“Just watch him. He’s a predator. It won’t stop at a drink, believe me.”
“Yeah, but you’ve warned me. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.”
“You don’t know exactly what you’re up against. Your puny cardboard shield versus his nuclear arsenal of seduction—let’s say I don’t fancy your chances, love.”
“Wow. Nuclear arsenal of seduction.”
The phrase and its implication—that Lydia was directly in the firing line—shouldn’t have pleased her, but it did. She was intensely flattered at the idea that anyone could consider her worthy of pursuit by such a famous super-stud as Milan Kaspar. She was about to reassure Vanessa once more that she would keep her head clear and her knickers on when the tapping of a music stand called them to order and they scuttled to their chairs.
Milan was a good conductor, if a little imperious and impatient, and the rehearsal glided by like a harmonious dream for Lydia. He worked them hard enough that she didn’t have time to daydream about what might come next, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, her bowing arm was tired and her mind full of music.
She waited, growing pinker and pinker at all the behind-the-hand whispering, while the rest of the orchestra left the hall and Milan indulged in some post-rehearsal chat with the other string players. Vanessa hung around for a while, seemingly wondering whether to stay or go, but eventually she took her beret and flounced off.
“Okay, ready?”
Milan turned to her and offered a gallant forearm, which she took.
His bowing arm. I am touching it. Her fingers rested lightly on the cool white cotton of his shirtsleeve as he walked her over to the cloakroom. He helped her on with her coat then wound her scarf gently around her neck, disarming her for a moment when he ducked his face into the soft wool.
“It smells like you,” he said, coming up for air.
“Ah.” Lydia caught her breath while Milan shrugged on a long wool coat, tailored to fit his tall, elegant figure and show it to its fullest advantage. Scarf and leather gloves on, he looked down at Lydia’s hands.
“No gloves,” he scolded. “You need to protect your hands. The cold will chap them.”
“Oh, I usually just put them in my pockets.”
“No good. Here.”
He took Lydia’s hands in his, clasping them in the smooth leather, leading her out of the door like that and into the windy early evening.
Every car and bus that passed made Lydia’s stomach flip with the thought that everyone could see her walking along the street, hand in hand with Milan Kaspar.
“Is that his new girlfriend?” they might ask each other. “Did he dump that TV presenter for her?”
They wouldn’t understand it, of course—a glorious, golden glamour-puss replaced by a mousy little music geek. But their love was beyond understanding…
Hold on, Lydia. Get a grip. Love? You idiot.
The Delius Arms was blessedly warm and cosy, but Lydia was almost disappointed that the brief walk in the knife-edged cold was over when Milan dropped her hands and indicated a table in the corner.
“What do you like? Red wine?”
“Actually, a hot chocolate might be nice. I’m frozen.”
“Hot chocolate? No. I buy you red wine
.”
Lydia shrugged and went to sit down, stowing her violin case under the table and staring at her hands. They had just been held by Milan Kaspar. They looked no different—a little red and raw from the cold, but essentially the same Lydia Foster hands that had been playing the violin for the eighteen years since she started school. She tried to keep them away from anything that might rub the Milan-ness off them, putting them up to her nostrils to try to trace the faint scent of leather, but it had been too cold outside and they smelt of nothing much.
He brought over the drinks—red wine for her and something brown in a balloon glass for him.
“What’s that?”
“Brandy. I need to get warm. Your winters are cold, but not as cold as the winters back home. We always had a bottle of brandy in the house.”
“Back home in the Czech Republic, you mean?”