Maestro by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff Page B

Inventions.
    They could spend a little time together. Surely, there was no harm in just a little while longer. Then she could figure out how to get back home. Perhaps she had to find a piano and play. That was what had brought her here. It stood to reason it was how she could get back.
    They entered the Manhattan Club, and as they passed through the posh, wood-paneled lobby with its hardwood floors and cushy-looking furniture, she gasped when she saw a baby grand piano, toward the direction of what appeared to be a bar.
    That was how she would try to get back.
    Not now, though. Not quite yet .
    Maestro must have followed the direction of her gaze. “They have a very nice piano here. I amused myself for some time last night, playing for the guests here. I think I might have amused them, too.” He grinned at her. “I don't just play classical, you know.”
    No, she didn't know. She'd never had any idea that Maestro had ever played anything but classical. She was dumbstruck. “What did you play?”
    His grin grew wider. “Well, I'd had a few too many Long Island Iced Teas. I played some Jerry Lee Lewis.”
    At the mischievous look on his face, she burst out laughing. Maestro drinking Long Island Iced Teas. She'd never known him as anything but a teetotaler. And Maestro playing Jerry Lee Lewis! She could hardly wrap her mind around such a thing. It was something she'd have to see and keep close with her: a memory of young Maestro to bring with her when she went back to be with elder Maestro, a glimpse of a Maestro she would never have known had she not come back here.
    “I'm afraid you'll have to repeat that performance for me,” she said softly.
    He touched her lips with her big finger. “I'm not sure you would enjoy seeing me embarrass myself.” The words he spoke were something like what the elder Maestro might have said, but this younger Maestro said them softly and seductively, with a glint in his eye that told her that he would be willing to set the piano on fire for her if it weren't illegal.
    “Later,” she whispered. “I want...” Her breath felt too thick for her lungs and words too big for her throat.
    His eyes seemed to darken a shade or two. “Yes. Talk,” he said. The touch of his hand on her shoulder as he guided her toward the elevator promised more than just talk.
    As they rode the elevator, he studied her. “You seem to be a great lover of music. Do you play?”
    She nodded emphatically. “I sure do. And I had the very best of teachers–” Shut up, Annasophia , she told herself.
    His eyes widened. “Who might that have been?”
    Shit . She looked up at him, wanting to smack herself. Damn it, she couldn't lie. Since she'd planned to tell him the truth once they got up to his suite, there was no excuse to start things out with a lie here in this elevator. “You.”
    “Me, what?” he asked, obviously confused.
    “You were my teacher.”
    He looked at her, a half-smile on his face. “Now, I know you're teasing me.”
    She shook her head. “You were my teacher. I've never had any teacher but you.”
    His smile remained, but his eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You mean, you learned to play by listening to my records?”
    “No. You taught me to play. Well, you taught me to read music. I could play by ear from the time I was three, but you...” She took a deep breath. Here it comes . “Remember what you said about feeling like you ought to know me? Well, you do. Or did. No, will. Anyway, you became my music teacher when I was six years old. I'm twenty-six now.”
    He let out a long breath. Something in his eyes flickered. It looked like... Surprise? Not quite. It looked more like frustration. Could he be wondering, as he'd done after first encountering her backstage at Isaac Stern Auditorium, if she was a loopy hippie chick on drugs?
    If that was what he thought, then there was nothing she could do about it. They continued to ride up in the elevator toward his suite. At least she would have a