A Rage to Live (18 page)

He had wanted her. That was why she was there. Why he had been so extravagant with her. Now, his kisses and caresses were for another woman. Had he tired of her so quickly? Cressida felt her confidence slipping. She tried hard to grab it, hold on to it. Instinct told her she must. Then he turned from the woman he was petting so publicly and looked at the commotion on the staircase, followed with his eyes those greeting the late arrivals from the House of St Laurent.

Kane had been swept away by his work, then by an unexpected visitor to his dressing-room: the beautiful girl whom he had just kissed. She had appeared only to lock the door behind her and for them to involve themselves in a very exciting sexual encounter. It had hardly ruffled her hair or messed her lipstick. She was magnificent in the practice of oral sex. Pre-concert sex, a habit indulged in whenever
possible, always sent Kane to the podium feeling high and very sexy. After that the reception, and there had not been time to think of the girl he had left at a fashion house. His dalliance with Arquette had made him late to his party, and only then did he remember to search the crowd for his Circe. Not having found her, other distractions swept him up until he saw her now, looking at him anxiously.

He hardly recognised her. Except for the love and passion in her eyes, he might not have. What a beauty, and so very sexy! Many a man’s head had turned to admire her. Kane took notice of the effect she was having on them. Whispers. Questions. He was delighted. He savoured the transformation of his Circe. He walked slowly down the staircase, his eyes never leaving her, not even when stopped by people shaking his hand, or greeting him with a pat on the back, a flattering word. The fire, the aura of sensuality. He had sensed it, but now it was there for everyone to see. What was it about her that intrigued him beyond lust? Clearly there was something.

He took her hands in his. ‘You are a real beauty.’ Cressida beamed. It seemed she had been waiting her entire life to hear that from him. She took a step closer to him and placed her lips upon his. A kiss and more. She licked his lips with the point of her tongue. It quite surprised him how quickly she had learned to kiss.

Taking her hand in his, he stepped back and asked her to twirl round. ‘You’re late, but magnificent.’ Cressida curtsied. Her happiness went right to his heart.

He thanked her escorts, the three men shook hands, and Kane excused himself and Cressida. Placing an arm through hers, he led her up the staircase. The envy in every woman’s eyes, the interest in the men’s faces, made her pull herself up that much taller. She was one of them, one of Kane’s women. The sensual beauty she had always wanted to be. A woman that men lusted after, and women were jealous of. Here was the greatest triumph of her life.

At the buffet table Kane accepted a dinner plate and napkin. A glass of champagne was plucked off a silver tray offered by one of the waiters. He passed it on to Cressida and then, turning back to the table, selected a supper for her. Once more he took her by the arm and walked her through the crowd on the landing and up the remainder of the marble stairs, through to the dress circle. Her seat was in the box closest to the stage. An attendant opened the door and Cressida entered. The Opera House was lit, awesome and somewhat bizarre devoid of people. Kane selected the best seat for her and she sat down. The attendant who had opened the door for them returned with a small table and placed it next to Cressida. He draped a white damask and lace cloth over it, a slim vase with a white full-blown rose in it. Kane placed her supper plate
on it and dismissed the attendant from the box.

‘You don’t say much,’ he said, but in a tone that was teasing rather than critical.

‘I’m too overwhelmed.’

‘And we’ve only just begun.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m going to make you the happiest woman in Paris tonight.’

‘I am the happiest woman in Paris already.’

‘I have to go. But you won’t be alone, others will be sharing this box. Introduce yourself, but only as Circe. Keep them intrigued as a woman of mystery. My woman of mystery.’ Taking her by the arm, Kane none too gently raised her from the chair and stepped with her behind the heavy velvet curtains that draped either side of the box.

The chocolate brown see-through silk organza blouse with its puffed sleeves, and a neckline that plunged open between her naked breasts, revealing a tantalising glimpse of their swell and erect nipples, was for Kane provocative as hell. She had walked and looked like a queen of sensuality when she had strolled into the Paris Opera House, and every minute he was with her since only whetted his appetite to see, to feel, to take possession of more of her.

Spanning his hands round the wide emerald green satin belt, he swayed her gently on her feet. Her breasts moved sensually, the rustling sound of the voluminous plum-coloured taffeta skirt and its underskirts, many layers of silk net, an erotic sound in the silence of the Opera House. Kane slipped his hands under her blouse and caressed her breasts, pinching her nipples. He wanted her to feel the power he had over her. And, too, the pain of passion, his passion for her. He wanted her to feel that. He enjoyed enormously the excitement he saw in her eyes. Her determination to hold back erotic sensation was evident: she bit hard on her lower lip and looked away from his intense gaze.

‘Raise your skirts.’

‘Now? Here?’ She made the idea sound impossible.

With his foot, Kane pushed the door of the opera box closed and stepped back a pace. His hands by his sides, he remained silent. Cressida recognised his request as a demand that had to be obeyed. The mere rustle of the silk taffeta seemed like thunder in her ears, she was so tense with anxiety over what she was doing. Kane watched her raise her skirts. He took a perverse delight in the slight tremor in her hands, but an erotic delight in what was being revealed: green satin high-heeled sandals, the same green as her belt; plum-coloured stockings, dark and rich and luscious with a wide black lace band that held them in place high on her thighs. Her flesh between the top of the
lace-trimmed stockings and the cream-coloured satin knickers, wickedly sexy for their plum-coloured lace insets, looked rich and delectable, something glorious to sink his teeth into, to caress with hands eager to discover her other fleshy delights.

‘Take them off,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t even question it. Yes. Here, now.’ Her obedience was instant, without hesitation this time, and in spite of her anxiety, excited his lust for her further still.

He watched her fuss with the tiny pearl button of the waist band and then slip them down off her hips a moment before she let the skirts of her ball gown, gathered up around her waist, slip slowly down over her nakedness as she revealed it with the lowering of her French knickers.

‘Give them to me,’ he ordered.

She handed them over without a word of protest. He slipped them in his pocket and told her, ‘Raise your skirts again.’ Cressida was unable to resist, didn’t want to resist. She raised them again, gathering them round her waist and behind her. She had an overwhelming desire to exhibit herself and her sexuality to him. With barely a glance, he stepped in close to her, caressed her hips, her bottom. He slipped his hand between her legs. No demand was needed. She moved her legs apart. He caressed her mound of blonde pubic hair. A sigh, a gasp? Neither of them knew which, it didn’t matter. Was she expressing relief? Pleasure?

He manipulated his searching fingers between the fleshy innocent slit, the outer lips of young cunt, all the time gazing into her eyes, taking pleasure in the lust for him shimmering in them. He liked the effort she made to hold back: the biting of her lower lip, the trying to distract herself by looking away from his gaze. He was tender with her when forcing her to gaze back into his eyes. Hand under her chin, he told her, ‘I don’t want you ever to wear panties again. I want you always naked under your clothes, naked and ready to receive cock, ready to bend over for me so I can fuck you wherever and whenever I want. It excites me to think of you with an open and ready cunt for me wherever you are. It’s a habit of a lifetime I want from you. Say yes, and mean it.’

No man had ever made sexier, more thrilling demands on Cressida. His lust entered her psyche. She wanted never to cover her cunt again, to be open and ready for him. It was easy to answer him, ‘Yes.’

‘You can drop your skirts now.’ He kissed her on the tip of her nose, first one eyelid, then the other, and then very briefly on the lips before he led her from behind the curtain to her seat. He handed her the glass of champagne, and was gone from the box.

An hour later he stepped on to the podium to the applause of a packed Opera House. He struck the ivory baton for attention. The house lights went down. The first notes of the overture of
Tristan and
Isolde
. Here was one of the operas best suited for a concert rendition. Wagner’s
Tristan
was an opera that worked its psychological revelation through the music. Though it was magnificent to watch for its drama and the physical action when performed on stage in full production, it was equally as powerful in concert.

The plot is a simple one: guilty love between a man and a woman, discovered, forced to part, then a mystical reunion of love and death. An orchestra rather than costumes, acting, and scenery, can unfold the unimaginable richness of the emotional narrative. Kane Chandler whipped his audience into a passion for the music, transported every music lover in the house into Wagner’s world, and hardly allowed them room to breathe anything but the erotic drama of great music and performance.

At the first interval, Kane rushed from the podium, having dominated and dazzled every heart and soul in the Paris Opera House including Cressida Vine’s. Passion, and a provocative sexuality, he extracted from every one of his musicians. The audience was spun into musical orbit, he gave them the ride of a lifetime, an experience rarely achieved. He had them in the palm of his hand, this master of seduction.

It took several minutes for the orchestra to make their exit from the stage, and several more for the audience to catch their breath and come down to earth enough finally to leave their seats to drink champagne and rave about the wonders of great music and Kane Chandler. The symphony orchestra he so brilliantly conducted. The opera stars who sang for the gods.

Cressida did not follow the others who vacated the box to mingle among the concert-goers. She remained in her chair, still drifting in Kane Chandler’s and Wagner’s orbit. What had he, and his genius, and the music, done to her? She felt pent up with emotion, ready to explode. A hand to her forehead, she covered her eyes and took deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself. She was on fire, living at the top of her emotions, flying high, wanting never to come down.

The glittering, beautiful people, dressed in their finery and sparkling in their jewels, filtered slowly back into the opera boxes, and the dress circle. The musicians slipped past chairs and music stands to take their seats on the vast stage. The house lights dimmed. Silence, and then Kane appeared from the wings, a man in a rush to get to his podium. His mere appearance was enough for him to receive an ovation. They were still applauding him as he raised his baton.

Cressida had been given not a glance. Everything he had, was ready to give, was for the music, his musicians, his audience. It took that moment of silence in that vast Opera House, broken by the ivory tapping against the podium, to snap Cressida into the realisation that
she was no more to him than any other member of his admiring public. The second act of
Tristan
had begun.

That exquisite few seconds when the last note dies away and silence reigns, as strong as death itself. Every living soul in the Opera House was holding their breath. The essence of the music still lingered in the air. And then it was over, and life rushed in. His back still to his audience, Kane made two fists, arms above his head, and punched the air. They could feel his satisfaction. He spun round to face his admirers and seemed to collapse into a deep bow that lasted several minutes. A humbling of himself to his audience and Wagner? Exhaustion? Stealing time to gather new energy? Who was to know? And what did it matter? The audience went wild with applause, and cat-calls, and ‘bravos’, and the stage was strewn with flowers thrown from the hands of his devoted followers. Finally he raised himself, keeping his eyes lowered until he turned and walked to the side of the stage where he looked up at Cressida and smiled a broad and handsome smile. This time his bow was less dramatic, but a bow nevertheless, and just for her. It was the proudest moment of Cressida’s life, her hour of triumph. Only then did he return to the audience. Walking back to the centre of the stage, he accepted a standing ovation.

The audience’s adoration of Kane Chandler was complete. He was a true romantic, human as well as a genius. Everyone loves a lover. They watched him gather handfuls of flowers from the stage and turn to his orchestra. He asked his musicians to rise and take a bow, and walked among them thanking them, shaking hands, extending a pat on a back, even hugging several men. He handed out flowers before returning centre stage where tulips and roses and orchids were now littering the floor. The flowers were still coming, being thrown from everywhere in the Opera House. Someone walked out from the wings and presented Kane with a bouquet of huge white lilies tied with a white satin bow. Once more he walked to the side of the stage and looked up at Cressida. Smiling, he took aim. Not quick enough, Cressida was saved by someone in her box. ‘Stand up, lean out of the box and catch them, you lucky lady. Be quick, he favours you.’ The woman’s words galvanised her. She was on her feet with outstretched arms when Kane threw the flowers right to his mark.

The lights were up in the Opera House now and many curious eyes were upon her. Once more he returned to centre stage to hold out his hands to the opera stars, carrying flowers in their arms, arriving from the wings to take their place either side of him. They greeted their maestro with hugs and kisses, and then they too gave themselves up to their audience. The atmosphere was electric. The tumultuous
applause thundered on for more than fifteen minutes with several curtain calls before it even began to fade. It only stopped when it was certain none of the artists would return for another bow.