Rhapsody (8 page)

They stood, looking at each other in the
suite's sitting room.

"Oh, here," Misha said, reaching down into
the shopping bag. "I had to do some shopping on the way over, and I
picked these up." He extracted a small bouquet of roses, blushed
with the palest pink and almost completely open. They were wrapped
in an elegant sleeve and tied with satin ribbon. He held them out
to her. "For you," he said.

Serena looked at the bouquet and smiled.
"They're beautiful, Misha." Her voice was soft and wistful. "My
favorite color. And almost full-blown. Just like I like them." She
looked up at him. "You didn't forget."

"No," he said. "How could I?" At this moment
he wanted nothing more desperately than to take her in his arms and
tell her that he had forgotten nothing about her.

Serena felt a rush of embarrassment and
wondered if he noticed as a tingling flush rose from her chest, up
her neck, and into her face, suffusing it with heat.

She quickly turned away. "Come in and sit
down," she said. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll get something to
put the flowers in."

She went into the bathroom and got a glass
that she half- filled with tepid tap water. She carefully untied
the bouquet, unwrapped it, and put it in the glass. She returned to
the sitting room and ceremoniously placed the roses on the coffee
table.

"There," she said. "Perfect."

"Yes, perfect," Misha echoed, his dark eyes
ignoring the flowers and coming to rest on her.

Serena sat down on the couch and drew her
long legs up underneath her.

Misha looked over at her. "You look more
beautiful than ever," he said, "if that's possible."

Serena laughed nervously. "Thanks," she said.
"I try. Sometimes." She focused on the flowers, trying to avoid his
eyes, then decided to quickly change the subject. "How was your
performance last night?" she asked.

"It went very well," Misha said, not adding
that he had been totally preoccupied with thoughts of her the
entire evening. "How did your shoot go?"

"Don't ask," she replied, tossing long
strands of hair away from her face.

"That bad?" he said.

"Oh, not really, but it wasn't exactly
inspiring," Serena said. She reached for her mineral water, but it
wasn't there.

Suddenly she jumped up. "Oh, God, Misha, I'm
such a terrible hostess," she cried. "Would you like something to
drink? There're all kinds of goodies in the minibar."

"What're you having?" Misha asked. "Are you
on one of your crazy diets?"

"Noooo …" Serena said. "Well, I am trying to
sort of do a purge starting right now. Just mineral water for a
couple of days. Nothing else. All this Viennese food, you know.
Everything drenched in whipped cream."

Misha laughed. "I see that money and fame
haven't changed you all that much," he said.

"I guess not," Serena said as she looked at
the contents of the minibar's refrigerator. "Oh, look," she said.
"There're two splits of champagne. Why don't we have them?" She
turned to Misha with a questioning look on her face.

"Definitely," he said. "Here, let me open
them."

"No," Serena said, "I can do it."

But Misha got up and walked over to the
minibar. He held out his hand for the bottle of Taittinger. "Let
me," he said. "I insist."

Serena was suddenly disconcerted by his
nearness. She could feel his warm breath on her, could smell his
masculine smell, could swear that she sensed about him a heightened
arousal that was charging the very atmosphere between and around
them.

Wordlessly, she handed him the bottle, and as
she did, Misha took her hand and held it in his for a moment.
Serena felt a surge of desire rush through her, like an electrical
charge, suffusing her not with embarrassment but with a heated
lust, galvanizing her entire body, melting her resolve, weakening
her knees. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she suddenly felt
breathless. She desperately wanted nothing more than for him to
take her in his powerful arms and wrap himself around her. To take
her here and now, on this very spot, and devour her
passionately,

Oh, God
, she thought.
I want him!
And ...and I want him to want me!

With a barely perceptible, but sharp, intake
of breath, she forced herself to remove her hand from his. She was
certain that she was visibly shaken, that she must look like a
fool. Without a word she turned and went back over to the couch,
where she sat down and pulled her legs up underneath her again.

Misha, who was anything but oblivious to
Serena's disconcertedness, quickly popped the cork on one of the
splits and poured the pale, golden liquid into two glasses at the
minibar. He walked back over to the couch and handed one to Serena,
then sat down at the other end of the couch, turning to face her.
He extended his arm with the glass and smiled.

"To ... old friends," he said, looking into
her hazel eyes.

Serena clinked her glass against his. "To old
friends," she repeated. She took a sip of the champagne. It tasted
delicious and bubbly against her tongue.

Misha sipped, then set down his glass and
looked over at her. "Now tell me," he said. "About your day. You
didn't finish."

"Oh, it's such a bore," Serena said. "You
don't want to hear about it, Misha."

"Yes, I do," he said definitely. "Tell
me."

"Well, the men were a little rowdy. You know,
I was photographing some of the new leaders of Eastern and Middle
Europe. And"—she looked at him—"I guess I'm just getting a little
tired of some of the assignments I get." She took another sip of
her champagne.

"What?" Misha looked surprised. "But you're
doing so well, Serena. I'd have thought you were very happy. I read
about the huge contract Coral negotiated for you."

"Everybody did, didn't they?" Serena said in
a somewhat embittered tone of voice.

"That goes with the territory," Misha said.
"But I don't understand why you're not happy. All that money! And
you get exposure in the best magazines. You get to travel all over
the world. Meet all those famous people. You're even a celebrity
yourself now."

"I know. I know." Serena groaned. "I must
sound like an ungrateful child. It's just...well, the money's
great, and I love the travel. I guess I'm just tired of the shoots.
Doing fashion shoots and taking pictures of celebrities year after
year can get to be a bore, you know?"

"I'd have thought it would be very exciting,"
Misha said.

"It can be," she said. "It was in the
beginning, but it's gotten to be old hat. It seems like I'm always
surrounded by a thousand assistants. Hair stylists, makeup artists,
shoot stylists, the clothing people, publicity people, a huge
technical crew. You know, the last time I did a shoot in L.A.—a big
movie star—there were twenty-two of us there to get the pictures."
She sighed and looked at him. "Is that ridiculous? Sometimes I
wonder what happened to me and the camera. Just me and the camera.
Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so," he said. "It's like the music
business. Recording and performing. It seems like sometimes the
least important things are me and the piano or me and the music.
All the business of recording and performing, all the hoopla
surrounding it, take precedence. It's like last night's performance
was important because the big European connections to Salzburg and
Bayreuth were there. The business going on there was probably more
important than the performance."

"Exactly," Serena said. "Sometimes I think
I'd like to start over, or go in a new direction. I know I'm lucky.
I make tons of money and all that. But I think I'd like to start
concentrating more on what I photograph. Take off somewhere with
nothing but me and the camera."

"Sounds to me like you want to do some
experimenting," Misha said. "Maybe you're getting more interested
in art photography."

Serena nodded. "Yes," she said, "I guess
that's it. People are talking more about the money I make and the
celebrities I shoot than about the pictures themselves." She
laughed. "I guess I want some respect."

"From critics?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "that, too. I want to be
taken seriously, and do some work that's more meaningful to me.
Even if I'm not sure what that is."

"You'll find out, Serena," he said
confidently. "I'm certain of it."

She took another sip of champagne and tossed
her head. "Oh, well, enough about me and my luxury problems," she
said. "Come on, tell me all about yourself. It has been five
years."

Misha looked into his champagne glass, then
looked over at her. He shrugged. "What do you want to know?"

Serena lasered him with those brilliant hazel
eyes of hers. They gleamed golden brown in the light, punctuated by
shards of blue and green. "Come on, Misha," she said. "You can do
better than that."

"I don't know what to say," he demurred.

"I know your career is going great guns," she
said. "I mean, I do read the New York Times, so I'm always seeing
that you're performing somewhere. And you can't miss the ads for
your new CDs when they come out. Not many classical artists get
full-page ads in the Times and do personal appearances at record
stores." She paused a moment, tilting her head as she looked at
him. "Next thing you know, you'll be like the three tenors."

He laughed lightly. "Yes," he said, "I do get
a lot of publicity." He took another sip of his champagne.

"What about the rest of your life?" she
cajoled. "Why are you being so mysterious?"

"I'm not being mysterious," he protested. He
looked at her seriously now. "You mean my family life."

Serena returned his look. "Yes." She nodded.
"Your family life."

"You know about my marriage . . ." he
began.

"...To Vera," Serena finished. "Yes. I've
seen her picture in the Times, too. She's very beautiful."

"Yes," Misha said.

Serena got up to retrieve the second split of
champagne. "Are you happy, Misha?"

He looked lost in thought for long moments,
staring off into space, before he finally turned back to her. "I
...I'm feeling a little ...neglected, I guess," he finally said.
"Vera's always so busy with social obligations. You know, she's on
the boards of God knows how many music organizations. And all her
auction clients. It seems like there's always another party or some
kind of function that I'm supposed to lend my presence to."

Serena listened while she popped the cork on
the second split of Taittinger. She brought the bottle over to the
couch and poured a refill into his glass.

"Thanks," Misha said.

She refilled her own and sat back down
again.

"Sounds like she's very good for your
career," Serena said.

"Yes." He nodded. "She is that."

Serena looked at him. "What about the rest of
it?" she asked.

"The rest of it?" Misha said.

"I think I read somewhere that you have a kid
now," she said. "Ring a bell?"

Misha laughed. "My God, of course. It has
been a long time, hasn't it? Nicholai. He's three years old now.
And he's wonderful."

Serena smiled. "I think I detect just a
little pride on your part," she said.

"Oh, yes," he said, a sheepish grin spreading
across his lips. "He's adorable and brilliant. I don't get to spend
as much time with him as I should. Traveling so much and all. We
have a great time when we're together, but it's not very
often."

There was a moment of silence as Serena sat,
seemingly somewhere in another world, rubbing a finger around the
rim of her glass, starting to make it chime.

"What about you, Serena?" he asked.

"What about me?" she said, looking over at
him.

"Has there been a man?" he asked. "Anything
...serious?"

"Ah, you know me. Everywhere I go, I leave a
trail of broken hearts behind." She laughed shortly. "Actually,"
she said with a rueful smile, "there have been men, but ... oh, you
know. Nothing really serious. Just ...men. Just a few little
flings."

"Your career must make it very difficult,"
Misha said.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I'm on the road a
lot, like you, and I've just never met ...you know. The right man."
She shrugged and looked at him. "I haven't really been involved
with anyone. Well, not like I was ...with you."

As he heard her words, Misha felt a flood of
emotions wash over him—guilt, remorse, self-conscious
embarrassment—but overriding all his other feelings was the
distinct frisson of pleasure he derived from knowing that she
hadn't found anyone in the last five years to replace him in her
affections. It was a guilty pleasure to be sure, but he couldn't
deny it.

She's still in love with me, he thought. As I
am with her. His heart leapt with joy, and the fear and
self-consciousness he had felt—because he did still love her—
dissipated with this realization.

After a moment he cleared his throat and then
spoke. "I don't know whether you can believe me, Serena," he said,
looking into her eyes, "but I... I haven't felt what I felt for you
with anyone else, either. I've thought about you every single day
since the last time I saw you. I've wanted you ever since the day
we parted."

Suddenly a thrill rushed through Serena,
because she knew now that he felt the same way she did. At the same
time new fears and anxieties formed a knot in her stomach, giving
rise to more questions and more puzzlement. Gone now was any effort
at appearing casual about his visit.

Tears, unbidden, began to fill her eyes. Oh,
God, she thought, he really does mean it, doesn't he? His pride,
she knew, was a significant aspect of his character. Misha always
seemed in control. Yet, underlying his pride was a fragility that
few ever glimpsed. And it was because of this essentially delicate
nature that she didn't believe Misha could possibly admit such
vulnerability unless it were true, unless it was something that he
really felt.