Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  She took a sip of the mineral water and sat up in bed. I'd better finish getting ready myself, she thought. Now, what have I forgotten? I know I've forgotten something, but what? Then it dawned on her: perfume. She jumped to her feet and dashed into the bathroom, where she'd left a bottle of exotic scent that had been specially concocted for her in Paris. She dabbed the stopper on her neck, behind her ears, between her breasts, at her wrists, and reaching up under her skirt, she swiped drops down her thighs.

  At that moment she heard a knock at the door.

  Shit! she thought. Countdown's over! It's ground zero!

  She dashed back to the bedroom but didn't see her shoes. Screw it! She forced herself to stand still for a minute, taking deep breaths of air. Then, forcing herself to take slow, measured steps, she padded on bare feet through the sitting room to the door. When she reached it, she squared her shoulders and took another deep breath, then opened it wide.

  Misha stood in the hallway, his hands crossed in front of him, a shopping bag dangling from them. He stood there a moment, mute, his dark, liquid eyes feasting on her.

  His lips spread into a disarming smile. "Hello," he said simply. Ah, the beauty of her! he thought. The long raven hair. The perfect skin on those exquisite features. The hint of ample breasts that he knew were concealed beneath the sweater. The endlessly long, slender legs beneath the minuscule leather skirt.

  Serena returned his smile. "Come in, Misha," she said in her smoky contralto. Oh, my God, she thought. She'd already forgotten how handsome he was, how he exuded a kind of power. How his very presence was so commanding.

  He stepped into the suite, and Serena closed the door and followed him in. "Here," she said, "let me take your coat."

  He set his shopping bag down and shrugged out of his long cashmere overcoat. When she started to take it from him, he said: "I can hang it up, Serena." He smiled. "As I remember, you weren't all that keen on hanging up clothes."

  "You would remember that," Serena said with laughter in her voice. "Let me have it anyway." She took the coat from him and hung it in a closet. "I've gotten a wee bit better about housekeeping," she said, turning to him. "Not much"—she held her thumb and forefinger up—"but a little better anyway."

  They stood, looking at each other in the suite's sitting room.

  "Oh, here," Misha said, reaching down into the shopping bag. "I had to do some shopping on the way over, and I picked these up." He extracted a small bouquet of roses, blushed with the palest pink and almost completely open. They were wrapped in an elegant sleeve and tied with satin ribbon. He held them out to her. "For you," he said.

  Serena looked at the bouquet and smiled. "They're beautiful, Misha." Her voice was soft and wistful. "My favorite color. And almost full-blown. Just like I like them." She looked up at him. "You didn't forget."

  "No," he said. "How could I?" At this moment he wanted nothing more desperately than to take her in his arms and tell her that he had forgotten nothing about her.

  Serena felt a rush of embarrassment and wondered if he noticed as a tingling flush rose from her chest, up her neck, and into her face, suffusing it with heat.

  She quickly turned away. "Come in and sit down," she said. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll get something to put the flowers in."

  She went into the bathroom and got a glass that she half- filled with tepid tap water. She carefully untied the bouquet, unwrapped it, and put it in the glass. She returned to the sitting room and ceremoniously placed the roses on the coffee table.

  "There," she said. "Perfect."

  "Yes, perfect," Misha echoed, his dark eyes ignoring the flowers and coming to rest on her.

  Serena sat down on the couch and drew her long legs up underneath her.

  Misha looked over at her. "You look more beautiful than ever," he said, "if that's possible."

  Serena laughed nervously. "Thanks," she said. "I try. Sometimes." She focused on the flowers, trying to avoid his eyes, then decided to quickly change the subject. "How was your performance last night?" she asked.

  "It went very well," Misha said, not adding that he had been totally preoccupied with thoughts of her the entire evening. "How did your shoot go?"

  "Don't ask," she replied, tossing long strands of hair away from her face.

  "That bad?" he said.

  "Oh, not really, but it wasn't exactly inspiring," Serena said. She reached for her mineral water, but it wasn't there.

  Suddenly she jumped up. "Oh, God, Misha, I'm such a terrible hostess," she cried. "Would you like something to drink? There're all kinds of goodies in the minibar."

  "What're you having?" Misha asked. "Are you on one of your crazy diets?"

  "Noooo …" Serena said. "Well, I am trying to sort of do a purge starting right now. Just mineral water for a couple of days. Nothing else. All this Viennese food, you know. Everything drenched in whipped cream."

  Misha laughed. "I see that money and fame haven't changed you all that much," he said.

  "I guess not," Serena said as she looked at the contents of the minibar's refrigerator. "Oh, look," she said. "There're two splits of champagne. Why don't we have them?" She turned to Misha with a questioning look on her face.

  "Definitely," he said. "Here, let me open them."

  "No," Serena said, "I can do it."

  But Misha got up and walked over to the minibar. He held out his hand for the bottle of Taittinger. "Let me," he said. "I insist."

  Serena was suddenly disconcerted by his nearness. She could feel his warm breath on her, could smell his masculine smell, could swear that she sensed about him a heightened arousal that was charging the very atmosphere between and around them.

  Wordlessly, she handed him the bottle, and as she did, Misha took her hand and held it in his for a moment. Serena felt a surge of desire rush through her, like an electrical charge, suffusing her not with embarrassment but with a heated lust, galvanizing her entire body, melting her resolve, weakening her knees. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she suddenly felt breathless. She desperately wanted nothing more than for him to take her in his powerful arms and wrap himself around her. To take her here and now, on this very spot, and devour her passionately,

  Oh, God, she thought. I want him! And ...and I want him to want me!

  With a barely perceptible, but sharp, intake of breath, she forced herself to remove her hand from his. She was certain that she was visibly shaken, that she must look like a fool. Without a word she turned and went back over to the couch, where she sat down and pulled her legs up underneath her again.

  Misha, who was anything but oblivious to Serena's disconcertedness, quickly popped the cork on one of the splits and poured the pale, golden liquid into two glasses at the minibar. He walked back over to the couch and handed one to Serena, then sat down at the other end of the couch, turning to face her. He extended his arm with the glass and smiled.

  "To ... old friends," he said, looking into her hazel eyes.

  Serena clinked her glass against his. "To old friends," she repeated. She took a sip of the champagne. It tasted delicious and bubbly against her tongue.

  Misha sipped, then set down his glass and looked over at her. "Now tell me," he said. "About your day. You didn't finish."

  "Oh, it's such a bore," Serena said. "You don't want to hear about it, Misha."

  "Yes, I do," he said definitely. "Tell me."

  "Well, the men were a little rowdy. You know, I was photographing some of the new leaders of Eastern and Middle Europe. And"—she looked at him—"I guess I'm just getting a little tired of some of the assignments I get." She took another sip of her champagne.

  "What?" Misha looked surprised. "But you're doing so well, Serena. I'd have thought you were very happy. I read about the huge contract Coral negotiated for you."

  "Everybody did, didn't they?" Serena said in a somewhat embittered tone of voice.

  "That goes with the territory," Misha said. "But I don't understand why you're not happy. All that money! And
you get exposure in the best magazines. You get to travel all over the world. Meet all those famous people. You're even a celebrity yourself now."

  "I know. I know." Serena groaned. "I must sound like an ungrateful child. It's just...well, the money's great, and I love the travel. I guess I'm just tired of the shoots. Doing fashion shoots and taking pictures of celebrities year after year can get to be a bore, you know?"

  "I'd have thought it would be very exciting," Misha said.

  "It can be," she said. "It was in the beginning, but it's gotten to be old hat. It seems like I'm always surrounded by a thousand assistants. Hair stylists, makeup artists, shoot stylists, the clothing people, publicity people, a huge technical crew. You know, the last time I did a shoot in L.A.—a big movie star—there were twenty-two of us there to get the pictures." She sighed and looked at him. "Is that ridiculous? Sometimes I wonder what happened to me and the camera. Just me and the camera. Do you know what I mean?"

  "I think so," he said. "It's like the music business. Recording and performing. It seems like sometimes the least important things are me and the piano or me and the music. All the business of recording and performing, all the hoopla surrounding it, take precedence. It's like last night's performance was important because the big European connections to Salzburg and Bayreuth were there. The business going on there was probably more important than the performance."

  "Exactly," Serena said. "Sometimes I think I'd like to start over, or go in a new direction. I know I'm lucky. I make tons of money and all that. But I think I'd like to start concentrating more on what I photograph. Take off somewhere with nothing but me and the camera."

  "Sounds to me like you want to do some experimenting," Misha said. "Maybe you're getting more interested in art photography."

  Serena nodded. "Yes," she said, "I guess that's it. People are talking more about the money I make and the celebrities I shoot than about the pictures themselves." She laughed. "I guess I want some respect."

  "From critics?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said, "that, too. I want to be taken seriously, and do some work that's more meaningful to me. Even if I'm not sure what that is."

  "You'll find out, Serena," he said confidently. "I'm certain of it."

  She took another sip of champagne and tossed her head. "Oh, well, enough about me and my luxury problems," she said. "Come on, tell me all about yourself. It has been five years."

  Misha looked into his champagne glass, then looked over at her. He shrugged. "What do you want to know?"

  Serena lasered him with those brilliant hazel eyes of hers. They gleamed golden brown in the light, punctuated by shards of blue and green. "Come on, Misha," she said. "You can do better than that."

  "I don't know what to say," he demurred.

  "I know your career is going great guns," she said. "I mean, I do read the New York Times, so I'm always seeing that you're performing somewhere. And you can't miss the ads for your new CDs when they come out. Not many classical artists get full-page ads in the Times and do personal appearances at record stores." She paused a moment, tilting her head as she looked at him. "Next thing you know, you'll be like the three tenors."

  He laughed lightly. "Yes," he said, "I do get a lot of publicity." He took another sip of his champagne.

  "What about the rest of your life?" she cajoled. "Why are you being so mysterious?"

  "I'm not being mysterious," he protested. He looked at her seriously now. "You mean my family life."

  Serena returned his look. "Yes." She nodded. "Your family life."

  "You know about my marriage . . ." he began.

  "...To Vera," Serena finished. "Yes. I've seen her picture in the Times, too. She's very beautiful."

  "Yes," Misha said.

  Serena got up to retrieve the second split of champagne. "Are you happy, Misha?"

  He looked lost in thought for long moments, staring off into space, before he finally turned back to her. "I ...I'm feeling a little ...neglected, I guess," he finally said. "Vera's always so busy with social obligations. You know, she's on the boards of God knows how many music organizations. And all her auction clients. It seems like there's always another party or some kind of function that I'm supposed to lend my presence to."

  Serena listened while she popped the cork on the second split of Taittinger. She brought the bottle over to the couch and poured a refill into his glass.

  "Thanks," Misha said.

  She refilled her own and sat back down again.

  "Sounds like she's very good for your career," Serena said.

  "Yes." He nodded. "She is that."

  Serena looked at him. "What about the rest of it?" she asked.

  "The rest of it?" Misha said.

  "I think I read somewhere that you have a kid now," she said. "Ring a bell?"

  Misha laughed. "My God, of course. It has been a long time, hasn't it? Nicholai. He's three years old now. And he's wonderful."

  Serena smiled. "I think I detect just a little pride on your part," she said.

  "Oh, yes," he said, a sheepish grin spreading across his lips. "He's adorable and brilliant. I don't get to spend as much time with him as I should. Traveling so much and all. We have a great time when we're together, but it's not very often."

  There was a moment of silence as Serena sat, seemingly somewhere in another world, rubbing a finger around the rim of her glass, starting to make it chime.

  "What about you, Serena?" he asked.

  "What about me?" she said, looking over at him.

  "Has there been a man?" he asked. "Anything ...serious?"

  "Ah, you know me. Everywhere I go, I leave a trail of broken hearts behind." She laughed shortly. "Actually," she said with a rueful smile, "there have been men, but ... oh, you know. Nothing really serious. Just ...men. Just a few little flings."

  "Your career must make it very difficult," Misha said.

  "Yes," she said, nodding. "I'm on the road a lot, like you, and I've just never met ...you know. The right man." She shrugged and looked at him. "I haven't really been involved with anyone. Well, not like I was ...with you."

  As he heard her words, Misha felt a flood of emotions wash over him—guilt, remorse, self-conscious embarrassment—but overriding all his other feelings was the distinct frisson of pleasure he derived from knowing that she hadn't found anyone in the last five years to replace him in her affections. It was a guilty pleasure to be sure, but he couldn't deny it.

  She's still in love with me, he thought. As I am with her. His heart leapt with joy, and the fear and self-consciousness he had felt—because he did still love her— dissipated with this realization.

  After a moment he cleared his throat and then spoke. "I don't know whether you can believe me, Serena," he said, looking into her eyes, "but I... I haven't felt what I felt for you with anyone else, either. I've thought about you every single day since the last time I saw you. I've wanted you ever since the day we parted."

  Suddenly a thrill rushed through Serena, because she knew now that he felt the same way she did. At the same time new fears and anxieties formed a knot in her stomach, giving rise to more questions and more puzzlement. Gone now was any effort at appearing casual about his visit.

  Tears, unbidden, began to fill her eyes. Oh, God, she thought, he really does mean it, doesn't he? His pride, she knew, was a significant aspect of his character. Misha always seemed in control. Yet, underlying his pride was a fragility that few ever glimpsed. And it was because of this essentially delicate nature that she didn't believe Misha could possibly admit such vulnerability unless it were true, unless it was something that he really felt.

  He still feels the same way, she thought. He still loves me after all these years.

  Serena looked up at him, into those dark eyes, a solemn expression on her face. He reached over and brushed the tears from her eyes with a finger, gently, reverently, silently.

  She reveled in his nearness to her, the touch of his finger, his arm around her shoulder,
his tender ministrations. She could feel his breath upon her, could smell his uniquely masculine and erotic aroma. And she sensed his urgent desire for her.

  "I love you," he whispered, lightly tracing a finger upon her exquisite features. "I've never stopped loving you, Serena."

  She almost gasped aloud at the words, and she felt anew the overwhelming power that these particular words from this particular man held over her. She felt a swoon of desire—that was the only way to describe it— rise from deep down within her. It overshadowed any resistance to him she might have had, rendered any considerations but for this moment, in this place, inconsequential.

  "I ...I've always loved you, too, Misha," she whispered. "I've never loved anyone like I love you."

  He pulled her closer, encircling her in his powerful arms, as his lips sought out hers. When they closed over hers, her body trembled in a kind of ecstasy, and she wanted the moment to last forever in its tender sublimity. Then his tongue, so warm, so sweet, so langorous, parted her lips, and he began to explore her mouth, slowly at first, delving, probing, licking. Gradually, the flames of his desire began to build, and he began to plunge more hungrily, lustily, devouring her with his passion, his urgency driving him deeper, faster. She gave herself up to him, her own desire consuming her, devouring him as he did her, her body afire now with an urgency and ardor she had virtually forgotten was possible but that she now remembered with a shock that was powerful but welcome in all it entailed.

  He abruptly stopped and pulled back, and she almost whimpered at the sudden need for him. "Oh, my God, Serena," he rasped, "I've missed you so much. So much."

  "Oh, yes," she whispered. "And I've missed you, Misha. So much."

  His arms hugged her even closer to him, and his hands began to run up and down her back, up her neck, into her luxuriant black hair. He gently pulled her head back, and his mouth plunged to her long, swanlike neck, and he licked at her feverishly, then kissed and sucked at her as if he could never taste enough of her deliciousness.

  Serena moaned with pleasure, holding his head in her hands, running her fingers through his hair, up and down his strong, muscular back, over his hard, round buttocks. She gloried in his body and the return of this hunger that she hadn't known for so long. She realized that she had been starved for the touch of this man, for the banquet that was his magnificent body in its love for her. Nobody in all those years had come close to arousing her as he did now, as he always had.