Maestro by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff Page A

deny Matt his own lifetime. She couldn't do it to Maestro, either. Knowing how much he loved his son, how could she deny him that? There could be other children, sure, but having known Matt for many years and the loving relationship he and Maestro shared, she couldn't let it pass away into nothingness so that none of it would ever be.
    Which meant she could enjoy time with Maestro, but at some point soon, this dream would have to end. She would have to say goodbye to Maestro not only in this time, but also when she returned to her own time as well.
    Two quick goodbyes. Her heart ached at the thought.
    How, exactly, would she return to her time? She would have to figure it out soon; Matt's life depended on it. He'd been born in 1974, early in the year. February, she thought. It had been late May in her time, and the time of year felt similar here, in 1973.
    Which meant that very soon, for whatever reason, Maestro and Elena would reconcile. Annasophia recalled Elena, meeting with Maestro backstage after his concert at Carnegie Hall just a few hours ago. She had said she would meet up with him here at the hotel, which might mean that she, like Maestro, was staying here. How lovely Elena had been, and how obvious had been her interest in Maestro, even if he hadn't seemed interested from his end. Surely, without Annasophia in the picture, Maestro would fall in love with Elena again. Annasophia wondered if his disinterest in Elena had been because of her. Good grief. Had she already screwed things up for poor Matt?
    Everything in her screamed there was no way Maestro and Elena would reconcile as long as she, Annasophia, was in the way. She might look like a little wood elf next to the majesty of Elena; nonetheless, Maestro was already attracted to her. Possibly, he was even falling in love with her. He certainly acted like a man falling in love. Already, she saw in his eyes a depth of feeling and tenderness which she had never seen before in any man. Not in her experiences with previous relationships, and certainly not in her experiences with her groupies.
    Could she allow Maestro to fall in love with her? Shouldn't she pull away and run, as far and as fast as she could, to avoid hurting him worse in the long run?
    Her tears flowed, and she began to sob. Once he enfolded her in his arms, though, she had nowhere to go. There was, God help her, nowhere she wanted to go. She pressed her face more snugly into his chest, and he held her close and let her cry.
    Then, God help her again, he cupped her chin in his big hand and gently nudged her face up. There, in front of the Manhattan Club with its concierges and cabs arriving and departing, he brushed his lips across hers. She parted her lips, wanting more, needing more, but he drew away and searched her gaze with his.
    “Come on inside. We have a lot to talk about.”
    More than he could ever know , Annasophia thought.
     
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    One night. That was all. It would be okay. One night, and she'd figure out how to get back to her time. But even that tiny brush of his lips on hers had sizzled. Call her selfish, but she longed to find out what it felt like to really make love. Not simply to let oneself get carried away by the throes of physical desire, but what it felt like to use one's body as a means of expressing love. Not even in her longer-term relationships – short-term as they had actually proven – had she ever made love. It had only been more lust. And yeah, lust had been great. At least she'd thought it had been great. As things were turning out, though, she was starting to suspect that perhaps lust compared with lovemaking was rather like three-chord pop music compared with Rachmaninoff's compositions.
    There was no fooling herself. She'd fallen crazy in love with this Maestro, this Maestro whom she could hardly imagine, years later, switching on the metronome for herself as a nine-year-old girl and patiently reminding her to keep a steady tempo on the two-part Bach