Rhapsody

Misha Levin is a man who seems to have
everything. A world-famous pianist nurtured by loving Russian
parents for whom no sacrifice was too great, he has a devoted wife
in the elegant and charming Vera, an adoring son, and the adulation
of millions. Then, on a street in Vienna, only hours before the
most important concert of his career, he sees the woman he loved
and lost eight years before.

Serena is a beautiful and internationally
renowned photographer, who lost Misha as a result of her own
selfish ambitions. She is determined not to miss her second chance,
and Misha too is determined to reclaim the happiness he has denied
himself for so long. They embark on an affair both illicit and
exciting, and one that is fraught with far-reaching
consequences.

Their liaison threatens everything that Misha
has accomplished and worked for. Vera, hopelessly in love with her
husband, must decide whether to fight for her marriage or give
Misha the freedom to be with the woman he desires above all others.
Misha, meanwhile, must make a choice between the pull of sexual
passion and the mother of his beloved son.

From the fairytale city of Prague to the
romantic boulevards of Paris, from the nightspots of London to a
glittering Manhattan penthouse, a searing drama of desire,
deception, and betrayal is played out on an international stage.
Rhapsody captures the many faces of love and the passionate choices
that shape our lives.

"[a}] page-turning plot and deliciously evil
villains. A delight." PUBLISHER"S WEEKLY

"A romp…a smash success!" NEWYORK DAILY NEWS

"Judith Gould is a master." KIRKUS REVIEWS

"Mouthwatering." CHICAGO TRIBUNE

"Plenty of shocking surprises." COSMOPOLITAN

"[a] great escape. A tale filled with suspense…and
exotic characters." BOOKLIST

Sins

Texas Born

LoveMakers

Second Love

DAZZLE- The Complete Unabridged Trilogy *:

Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. I: Senda

Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. II: Tamara

Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. III: Daliah

Never Too Rich*

Forever

Too Damn Rich

Second Love

Till the End of Time

Rhapsody*

Time to Say Good-Bye

A Moment in Time

The Best Is Yet to Come

The Greek Villa

The Parisian Affair

Dreamboat*

The Secret Heiress*

*(Available as an e-book)

www.judithgould.com

Rhapsody

By Judith Gould

Copyright 1999 by Judith Gould.

Published by Vesuvius Media, LLC at Smashwords

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously, and
any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales
is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people.

Steam rose in dense clouds. They were as
thick as fog, and it was difficult for the young man to see more
than two or three feet ahead. Bodies passing beyond that distance
appeared to be ghostly apparitions, barely discernible as human
forms through the hot, gauzy vapor. The heat was intense, almost
unbearable, as it was supposed to be, inducing copious amounts of
sweat from the bodies, which lay prone or sat up on the white
ceramic tile seats that rose in tiers like bleachers nearly to the
ceiling.

An occasional hiss of water, malevolent and
unsettling, hit the heated rocks, producing more steam. Voices
muted and unintelligible rose and fell in the near distance. The
remote swishing of the doorway announced unseen newcomers or never
seen departures.

This must be what hell is like
, the man
thought.

He hated the sheen of sweat on his body and
breathing the humidity-laden air into his lungs. The feel of the
soggy, thin white towel against his flesh repulsed him, and the
loathsome cracked white tile—so filthy with germs, he thought—made
his skin crawl.

A shadowy figure, huge in the smothering
haze, appeared at his side almost before he realized it, sitting
next to him on the third tier. Tall, broad, and muscular under
layers of fat, the man adjusted his towel, then, without preamble,
began speaking in a whisper. They both stared ahead into the fog,
as if unwilling to acknowledge each other.

"You have the job?" the huge older man
asked.

The younger man nodded. "Yes," he
replied.

The older man grunted, then adjusted the
towel around his waist.

The younger man waited for him to continue,
but the older man stared off into the haze, as if he didn't exist.
Suddenly there was a loud hiss of water hitting rocks, and the
young man jerked involuntarily.

"Not nervous, are you?" the older man
asked.

"No, no," the younger man replied. "Of course
not."

Using both hands, the older man swept his
sweat-soaked hair back away from his face. His hands looked like
gnarled bear's paws to the younger man, huge and battered and
ugly.
Lethal, too
, he thought.

"Nothing to be nervous about," the older man
said "Just do your job. Call the number I gave you last time. Once
a week. Saturday nights after nine."

"What if I can't?" the young man asked, his
voice rising slightly. "What if—?"

"No excuses," came the gruff reply.

The older man got to his feet. He loomed over
the younger man like a Neanderthal, hairy, barbaric, and evil He
turned his powerful body and looked down.

Wolfs eyes, the younger man thought. He has
eyes like a wolf on the steppes.

"No excuses," the older man repeated. Then he
turned and disappeared into the steam.

The younger man's lips drew into an ugly
sneer. Stupid barbarian, he thought contemptuously. He felt like
spitting on the dingy ceramic tile. He hated these older Russians
with their gangland mentality. But he also knew that in this case
at least, beneath the barbaric and hideous exterior, there was a
mind that was anything but stupid

I mustn't let appearances fool me
, he
thought.
The ugly wolfs mind is keen, with well-honed
instincts. Whether for business or ...killing.

He sat, waiting patiently, giving the older
man time to shower, dress, and leave the baths. He hated the place
and the older Russian men it catered to.

They're so different from me, he
thought.
And my new associate
.
Yes. Misha Levin and I
represent a new breed of Russian emigre.

Under a Mittel Europa wintry sky, a chill
wind swept through the grand parks and streets of central Vienna.
It was as if the jealous ghosts of Mozart, Schubert, and the
Strausses were carried on the wind, protecting their city against
interlopers from the more modern world.

It occurred to Misha Levin that New York was
gearing up for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. But this was
Vienna, Alt Wien, the crown jewel of the Hapsburgs, where the
palaces and monuments of the Austro-Hungarian empire in all their
operatic pomp and circumstance made the very idea of such a parade
seem hopelessly gauche and unsophisticated.

Misha pulled up the collar of his perfectly
tailored black cashmere overcoat and adjusted the silk and cashmere
scarf around his neck. His leonine mane of slightly curly, rich
jet-black hair, which he always wore a little too long, was picked
up by the breeze and fluttered about his head. He was tall, six
feet, four inches, with perfect proportions and the defined
musculature of one who ate properly and exercised relentlessly. His
large, luminous dark brown eyes were almost black in their intense
depths. Liquid, bedroom eyes they were frequently called, with
their long, thick lashes, and they glittered in the pale light as
he pulled on black leather gloves to protect his long, artistic
fingers.

To the casual observer on the streets of
Vienna, he might have appeared to be overreacting to the chill. But
Misha Levin's fingers were his fortune. He was one of the world's
most sought-after classical concert pianists, with a career that,
at thirty-one years of age, held the promise of a Horowitz or
Rubinstein. He also had movie-star looks, and for this reason he
appealed to a far larger audience than that which normally listened
to classical music.

He was a darling of the recording industry
because of his crossover commercial appeal, and he was sometimes
touted as the "rock and roll" star of the classical world, a
soubriquet he did nothing to discourage.

As he strode down Bosendorfer Strasse, he
garnered stares of appreciation. His forehead was high and broad,
and his nose was straight but prominent. His high cheekbones and
strong, deeply cleft chin were complemented by wide, sensuous lips.
He had about him a virile masculinity and a commanding—some would
say arrogant— air, and to those who didn't know him, he could seem
both dashing and intimidating at once. But there was no denying
that he cut a decidedly romantic figure, with an edge of mystery
and danger that only enhanced it.

Misha made his way through the throng of
shoppers and tourists on the city's streets, enjoying the crisp air
and the beauty of Vienna's architecture. After hours of intense
early morning rehearsal at Schonbrunn Palace, he had dismissed his
chauffeur and limousine, deciding to walk to a late lunch with his
wife and agent at Zu den Drei Husaren on Weihburggasse.

His gaze had shifted from the neo-Renaissance
facade of the Wiener Staatsoper to the neoclassical Hotel Sacher
when he suddenly saw the familiar figure just ahead of him on
Karntner Strasse. She was idly window- shopping. Her height and
long, shiny black hair—as raven black as his own—flying in the wind
behind were surely hers. The tomboyish stride was unmistakable, and
the toss of the head was like no one else's.

It
has
to be! he thought.

Misha stopped in his tracks, still studying
the figure ahead of him. His heart began to pound and his pulse
began to race, thudding in his ears.

Yes,
it has to be!
he thought, certain
now that he was right.

He hastened his pace, quickly closing the
space between them. A shiver—most definitely not caused by the
cold—ran through him. He slowed as he came up behind the figure,
stopping before a shop window. The chalk- striped black suit she
wore was tailored like a man's, but the stiletto-heeled black
leather Gucci boots were pure female. Over her shoulder was slung a
huge black leather bag.

With a camera in it, he thought. She never
went anywhere without a camera.

He stood there, practically breathless, and
watched her for a moment longer, in profile, not yet speaking her
name. He quickly discerned that she had hardly changed at all since
he had last seen her. If anything, the slight maturity made her
even more ravishing than before.

She was at least six feet tall in her heels,
slender, and lightly tanned as always, from her various athletic
outdoor pursuits. Her high forehead, prominent cheekbones, and
long, straight nose and hill, bee-stung lips were precisely as he
remembered them. And that swan's neck, so elegant and
fragile-looking. He'd always told her that she should be on the
other side of the camera's lenses—modeling instead of taking
pictures.