The Maestro's Mistress (12 page)

‘Yes, Franck must have been a
huge chap,’ she chuckled.

Xavier seated himself at the
piano and played the soft opening piano introduction.

Tara felt a shiver of pure
ecstasy creep over the bones of her shoulders and raise the hairs at the back
of her neck. Without conscious thought or intent she took up her violin. Over
Xavier’s shoulder her eyes followed the score, watching for the entry of the violin.

‘Now!’ he commanded softly,
giving a brief nod to bring her in with the violin’s first wistful pensive
melody.

Tara drew her bow across the
strings. Now the theme passed from his hands to hers, the melody gaining in
pace and assertiveness. Soon the piano took over again, Xavier making the music
ride boldly along on light chords. Tara hummed when she wasn’t playing, keeping
the rhythm flowing through her mind, whilst at the same time her eyes glanced down
at Xavier’s flying fingers; fascinated, admiring and awed.

‘Do you want me to go on with
this?’ he enquired, pausing.

‘Yes, but don’t listen to my
pathetic attempts!’

After they had negotiated the
climax of the first movement Xavier said evenly, ‘I liked the way you played
that. Moving things along, not too reverential. That’s good. Shall we go on?’

Without waiting for a reply he
was plunging into the next section. ‘This should be played very fast,’ he said,
‘a terrible task for the pianist. I don’t know how I’ll manage without a page
turner. You will have to be patient.’

Tara came in once more, the
violin beginning on the G-string. ‘Lots of agitation and passion,’ Xavier
decreed, making the piano thunder.

‘I don’t know if I’m gutsy enough
for this bit,’ Tara gasped.

‘YES!’

She lost him a few bars later. He
stopped. ‘Should I have slackened the pace there?  Did I gallop off?’ He
flicked the pages back.

‘No, I got lost,’ Tara confessed
smiling, her confidence flowering by the second.

They tried again. Stayed
together. Pure happiness began to steal over her as she concentrated on the
wonderful task of playing great music with a like-minded and great musician.
Playing together like this, the gap in age and experience between them was
stripped away. They were on the same wavelength. There was some exciting collective
energy being generated between them – a golden thread binding them together in
the music.

The last movement had always
struck Tara as intensely touching and as she played she felt her heart merge
into the music. All sensations of apprehension, of being put to the test, had
left her now. Playing with Xavier she felt no anxiety, no competitiveness; she
was able to play without restraint from the very depths of her being. And that
must be about the most seductive thing on earth she thought, as the last piano
trill rang out and the piece finally came to a close with one long note from
her violin.

She gave a long sigh. Sweat oozed
out of her from the sheer physical effort she had expended. ‘Not only a maestro
but a virtuoso,’ she told him. ‘You were fantastic!’

‘And you were extremely gutsy,’
he commented, spinning round on the stool and shooting her a glance which sent
a bolt of electric feeling through her body.

‘Playing music,’ she said,
closing her eyes. ‘That’s all I want to do now. That’s all there is, really.’

‘Really?’ He watched her very
carefully.

‘And I’ve blown it,’ she mourned.

‘Maybe not,’ he told her softly.

‘Oh yes. Monica was right. She
was horribly brutal – but quite justified.’

Xavier smiled. ‘Monica was
entirely infatuated with that young Japanese boy, who may or may not stand the
test of time. I’ve seen plenty of young prodigies all burned out by the time
they’re twenty-five.’

‘I don’t think I shall even have
ignited by then!’

She longed for him to sprinkle a
few more small crumbs of praise on her, but predictably, he kept quiet. He
seemed to be pondering some problem, his head angled slightly away from her as
though he had forgotten her presence.

Tara allowed her eyes to move
slowly over his profile. She felt she would like to gaze at him forever; he was
as exquisitely carved as a Michelangelo statue, as finely drawn as portrait by Leonardo
da Vinci. ‘You have beautiful hair,’ she said softly, her eyes lingering over
the thick dark strands.

He stared gravely at her, the
streaks of sapphire glimmering in the depths of his cool grey eyes.

‘These silver linings here and
there,’ she murmured, her eyes moving over his temples, ‘nature couldn’t have
arranged them better.’

He stared at her. A long deep
intimate stare. Her blood felt suddenly hot; singing and pulsing in her veins.

‘Tara,’ he said, his voice low
and even, ‘there are other things to make besides music.’

Tara froze into stillness,
digesting the full significance of his words. She ran her tongue over her lips,
momentarily stunned and bewildered, for instead of feeling outraged she had the
sense that a great burden had been lifted from her, a wide pathway shown, a
licence given to snatch at all manner of previously unconsidered joys.

The complexities of the recent
and more distant past suddenly slipped away from her. There was no sensation of
astonishment, no shiver of apprehension. The moment seemed to have arrived in
the same inexorable way that the seasons follow one another; serene and
inevitable.

He gazed at her steadily, making
no move to reach for her. His still anticipation was more arousing than a whole
battalion of breathless embraces.

Tara placed her hands around his
face, tracing the line and angle of every bone. Her heart beat with primitive
desire for this austere, ferociously talented man whose hooded eyes burned into
hers.

He pulled her down onto his knee.
Everything went into slow motion as Tara’s fingers travelled lingeringly over
his face, exploring each detail. The sensitive pads of her fingers touched him
with the softness of a sighing breath: his eyelids, his forehead, his
cheekbones and down into the silver tendrils of hair she had just admired.

His face twitched with spasms of
pleasure.

Now she parted her lips softly
and took them on the same tender journey that her fingers had just completed.
She breathed softly on his skin and allowed her tongue to slither tantalizingly
over the tips of his ears, touching and withdrawing with mischievous teasing.

He linked his hands behind her
head and pulled her towards him.

A violent tremor shook her as
their lips joined. She felt herself floating in a warm pool of darkness as her
tongue linked with his.

Long moments slid by. She pulled
back a little and looked into his eyes. It was as though she was gazing into
the very heart of him. This linking of their eyes was as deep and intimate as
any physical caress. She felt herself opening up inside, as though some
sensitive wound deep in her hips was throbbing with anticipation. She smiled at
him. ‘Saul ,’ she breathed softly. ‘Saul .’

No one ever called him by his
first name. He was simply Xavier. But hearing his childhood name on her lips
gave him intense pleasure. He sighed. ‘Tara, my bright lovely elf.’ His hands
passed tenderly over the wisps of hair framing her face. Tara took his hand and
placed it on her throat.

‘Are you sure?’ he said softly,
making her heart contract. Always before she had seen in his face an awesome
and uncompromising iron strength mingled with ruthless determination. She had
recognized that a man of calibre, a great musical interpreter, might need to be
a cruel taskmaster in his search for excellence. But looking down at him now
she saw much more – his great sensitivity, his compassion, his vulnerabilities.

They stared at each other. There
was a shimmer of ultimate fusion and blending between them.

‘Where?’ he demanded,
masterfulness regained.

She took him by the hand and led
him upstairs into her bedroom.

They threw off their clothes - Arran
jumper, jeans, black silk shirt, girly knickers, expensive

Italian shoes.  They threw
themselves into each other’s arms.

He’s not hungry, Tara thought
with astonishment as he began to burrow into her flesh, teasing with his
tongue, massaging with his fingers - he’s starving! He’s like a wild creature
that hasn’t eaten for days.

She stared up at him. Stripped of
his clothes, desperate with desire, he had lost not one thread of his
authority. His body was like a gun; at the same time hard and velvety smooth.

His hands were all over her,
drawing pleasure from every warm crevice. But Tara was not willing to be
passive, that was not in her nature. She twisted in his arms, making loving assaults
 back, wriggling and slippery as a fish. As he touched her she felt her
breathing accelerate wildly. Sparks of hot stinging sensation ripped through
every nerve. She felt herself rolling and tossing on a sea of ecstasy, almost
fainting in the troughs, then riding high on the crests: great curling waves of
unimaginable sensation. His dark male presence seemed to engulf her. His hands
and lips were everywhere on her skin, the essence of him burrowing deep inside
her with punishing insistence.

He was an expert, a craftsman. He
delved and carved and sculpted. He used her mercilessly. He roamed over her
flesh as though he would leave none of it intact, hewing ecstasy out of every
hollow and curve. She pulled him fiercely against her, wanting to melt into
him, wanting more. Harder, deeper. He didn’t disappoint.

At last he gave a low groan and
she let herself relax, sore and aching with pleasure.

‘Well?’ he said softly. ‘Well?’

‘Oh, very well,’ she replied.

When at last she slid out from
under him and swung her legs over the side of the bed her body was so stiff and
bruised it was painful to walk. ‘God!’ she exclaimed.

He moved to stand beside her,
placing his arms gently around her. ‘My sweet little sprite, what have I done
to you?’ he asked.

She twisted herself to and fro in
front of the mirror, looking at the livid marks of passion. Inside her flesh
seethed with heat. She laughed and punched his chest lightly. ‘Don’t worry, I’m
a toughie.’

He rubbed gentle soothing hands
all over her. ‘What time does your mother get back?’

‘Not for ages. It’s her late
night working. And then Donald usually wines and dines her. In ever more lavish
style from what I can gather.’

His grip tightened on her. She
gave a little yelp as his fingers brushed tender flesh. He released her
instantly. ‘My poor darling!’

‘You are a malevolent bastard
after all,’ she laughed. ‘Oh, come on - I’m not an innocent virgin.’

‘Don’t talk about other men,’ he
growled.

‘Just one other. I’m not a tart!’
she flashed back. ‘Don’t you dare start on any of that hypocritical male
bullshit!’

He recoiled, momentarily stunned
that she should turn on him so aggressively. ‘Explain what you mean,’ he demanded
his eyes blazing down at her.

‘You know the sort of thing.
Accusing the woman you’ve just shagged as being the kind who sleeps around.
Making a woman feel like a slag if she’s eager and willing. Branding her as
frigid if she’s virtuous.’

Tara had read the challenging,
questioning feminist literature that every female student was morally obliged to
assimilate. Its message had made her burn with rage at the no-win situation
most women found themselves in the sexual arena, even now in the last decade of
the so-called enlightened twentieth century. She was also alarmed to find
herself still a victim of exactly those prejudices she despised; terrified that
Saul  Xavier would brand her a trollop because she had fallen so easily into
bed with him and enjoyed herself with such transparent abandon.

Even now she could not believe it
had happened, could not understand how it had happened. And at the same time,
deep within her there were no regrets. She would like to make love with him for
an eternity.

Oh hell!

‘Tara!’ He grasped her tightly.
‘I don’t want to make war with you. Just love. And we have all evening…’

‘No,’ Tara said. ‘I have my job
to go to.’

‘You’ve no need to do that any
more. That’s over.’

‘It’s my job.  It’s my only
source of income at the moment. I need it.’

‘You are a fool to do it. Wasting
your talent. Demeaning yourself.’

Still naked, they confronted each
other fiercely. She snorted like a cross pony and turned her back on him. He
came to stand close to her and wrapped his arms around her firm, fleshy body.
Tara felt the hardness of his stomach and thighs against her back and buttocks.
Her innards turned to liquid with fresh desire. With a superhuman effort of
will she wrenched herself free.

‘It’s honest work. It gives me a
tiny shred of independence.’

He made a contemptuously
dismissive gesture.

‘At least I don’t have to be
anybody’s kept woman,’ she continued angrily. ‘No man’s pampered performing
monkey – or mistress or wife for that matter.’