The Maestro's Butterfly (2 page)

Still pumped by adrenaline in her limbs, her skin flushed with danger, Miranda rebelled. She felt angry that Claudio had used her confusing desires to probe her secrets, and angry that she couldn’t just have normal desires like everyone else. Why did things have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t she just go for a guy because he was cute and willing? Why did he have to be menacing in order to get a deep, primal response from her? In that moment, she wanted to prove him wrong, to prove that she did actually have a choice about whose bed she shared and whom she desired.

She wanted to wipe that cocky expression from his face, even though she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask if real, honest-to-God punishment was to be part of the arrangement. Just the thought of saying that word in his presence made her want to do whatever he wanted, no matter what it was, and that was not good. Besides, there was more than a little part of her that hoped she would get to experience punishment at the hands of a frightening man, and that scared her—a lot. So she simply said,

“Okay. You’re on,” then stared out the window and tried not to wonder just how stupid she was being. Everyone in her life thought she was going to tour the Midwest until Thanksgiving. No one would know where she was. He could do anything.

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“Le Chateau du Fresne,”
as those who lived there liked to call it, was in Hephzibah, Georgia, an hour away from downtown Augusta. It was far away from any main roads, and could be reached only by snaking off Highway 56 onto a secondary street, and then finding first one dirt road and then another. It was an oasis in the midst of a rare bit of old Georgia forest. Claudio had lived there long enough to purchase fifty-two acres of the surrounding land. His estate was completely isolated.

As Claudio inched his sedan through the inky night, Miranda could not keep her mind off the movie
Deliverance.
She almost giggled at the irony that Claudio, as an outsider to the Deep South, should be the one who was worried. But he navigated the Southern darkness as if he was born to it. Miranda became aware of the strangest feeling that he had been here much longer than she had. Then she told herself to get a grip and stop cracking up.

Finally, Claudio pulled into the carport and got out. Miranda took a moment to pull in a few deep breaths as he opened the back door to remove his violin and bow.

She loved to watch him hold it so expertly. He was so graceful. He came around the car to open her door. Somewhere, a horse neighed.

“Horses?” Miranda said, getting out.

“There is nothing like a good mount,” Claudio said, and shut the door. “Would you like to go for a ride sometime?”

She nodded, ignoring the double entendre.

“All right,” he said, without pressing the point. “Then I will take you. But not tonight. Tonight, we have other plans.” He offered his hand.

Miranda only looked at him. It was all moving too fast. This was it, whatever
it
was going to be. She swallowed, but her throat felt dry.

“Is something wrong,
Mademoiselle
?”

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“I, uh, I need—”

Smiling to himself, Claudio took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “I know what you need,
Mademoiselle,
” he whispered. “Now,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “This is my home.”

A two-story house, overlooking a pecan orchard, crowned Claudio’s estate. Two cottages nestled between house and trees, their windows dark. Beyond that, there was a stable and a field, which gave way to thick, dark woods. Tall trees formed a silhouette against the night sky. Their skeletal tips swayed and nodded, conversing with the breeze.

She looked at the house’s well-lighted windows. Someone—a young dark-haired guy in a black T-shirt—leaned into the glass, checking them out. He turned and spoke over his shoulder. Miranda imagined him announcing Claudio’s arrival. She wondered what sorts of things usually happened in that house, and felt heat smolder between her legs and panic flutter in her chest.

Miranda nodded and gave Claudio a smile, momentarily shy, feeling silly about her brief panic, though the fabric of her evening gown seemed much too thin. She felt naked and vulnerable, and had to continually glance down to make sure she was, indeed, wearing something. She accepted Claudio’s arm and let him lead her along the cobbled walk and up the stairs to the wrap-around porch and inside where the floor and table lamps gave off a golden glow.

The house was about a half-century old, with a smallish living room decorated by vertical-striped wallpaper of antique rose and cream, the stripes separated by thin gold lines. The guy from the window straddled the bench by a grand piano, speaking to a black man with skin the color of creamed coffee and a long, dreaded mane, who was standing nearby. Here and there blue-jeaned bodies lounged on lush, aged furniture with curling wood armrests.

A twentysomething girl with bare feet and red toenails lay propped on the couch, draping her legs across those of a blond boy with delicate, Bowiesque features.

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She wore a black spaghetti-strapped top and held a glass of garnet-colored wine with a loose wrist. Miranda was afraid she would forget and drop it on the expensive-looking rug. The girl, whose long, dark hair pooled in soft curls around her shoulders and ample breasts, looked at her curiously. Her lips curved into a sly smile. Her eyes, dark like Claudio’s, glittered momentarily.

Then she leapt off the couch in one motion without spilling a drop, leaving the boy blinking and bewildered-looking. Miranda wondered how someone could move so quickly, and decided that her nervousness was making her hallucinate.

“Have you brought us a treat?” the girl asked, in a French accent that was not quite as pronounced as Claudio’s. She was a couple inches taller than Miranda’s scant 5’4”. She jutted out a hip and reached to tickle the side of Miranda’s neck with the tips of her red fingernails. Miranda shrunk against Claudio, who popped the girl’s hand as though she were a small child reaching for an undeserved cookie.

“Ah-ah,” he said. “Remember your manners. Miranda, this is my cellist, Chloe de la Roche.”

Chloe gave Claudio a pout, then jutted out a hip and twisted her body rhythmically as her nipples suddenly hardened into little points. Miranda tried not to look, but Chloe noticed, and smiled again. “Pleased to meet you as well,” she said. “I’m sure we will be friends—or something.”

“Put these away,” Claudio said, handing Chloe his violin and bow. She took them and sauntered off with a backward glance at Miranda before disappearing through a doorway beneath the stairs.

“Don’t worry about her,” Claudio said, tugging at his shirt cuffs. “She likes to tease. She has been with me a long time, longer than anyone here.”

“She’s beautiful,” Miranda said, unsure what else to say. She let her eyes take in the scene. There were about eight people in the living room, most sipping glasses of wine, some munching sandwiches or chips. A few additional voices came from the room beyond. Then a thirtysomething woman appeared. Spotting Claudio, she smiled 12

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and came over.

“How did it go?” she asked, glancing repeatedly at Miranda.

“He was there,” Claudio said. “I have hopes for the arrangement.”

Miranda took in an unexpected breath.
The strange man.
A man had been positively leering at her during the recital, she remembered. He had been dressed in a tailored, pinstriped suit and had sat at the end of the front row, Miranda’s row. When she’d caught him looking at her, he had not looked away or smiled reassuringly, but had nodded, once, and continued to stare, making no attempt to hide the interest in his eyes. There was something chilling and provocative in the sinister curve of his lips.

Like Claudio,
she suddenly thought. The notion sent something hot and acidic into her stomach.
No way,
she told herself sternly. They had to be talking about someone else, maybe someone in charge of the theater or another musician. The man in the pinstriped suit was just another well-dressed letch.

“Good,” the woman said. She had milky skin, high cheekbones and a no-nonsense manner. “We can use all the investors we can get. May I speak with you about the books, then,
Monsieur?
It won’t take long, but I have some concerns I’d like to be able to deal with tomorrow.”

Claudio nodded and turned toward the two men at the piano, motioning with his finger. Black-shirt guy stood, patted the dreadlock guy on the arm and came over, tossing dark hair out of his eyes. “Yes sir?” he asked. His eyes lingered on Miranda.

“Keep our guest company while I speak with Gena.”

“Yes
sir,
” he said, winking at her. Miranda glanced at her shoes and blushed, cursing herself for going all schoolgirl in the presence of such overt interest.
Maybe
it’s a musician thing,
she mused. She watched Claudio follow the woman through the dining room to disappear around the corner, with a sharp little pang of jealousy.
Stop it,
she told herself, and turned to her new companion.

“I’m Seth,” he said without any hint of a French accent whatsoever. “Viola.”

“What?” Miranda asked, momentarily confused.

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“It’s what I play. I’m with the band.” He rolled his eyes dramatically and grinned. There was something odd about his teeth, but Miranda couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

“You’re
a classical musician?” She looked him over. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and had that sinewy look she associated with drugged-out rock musicians, except healthier. Veins stood out in relief on his arms and slender hands. His hair, longer in front than in the back, caused him to toss his head frequently. It was dark like the hair of the others, but he was pale. He wore leather bands around his wrists, black rubber bracelets and black Converses. His belt was thick and metal-studded. He wore eyeliner and earrings.

He headed for the dining room and motioned with his head for her to follow. “I rock out too, don’t worry. I was playing in a real band downtown when I met Claudio.

He liked my fingerwork and decided I should play for him. And that, as they say, was that. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Definitely,” she said, and tried to trot in her heels past the goodies on the dining room table to catch up. She hoped no one was watching.

“Come on. It’s in here,” he said. “There’s food too, if you’re hungry.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” she said. “Claudio didn’t say there would be a party.”

“It’s not.” He poured a glass of dark red wine and extended it to her. “Coppola, black label.”

Miranda gave him a little smile of thanks and reached for it, but he pulled it back out of her reach. “Uh-uh,” he said, holding it up near his shoulder. “You have to come and get it.” His dimples deepened when he grinned.

Miranda wasn’t sure what to do, except wonder why the viola player was coming on to her. “I’m with Claudio,” she whispered quickly, glancing over her shoulder toward Claudio’s voice and the woman’s. They were discussing what sounded like important financial matters.

“Me too,” he said. “Do you really think I’d be messing with you if I thought 14

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he’d mind?”

Claudio not minding wasn’t something she had considered, and she wondered just what kind of people these were. “Guess not,” she said, looking back at him, eyeing the wine.

Without warning, he set the glass on the counter and pulled her against him, still smiling. “Do
you
mind?” he asked, planting his hands on both cheeks of her rear and pulling her against the hard bulge of his groin. She caught her breath. He smelled of soap and sweet essential oils.

“I, uh, don’t know,” she said, unsure what to do with her hands. She lay them against his chest so she could push away from him if she had to.

“Mmm,” he said. “This feels good.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Miranda had the strangest feeling that he was smelling her—on purpose.

“But are you sure Claudio won’t mind?” she asked. Images of the Frenchman bursting into the kitchen flooded her mind. What if he became angry and decided she wasn’t worth bothering with? Or what if something else happened? Memories of him questioning her earlier about punishment caused her to shiver. She wasn’t sure she was ready for something like that. Yet, at the same time, the possibility of him teaching her a lesson thrilled her almost unbearably.

Seth jostled her against him. “Hey. It’s not like I’m raping you on the kitchen floor or anything,” Seth said. “That’s for later.” When she dropped her jaw in horror, he grinned again. “We’re just getting to know each other. We’re not even making out, just standing close. See?”

Miranda looked at her hands, rising and falling with his breathing. “Yeah, but Claudio strikes me as someone who would have a...a temper,” she whispered.

Seth frowned thoughtfully and nodded, then readjusted his body against the counter, causing Miranda’s crotch to rub against his thigh. The unexpected pleasure almost caused her to draw in a breath, but she resisted the urge. Her mind was much more confused than her body was at the moment, but she didn’t want to seem as though 16

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she condoned what her body wanted. A man she had just met—a younger man, at that. While on a date with her music teacher, who was a good fifteen years older than she was. But damn, he was so commanding and dangerous and European. It was like having her very own Mozart.

“Yeah,” Seth said. “He can be pretty temperamental. Over stuff that matters.”

“What matters?” she asked. She had to fight to keep herself from casting glances over her shoulder at the doorway.

“His family. Us doing what he tells us. Obedience is key to being happy here, that’s for sure.” He squeezed her bottom and pulled her harder against him, as though he were trying to fuck her through his jeans.

“How do you feel about that?” she asked. “I mean, isn’t it like living with your parents or something?”

“There are too many fringe benefits,” he said. “Not to mention we’re kind of famous.
Sanguis Nocturnus.
That’s us.”