Highly Strung (3 page)

Come and get warm,
miláčku
.

Lydia woke up with the words echoing in her ears in Milan’s velvet-clad accent. He might be off limits in her professional life, but her fantasy life was a different matter. Lydia slid her fingers down, found the warm split between her thighs, her clit swollen and bursting to be touched after a night of broken dreams featuring Milan’s bowing elbow and devilish smile.

Alternative reality changed the previous evening’s disastrous encounter so that her ‘no’ became a ‘yes’. She sat down beside him and he slipped an arm around her, drawing her close, closer, as close as could be until he held her against him, her ear rubbing his shoulder so that she drew his warmth into her body. Then his fingertips, sensitive but strong, on her cheek, then his lips on hers, then the pub whirling away from them while they kissed.

His hands inside her shirt—the parka having long since dissolved—exploring her, caressing her skin, finding her breasts, laying her down…

Then they were out of the pub, in his bed, which would smell of him and his Eastern European manliness, and he had tumbled her in his rumpled sheets and they were naked.

He was playful, pouncing on her, nipping and snapping at her neck, slapping her thighs, pinning her wrists, his hair flicking over her face. She moaned as he impaled her on his cock…oh.

Retracting her fingers, Lydia sat up, hot, bothered and cross. He was a sleazy serial seducer. Why would she fantasise about that?

She lay back down and pulled one of her standard fantasies from the mental masturbation bookshelf instead. The one about the Saxon warrior spanking her with his sword would have to do. No Milan. Just pure Saxon man, overpowering her with the power of his arm-ringed biceps and throwing her over his knee. Better. Much better.

It was no use though. As her pleasure built and her release approached, Mr Saxon’s arm rings disappeared, his sword turned to a violin bow, and by the time she dissolved into that final moment of bliss, Milan was back. Frustrations released, she headed for the shower.

But why did she use her most luxurious shampoo and shower gel, and why did she spritz on so much of her white jasmine and mint cologne afterwards?

She frowned at herself in the mirror as she tried to trick her long, straight brown hair into looking voluminous. Nothing worked, so she resorted to her usual ponytail. Maybe contacts… No. She put her glasses on so adamantly that she almost bent the right wire.

She was not going to attract Milan’s attention. She was not going to attract Milan’s attention. Rinse and repeat till fade.

“Lydia.”

So much for not attracting his attention
, she thought, jumping a little when he beckoned her over the minute she entered the rehearsal room. He must have been waiting for her. The idea made her shudder with unwelcome excitement.

“I have a name now, then,” she said, all bravado. “Not ‘new girl’ any more?”

Milan smirked and looked down at his violin for a moment.

“Yesterday was an interesting day,” he said. “In the way of the Chinese proverb. I had a lot on my mind. I was rude. I apologise. Can you forgive me?”

Oh, fuck, don’t be nice. How am I supposed to resist you if you’re nice?

“It’s okay,” she found herself saying. “Let’s forget about it.”

“Yes, let’s,” he said eagerly, leaning down to her eye level. “So you let me buy you a drink, yes? After the rehearsal?”

“Oh, um…” She looked around for Vanessa, who was nowhere to be seen. To say no would be churlish, and besides…a drink with Milan Kaspar… “Yes, that would be nice. Thanks.”

His smile was genuine and as bright as the strip lights overhead.

“Great! That’s great. I look forward to it.”

Lydia put down her violin case and skipped to the back of the hall to hang up her coat and scarf. Vanessa was there, pulling off her beret.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” squeaked Lydia. “Milan just asked me out.”

Vanessa turned to her with a pained expression.

“And you said…?”

“Yes! What? He asked nicely. He wasn’t being an arrogant git, honestly.”

Vanessa sighed.

“It’s so easy for him. Fish in a barrel.”

“Oh, Vanessa, don’t be like that. It’s only a drink. We have to work together—we might as well be friendly.”

“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?”

“That’s right. It wasn’t called that when I lived there. It was Czechoslovakia, and before that Bohemia.”

“How lovely. A true Bohemian. Do you fit the description?”

Milan smiled over his brandy glass.

“I suppose I do. I’m an artist and my hair is a bit longer than most men’s. Bohemian by nationality and by disposition. How about you?”

“Oh, well, I’m not from anywhere exciting, like you. Boring old Guildford. I live in London now, though. London’s exciting.”

“Yes, it is. I like it.”

“Do you ever miss your homeland?”

“All the time. Every day.”

“Would you ever go back?”

“Why are we talking about me? That is not why I invited you here.”

Lydia was beguiled by Milan’s intense look, head cocked to one side.

“Oh… Why…did you? Invite me here, I mean.”

Unnervingly, Milan did not reply, but simply let his eyes rest on her face as if seeking some higher truth in it.

“Take off your glasses,” he said at last.

Lydia obeyed, laying them on the table.

“Are you going to ask me to let down my hair?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

“Why not? Go on.”

With shaking fingers she loosened her ponytail, letting her straight, mid-brown hair fall freely over her shoulders.

“Now you are not the mouse any more. You are very pretty. Why do you hide? And those clothes—fleeces are for middle-aged people who like to ramble in the countryside.”

“Oh, I’m not very good at shopping.” Lydia hid her flush with a deep gulp of the wine. “Takes up too much rehearsal time.”

“You are unworldly. And you don’t wear makeup. You don’t need to.” He leant forward, so suddenly that Lydia spilled a little of the wine on her derided fleece. “Are you scared, Lydia?”

“Scared? Of what?”

“Of male attention. Men. Sex. Love.”

“No, no, of course not!”

“I hope not. Fear makes a poor musician. A good violinist is open, with herself and others.”

“Is this some kind of interview? I must say, I don’t think my appearance or personal relationships are really—”

“Relevant? Yes, they are. I’ll get you another drink, wait there.”

He gave Lydia a few moments of recovery time while he bought another round. She wanted to ask him to get her something non-alcoholic, but she knew he would refuse. She could not work out how she felt. Intimidated? A little. Infatuated? A lot. Imperilled? Most definitely. He had called her pretty. And the way he’d
looked
at her…

The same look set her to fluttering when he returned and put down the drinks.

“Show me your hands,” he said, taking them in his before she had a chance. “Good violinist’s hands. But small. Maybe you couldn’t play the piano, eh?”

Lydia was too transfixed on Milan’s own famous hands to reply. The fingers that plucked the strings were stroking her knuckles. She never wanted it to end.

“Why do you play, Lydia?” he asked softly.

“Because I must,” she said without thinking.

“Exactly. Exactly so.”

He nodded at her, approving of the sentiment.

“I think we’ll work well together.” He dropped her hands abruptly so that they fell to the table with a thunk. “Drink your wine. I will buy you dinner. Is a nice place around the corner.”

Chapter Three

The meal seemed to Lydia to pass in a golden haze. Buoyed by the wine and the intoxication of Milan’s attention, she floated through two hours that passed like minutes. Milan wanted to know every detail of her musical education and tastes; then he moved on to more personal matters.

“Have you ever been in love?” he asked, while they waited for the bill.

She drummed her fingertips on the rim of her empty glass, knowing she was heading for dangerous rocks, but powerless to steer her craft away from them.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“So that’s a no.” Milan tutted. “You would know if you had.”

“I suppose.”

“So who was the lucky man?”

“Wha—?”

“Your first. Your first lover. Was he worthy of you?”

“I don’t know!”

“You don’t know who your first lover was? Lydia, I did not think you were such a bad girl!”

“No, no, the worthy thing. For God’s sake, Milan! Of course I know who it was. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not with him any more. That all ended ages ago.”

“He wasn’t worthy of you, then.”

“He was all right!”

“Don’t tell me he was all right. I am jealous of him.”

“Oh, you’re not!”

“I am.”

A waiter appeared and Milan turned his attention to paying the bill, leaving Lydia to try to focus her eyes and pour a deep drink from the water jug.

“I like the way you say my name,” he said, whirling back to her before she was ready. “Say it again.”

“Milan. I didn’t even realise it was a name until I heard of you. Thought it was an Italian city.”

“I think it is Czech version of Miles. I don’t know. I like Lydia. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

The waiter brought their coats, and Milan helped Lydia into hers again, though this time he lingered over the buttons, breathing into her ear as he fastened them from behind.

Lydia swayed on unsteady feet, leaning back into Milan’s welcoming body. He made a sound, between a growl and a sigh, that travelled straight down her ear and into her crotch.

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.