The Maestro's Mistress (5 page)

Georgiana surveyed him with
pride, as though he were a priceless work of art in the same league as the set
of Picasso sketches he had recently given her. How noble he looked, she mused,
how well the years sat on him. He was the sort of man who would simply get
better and better as he grew older.

Forty was a marvellous age for a
man of quality she decided. Forty had a roundness and weight to it not present
at thirty. At forty a man was at the peak of his powers and could look ahead to
a burnished decade of further glories.

She watched Xavier progress
smoothly through the ranks of guests until eventually he came to stand beside
the exquisite blonde woman in her elegant yet seductively cut blue gown. She
saw his dark head incline towards the gleaming fair one and could sense the
spark of delighted anticipation that had sprung up within him. When he turned
to make a brief connection with Georgiana’s gaze she smiled in delicious
conspiracy.

Oh, she understood him so well!
And she was grateful to him for appreciating her requirements in return: the
need to remain untouched. Which was why he deserved the splendid gift she was
presenting him with tonight.

Walking into the dining room to
make a last survey of the supper arrangements Georgiana found it difficult to
focus her attention on the laden table. She was awash with sensation: electric
currents of excitement rippled through her flanks. She threw her head back and breathed
in deeply. A dark throbbing had started up between her legs and the reverberating
thrills of ecstasy which shot through her hips and thighs made her gasp aloud
in sudden desperate pleasure.

Alone in the gracious airy room
Georgiana allowed her hands to travel over her slender colt-like body whilst
her mind exulted in its fragile perfection. Her fingers moved across the fabric
of her gown, lightly moulding the shallow domes of her breasts, the narrow
pedestal of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips.

A small sigh leaked from her
lips. She knew herself to be perfect. Exquisite and utterly pure.

When the guests had left and
Georgiana had been borne away in Alicia’s chauffeur-driven

Mercedes, Xavier poured himself a
measure of Scotch and paced softly in front of the long windows which spanned
the south-facing drawing room.

The young woman waited quietly,
standing at a respectful distance, one golden-tanned hand resting against the
marble fire-place.

‘Would you like some music?’
Xavier asked softly.

Her body straightened slightly.
‘That would be lovely.’ She waited, looking around for the music-producing
technology which all her clients owned. There was nothing immediately apparent.
Maybe the necessary equipment was discreetly hidden in one of the splendid
lacquered cabinets. ‘Shall I put on compact disc? Where do you keep them?’

He gave a dismissive wave of his
hand. ‘No, no – I meant live music.’ He sat down at the nine-foot concert grand
which stood in the corner of the room.

Of course! She should have
guessed.

His eyes flickered over hers.
‘What do you like?’

She licked around her lips,
feeling strangely apprehensive. What should you ask a famous maestro to play?

‘Ask for what you want,’ he said.
‘Not what you think would please me.’

‘West Side Story,’ she responded
after a brief pause. She had a vague idea that the music from the show had been
composed by some famous conductor or other. She couldn’t remember his name, but
Xavier probably knew him. ‘
Tonight -
 that’s one of my favourites.  Do
you know that?’

Xavier gave a low grunt. His
fingers picked out the tune and then began to improvise an accompaniment. The
harmonies were subtle and complex.

His listener was a little
baffled, but very impressed.

‘Quite a nice little melody,’
Xavier commented. ‘Do you sing?’

The woman shook her head. ‘I’m
sorry. Making music isn’t one of my talents.’

Xavier turned back to the piano,
polished off
Tonight
and the embarked on a spot of breathtaking Liszt.
It entertained him to show off a little. Especially to a beautiful young woman
who was clearly a blank sheet as far as music was concerned.

On completing his short recital,
he got up and crossed the room to stand beside her. ‘So what
are
your
talents?’ he asked pleasantly.

The woman smiled. She raised her
arm and laid a gentle and undemanding hand on the lapel of Xavier’s dinner
jacket. He stared down at her for a long moment, then reached for the switch
behind him and flicked off all the lights. The curtains were not drawn and a
broad sword of moonlight lit the room with a bluish silver gleam.

‘So – you have no talent with
music,’ he said softly. ‘That is of no importance. You are extremely
beautiful.’

She basked in the silky caress of
his praise. What a marvellously magnetic man he was. And he was going to be
hers for the whole night. Her heart quickened.  And this was work!

‘One of
my
talents is
undressing beautiful women very slowly and skilfully,’ he informed her in a
lazy husky whisper.

She tilted her head back with a
little sigh, giving him an unrestricted view of her smooth throat.

Xavier bent towards her and
touched her cheek fleetingly with his. As she breathed in deeply and leaned
slightly towards him he placed his hands on her satin-skinned shoulders and
turned her around very gently. He stroked her half naked back lingeringly and
cupped his hands around the base of her neck, cradling it softly and moving his
thumbs tantalizingly beneath the fall of blonde hair.

Another soft sigh.

Now Xavier permitted his hands to
travel down her hips and thighs bending his long frame so as to enable him to
trace the curve of her calves and touch the delicate bones of her ankles.

‘These are instruments of
torture,’ he commented, his hands grasping the narrow shoes with their
punishing skyscraper heels. ‘I shall set you free without delay.’ With firm
fingers he eased the soft blue suede from her pretty slim feet. The shoes were
tossed away to lie on the carpet.

‘Aah!’ she sighed, wriggling her
toes. ‘Bliss.’

‘So – from what can I free you
next?’ he enquired.

She stood perfectly still; a
passive vessel to be used in whatever way he wished. Xavier was both touched
and outraged. He reached for the discreetly inserted central zip of her gown,
grasped it in steady fingers and pulled the zip head down the row of tiny teeth
with exquisite delicacy. A frail, tantalizing sound like the ripping of silk
pierced the silence.

The woman gave a small moan.

Xavier lifted her bodily so that
her feet cleared the ring of fabric lying around her legs. Very carefully he
picked up the gown, folded it neatly and laid it on the sofa near the
fireplace.

She started to turn to face him.
His hands gently re-directed her to the position he had first placed her in.

He surveyed her lovely back and
her beautiful rump. She was wearing some kind of corset; boned, lacy, frilled
and snowy white. It accentuated her figure, exaggerating the small waist,
pushing up her breasts which he could see to advantage from his superior height
as he glanced over her shoulders.

He was heavily aroused now. But
not so carried away that his hawk-like eye for detail was failing to register
the fact that her stockings were hooked onto long suspenders attached to her
corset and would require releasing before things could proceed further.

‘You’re very good with
suspenders,’ she murmured, with a light chuckle. ‘It’s easy to get in a
dreadful muddle.’

‘Is that so?’ he commented drily,
thinking that she was both skilled and tactful not to have referred to the many
men of her acquaintance who
had
got into that kind of difficulty. He
rolled the stockings down her lovely long legs and placed them with the gown.

‘Well now, and how does this
wonderful garment yield up its treasures?’ he enquired, fingering the top of
the corset, lightly touching the vertebrae running from her neck into the white
lace.

‘Hooks and eyes,’ she whispered.
‘Dozens of them.’ She wondered what his reaction would be when he saw her naked
breasts. She judged she could give his skinny wife at least four inches in bust
measurement.

Patiently Xavier undid the
seemingly unending hooks and eyes. He was beginning to feel weary. It had been
a trying day and the visit to the hospital had laid some sort of cloud over
him.

Dutifully, politely he removed
the lace garment, tossing it to lie with the rest of her clothes. There was a
long pause. She now wore only a lacy thong.

He surveyed her dispassionately.
She was a perfect specimen of western womanhood. The body could not be faulted.
It was the embodiment of an image; an ideal which countless women strove to
emulate. Long legs, a soft mound of hips and buttocks, a curved waist, breasts
as firm as oranges, bones as delicate as the wood carvings in an altar screen.

And clearly she was eager. He
could hear her breathing - a little jerky, a touch increased in tempo. He
brushed his hands over her nipples and let them trace a line over the skin from
there to her manicured toes. Lifting her into his arms he laid her tenderly on
the sofa.

She looked up at him, her face
silvered in the moonlight. Her arms reached out. ‘Come to me!’ she urged.

Somehow her insolence in
presuming to command him made things easier. He ran a skilled finger down the
centre line of her chest, over her navel and down into her thong which he now
removed in one single graceful movement. Parting her legs with ceremonial
courtesy he allowed his finger to skim inside the pink fleshy lips.

She cried out, slippery with
desire.

He thought of Georgiana’s dry
crotch and that last occasion when he had forced his way into her. And this
beautiful young woman was dripping with lust for him.

Xavier stared down at her for a
long moment. ‘Thank you for a perfect finale to a splendid evening,’ he told
her, his voice cool and even. ‘Please feel free to have another drink.’ As she
stared up at him, puzzled and anxious, he handed her a business card. ‘And
please feel free to use the services of this private hire company. Charge the
fare to my account.’

She opened her mouth, but no
words came out.

‘There is no rush of course,’ he
reassured her. ‘But perhaps you would excuse me now. I have two concerts in the
next week. There is work to be done.’

Turning his back on her he closed
the door quietly behind him and went upstairs to his room, took a brisk shower
and fell into bed, his skin still damp. Within seconds he was deeply asleep.

CHAPTER
5

The day marking Xavier’s fortieth
birthday was significant for Tara also.

It started in carefree happiness
with her and Bruno whiling away the morning in bed. When they eventually rolled
out the bedcovers had the appearance of a rugby scrum having taken place in
them.

‘Let’s take a day off!’ Tara
suggested impulsively.

Bruno attempted a protest. ‘I’ve
lectures this afternoon.’

‘Live dangerously – cut them!’

They spent the day like tourists,
taking a leisurely walk along the embankment, impulsively jumping on a train
bound for the Surrey countryside and discovering a little inn that served beer
well into the afternoon. Afterwards they made love beneath a fiery autumn sun
in the corner of a stubble field before returning to the inn for a supper of
sausages and chips.

It was approaching eleven when
Tara arrived back at her hall of residence. The night porter let her in. She
was rather a favourite of his and never got any stick about being late and not
having a special pass key.

‘The phone’s been hot for you,
love,’ he told her.

Tara glanced up at him, her heart
quickening. Something was wrong.

‘Since last night,’ he went on,
his face kind but faintly chiding.

‘Oh God!’ She stared up at him,
anxiety seizing her.

‘Your mother needs to talk to
you,’ he said. ‘You’d better ring right away. Use the phone in my little cubby-hole
behind the desk. You’ll have a bit of privacy there.’

Her hands shaking Tara dialled
the number of her parents’ house in Kent.

Her mother’s voice answered.
‘Tara! Where the hell have you been?’ She sounded beside herself with anger.

Tara felt suddenly disoriented
and bewildered. ‘Out - on the river. I was out,’ she repeated lamely.

‘You’ve been incommunicado for
twenty-four hours. Did you know that?’

‘I didn’t think –‘

‘No, that’s your problem. You
never think. Not about the important things.’

‘Mum, tell me! What is it? What’s
the matter?’

‘Daddy. He had a heart attack.’