Highly Strung (Food Of Love 1)

By the time they were ready to leave the hotel room, Lydia had lips dripping with scarlet gloss, eyelids of gold and eyelashes blacker and thicker than midnight. Her feet were strapped into golden stilettos with four-inch heels, on which she tottered unsteadily, still unused to anything without a thick, grippy sole. She had to rely on Milan’s and Evgeny’s arms to support her as they travelled down in the lift and out through the lobby. Thankfully, her long velvet coat concealed her shockingly explicit attire, but all the same, passers-by would likely mistake her for a prostitute.

In the taxi on the way out of town, Milan and Evgeny pointed out every tourist attraction they passed, despite the darkness that had fallen over the city. Eventually, though, the buildings grew sparser, the road wider. They were heading into the woods, somewhere hidden and remote.

Chapter Nine

The car turned down a bumpy track road, under canopies of branches, winding and twisting through the pitch-black forest until they arrived at a set of huge gates.

Milan took out his phone and punched in a brief message.

The gates opened, slowly and mechanically, and Lydia looked along a driveway of half a mile or more to where a handsome rectangular Schloss stood at the far end. Its tall, thin windows burned with golden light and she could see vague shapes flitting inside.

“It really is a palace,” breathed Lydia.

“What did we tell you?” said Evgeny smugly. “Werner is one of the richest men in Austria.”

Milan and Evgeny helped Lydia from the cab and up the steps, where a splendidly uniformed man waited by the giant front door.

In German he asked for their names, which Milan was happy to give in the same language. Then they were led inside to a place of chandeliers and cherubs, pillars and porticoes, pink plaster and golden ornamentation.

At the entrance to a busy drawing room, the guests were announced.

Every eye fell on their trio. Lydia calculated that that made about fifty eyes in total, for there were between twenty and thirty other guests. Most of the men, like Milan and Evgeny, wore formal evening dress, though one young man sported only leather shorts and a leash around his neck.

The room glowed a glamorous gold, and its female occupants seemed to carry the theme over to their outfits, most of them in some form of metallic, shiny garb. Lydia surmised that there must have been a dress code that Milan had not seen fit to explain.

Drawing closer, she was shocked to recognise a pair of very famous, married movie stars and she dropped her eyes, fearing that she might not be able to stop staring if she didn’t. As for the rest of the people in the room, they represented varying ages and nationalities, but most were attractive and all were groomed to perfection. She felt a very poor specimen beside the modelesque women in their diaphanous column dresses, but Milan squeezed her hand at exactly the right moment and she tried to dismiss her insecurities. She was here with one of the most famous violinists in the world.

A man with a red sash across his dress shirt strode forward, arm extended.

“Milan! So good to see you again.” His accent was distinctive but not thick, and he wore small-framed, wire-rimmed glasses over his large nose. “Though I keep reading about you in the international press. Your stock is rising, it seems.”

“Werner.” Milan and his friend exchanged brief embraces with back slaps. “You remember my friend, Evgeny?”

“Ah, we all remember him. It’s a pity our friend the gymnast couldn’t be here tonight. He was very taken with your Evgeny the last time you visited. And who is this charming young person?”

Lydia blushed and looked at her gold-shod feet as Werner’s sharp eyes rested upon her.

“This is Lydia, one of our violinists at the WSO. She’s an open and curious girl. She wanted to see what happens at your parties. I’m hoping she’ll find it to her taste.”

“So am I, so am I.” Werner held out a hand, which Lydia shook shyly, a little disappointed that Milan hadn’t introduced her as something more than a work colleague. “Welcome, Lydia.”

All eyes in the room watched as she accepted a flute of champagne along with her escorts. They drew her into the midst of the crowd, Milan making confident small talk with everyone while she and Evgeny eyed each other. He seemed almost as overwhelmed by it all as she did, she thought. Did he feel like some kind of gilded accessory for Milan, the way she did?

As she nodded acknowledgement to the beautiful female movie star, a horrible thought occurred to her. Milan had said it was fine to just watch. But what if he wanted to join in? Could she really sit there and watch him make love to that Hollywood goddess over there? And, if he could have her, surely he would not want a meek, middle-of-the-road mouse like Lydia any more?

“Hey,” he whispered, turning suddenly to her after a baffling conversation with a famous flamenco dancer about some mutual friend of theirs, “are you okay? You’re very quiet.”

“I’ve never been anywhere like this before,” confessed Lydia. “And I can’t get over the Linberghs being here! I mean, he was voted the world’s sexiest man last year, wasn’t he? And I’m in a room with him.”

“Oh, don’t be starstruck, milácku. He’s a pompous bore. And she’s a spiteful diva. You’re worth ten of them.” As an afterthought he added, “They are good in bed, though.”

She felt a little more confident then, pushing back her shoulders and lifting her neck. So many eyes were upon her, sizing her up, drinking her in. She had never been looked at this way—so boldly, so blatantly—before. It gave her a sense of power. She was wanted and desired, and she could take or leave the wanters and desirers. No wonder people were so concerned with their appearance, if this feeling was the result of looking good. She had never understood it before, but now she began to see the appeal.

“I just need to speak to Sir Anthony.”

Milan’s fingers left her elbow and she felt abandoned, cast adrift on a spangled sea. She hid in her champagne glass, drinking too quickly, but then Evgeny offered unexpected refuge, materialising beside her and putting a hand on her shoulder.

“The first time is a head trip,” he said. “I remember.”