She was still scrolling through the texts when the phone rang. Smiling at her ring tone—Saint-Säens’ Danse Macabre—she became a little perturbed when she saw who was calling. Von Ritter.
But somehow she couldn’t ignore the call—his imperious presence making itself felt from thousands of miles away—and she pushed the button.
“Karl-Heinz,” she said.
“Oh, you have switched on,” he said, sounding surprised.
“I know I said I wouldn’t. I forgot. How are you? San Francisco sounds amazing.”
“Oh. I am quite well, you know. Thinking about you.”
“Oh, right,” she said guardedly.
“Thinking about how good we are together.”
“Karl-Heinz…”
“I hope you’re being good there in Spain, Liebchen. I hope you are on your best behaviour.”
His stern tone sent a little dart of heat to her lower belly, spreading through her groin area until her shorts felt too constricting. She shifted her thighs and leaned against a rock.
“It’s none of your business what I do,” she said in a lower tone. Really, she should just hang up. She shouldn’t continue with this.
“I beg your pardon. None of my business? Your behaviour is very much my business, little Lydia. You know how I deal with you when you’re bad.”
“Stop it.”
“You remember, hmm?”
“Don’t do this.”
“You remember how I take down your panties and make you bend over and spank your ass hard, until it’s bright red and sore?”
Lydia swallowed, words flying beyond her reach. She looked around furtively and, seeing that she was alone, slid a hand down inside the waistband of her shorts.
“Karl-Heinz, I know what you’re doing.”
“Yes, I’m thinking I need to cut short my tour and come there to deal with you.”
“It isn’t your place to deal with me,” she said, but now she had covered her mons with her fingers, wriggling them downwards.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” His voice purred in her ear, soft but perfectly authoritative. “It’s my place and it’s my duty. When you’re bathing in the sea tomorrow, be careful. Sooner or later you’ll see me wading towards you. I’ll take you by the wrist and pull you out of the waves, in front of all the other people. I’ll march you over the sands and take you inside my beach tent, just set up ready for you. And everyone outside will hear me pull down your bikini panties and spank you hard on your wet little bottom. What a sound that will make! They’ll all know what I’m doing to you. They’ll listen to that lovely wet smacking sound and hear your poor little cries and shake their heads and wonder what you’ve done to deserve it. You must have been a very naughty girl indeed. But now you’re getting what you need.”
Lydia couldn’t stop him now if she wanted to. She pushed urgent fingers between her pussy lips, straining at the stitching of her shorts. Her clit felt hot and prickly, fat to the touch.
“And when I’ve spanked you until your bottom is dry and glowing and hot to the touch, I’ll rub it all over with sand. Gritty, chafing sand that makes the soreness much worse. Then I’ll pull your panties up tight, so they bunch in the crack of your ass and show your red, sandy bum cheeks. I’ll push them up between your pussy lips so they rub your clit. Are you rubbing your clit now, Lydia, by the way?”
“Uh.”
“No, I want an answer. Are you masturbating?”
“Yes,” she hissed quickly. “Go on. Please.”
“You really do need me there, don’t you?”
“Noooo. Go on.”
“Okay. I’ll make you lie down on the sunbed on your stomach so everyone can see that you’ve had a good spanking. You can take off your bikini top too, for an all-over tan. And so that everyone can see how hard your nipples are. Everyone will know that getting that spanking turned you on. It made you so horny you’re pressing your thighs together and trying to rub those bunched-up panties all over your pussy. They can see your hips move and your ass raised up, as if you want more spanking on that gritty little behind. But I tell you you’re not to make yourself come. Oh no. It isn’t allowed. You will have to wait until I get you back to the hotel. And I don’t mean to go back to the hotel for hours yet.”
Lydia poured a sequence of panting breaths into the phone.
“You came?”
“Uh-huh,” she gasped.
“I thought I just told you that isn’t allowed. Oh dear, Lydia. I need to come all the way from the US to Spain to deliver a special spanking, don’t I?”
“No, no, you don’t, and I shouldn’t have turned this phone on…”
“And I shouldn’t have turned you on?”
“No, you shouldn’t!”
He chuckled and she ended the call and threw the phone back in her bag, hot-cheeked with shame and disappointment with herself.
Her solemn promise that she would have nothing to do with either of her pursuers until orchestra rehearsals resumed in September was well and truly broken.
She pulled her hand from her shorts and sniffed ruefully at her fingers.
Von Ritter would be feeling so triumphant now. He knew exactly how little it took to reel her back in. What a pushover.
She had to pull herself together. One lapse didn’t mean it was all over. Like a smoker on day one of cigarette withdrawal, she knew she faced tough times ahead. But if she was to clear her mind and work out what and whom she really wanted, she had to have this space.
The best thing to do was to go back to the villa, get a good night’s sleep—and maybe another little episode of self-pleasure, if Vanessa and Ben were safe in their bed—and face the new day.
She traipsed round the outcrop—annoyed at the stickiness in her shorts and the smell on her fingers—and back on to the main beach. Loud disco thumping came from several bars on the strip above. It was getting late.
She took the winding path up to the villa, seeing a lively scene at the tables outside the little neighbouring restaurant. People had gathered in a small crowd, listening to some music.
Oh, it was lovely music. Lydia recognised it and began humming along, quickening her footsteps in her eagerness to hear more.
It was Sarasate’s Introduction and Tarantella, performed much better than she would expect to hear it played in a little seaside crab shack.
People clapped and cheered along to the tarantella and Lydia tried to fit her head between two of the audience members, peering inside the dim little room.
“God, no!” she exclaimed out loud, her voice carrying across the night air to the ears of the musician himself.
He cut the music short and took a small bow before heading straight towards Lydia.
“What the hell are you doing here, Milan? Go home.”
Chapter Two
The last gasp of the London summer was almost over, leaves beginning to drop and curl on the pavements while the air took on a smoky sharpness, heralding autumn.
It was fair to say that Lydia was not looking forward to the first rehearsal of the Westminster Symphony Orchestra after her summer break.
After the ill-advised phone sex with von Ritter, she had kept herself strictly incommunicado, only sending him one brief text to tell him she had landed safely in Heathrow a few days earlier.
As for Milan…oh God, what a bloody mess.
The minute she had laid eyes on him in Alcudia, her shock had given way immediately to longing. Longing to be in his arms, to tell him everything was all right and she was his forever, to have a glorious fortnight with him in the sunshine.
His face when he had seen her, all illuminated with tenderness and joy, had pierced her to the core.
“What are you doing here?” she had asked him in a loud whisper.
He had drawn her to a wicker basket chair on the patio, ordered two glasses of herbes mallorquines and taken her hands in his, kissing her fingertips all over.
“I have come for you, of course,” he’d said.
“But you’re meant to be in the Maldives.”
“Without you? No, it was a desolate place for a man without his love.”
“Oh, Milan, you’re so full of it.” But her throat had been tight and she hadn’t known how much longer she could hold him off.
“Full of what? Full of love for you. I have said I will prove it. And here I am. I have travelled across continents to be with you, because I can’t be without you. Is that proof enough for you?”
She’d wavered. She should have been strong, told him she needed this time and that, by refusing to allow it to her, he was disrespecting her wishes.
But he was so beautiful to her—everything she had ever wanted. Her fatal weakness.
When the drinks had arrived, she’d picked up the glass and had looked hard at the pale green liquid.
“Is this alcoholic?”
His expression had soured.
“I’m on holiday.”
She’d shut her eyes. Here was the strength she'd needed. There was no way she would go back to him while he was drinking. No way in the world.
She’d put her hand to his cheek and had leant forward, speaking softly.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, my darling.”
He’d tossed his head away, disconnecting from her touch.
“Better? Better than crossing continents?”
“Milan, sooner or later you’re going to have to learn that it isn’t about grand gestures. It isn’t about that at all. It’s about being ready to love and be loved. Now go to your hotel and I’ll see you in September.”
“Go to my hotel? Lydia.”
He’d taken her hand, and she’d let him. But she'd known she mustn’t weaken, not one iota. She'd known she must stay true to herself.
“I’m serious. I said I wanted a break and I meant it. I didn’t ask you to come and I—okay, I won’t lie, I’m deeply flattered that you’ve made this effort, but…if you can’t respect my wishes, Milan, you’re not the right man for me.”
Even as she’d spoken the words, she’d wanted to take them back. She’d raced to blurt them out before a rising tide of nausea had burst up from underneath. Was she really sending him away? Had a part of her wanted him to say no and sweep her up and carry her away? Yes. Yes, that stupid part of her had.
But luckily he couldn’t read her thoughts and he didn’t do it.
Instead, he’d nodded, slowly and sadly.
“Okay, I understand,” he’d said. “You need your space. But I don’t give up, Lydia. I never give up.”
“I know.” She’d tightened her fingers around his. “I don’t want you to.”
He had raised her hand to his lips and rested her knuckles against them for a few seconds.
“So,” he’d said with a sigh. “I better get my suitcase from the back room and book a hotel.”
Lydia’s jaw had dropped. “You haven’t booked a hotel? You assumed… Milan!”
And then it had been easy to walk away.
“Arrogant bloody bastard.” Lydia muttered the words to herself as she hurried up Vauxhall Bridge Road, hugging her violin case to her chest. “Who does he think he is?”
But she knew who he thought he was. Milan Kaspar. And that was good enough for anyone.
He hadn’t even left Alcudia after their initial rendezvous. No, he had stayed for a few days more, intentionally bumping into her at every opportunity. She recalled an agonising afternoon spent on the beach, a few sunbeds down from him, side-eyeing his buff, tanned body as he’d stretched out and basked in the sun.
He had been surrounded, all the time, by people who recognised him, and even those who didn’t had had admiring looks to cast him.
She had seen him in the town’s best seafood restaurant, wining and dining a pair of sexy Spanish girls who’d fawned and giggled over his every word.
Lydia didn’t think he’d taken them back to his hotel, but she couldn’t say for sure… The memory stabbed into her, hot and gut-wrenching. She’d spent a sleepless night staring at her phone, desperate to call him, convinced that she shouldn’t.
Some holiday that had turned out to be.
But at least he had left after four days and she had had ten more to spend in peace.
She reached the rehearsal hall and let a wave of new-school-term excitement wash away the angst as she ascended the steps. She spent her life making beautiful music and two attractive men were vying for her attentions. Come on. It wasn’t all bad, was it?
After pushing open the double doors into the foyer, the first person she spotted was Karl-Heinz von Ritter, chatting to two brass players by the reception desk.
Immediately, he excused himself and hurried over to her.
“Lydia,” he said.
“You’ve been lying in wait for me,” she accused.
“Of course,” he said. “I want to see you. You are surprised?”
“No, I suppose not.”
He turned to look at the rehearsal room door.
“Milan Kaspar is in there,” he said, “telling everyone about his holiday spent in Alcudia whenever he thinks I can hear him. Isn’t that where you went?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“So you are back together?”
“No. I did see him, but we didn’t…do anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think I’d know if I’d fucked Milan Kaspar.”
“Keep your voice down.”
A gaggle of passing cellists had looked over and immediately huddled into a whispering knot.
“Don’t interrogate me the minute I walk through the door, then!”
“Sorry,” he said, more gently. “But we have to talk, no? Coffee after the rehearsal?”
“Oh.” She dithered, looking here and there as if for escape, but when it came down to it she couldn’t turn him down flat. “All right. But I need to go and talk to Vanessa. I’ll see you later.”
In the protective company of Vanessa and Ben, she was able to deflect Milan until the rehearsal began.
Von Ritter had news of a series of London concerts, as well as an appearance at a music festival in Germany in December.
“We will be visiting my home town of Leipzig,” he told them. “The Christmas Market will be on and there will be performance of Bach’s Christmas Oratorio in many of the churches. As you all know, of course, Johann Sebastian Bach worked and composed in Leipzig for a number of years and the city has a strong association with him. But we will not be playing any Bach ourselves. No, we have on our programme a selection of Christmas favourites, from Prokofiev’s Troika to Peter Warlock’s Capriol Suite.”
“Are we doing anything non-Christmassy?” Ben wanted to know.
“When we return from Germany, there is a concert at the Barbican, I believe, in which we will play a selection of music that bridges the Classical and Romantic eras—some Beethoven, some Schumann and the Brahms Violin Concerto.”
Mention of the Barbican made Lydia’s eyes turn to Milan, who looked bored, running a finger up and down his A-string.
“And now,” said von Ritter, “I must hand you over to our esteemed colleague and orchestra leader, Milan Kaspar, who has some news for you.”
Lydia’s stomach lurched. The last thing she felt able to process at that moment was more Milan-news. It was bound to affect her life in some far-reaching and inescapable way.
“Yes,” he said, rising to his feet and doing his trademark hair-toss. “I have news. And in a way it is sad, and in another way, it is not.” He looked at Lydia and her toes curled.
“You’re pregnant,” shouted someone in the violas and everyone laughed.
“No, I am not pregnant,” he said with a grin. “But this is my last rehearsal as leader of the orchestra. You will find that the vacancy will be advertised internally this week.”
Every violinist looked around the section, eyes wide.
“You’re leaving?” several voices piped up.
“I am no longer on the WSO pa
yroll,” said Milan. “But I will be with you for your season of concerts, because I am playing the Brahms Violin Concerto as soloist. In the summer I got a good agent and I have many offers for solo work. So I am concentrating on a virtuoso career now.”
Leonard and some of the other violinists who had always been in Milan’s inner circle leapt to their feet and applauded wildly. Slowly but surely, the rest of the orchestra joined them.
“Don’t worry,” said Milan, beaming. “I want to continue my association with this orchestra. I hope that, whenever you play work featuring solo violin, it will be me. But the world is my, uh, a shellfish…?”
“Oyster!” came the delighted shout.
“Okay, yes, it is my oyster. I am making the most of it, right?”
Amid the general congratulations, Lydia heard her own voice ask a question.
“Will you be based in London?”
Milan looked down at her, dropped to a crouch and whispered his answer.
It seemed as if the whole audience fell into a sudden and immediate silence to catch it, because it was the loudest and most clearly enunciated whisper Lydia had ever heard.
“Do you care?”
“Of course,” she said. Her glance flickered over to von Ritter, who stood with his lips pursed and eyes fixed on a distant point.
Milan followed her gaze then snagged it with his again.
“Good,” he said, then he rose to his full height. “So that’s my news. I’ll stay for this rehearsal, and then I’ll only see you now and again. But those of you who are my friends will see more of me, of course.”
Hmm, thought Lydia, most of your friends have seen all of you at one time or other. The idea made her lips quirk up and she had to suppress the wicked smile before it broke into a broad grin.
As Milan-news went, this wasn’t so bad. It was wonderful that his solo career was taking off, and it didn’t seem he was planning to move to New York or Berlin. Or Prague.
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