A Dance for Him (43 page)

What was I thinking?

Oh, right, I wasn’t.

It’s hard to think straight around her. In fact, she’s making it difficult even now … She’s nuzzling up against me, rubbing her cheek against my neck, running her hands over my back. And when she isn’t nuzzling up against me, she’s smiling at me, her beautiful eyes sparkling, dreamy.

I smile back, trying not to think about how she’ll react when she finds out that the man who just took her virginity was at one point married to her mother, even if it was only for a laughably short time, and without any of the …
privileges
… usually implied by marriage.

When
she finds out? No, rather
if
she finds out. Can I even afford to tell her now? But if I don’t - what happens if she mentions me to her family, and then they tell her the terrible truth?

“Oh, Maestro,” she murmurs as she gently runs a finger down my cheek. “That was wonderful, thank you.”

She’s
thanking
me
? This nineteen-year-old beauty who’s just given me what was unquestionably the best fuck of my life … thanking
me
for using her lovely body?

Despite my misgivings, it’s impossible not to smile.

“Evie,” I say tenderly but firmly, “firstly, given what we’ve just been doing, I think it’s probably time you called me Renzo. Secondly, there’s no need to thank me, I should be thanking you instead.
You
were wonderful. I’m a very lucky man.”

She blushes and her eyes widen. “R-Renzo?” she stammers, as though not quite believing that I’ve just invited her to call me by my first name, which I find quite bizarre - after all, I’ve just fucked her and she’s just swallowed a load of my cum, you would think that would automatically entitle her to call me Renzo, world-famous conductor or not …

But that’s probably what it is, isn’t it? I know she’s a natural submissive and very timid and all that, but I can’t help but wonder if it was the conductor she was fucking, rather than the man …

God, this whole thing is remarkably fucked up. Why do I even care if that’s the case? I’ve got this gorgeous creature for at least this summer, she’s more than willing to spread her legs for me, what more can I possibly ask for? What was I expecting,
love
?

It’s with a sick feeling that I realise what I do
want from her, because it
is
actually a lot more than just a summer dalliance I want …

I mean, I could marry her, I suppose, if she’d have me. Fuck, old Smythson would probably have a heart attack, if he’s still around. I wonder what Victoria will think of her erstwhile spurned suitor running off with her daughter …

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Tell me about your family, Evie,” he says, rather unexpectedly. “You said you spent a lot of time in boarding school and with your grandparents? What about your parents, tell me what they’re like …”

He still seems tender but his mood seems to have shifted in some indefinable way - a bit melancholic, perhaps, and certainly more pensive.

I wonder if that means I’m going to find out more about his reaction the other day when he found out who mom was! It’s certainly not the sort of subject I’d have expected him to bring up right after sex …

“I don’t know how much I can tell you, I’m afraid,” I say, slightly apologetically. “I didn’t spend too much time with them. When I was eight, mom ran off with a guy and left me with dad. Less than a year later, she and the new boyfriend were in a fatal car crash off the Riviera. Dad, from what I gather, had a nervous breakdown and started drinking - apparently he’d been hoping she’d come back to him, so that was a huge blow. So I was sent off to boarding school. Within five years he had a heart attack and died - he was just fifty-six. I miss him, he was really sweet before he started drinking.”

He’s looking at me with a expression of both pain and surprise on his face, I don’t know why, perhaps he thought mom was still alive and is upset to hear otherwise.

Or maybe he’s thinking that maybe she’d have run off with him rather than with Fred if he’d stuck around …

For some strange reason I feel almost
jealous.

“My poor Evie,” he murmurs, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I would be bringing up so many painful memories.”

I shrug, keeping my voice wry and indifferent so I don’t yield to the sudden, inexplicable impulse to cry. “It’s fine. It’s been a really long time. Besides, I hardly knew mom, she was always at parties. It’s dad I miss.”

He looks at me searchingly, and for the first time ever I’m unable to hold his gaze - it’s too painful, somehow, and I don’t want him to know it, don’t want him to see it.

Instead I hide my face in his chest, half-expecting, half-fearing to hear about some old crush he had on mom.

He remains silent, though he holds me tightly and continues to stroke my hair for a while before he says, somewhat tentatively: “You know, Evie -”

His cellphone rings from the couch where he left his pants when he was undressing. It’s a sound that makes both of us start.

“I’m not going to answer that,” he says firmly, and keeps me wrapped in his arms.

We both look at each other as the phone continues to ring, as though willing it to stop.

Which it does - but then it soon starts ringing again, with a wretched insistence that palpably increases the tension in the room. When he
still
doesn’t answer, it’s followed by a series of buzzes that suggests he’s just gotten a string of texts.

“Perhaps you’d better check it,” I say gently, “it might be some kind of emergency.”

He looks at me for a moment, irresolute, then kisses me very tenderly on the lips.

“It’s probably nothing,” he says, “but I’ll just take a look. I won’t be long.”

He climbs out of bed and retrieves his phone. It’s the first time I’ve really seen him naked from a distance rather than up close and personal, and he does look magnificent - broad, strong, sculpted. Especially his back, which I’m getting to see a lot of as he texts the caller.

I can’t quite see his face in full but he seems to be frowning a bit as he types his replies.

And then the phone rings again, which makes him throw up his hands in mock-despair.

“I’m sorry, Evie,” he says, turning to me, “do you mind if I take this call?”

He looks embarrassed, apologetic, which is rather odd - after all, it’s just a phone call!

“Of course,” I reply.

He smiles gratefully at me, then exits the room.

However, he clicks the answer button on his phone before the door is completely closed, and I hear a woman’s voice greet him. “Hello, Sofia,” I hear him say, just before the door clicks shut behind him.

It’s a name that, in combination with his oddly furtive manner, causes my heart to sink.

When Maestro Alfieri first talked about sending me here to study with him, I’d Googled him, of course, just to see what the latest news about him was. Apart from reviews of his latest appearances, there were a number of gossipy items on various blogs and a few pictures of him with a celebrated (and absolutely gorgeous) Russian singer whom he’d been working with. The general consensus was that he’d been seen around town with her a great deal, and while it was also true that his name had been linked to a few other women’s as well, there was some speculation that this one might be a little more serious than usual.

Her
name was Sofia as well …

I can hear his voice faintly from where I am before it fades away, along with the sound of his footsteps. It seems to me quite obvious that he doesn’t want me to hear anything. Or perhaps he doesn’t want
her
to hear me in the background.

Who knows what it’s really about, who knows whom he’s trying to hide, and from whom? … Certainly not me.

Besides, what claim do I have on him? We fooled around a bit in the last couple of days, and yes, we just had sex. Fantastic, mind-blowing sex, it’s true. But that was all, no promises were made on either end, the L word has never been invoked, and - well, to be honest - I’ve only known him for three days.

Maybe they have an arrangement, for all I know. That’s probably not all that uncommon, in this line of work where people travel all over the place and aren’t that often in the same place at the same time …

God, how stupid did I have to be to think that a man like him could not already have been otherwise preoccupied. He’s always been known to have an eye for the ladies.

While I’d like to think that I don’t care about this Sofia, that we are all sophisticated people, I can’t help thinking, with a sudden, visceral despair that anything more than what we’ve just had would be impossible and impractical, because with a man like him there will surely always be other women, and even if this thing with Sofia is pure fantasy on the part of gossip columnists, there will probably be someone else to take her place …

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Of all the times in the world she has to call me
now
! And it’s impossible not to reply to Sofia when she demands an answer - otherwise it’s just text after text and a déluge of voicemails. Not even rehearsal time is sacred. And of course since this is off-season she knows I’m not in the pit …

Yes, she can be a bit overwhelming.

So apparently she’s decided to visit me here, since I won’t visit her in Moscow, and of course she’s decided that she’s going to descend upon me and stay
here
with me. A crazy idea.
No, Sofia
, I texted her,
I’m sorry, I can’t put you up here
. Then she wanted to know why.

Of course I’m going to have to tell her about Evie, but I didn’t exactly want to have that conversation this very moment, what with Evie waiting for me so close by.

To be honest I’m not even sure why I think I owe Sofia an explanation, it wasn’t like we were
dating
, let alone exclusively. In fact, she made it very clear to me when we first fucked that she wasn’t into monogamy or anything more than having a good time. I told her that I wasn’t either (my standard disclaimer whenever I’ve slept with anyone in the past), and that was that. So I’m pretty sure she has no expectations of any sort on my end.

On the other hand, I don’t want to be unkind, she’s terribly egotistic in some ways, it’s true, but it’s the careless egotism of a child, not malicious or anything.

Anyway I told her that I couldn’t talk to her right now, but that I definitely couldn’t put her up here if she came to Venice. She rang off cheerily, with the sort of determined flirtiness of one convinced that she’ll charm her way into getting what she wants, which is too bad. I’ll probably call her tomorrow and explain the situation - that I’ve met someone, and that it’s serious, and that
she
’s staying with me right now.

My guess is she’ll either congratulate me quite sincerely or have a massive sulk-fest, you never really know what to expect from Sofia.