by Sandra Field
“Is it? Why, Seth?”
“Because I’ve upset you.”
“You trusted me enough to share what must have been a huge trauma for a little boy,” she said in a low voice.
“Telling you hasn’t changed anything.”
“Change happens, whether you want it to or not,” she said implacably. “Do you have a ticket for the concert?”
“No. I prefer CDs. Music at a distance.”
“I’ll see there’s a ticket at the door for you.”
His eyes narrowed; if she could throw down a gauntlet, so could he. “When do I get to meet Marise?”
“I haven’t told her about you yet.”
A knife seemed to have lodged in his gut. “You haven’t? Why not?”
She said defensively, “I wanted to hear about the letters first.”
“Is that the only reason?”
Her lashes dropped to hide her eyes. “When I got back from the Caribbean, it was all too new—I had to deal with my own feelings first.”
He purposely didn’t ask what those feelings were. “But you won’t keep me from her?”
“I don’t know.” Fury smoldered in her eyes. “Am I supposed to ignore what your mother did?”
“I’m not responsible for my mother’s actions,” Seth said tightly.
“She’s part of your family. Her, and your father.”
“He wants to meet Marise, too.”
Lia was rapping her nails on the table again. Was she in danger of blaming Seth for his mother’s crimes? “I can’t deal with this right now.”
“I shouldn’t have shown you my mother’s confession. The timing’s lousy.”
“I’m the one who demanded proof. I can scarcely complain when I get it.”
“You can complain all you like,” Seth said. “For seven years you were a single mother as a direct result of my mother’s actions. How the hell do you think that makes me feel?”
“I have no idea,” Lia said tautly. “You’re far too adept at keeping your feelings hidden.”
With no idea where the words came from, Seth said, “I’ll go to the concert.”
Letting out her breath in a tiny sigh, Lia angled the last mouthful of luscious chocolate icing onto her fork. She’d learned a great deal about Seth in the last few minutes: information that only served to bind him closer to her, in ways that both intrigued and terrified her. Frowning, she said, “Why do men have to be so complicated?”
“To keep women guessing. Want another piece of cake?”
“I wouldn’t get into my dress if I did. It’s a very slinky dress, and you can come to the reception after the concert if you want to.”
“Providing we leave it together.”
She raised her brows. “Autocratic, aren’t you?”
“When it suits me.”
“So you want a commitment from me.”
“Only about the reception.”
“You’ve made it all too clear you won’t commit yourself to me in any other way. But if I let you anywhere near Marise, you can’t operate like that with her.”
“I won’t,” he said harshly. “That’s a promise.”
Could she believe him? Was she in Karlsplatz, Vienna, sitting across the table from the man who’d been haunting her dreams? “Suppose I allow you to see Marise,” she said. “Suppose you and she develop a relationship, and in the course of that, you and I end up having an affair. What happens when you get tired of me, Seth?”
“We’ll deal with it when it happens.”
“I won’t be dumped like so much garbage.”
“I won’t dump you like you’re garbage!”
“Well, that got a reaction,” Lia said.
He ran his fingers around his collar. “I’d like to be in bed with you right now.”
“One of my professors at Juilliard said in class one day, peering at us over the rims of his glasses, No sex before a concert. It drains the music of its passion. Too bad, Seth.”
“So by abstaining, I’m doing my bit for Brahms?”
“We all have to sacrifice for art.”
“You can always make me laugh,” Seth said in a voice of discovery. “Sex and laughter—that’s quite a combo.”
“Almost as good as Turkish coffee and chocolate cake.” Lia pushed back her chair. “I’ve got to go. The rehearsal’s in a couple of hours and I do breathing exercises beforehand.”
“A concert brings you face to face with yourself,” he ventured.
Surprised and pleased that he’d understood, she said, “That’s right—what do I have to give to the music? Will it find me wanting?” Her mouth quirked. “Minor little questions like that.”
Seth got to his feet, and, ignoring the other customers, kissed her full on the mouth. “You couldn’t possibly disappoint yourself, the audience or the music,” he said. Reaching in his pocket, he took out a small box. “This is for you,” he added, not meeting her eyes. “To bring you luck tonight.”
She was staring at the box, making no move to take it. “Seth, I can’t take a gift from you.”
“Why not? Do you think I’m trying to bribe you?”
“Of course not.” She looked right at him. “You’re as different from your mother as you can be.”
He pushed the box toward her, more affected by her simple endorsement than he cared to show. “Open it, Lia…it’s nothing much.”
She took the box and flipped the lid up. Earrings, each a single, multifaceted diamond, flashed colored fire in a bed of black velvet. “They’re gorgeous,” she exclaimed. “But—”
“They reminded me of you.” His crooked smile made her, inexplicably, want to weep. “When you feel passionately about something, even your hair seems to spark.”
She blurted, “I should have believed you about the letters without having to have proof—I’m truly sorry I didn’t.”
“You’re forgiven,” he said lightly.
Lia took a deep breath. “The earrings are lovely, Seth, I’ll be happy to wear them tonight…thank you.”
He kissed her again. “Too many sexy paintings in this room—you’d better go. I’ll stay here for a while and read the paper. Auf Wiedersehen, beautiful Lia.”
Her cheeks were bright scarlet, clashing with her outfit. She made a sound that would have translated in any language as humph, and walked out of the coffeehouse with perfect aplomb.
A foolish smile plastered on his face, Seth sat down again. He’d given a woman diamonds, revealed a lifelong secret and agreed to go to a concert. None of these behaviors was typical of him.
And he was going to leave the reception with Lia.
The professor hadn’t said she couldn’t have sex after the concert.
CHAPTER TEN
AFTER the intermission, the orchestra tuned their instruments, then silence fell over the house. Seth sat still in his box seat, his eyes glued to the stage, which was crowded with tuxedoed musicians. He felt as nervous as if it were he who was about to play.
All this time Lia had been waiting backstage. How did she stand it?
In a tap of high heels Lia walked out onto the stage, followed by Ivor Rosnikov and the conductor. She was wearing a smoky purple satin dress with inserts in the full-length skirt that were filled with tiny pleats; they kicked out as she moved. Her bare arms were pale as ivory, her hair drawn back severely from her face. The diamond earrings he’d given her sparkled in her lobes.
The conductor adjusted the score, Rosnikov settled himself at his cello, and after a quick glance at his two soloists, the conductor raised his baton. The orchestra played the first somber, flowing notes. Seth sat very still, waiting. Lia, also waiting, looked indrawn and remote.
Why would she need him, Seth, when she had her music? She’d never fall in love with him; at least he was safe from that complication.
As the orchestra fell silent, Rosnikov began to play a rich, sonorous melody. Lia raised her bow and joined him, the two instruments separating only to blend, blending only to separate
. She and Ivor, Seth saw in an uprush of heated and primitive emotion, were also completely in tune with each other, making frequent eye contact in a way that seemed to him immensely intimate.
He, Seth, could never share such intimacy with Lia; he was, in comparison with Ivor Rosnikov, a musical ignoramus.
The cellist was, subtly, both more handsome and younger-looking in the flesh than in his publicity photos. The emotion that was surging through Seth was jealousy.
He’d never in his life been jealous of another man. For a very simple reason: he’d never cared enough about a woman to feel jealous.
Lia was different. Hadn’t he known that from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her?
The wonderfully lyrical second movement swept to its conclusion, followed by a joyful finale that brought a smile to Lia’s face; it was achingly obvious that she was doing exactly what she’d been born to do. The final triumphant chords filled the magnificent hall; there was an instant of total and respectful silence before the audience erupted into a storm of applause.
Lia and Ivor had linked hands; the conductor stepped down from the podium, kissing Lia on the cheek. Ivor then leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth, his hands clasping her waist. Seth’s fingers dug into his palms. How dare he?
Not that Lia looked as though she was objecting to this public display of—what? Affection? Mutual achievement? Or just plain sex? Rosnikov’s dark locks and romantically pale face had women flocking to him the length of Europe. Why should Lia be immune?
The last thing Seth wanted to do was stand around at a stuffy reception watching Ivor Rosnikov drape himself all over Lia; and simultaneously having to subdue the urge to throttle, publicly, a world-famous cellist. Would Lia even miss him if he didn’t go? He very much doubted that she would.
He, Seth, was superfluous to her world. That was what he’d learned tonight by attending her concert. But was running away from that world an option?
He’d never been one to back down from a challenge. Seth went to the reception, where he downed a glass of inferior champagne and disdained to join the crowd that eddied around Lia and Ivor, and that included members of the media whose flashlights went off with monotonous regularity. The whole time, the cellist’s arm lay over Lia’s bare shoulders. Throttling Rosnikov began to seem entirely too merciful. For the sake of his sanity, Seth wandered over to a group of acquaintances on the far side of the room, stood with his back to Lia and talked about the economy as though his life depended on it.
Gradually the crowd thinned. Then, behind him, Seth heard the click of heels on the marble floor. As he turned, Lia said, “Ivor, I’d like you to meet my friend, Seth Talbot…as I mentioned, Seth and I are going out together after the reception. Seth, Ivor Rosnikov.”
Seth had to admire her gall. He smiled at the cellist and produced some conventional words of congratulation about the concert. “How is it you know Lia?” Ivor asked in his heavily accented English.
“We met some time ago,” Seth said casually. “Though we’ve seen nothing of each other for years.”
“Yet you take her out tonight?”
“Yes,” said Seth, “I’m taking her out tonight.”
“Then I am—how do you say?—the loser,” Ivor said, and with elaborate gallantry raised Lia’s hand to his lips. “I will see you in Hamburg the day after tomorrow, liebchen,” he said, smiling deep into her eyes. Baring his teeth at Seth, he added, “You will look after her. Late hours are not good.”
“I’m sure Lia is quite capable of deciding how late she’ll stay out,” Seth said amicably. Punching the guy on the nose instead of throttling him wouldn’t do, either. Bad publicity for all concerned.
Ten minutes later, he and Lia were walking into the cool of a spring night outside the imposing terra-cotta and cream façade of Musikverein. She glanced around to check that they were alone. “Where are we going?”
“Do you want highbrow, lowbrow or somewhere in between?”
“Middle. With grub and a dance floor.”
“Okay. Want to walk?”
“Providing it’s not halfway across Vienna, yes.” Falling into step beside him, yet preserving a careful distance between them, Lia added, “What did you think of the concert?”
“You played extraordinarily well,” he said truthfully.
“I missed a note in the 54th bar of the third movement.”
“I didn’t notice,” he said dryly.
“You didn’t like Ivor.”
“Any more than Ivor liked me.”
“You looked like a couple of roosters about to square off.”
She looked as belligerent as a rooster herself. “How long were you his lover?” Seth asked. “Or are you still?”
“What are you—the lawyer for the prosecution?”
“You sure weren’t objecting to being kissed by him in full view of two thousand people.”
It had been a very long day. “What was I supposed to do?” Lia retorted. “Whack him with my violin?”
“Is he a good lover?”
“I wouldn’t know—since I’ve never been his lover. Apart from anything else, his ego’s so big there’d be no room for me.”
“You and I are in perfect agreement on that point,” Seth growled, and smothered a relief strong enough for ten men.
Lia stopped on the sidewalk, her dark eyes level. “You congratulated Ivor for his playing. But I had to ask before you’d tell me what you thought about mine.”
He’d hurt her; that was what she was saying. “You think I was going to bare my soul in front of that Paganini lookalike?”
“So bare it now.”
“Dammit, Lia, I felt the way I always feel when you play—only more so because you were right there in front of me. The club we’re going to is just down here.”
She planted her feet. “Keep talking—how do you always feel?”
“As though you know me through and through. As though all my defenses are useless and my soul an open book. Is that what you want to know?” he said furiously.
She bit her lip. “Don’t hate me for it.”
“Why don’t you give me a list of your various lovers in the last eight years—in case I meet up with any of them at one of these fancy receptions.”
She drew her lacy white shawl closer around her shoulders. “No list. No lovers.”
“Oh, sure.”
She said irritably, “I need to sit down, take off my shoes, have at least two lagers and a big plate of rindsgulasch with extra dumplings. Are you or are you not taking me to this club?”
He seized her by the elbow. “You must have had a lover—it was eight years, Lia!”
“I know how long it was. I was a single mother most of that time, remember?”
“There were lots of times when you were on the opposite side of the Atlantic from your daughter. Free to bed whom you pleased.”
The music she’d played was still coursing through her veins. Lia said flatly, “I discovered passion with you and I wasn’t about to settle for less.”
He felt as though she’d just hit him hard in the chest with a double bass. “Is that true?”
“I try not to tell lies. Lager and dumplings, Seth.”
Reeling, Seth tucked her arm through his and walked the last two blocks in silence. The club was crowded and noisy. Skillfully Seth threaded through the patrons to an empty table near the dance floor, got the waiter’s attention and placed their order. “Shoes off yet?” he said economically.
“You bet. Do you believe me?”
“About the lovers? Yes.”
“Good.”
He’d have hated hearing the names of her lovers; equally, he’d hated being told there’d been none. Because it scared the pants off him to find out she’d been faithful to him for eight long years?
He was a yellow-bellied coward, Seth thought scathingly, watching as the waiter brought two tankards of beer and set them on the table, the froth overflowing. Lia raised hers and drank deep, the muscles mov
ing in her throat as she swallowed.
Her exquisite, ivory-smooth throat.
She said edgily, “Is something wrong?”
“Did you fall in love with me in Paris?”
“No,” she said. “But it was as far from casual as it could be. And not just because of Marise.”
Wasn’t the same true for him? But he’d gotten his life back on track, finally, and there it had remained ever since. Until he’d seen her in her turquoise suit swimming as gracefully as a dolphin in the sea.
Seth took a big slug of beer. “Have you ever fallen in love?”
“No,” Lia said, her fingers tightening around the tankard. She wasn’t going to start now by falling in love with Seth, either. She’d be out of her mind to do that. The man was as barricaded as a fortress.
“You’ve got your music—no room for a mere man alongside that.”
“That’s not true,” she said sharply. “I love Marise with all my heart…why should a man be any different?”
Was he now going to be jealous of a seven-year-old child? With a sigh of exasperation Seth took another gulp of beer. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Better still, let’s dance.”
Discovering he craved action, too, Seth led her out onto the crowded floor, where to the raunchy blast of disco and the flash of strobes, they gyrated and swung. Her hair began to slip from its pins; her body, in the clinging satin of her gown, was unbearably sexy. He was going to end the evening in her bed, thought Seth. But this time, it would be a controlled decision with no postmortems.
He leaned closer to Lia, raising his voice. “Our food’s arrived.”
She gave him a brilliant smile, twirled and fell back into his arms. “Lead me to it.”
Yeah, he thought. In bed, that’s where we belong.
At their table, Lia tucked into her stew and dumplings, washing it down with liberal quantities of lager. “Luscious,” she said, licking her fork. “I want dessert now. Apfelstrudel. Warm with whipped cream on top and a big glass of Riesling to go with it.”
