Maestro (19 page)

“No.” The word exploded out of her. “No way. I want to do everything I can to keep from–”

In the distance, someone hummed the start of the third movement of Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2. It had to be Elena, standing outside the main door of the suite. Annasophia opened her mouth to warn Maestro, but he was already off and running. He dashed into the living room, flipped on the radio, and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. It was playing “Nights in White Satin” by the Moody Blues. Annasophia heard Elena, outside the door, trying to match volume with the radio, but she was too far away, and the radio was too loud. All Annasophia could hear was dissonance. Elena didn't have the greatest singing voice, anyway, and the racket in here made her notes flat – that was, the few notes that Annasophia could hear. Drowned out by the Moody Blues, Elena's warbling sounded nothing like Concerto No. 2.

We've foiled her again
, Annasophia thought. Thank goodness.

With Elena lying in wait, how the hell could they go anywhere to eat dinner? She could keep them prisoners in here. They wouldn't even get to turn off the damn radio.

Well, Elena had to sleep sometime. Maybe she'd even have to eat.

Or pee.

“Do you have any food in this room?” Annasophia hollered, so that Maestro could hear her over the racket in the living room.

“No. We'll have to go out.” He set his face in determined lines.

“Okay. I'll get dressed.” She and Maestro would do whatever it took – within reason – to keep Elena from humming the concerto, and in the meantime, Annasophia resolved that tonight, she would not look like a hippie chick next to Elena. She had worried about the future timeline to the point that her temples throbbed, and now there was Elena to worry about, too. For now, she'd let go of all the damn worry and just enjoy being the woman Maestro loved. In the months to come, as her belly grew bigger, she wouldn't be able to wear this dress.

She put on the black dress. Its fabric felt so silky and luxurious that she twirled around the room in pleasure. Her smile felt like it covered her whole face. Maestro leaned against the bedroom doorway with his arms folded across his broad chest, watching her. Love danced in his eyes.

“You look ravishing, Miss Anna,” he said. “Good enough to eat.”

“Sounds like you're talking about food,” she mused playfully.

He nudged her over to the bed, pressed her down against it, and kissed her mouth deeply. “Don't tempt me,” he said huskily, near her ear.

She kissed him back hotly and wriggled up against him. As quickly as she had put on the dress, Maestro took it off. Dinner could wait. Far sweeter delights were in the offering right here.

###

When Annasophia and Maestro left the hotel suite, the hall was empty. Elena had either given up, or she was lying in wait somewhere else. Maybe they could get out of the hotel and to a restaurant, bypassing her entirely. Annasophia hated feeling like this, though, having to sneak and hide. Utterly ridiculous. Maestro's tour wouldn't be over for another month. Somehow, they had to get through these challenges until they could settle in at his home base in New York. Once there, they could keep Elena at bay much more easily.

Maybe Maestro should get a new home base. In East Tennessee.

At the thought, she felt a bit dizzy. That was exactly what he had done in her timeline: not only had he chosen his home base in East Tennessee to be close to her, Annasophia, but he'd also quit his concert career. She couldn't wrap her mind around why he would have done the latter, unless he had thought the best way to be a constant in her life was to be a professor and not a touring performer.

Had he loved her that much?

She glanced at him as they rode in the elevator. He returned her gaze with an expression radiant with love and tenderness.

Yes. He loved her that much. How had she gotten so lucky?

They reached the hotel lobby, and there Elena stood, close to the piano. No blue dress this time. Elena wore a bright red dress, making her look more like Marilyn Monroe than like Lana Turner. Next to Elena's dress, Annasophia figured her dress must make her look as if she were in mourning. How did Elena always manage to upstage her?

Maestro gave her a reassuring squeeze around her waist.

She looked up at him. “Does Elena know how to play the piano?”

He shook his head.

“Not even a note?”

“No,” he said. “She's never played a musical instrument.”

Elena's singing voice wasn't very good, either. She managed to carry a tune, more or less, but she was a bit flat. Not so flat, though, that Annasophia couldn't recognize the concerto when she hummed it. “Well, she's right over there, and she can follow us wherever we go. What are we going to do?”

“Ignore her. In fact, I say we have dinner here at the hotel restaurant. The food is excellent, and there's no point in trying to run away from her. She'll just follow. It's best to deal with her here and now.”

Good idea in theory, but what about in practice? They didn't have a roll of duct tape to tape her mouth shut. Maestro and Annasophia turned away from the piano and from Elena and headed for the restaurant. Though the smells were enticing, Annasophia had lost her appetite.

She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, Elena was following them.

“Wilhelm Dahl,” a man's voice said as she and Maestro entered the restaurant. A stocky man stood up from one of the tables and came toward them, smiling and holding a camera. Annasophia's breath caught. The picture. It would be taken tonight.

“Yes?” Maestro said.

“I was at your performance earlier, and you were absolutely amazing. I'm from the newspaper here, and I'm writing a review of your performance. I'd like to take a photo of you to go with the review, if it's okay.” The man looked at Annasophia, curiosity evident in his gaze.

“That would be fine,” Maestro said. “And I'd like to introduce you to Annasophia Flynn. She's...” He paused, looking down at her. He ran his fingers slowly through her hair, and she could tell there was something he desperately wanted to say, but for some reason, he was hesitating. Annasophia supposed it was hard for him to know what to say. They'd only known one another for a few days in this time, yes, but already, she was the mother of his child, and she'd bet both of her legs that he would soon ask her to marry him. Perhaps it was time the press knew that Maestro had a new love interest.

“We're in love,” she told the journalist.

The man smiled. “Yeah, I could tell.”

“And...” Annasophia couldn't help herself. “I'm going to be the mother of his child.”

Maestro stared down at her, his expression a mix of surprise and tenderness. “Miss Anna, do you really think...” Then he must have decided what was done was done. Leave it alone. He lightly coughed into his hand, and she giggled.

The journalist's face broke out in a huge smile. “Well, should I take a picture of the two of you together, then?”

“That would be perfect,” Maestro said. “What do you think,
Schätzchen
?”

“Perfect,” Annasophia agreed. How had she smiled in the picture? Good grief, no more second-guessing. She snuggled up against Maestro's side, and she felt his arm hug her close. He bent his head toward hers, and she pressed her head against his chest. Her face warmed with her smile. Yes. This. Her heart – her loving heart – would glow through her expression, showing her, many years from now, that this was possible, that love was possible, that joy was possible.

In the timeline she and Maestro would create, she would be in her sixties in the year 2010, and they would be getting closer and closer to their fortieth wedding anniversary.

At the thought, her smile grew wider, and the journalist snapped the picture. The flash made Annasophia close her eyes oh-so-briefly, but she felt sure she'd kept her eyes open for the picture. Of course she had. Her eyes had been open in the picture she'd been sent in 2010. But would it be the same picture, if she was creating a new future for her and Maestro? Her head spun with so many questions, so many thoughts. And oh, how she wanted to dash back to Maestro's suite to see if the picture had appeared on the piece of paper.

She nuzzled Maestro's chest, and she felt his fingers in her hair again. The camera flash went off a couple more times, then the journalist frowned. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, looking at someone standing to the rear of Annasophia and Maestro. “I'm taking pictures here.”

“I apologize,” Elena said pleasantly. “I'm Elena Dahl, Wilhelm's former wife. I just wanted to say hello to him and his new girlfriend and to tell them congratulations. I heard the news.”

Annasophia whirled around and did a double-take. Who was this woman, and what had she done with the real Elena? If she heard Annasophia tell the journalist she was pregnant, she had to be livid, but no matter how much Annasophia studied Elena's face, she could find no trace of anger. Elena's perfectly manicured features were composed, and she wore an open, engaged expression.

“Thank you,” Maestro said, seeming a bit discombobulated. He couldn't be any more confused than Annasophia was. She steeled herself for Elena to start humming the concerto. This time, she was prepared. While Elena hummed, Annasophia would sing one of her own songs. No screaming. That had been ill-thought. Since she had figured out that what sent her back to 2010 wasn't the concerto itself but actually hearing it – whether from the radio or from somebody humming – all she needed to do was to drown it out, not completely overpower it.

Singing her own songs would be much better for her voice than screaming, and it wouldn't get her escorted out of the hotel by security.

The restaurant hostess approached them, and the journalist frowned and excused himself. What could be up with the journalist? He was acting so oddly all of a sudden. Maybe he didn't like other people jumping into pictures where they didn't belong, if that was what Elena was trying to do.

Annasophia didn't think much of that, either, come to think of it.

Maestro told the hostess they wanted a table for two, and the host led them away from Elena. Was she following? When Annasophia and Maestro took their seats, Elena was still standing at the entrance to the restaurant. Then she did the strangest thing. She smiled and waved, then turned and walked out.

“That worked out well,” Maestro said, putting his hand over Annasophia's.

“She won't give up that easily.”

He sighed. “No, I don't suppose she will.”

“Let's just try to forget about her and enjoy our dinner.”

“Forget about her, but keep an eye on her.” Maestro nodded resignedly. “That's what we'll have to do.”

“I wonder for how long,” Annasophia mused.

“I honestly don't know,” Maestro said. “She's pretty determined.”

What a pain in the ass, for them to have to keep looking over their shoulders and be on the alert, everywhere they went, for an indefinite amount of time. Who knew when Elena would decide to give up, or even if she would? If she had turned this into an ego competition between her and Annasophia, then getting Maestro back had become secondary. She just wanted to be the winner, and by sending Annasophia back to her time, she could claim victory.

Despite Elena's oddly pleasant attitude just now, Annasophia knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

###

To Annasophia's surprise, though, Elena left them alone for the rest of the evening. When she and Maestro returned to his suite, they hugged each other close, breathing sighs of relief. One day at a time, it would have to be. New hope was growing inside Annasophia. Perhaps – just perhaps – on hearing the news of the pregnancy, Elena had decided to let go of her hopes of reconciliation. It made sense. Any reasonable woman would let go on such a basis.

But a reasonable woman wouldn't follow her ex-husband all over the country while he was on tour, trying to get him back when he had repeatedly made clear that things were over between them.

Surely, stalker girls couldn't reform in a day. Still, though, Annasophia would allow herself to hope.

Maestro kissed her forehead, then her lips. He swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. Tenderly, he undressed her. Another delicious night of lovemaking. Exactly what she needed, and she needed Maestro more than she could ever express in words.

The picture. First, she had to see if the picture was back.

As Maestro kissed her breasts, she reached over toward the nightstand and grabbed the piece of paper. He sucked on her nipples, first gently, then more firmly. Soon, passion would wipe all thoughts of pictures and papers from her mind. Not just passion, though – this passion was well-tenderized with love, and that made all the difference. She groaned and nearly dropped the paper. Reflexively, she grabbed for it, sending it aloft. It fell near her head, where she could see what was on it.

The picture had changed.

If Maestro heard her gasp, he'd no doubt connected it with what he was doing. Well, no wonder. Passion was making her sight blur; maybe she was seeing the picture wrong. She closed her eyes, then looked at the picture again. It was still different.

She and Maestro were the same as they'd been in the first picture, pressed close together, both of them smiling. But she had forgotten the setting of the first picture. It had looked as though they'd been at a concert hall, backstage. Now, the picture showed the entrance to the hotel restaurant. That was fine and wonderful; it showed that indeed she and Maestro were authors of their own future now, except for one disturbing new image: Elena, in the background, sticking out like a sore thumb behind them in her bright, red dress. She was smiling in the picture, but it wasn't a nice smile. The smile was filled with malice, and she was staring right at the back of Annasophia's head.