I made a soft, happy sound, because that was a compliment. I didn’t tell him that they’d asked me a couple years ago, when I was embarking on a relationship with a moody Swede I thought might finally chase thoughts of Milo Fierro from my head. He hadn’t. None of the men I’d dated in the last ten or so years had come close.
And now I was in the car with the object of my fascination. Deep breaths. Seriously, don’t be weird.
“It was nice to get the call from Met Orchestra,” I said, picking up our conversation’s thread. “I’m surprised you don’t play for them, or for the Philharmonic.”
He shook his head. “I rarely perform anymore. I’m focused on making instruments.”
“That’s too bad.” I studied the lines of his jaw, remembered how handsome it looked with a violin tucked beneath it. “Well, it’s great that you’re making instruments, but I used to love the way you played.”
“I never said I didn’t play anymore.” He focused intently on the road. “I just can’t give up every night to the masses in order to take an orchestra job.”
“It’s not every night. We have breaks and vacations.”
He stayed silent. I wasn’t sure if the heightening tension in the car was emanating from him or from me.
“Thanks for driving me home,” I said. “I was so ready to leave that party. I mean, not that your parents aren’t wonderful.” It’s just that I mostly came there to see you.
“No problem. It’s cool that we live so close after all these years.”
We merged onto a second parkway and he sped up, his car’s engine humming with effortless power. Milo smelled good, like faint cologne, or the varnishes from his violin workshop. Now that I lived in the city, I could ask to visit Fierro Violin’s workshops, ask to learn about the process that had created my own beloved Fierro violin.
Of course, Milo hadn’t made mine. He was still in his apprenticeship then, working with his father and grandfather. I’d gotten the violin for my seventeenth birthday, which meant Milo had been twenty-three.
At that time, I was sure he was the height of masculinity. My teenage brain would have exploded if I could have seen him now, nearing forty, gruff, virile, accomplished, driving his purring Italian sports car, speaking with his faint Italian accent…
He turned on some music, perhaps to fill the nervous, silent space between us. Classical, of course.
“Prokofiev?” I guessed after a few bars. “Oh, his Violin Concerto in D.”
He rewarded me with a smile. “One of my favorites.”
“I love it, too.” I listened a moment, enjoying the concerto’s bright tones, as well as the quality of his car’s sound system. “Everyone thinks Stravinsky’s so great, with his noisy gimmicks, but give me Prokofiev’s playfulness any day.”
Milo laughed for the first time that night, really laughed. “Listen to you, Alice. Why aren’t you married yet?”
I grinned back at him, buoyed by the music. “Because I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Have you been talking to my mother?” He looked back at the road, shaking his head. “She’s been telling me to marry you ever since you turned legal. Crazy, I know. Just because we’re both from musical families.”
“And our parents are good friends.” And because I’ve loved you forever, Milo, since I knew what love was. It was painful for me to joke about us. Not that there was any “us.” I bit my lip, holding words inside so nothing ridiculous would burst out, but it didn’t work.
“I’ve always been a little fascinated by you,” I said, trying to sound light and airy. “I remember finding reasons to interrupt your lessons with my dad. I almost couldn’t stand it, the way you played. You were so much better than everyone else.”
“Bullshit. You play better than me. You always have.”
“That’s not true.”
We fell silent as the concerto entered the second movement. Sweeping, harmonious, jumpy, vibrant, the perfect soundtrack for how I felt as we drove south on the Saw Mill River Parkway.
“You always played with more emotion than his other students,” I said. “You played like you meant it, rather than playing like mom and dad were forcing you to be there for lessons.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Did I?”
Ridiculous modesty. Milo Fierro played like he could lure the angels down from heaven, and he knew it. Horrible, that he didn’t perform much anymore.
“I was always so proud of my technique when I was young,” I went on. “Until I heard you play, and then I thought my technique was crap, because my eyes didn’t burn with fire like yours when I played the hard notes.”
He made a low sound, a laugh or a scoff. “That was fear you saw. Nothing else.”
“Fear of what?”
“Of not being good enough. Your father was a terrifying teacher. He didn’t suffer fools, or lazy students.”
“It wasn’t fear,” I countered in a soft voice. “It was love for the music. You loved playing the violin. I saw it at every lesson, and heard it in every note.”
He pressed his lips together. Good. He wasn’t going to argue with that. We rode a little while more before he spoke again.
“I don’t know what was more important to me in the beginning, Alice. Learning to play the violin, or learning to make one that was good enough to play. Either way, it became an all-consuming relationship for me, learning that instrument frontwards and backwards and inside out. I couldn’t make a perfect violin if I couldn’t understand how the angles of its body created a sound.”
He took a hand off the wheel to sketch a curved shape in the air. Long, elegant fingers, and his deep, resonant voice as he talked about understanding. I pressed my legs together, scarily aroused.
“I kind of know what you mean,” I said. “About learning it inside out. Sometimes I think of the violin as a heart that’s beating.”
“Jesus.”
He exhaled the word with unexpected force. Had I upset him? I was too afraid to look at him. “What I mean is, I think of my violin as a living thing that I have to nurture and…”
My voice drifted off. I could see his profile reflected in the glass, staring at the road, his dark eyes so intense. I felt the weirdest impulse to burst into tears, thinking about him and his violin, and those Sundays so many years ago, when he’d meet with my father for lessons and sometimes stay for dinner. Those encounters had been so precious to me. Whenever he had to cancel a lesson, whenever he didn’t show up, I’d hide in my room and cry. Maybe that was why I felt on the verge of tears now.
“Does your father still teach?” he asked.
“The occasional student. If they’re special enough.”
Milo laughed. “You have to be special to withstand your father’s lessons. I remember him growling at me, pointing out every mistake. Posture. Tone. What is that grip, Mr. Fierro? Hold your bow with respect or play another instrument. I hear the triangle is nice.”
“Ha. He was always big on that. Play something else. Then there was the whole, Do you find this funny? The circus needs clowns.”
“I never heard that one. I was too scared to crack a smile in his presence.”
“He loved you, though.” I clasped my hands tight in my lap. “I remember that he looked forward to your lessons. He’ll be happy to hear that I saw you tonight.”
“When you talk to him, tell him I said hello.”
“I will.”
We stopped talking and listened to Prokofiev as the world whizzed by outside his tinted windows. I wished I’d drunk more champagne, so I could think of more light, fizzy things to say. Everything that came to mind was too stupid, or worshipful, or confessional. How are you so sexy? You’ve fascinated me for so long. Are you dating anyone? I assumed he wasn’t, or he would have brought her to the party. Right? Whenever our parents got together, I always listened for Milo gossip, and I’d never heard of him having a serious relationship with anyone.
“Are you doing anything for New Year’s?” I asked. If he had a
girlfriend, they’d spend New Year’s together, and kiss when the ball dropped. My stomach went squirrelly at the thought of him being in love with someone else. It would ruin one of my favorite fantasies, of Milo pulling me into his arms, gazing at me, kissing me until I couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I used to hang out with my friends on New Year’s Eve, but both of them have coupled up in the past year. Their girlfriends are great, but they only tolerate me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” I laughed, partly because I couldn’t see any woman only tolerating Milo, and partly out of happiness that he sounded unattached. Unfortunately, the laugh that escaped sounded high-pitched and somewhat hysterical. Hopefully, he just assumed I was drunker than I was.
“There’s nothing worse than spending New Year’s with happy couples,” I said.
“Yeah. From now on, I’ll spend it at home with my dog.”
Invite me to come. We could pound champagne, get really drunk, and tumble into bed to bring in the New Year. I wished for an invitation really, really hard, but he didn’t extend one, and we were almost back to Manhattan.
“Are you playing on New Year’s Eve with the orchestra?” he asked.
“No, not this year.” I’m totally free that night. Please invite me. You could kiss me when the ball drops. You could do anything you wanted to me.
But no invitation came, not even a follow-up question about what I was planning to do that night, since I wasn’t playing with the orchestra.
He downshifted as we moved off the parkway and into the city. I loved New York, but it always felt claustrophobic after being out in the country, if you could call Chappaqua “country.” I looked out the window, trying not to feel wounded by his obvious disinterest in getting closer to me. It was starting to rain.
“What kind of dog do you have?” I asked.
“A rescue greyhound. A black retired racer I call Blue.”
“How subversive of you,” I joked.
“I try to be subversive.” He glanced at me with a quick smile. “I call him Blue because he mopes around. His racing name was Bluebeard, but it doesn’t fit him. Do you have any pets?”
“No. I’ve been moving around too much.”
“The traveling virtuosa.”
“I’m trying to be more settled,” I said, which was the truth. “Now that I have a place, maybe I’ll get a low maintenance pet, like a fish or a cactus.”
“Hmm. Know your limits.”
He was still smiling. I drank it in, enjoying my last moments of Milo, knowing we were almost to my street. We stopped at a light and he pointed to a tall building with a clock tower. “That’s where I live.”
“The Bridgeport? Wow.”
His finger tapped for a moment on the gearshift. “It’s a nice building.”
“The Michelin’s just a few blocks farther, on 63rd.”
“I know.”
Argh. Give it up, Alice. He’s not that into you.
“It’s been so great to see you again,” I said, preparing myself to say goodbye. “And to listen to beautiful violins.” The Prokofiev mixed with the heightening patter of rain outside.
“It’s always great to talk to someone who appreciates beautiful violins,” he replied. The light turned green. I stared at his knee, and his hand on the gearshift. His strong, masculine fingers made me think of sex. Damn. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
“Is it true you have a Stradivarius?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I squeezed my hands into fists. “Can I see it? If it’s not too late? I mean, you already drove me all this way, but now that we’re here, I’d love to see it, because I’ve never seen one.” That was a lie. He probably knew it was a lie. My hands were sweating and my legs trembled against the seat.
He looked surprised, maybe wary of my request. A moment later, he flicked on his turn signal. “Okay. Sure.”
*
Milo’s apartment was a huge, high-ceilinged altar of masculinity done up in taupe drapes, dark wood fixtures, and deep brown leather couches. My Scandinavian side approved of the lack of clutter, but our apartments had always been lighter and brighter as I was growing up. This wasn’t an IKEA apartment. It was a Roman stronghold, all the way.
We took off our shoes by the door, then Milo turned on the lights and walked to the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Maybe. Yes.” Get me drunk. Take me to bed. I didn’t know what to ask for, but it didn’t matter, because he reappeared a minute later with a small glass of burgundy wine. Dessert wine? So Italian. I took a sip and gave a soft moan of delight at the sweet, rich flavor. “You’re not drinking?” I asked.
“I don’t drink and handle the Strad.” His dark eyes flicked toward the hallway, then away. “Maybe later.”
I heard the click of nails on wood, and a large black greyhound loped into the living room. I put my glass on a side table and moved toward it. “I guess this is Blue?”
Milo lifted a brow. “Yeah. I’m amazed he made an appearance. He’s pretty shy.”
“He’s so handsome.” I backed away from the dog so I wouldn’t scare him, and sat on the couch. Blue studied me with dark, liquid eyes, pointing his long nose at the floor, then turning toward his owner.
“It’s okay.” Milo gave his dog’s ears a thorough scrub as he spoke to him. “This is my old friend Alice. She’s nice.”
“What a sweet boy. Can I pet him?”
“Sure, if he’ll let you.”
I held out a hand and the dog inched toward me, checking me out. He must have decided I was safe, because he lifted his head and came closer, took a prancing step, then jammed his pointed muzzle against my outstretched fingers.
I smoothed my nails over his sleek fur, scratching his ears as Milo had done. “What a beauty you are,” I crooned. “You’re super fast and strong too, aren’t you? You pretend to be shy, but deep inside you’re a monster.”
Milo laughed. “Monstrously lazy. But he’s retired, so he’s allowed to be lazy.” He watched as I stroked the greyhound’s lean shoulders and gently arched spine. “He likes you, Alice. He rarely shows his face when I have visitors, much less lets them pet him.”
“I like him, too.” I smiled at the dog. “So the feeling is mutual.”
“He’s not allowed in the instrument room, though.”
The Stradivarius. That was my reason for being here. I stood, patting Blue on the head. “Sorry, sweetie. I have to go see this.”
I took a last swig of wine and followed Milo down his apartment’s central hallway. “This place goes on forever,” I said, looking ahead to a far-away glass wall and balcony.
“I bought a whole floor of the building. I like a lot of space, and the open plan means Blue can run up and down when he’s feeling frisky. This is the room.” He stopped outside a heavy door halfway down the corridor and turned the knob. It opened to a small, dark space that felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.
“It’s climate controlled,” he said, flipping on a muted light. “Come in and I’ll close the door.”
I stepped forward, gawking at the cabinets lining the walls. Inside the glass-enclosed structures, there were at least two dozen violins, violas, and cellos of every size and color mounted on pegs, displayed in an artistic arrangement.
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “This is marvelous.”
“I think so. All these instruments are special to me for one reason or another. The way they vibrate, the way they sound, even the curves of their bodies. They inspire me in my work.”
As I walked around, taking in the beautiful instruments with their ornate scrolls and richly polished bodies, he moved to a cabinet in the corner, unlocked it, and took out a case. Inside lay a plain, lightly varnished violin. It wasn’t the first Strad I’d seen, but it was the oldest. “What year?” I asked, staring at the priceless instrument.
“1682. You can tell the vintage by the color, and the shorter neck. I like that it’s on
e of his earliest ones. They talk about Stradivari’s Golden Period, but I’m partial to his beginning instruments. He took more risks then.” He held it out to me. “Want to play it?”
“No.” I honestly, truly didn’t want to. It looked too delicate, too magical. I was afraid I’d break it from pure nerves.
“No?” He gave me a look. “You’re the one who wanted to see it.”
“I know.” I squeezed my hands together, my pulse rushing beneath my palms. “I’ve been drinking, right? If I did something to it, I’d never forgive myself. You play it, please. You know your instrument better than me.”
A smile I could only describe as sensual curved the edges of his lips. “I know her like my own heart.”
“She’s female?” I asked.
“Of course.”
He took a bow from another case—good God, a Peccatte—and sat on a leather-topped stool, propping the violin beneath his chin. There were no other places to sit, so I stood in front and slightly beside him, listening to him pluck and tune for a few seconds. He had a quick ear for tuning. Anyone who made violins for a living had to be highly attuned to sound.
Even during tuning, I could hear the rich tone that Stradivari’s instruments were famous for, but when he drew the bow across the strings in the first notes of a lilting Bach piece, my soul rose, perceiving magic.
After the Prokofiev in the car, I’d expected him to play something edgier, or something showy like Monti’s Czardas, but the Bach was sweet and beautiful. Resonant notes filled the room, lovely and measured, tonally perfect. I stared at him as he played, watched his dark brows rise and fall with the intensity of the music, his lips purse, his black eyes widen during an expressive passage. I watched the tendons move in his neck and fingers, and clasped my hands together to keep from tracing over them.
There were so many things to fetishize: the way he sat astride the stool with his knees splayed, the flawless fit of his suit, the way his hair fell over his collar, with the fabric parted just so. But what I really fell for was the music. He made the bow and the strings sing, and there was that love, written so clearly in his features. I felt moisture on my cheek, and reached to touch my face. Milo looked over, his smile fading.
Dangerous Control Page 2
