Page 66 of If I Were Yours

My first response is to release the breath I was holding. But then I realize what he’s saying and feel bad. I don’t want him to not have fun—I just don’t want him to do it with other women.

“Are you just sitting there all by yourself? Didn’t you celebrate when the clock struck twelve?”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

There’s a deep chuckle on the other end of the line. “Don’t be sad on my behalf,devochka. I’ve been celebrating New Year’s like this for fifteen years. It’s how I prefer it. A good concert followed by a glass of champagne with the orchestra. Then I meet up with a couple other conductors for a good meal and end the evening in peace and quiet with a glass of scotch and a book.” I hear him take a sip of something that must be said liquor—Grigory really does love his scotch.

At first, it sounds a bit sad. But it’s only because I’m used to New Year’s being wild and raucous with loads of people and partying. I’m not even sure that’s how I prefer it, and knowing Grigory, I know he doesn’t. The mellow evening sounds much more like him. I know he enjoys being alone, having peace and quiet. He recently told me about the house he owns in a Russian forest, where he spends most of his time off—well, until I came into the picture. He wouldn’t buy an isolated place like that unless he liked the solitude.

Realizing he might want to be alone, I say, “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at all. I enjoy talking to you.” He sounds genuine, and I don’t want this to end yet, so I ask another question.

“What did you play tonight?”

“Various Waltzes, Polkas, and Marches—especially by members of the Strauss family. It’s not the kind of music I usually prefer, but it fits the occasion.”

Pulling my legs up under me, I make myself comfortable. “What would you have played if you could choose yourself?”

“For a New Year’s concert or any given occasion?”

“Both,” I say, bouncing my knees with eager curiosity.

“Well, the program is half my doing, half tradition. Though, I don’t think I’d change much even if I weren’t bound by tradition. Not for this occasion. But if I were to choose a piece solely for my own enjoyment, I’d go withScheherazade. Rimsky-Korsakov is a master at orchestration, and it’s always a joy to conduct all the nuances and different colors in his music.”

“That’s a great piece,” I chime in. It was the first piece I saw Grigory conduct live, and the memory still impresses me—both the music and the man. “I love how he sets delicate beauty up against bombastic brutality.”

Grigory gives a warm laugh.“Of course you do.”

Blood flows to my cheeks as I realize the implication. I might as well be describing him and me.

Grigory’s voice takes on a husky quality. “You were incredibly shy when you came backstage to meet me.”

My cheeks redden as I remember how Markus introduced me to Grigory after the show. I had prepared what to say, but once I felt his penetrating gaze on me, it all wentswoosh, and I could barely get a word out.

“Your eyes kept flickering back and forth, unable to rest anywhere for more than a second. If I stood in front of you right now, they’d do the same. Am I not right?”

“Yes,” I whisper, feeling as small as I would if he were here, towering above me.

“Where are you?” His accent thickens like when he lords his authority over me or wants to use me.

“In the bathroom—the one in the bedroom,” I say, unconsciously rubbing my heel against my sex.

“Is the door locked?”

I grab the handle to double-check. “Yes.”

“Then lie down on the bath mat and put the phone on speaker.”

I scoot onto the floor in a few clumsy movements. Good thing he can’t see me. “I’m here now,” I say.

“What are you wearing?”

“A silvery glitter dress.” I pull the dress up over my thighs to see my panties. “And a black lace thong. Earrings and red lipstick.”

“Sounds beautiful. I’ll have to see that sometime. But right now, I want you to take off those panties and slip two fingers inside yourself.”

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