Misha Levin is a man who seems to have everything. A world-famous pianist nurtured by loving Russian parents for whom no sacrifice was too great, he has a devoted wife in the elegant and charming Vera, an adoring son, and the adulation of millions. Then, on a street in Vienna, only hours before the most important concert of his career, he sees the woman he loved and lost eight years before.
Serena is a beautiful and internationally renowned photographer, who lost Misha as a result of her own selfish ambitions. She is determined not to miss her second chance, and Misha too is determined to reclaim the happiness he has denied himself for so long. They embark on an affair both illicit and exciting, and one that is fraught with far-reaching consequences.
Their liaison threatens everything that Misha has accomplished and worked for. Vera, hopelessly in love with her husband, must decide whether to fight for her marriage or give Misha the freedom to be with the woman he desires above all others. Misha, meanwhile, must make a choice between the pull of sexual passion and the mother of his beloved son.
From the fairytale city of Prague to the romantic boulevards of Paris, from the nightspots of London to a glittering Manhattan penthouse, a searing drama of desire, deception, and betrayal is played out on an international stage. Rhapsody captures the many faces of love and the passionate choices that shape our lives.
Praise for the novels of Judith Gould
"[a}] page-turning plot and deliciously evil villains. A delight." PUBLISHER"S WEEKLY
"A romp…a smash success!" NEWYORK DAILY NEWS
"Judith Gould is a master." KIRKUS REVIEWS
"Mouthwatering." CHICAGO TRIBUNE
"Plenty of shocking surprises." COSMOPOLITAN
"[a] great escape. A tale filled with suspense…and exotic characters." BOOKLIST
Novels by Judith Gould
Sins
Texas Born
LoveMakers
Second Love
DAZZLE- The Complete Unabridged Trilogy *:
Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. I: Senda
Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. II: Tamara
Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. III: Daliah
Never Too Rich*
Forever
Too Damn Rich
Second Love
Till the End of Time
Rhapsody*
Time to Say Good-Bye
A Moment in Time
The Best Is Yet to Come
The Greek Villa
The Parisian Affair
Dreamboat*
The Secret Heiress*
*(Available as an e-book)
www.judithgould.com
Rhapsody
By Judith Gould
Copyright 1999 by Judith Gould.
Published by Vesuvius Media, LLC at Smashwords
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind.
—Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality"
Prologue
Brighton Beach, Brooklyn
Steam rose in dense clouds. They were as thick as fog, and it was difficult for the young man to see more than two or three feet ahead. Bodies passing beyond that distance appeared to be ghostly apparitions, barely discernible as human forms through the hot, gauzy vapor. The heat was intense, almost unbearable, as it was supposed to be, inducing copious amounts of sweat from the bodies, which lay prone or sat up on the white ceramic tile seats that rose in tiers like bleachers nearly to the ceiling.
An occasional hiss of water, malevolent and unsettling, hit the heated rocks, producing more steam. Voices muted and unintelligible rose and fell in the near distance. The remote swishing of the doorway announced unseen newcomers or never seen departures.
This must be what hell is like, the man thought.
He hated the sheen of sweat on his body and breathing the humidity-laden air into his lungs. The feel of the soggy, thin white towel against his flesh repulsed him, and the loathsome cracked white tile—so filthy with germs, he thought—made his skin crawl.
A shadowy figure, huge in the smothering haze, appeared at his side almost before he realized it, sitting next to him on the third tier. Tall, broad, and muscular under layers of fat, the man adjusted his towel, then, without preamble, began speaking in a whisper. They both stared ahead into the fog, as if unwilling to acknowledge each other.
"You have the job?" the huge older man asked.
The younger man nodded. "Yes," he replied.
The older man grunted, then adjusted the towel around his waist.
The younger man waited for him to continue, but the older man stared off into the haze, as if he didn't exist. Suddenly there was a loud hiss of water hitting rocks, and the young man jerked involuntarily.
"Not nervous, are you?" the older man asked.
"No, no," the younger man replied. "Of course not."
Using both hands, the older man swept his sweat-soaked hair back away from his face. His hands looked like gnarled bear's paws to the younger man, huge and battered and ugly. Lethal, too, he thought.
"Nothing to be nervous about," the older man said "Just do your job. Call the number I gave you last time. Once a week. Saturday nights after nine."
"What if I can't?" the young man asked, his voice rising slightly. "What if—?"
"No excuses," came the gruff reply.
The older man got to his feet. He loomed over the younger man like a Neanderthal, hairy, barbaric, and evil He turned his powerful body and looked down.
Wolfs eyes, the younger man thought. He has eyes like a wolf on the steppes.
"No excuses," the older man repeated. Then he turned and disappeared into the steam.
The younger man's lips drew into an ugly sneer. Stupid barbarian, he thought contemptuously. He felt like spitting on the dingy ceramic tile. He hated these older Russians with their gangland mentality. But he also knew that in this case at least, beneath the barbaric and hideous exterior, there was a mind that was anything but stupid
I mustn't let appearances fool me, he thought. The ugly wolfs mind is keen, with well-honed instincts. Whether for business or ...killing.
He sat, waiting patiently, giving the older man time to shower, dress, and leave the baths. He hated the place and the older Russian men it catered to.
They're so different from me, he thought. And my new associate. Yes. Misha Levin and I represent a new breed of Russian emigre.
Part One
TODAY
Chapter One
Vienna, November 1998
Under a Mittel Europa wintry sky, a chill wind swept through the grand parks and streets of central Vienna. It was as if the jealous ghosts of Mozart, Schubert, and the Strausses were carried on the wind, protecting their city against interlopers from the more modern world.
It occurred to Misha Levin that New York was gearing up for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. But this was Vienna, Alt Wien, the crown jewel of the Hapsburgs, where the palaces and monuments of the Austro-Hungarian empire in all their operatic pomp and circumstance made the ver
y idea of such a parade seem hopelessly gauche and unsophisticated.
Misha pulled up the collar of his perfectly tailored black cashmere overcoat and adjusted the silk and cashmere scarf around his neck. His leonine mane of slightly curly, rich jet-black hair, which he always wore a little too long, was picked up by the breeze and fluttered about his head. He was tall, six feet, four inches, with perfect proportions and the defined musculature of one who ate properly and exercised relentlessly. His large, luminous dark brown eyes were almost black in their intense depths. Liquid, bedroom eyes they were frequently called, with their long, thick lashes, and they glittered in the pale light as he pulled on black leather gloves to protect his long, artistic fingers.
To the casual observer on the streets of Vienna, he might have appeared to be overreacting to the chill. But Misha Levin's fingers were his fortune. He was one of the world's most sought-after classical concert pianists, with a career that, at thirty-one years of age, held the promise of a Horowitz or Rubinstein. He also had movie-star looks, and for this reason he appealed to a far larger audience than that which normally listened to classical music.
He was a darling of the recording industry because of his crossover commercial appeal, and he was sometimes touted as the "rock and roll" star of the classical world, a soubriquet he did nothing to discourage.
As he strode down Bosendorfer Strasse, he garnered stares of appreciation. His forehead was high and broad, and his nose was straight but prominent. His high cheekbones and strong, deeply cleft chin were complemented by wide, sensuous lips. He had about him a virile masculinity and a commanding—some would say arrogant— air, and to those who didn't know him, he could seem both dashing and intimidating at once. But there was no denying that he cut a decidedly romantic figure, with an edge of mystery and danger that only enhanced it.
Misha made his way through the throng of shoppers and tourists on the city's streets, enjoying the crisp air and the beauty of Vienna's architecture. After hours of intense early morning rehearsal at Schonbrunn Palace, he had dismissed his chauffeur and limousine, deciding to walk to a late lunch with his wife and agent at Zu den Drei Husaren on Weihburggasse.
His gaze had shifted from the neo-Renaissance facade of the Wiener Staatsoper to the neoclassical Hotel Sacher when he suddenly saw the familiar figure just ahead of him on Karntner Strasse. She was idly window- shopping. Her height and long, shiny black hair—as raven black as his own—flying in the wind behind were surely hers. The tomboyish stride was unmistakable, and the toss of the head was like no one else's.
It has to be! he thought.
Misha stopped in his tracks, still studying the figure ahead of him. His heart began to pound and his pulse began to race, thudding in his ears.
Yes, it has to be! he thought, certain now that he was right.
He hastened his pace, quickly closing the space between them. A shiver—most definitely not caused by the cold—ran through him. He slowed as he came up behind the figure, stopping before a shop window. The chalk- striped black suit she wore was tailored like a man's, but the stiletto-heeled black leather Gucci boots were pure female. Over her shoulder was slung a huge black leather bag.
With a camera in it, he thought. She never went anywhere without a camera.
He stood there, practically breathless, and watched her for a moment longer, in profile, not yet speaking her name. He quickly discerned that she had hardly changed at all since he had last seen her. If anything, the slight maturity made her even more ravishing than before.
She was at least six feet tall in her heels, slender, and lightly tanned as always, from her various athletic outdoor pursuits. Her high forehead, prominent cheekbones, and long, straight nose and hill, bee-stung lips were precisely as he remembered them. And that swan's neck, so elegant and fragile-looking. He'd always told her that she should be on the other side of the camera's lenses—modeling instead of taking pictures.
Misha took a deep breath. "Serena?" he said tentatively, in his rich, deep baritone.
She jerked slightly, then stood stone still for a moment before turning on a heel to face him. She wore huge, dark sunglasses, but there was no mistaking that it was she.
She stared at him through the dark lenses, momentarily stunned—he could see that, even through the glasses. Then a smile—conditional and nervous at first— formed on her painted lips, and her beautiful features gradually blossomed to life.
"Misha?" she said in her smoky voice.
"Yes," he almost whispered, "it's Misha."
"Oh, my God! I don't believe it!" Serena tried to control her fluttering heartbeat, but her voice was testimony to the genuine delight and excitement she felt at seeing him.
"I don't, either!" he said. There was a note of wonder in his voice. "How long has it been?"
"Five years," she answered without hesitation. Five long, lonely years, she thought.
"Five years," he repeated. Then he stepped closer and held his arms out to embrace her.
Serena hesitated momentarily, thinking that she should perhaps not be so demonstrative, that she should conceal the utter joy—and vexation—that seeing him had caused. Usually in command of almost any given situation, she found that her mind was a whirlwind of indecision, of contradictory thoughts and feelings.
Oh, what the hell, she finally resolved.
She impetuously moved into his arms, throwing her long arms around him and hugging tightly. He kissed both her cheeks in the Continental fashion, and she kissed his. Serena immediately felt comfortable in his arms, as if she belonged there, despite her initial shock at seeing him.
We must look like two old friends meeting for the first time in a long while, she thought as shoppers made a path around them on the sidewalk. But we were much more than that. So much more.
Misha hugged her to him, thrilled at the feel and smell of her, that familiar, exotic scent. It was a mingling of musk and citrus, of the Orient, of mystery and allure.
They drew apart, but still he held her, a hand on each arm. He was reluctant to release her. "You look beautiful," he said, eyeing her up and down. "More beautiful than ever, if that's possible. Fame suits you, I think."
Serena laughed and smiled. "Thank you, Misha," she said. "And you look more handsome than ever." She took off her sunglasses and gestured with them toward the wall behind her. "Better than your picture even."
Misha looked at the wall, to the spot she'd indicated, and saw his face, blown up in black and white, staring back at him. It was one of the posters advertising the United Nations land mine benefit concert for which he was playing tonight. He had been so preoccupied with her, he hadn't noticed it before.
"Do you think so?" he asked. "Those photographs are always so dramatic, aren't they?" Then he laughed. "But you know that better than anyone, I guess."
"It's a good photo," Serena said. "He did a good job, I think."
"That's certainly a compliment, coming from you," Misha said.
"Yes," Serena said, "it is. It's a good thing he did, too, because they're plastered all over Vienna."
"So, of course, you knew I was here." It was a statement, not a question.
She looked at him levelly, her hazel eyes glittering with the same remarkable energy and passion for life that had always attracted him. "Yes, Misha," she said. "I knew you were here."
He wanted to ask her if she had planned on getting in touch with him, but wasn't sure he was ready to hear her answer. "What brings you to Vienna?" he asked instead.
"I'm doing a shoot with some of the newly elected political leaders in Middle and Eastern Europe," she said. "They're here for a conference, so I'm getting them all together. Czechs, Serbs, and so on. For Vanity Fair."
"It sounds exciting," he said.
Serena smiled mischievously. "It might be a lot more exciting if a good old-fashioned fight broke out among them. Then I might get some really interesting pictures."
"I see you haven't changed too much," Misha said with a smile. He looked i
nto her eyes. "You've really come a long way, Serena."
She shrugged. "Yes and no," she said in a self-deprecating manner.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Oh ... I don't know," she said evasively. "Never mind."
Misha glanced quickly at the Rolex Oyster on his wrist, the one he'd been given for doing a print ad for them. "Have you got time for a quick cup of coffee?" he asked.
Serena shook her head. "Sorry, no. I have to get going, Misha. I'm on my way to meet Coral for lunch. We have to go over some business."
"How is Coral?" he asked, an amused expression on his face.
"You know Coral. She's the same as always." Serena laughed. "Mother. Father. Sister. Brother. Jailer. And agent, of course. Still smothering me with too much attention." She paused, then asked: "How's your family?"
"Very well," he replied matter-of-factly.
Rhapsody Page 1
