He kissed so beautifully, too, not with Milan’s savage intensity, but with a measured self-assurance, an authority that made her believe it was right and proper. She held on to his arms and let herself fall under his spell, feeling such blessed relief at having him here with her, a man who was master of himself and not some raging fuck-up, for a change.
Breaking off, he put an arm around her, keeping his other hand on her face, so she had to look at him, his unfathomable eyes and his slightly parted lips.
“If I send you home now,” he said, “I suppose you will pretend none of this happened next time we meet.”
“No, I won’t,” said Lydia, stung.
“You will say it was the drink, the upset over Milan, you were on the rebound, et cetera.”
“I won’t,” she insisted.
“I want your promise.”
“I promise. But you could do the same thing.”
“Yes, I’m very attached to Milan Kaspar.” His tone was light, but she knew there was real venom behind it.
“Shut up. Don’t joke about that. I don’t know why you did that…just then…but you seem to be saying that you meant it. The kiss, I mean.”
“I did mean it. I meant it very seriously.”
“Perhaps,” said Lydia, not sure she dared say the words that had formed in her head, “you shouldn’t send me home, then.”
He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.
“I don’t want to be accused of taking advantage,” he said. “I want to give you some time to think. But not too much time, because I have a feeling you think too much about things. So come and see me tomorrow after rehearsal, and we’ll talk.”
“Talk?” She held his gaze, feeling the full beam of its seductive intent.
“Perhaps more than talk,” he whispered, then he kissed her again. “I hope so. But, for now, let’s find a taxi and you can go home.”
Chapter Ten
By the time Lydia had made her way to the rehearsal—late, thanks to ridiculous staff shortages on the Tube again—she had made up her mind.
In the sober light of day, it was not a good idea. She was too raw over Milan, still in love with him a
nd, besides, orchestral players should not shag their conductors. It was a recipe for disaster.
The Elgar Violin Concerto was already in full flow by the time she entered the hall, Milan playing with as much of that ferocious passion as she had ever heard from him. He sounded amazing and, for a while, all she could do was stand by the door and listen, agog, falling in love with him all over again. Oh, why did life have to be like this?
Von Ritter noticed her and frowned, presumably unimpressed by her lateness. Oh, dear. He wasn’t going to be at all happy with her today. She scuttled over to her chair and prepared to play as quickly as she could.
Their conductor worked them hard, leaving no time for breaks, scarcely a moment to breathe, until the end of the rehearsal came. The dreaded moment, thought Lydia, packing away her violin, avoiding looking at Karl-Heinz. All the same, the memory of that luscious kiss kept interrupting her thoughts, picking away at her resolve. When would she get the chance to kiss like that again?
“We need to talk.”
It was Milan, looming over her, his hair flopping over his brow, one hand on a hip while the other brandished his violin bow.
“Do we? What about?”
“You know what about. You are fucking von Ritter.”
“Jesus, keep your voice down!” She looked around to make sure nobody was listening. Luckily, most were deeply engrossed in the conversations they’d been denied during the rehearsal. “And I am not…doing anything…with von Ritter.”
“He took you to the concert last night.”
“Going to a concert isn’t the same as shagging a person, Milan. And what if I was, anyway? How dare you dictate my love life to me, since you’re the one that wrecked ours?”