those sophisticated scenes herself. Except I’m the least sophisticated person in the world. Unlike him.
The thought made her uneasy, but it didn’t trouble her for long, vanishing as soon as Milan took her arm and led her towards the looming complex.
She wanted to ask a million questions but she didn’t dare, in case any of the answers broke this breathless spell. Going home with Milan Kaspar. It won’t be a one-night stand. It can’t be.
In the elevator, he held her face and kissed her again, all the way up to the top floor, unzipping her parka with his free hand and sliding it inside, looking for a way under her fleece.
His palm had found her bare stomach by the time the doors opened, and they half fell along the corridor, still kissing, until Milan pushed Lydia up against a wall, causing her to drop her violin case with a thump. Her fleece was up over her bra and Milan’s thumbs were on their way inside the cups when a door opened.
“At last,” said a laconic, Russian-accented voice.
Lydia shrieked into Milan’s mouth, wriggling to find an escape that didn’t come. Why was he still doing this, right in front of Evgeny the cellist? And what was Evgeny the cellist doing here, anyway? Were they neighbours?
“Put her down, Milan. At least, for now.”
Reluctantly, Milan pulled the fleece back down and withdrew from the embrace, pulling Lydia onward by the wrist to where Evgeny stood, one eyebrow raised, arms folded.
“What’s happening?” whimpered Lydia, suddenly very sober.
“You’ve passed the first test,” Milan informed her, his voice terse. “You’re going to be vetted. And, if you pass the vetting, you’re going to be initiated.”
“What?” Her yelp of protest preceded her into the huge, luxurious living room—then it died in her throat. For Evgeny’s presence was the least of her problems. Sitting in ranks on the sofas and chairs were five of her colleagues in the First Violins, plus a select few Second Violins, Violas and Cellos.
“Twelve good men and true,” said Milan, drumming his fingertips against the nape of her neck in an effort to calm her. “Or rather, nine men, two
women…and you.”
“What’s going on?”
“This, Lydia, is the secret heart of the Westminster Symphony Orchestra. You have a chance to influence and change the direction of the orchestra, if you agree to join us.”
“Join you? What is this? Like…like a musical version of the Freemasons?”
Milan chuckled, as did several of the other players.
“Yes, I suppose it’s a good analogy. We are all good musicians, strong musicians, who are tired of being told what we should do by conductors. We know our jobs. We know music. If we succeed, I will eventually be made conductor-leader, as some orchestras already have. What’s to stop me conducting the orchestra from the violin section? I won’t be the first. I certainly won’t be the last.”
“This is why you were being weird with Josh Clayton yesterday?”