Andrea stood outside herself and watched as she made some small talk with the perfect couple then headed for the bar. The bartender, an amiable sort, chatted with Andrea as he poured her a glass of white wine. Andrea sensed Aaron’s approach. She felt him standing there, but he did not touch her. She turned to look at him.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why didn’t you ever write back or call? What about us?”
He didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed about the situation and didn’t seem to care that the bartender was listening. In fact, he did not acknowledge the existence of the fellow.
“Listen, Andrea. You read more into it than there ever was. There was no us. I mean we only went out, what . . . a half a dozen times or so? It was . . . an experiment. Something a little different for me. It was okay, but you’re just not in the same league as I am. You need to find your own niche. You really need to get on with your life.”
She remembered staring at the back of his head as he walked away from her and her stomach turned over and the blood pounded like timpani in her ears. She remembered the bartender asking, “Would you like something a little stronger?”
And she clearly recalled thinking, “It was nine. It was nine times. Don’t you remember?”
Andrea finished dressing and studied her reflection in the full-length mirrors that were the sliding doors of her bedroom closet. They emphasized the now-Spartan expanse of the room around her. The stylish black velvet pants suit was most becoming. She stood at an angle and threw her shoulders back. Inhaling deeply she sucked in her slightly rounded tummy and smoothed the plush fabric over it. Forty had brought voluptuous with it. The jacket slid apart revealing a black satin blouse with a plunging V-neck. She smiled thinking of a line from a favourite funny movie: “What knockers!” The only jewellery that adorned her was a simple silver chain around her neck.
In response to the chilly weather, she wore boots instead of shoes. They were black patent leather that hugged her calves and rose to her knees under the pant legs. The heels added four inches to her height.
Her long hair was swept up and classically coiffed further enhancing the illusion of tallness. Until last week, it still had been mostly brown, but the grey streaks were becoming more pronounced of late. In honour of tonight’s planned events, Andrea’s crowning glory was now a warm auburn.
In the living room, she slipped into a long black trench coat – a recent acquisition – and gathered up her purse and tote bag. She opened the apartment door, turned back to survey the almost empty space then, satisfied that what remained was in order, she flicked the wall switch to extinguish the lights. She stepped across the threshold and pulled the door closed behind her. The solid, metallic kachunk of the deadlock echoed along the deserted corridor.
Andrea sat throughout the concert thinking about the many things she’d done since last she saw Aaron, and all the things she never did. She clutched her purse tightly in her lap; her tote bag was firmly wedged between her feet and partially under the seat.
She barely took her eyes off Aaron, though she kept the cellists in her peripheral view to the right. Tonight they were all male. She never tired of watching the way they held their violoncellos gently, but firmly, between their thighs, heads inclined toward the neck, cheek almost brushing it, as one would lean into a lover to whisper a seduction, one hand sliding confidently along the fingerboard, holding, executing the vibrato, the other gripping the bow, coaxing the long, melancholy notes from within the depths of both the varnished wood housing and their own souls. Andrea could feel the harmonic resonance inside her.
Aaron himself was a concert of fluid, poetic movement. The baton was a living extension of his lithe hand movements. The patterns could mesmerize the willing. It seemed somehow appropriate that his back should be turned to her for the duration of each selection. She watched him dispassionately even as she breathed with the cadence of the soaring music he conducted. She held her breath through each climax. During the quiet denouements, she glanced around to study the faces of the people watching him. The adoration was unmistakable. She, herself, was not one to deny his talent, which was self-evident, or his charisma. He had both . . . in spades.
He also had an ego the size of Mount Rushmore; equally impressive, but much less attractive. Andrea had felt it as an actual force of nature the moment he emerged from the wings. He crossed the stage, graciously shook the hand of the concert mistress, and mounted the podium.
She could also feel that it had grown. It overpowered the collective egos of the talented performers behind him. He had surveyed the sea of expectant faces as a monarch granting his subjects a glimpse of his magnificence. Even after a quarter of a century, she felt his familiar arrogance as it drowned out the applause. Recently, she wondered how she ever could have found that air of superiority appealing. Ah, well, no matter. That he still had it was to her advantage.
Getting backstage, after the initial crush of patrons had subsided, was not a problem. Aaron’s people knew the type of fans he sought and to whom he granted an audience.
Carrying her coat over her arm, and hugging her tote bag and purse close to her body, Andrea made her way to him and dazzled him with the gleaming, perfect smile she had paid much to acquire. Her orthodontist had probably vacationed long and hard in some exotic locale thanks to the work he had performed on her mouth. She smiled ruefully to herself; pity the bills could not have been deducted as a business expense. She laughed nervously as she handed Aaron her programme and he perused it. His own face stared up at him.
“I feel like a silly schoolgirl asking for your autograph,” she said with just a hint of self-deprecation. Her practised voice was mellow. She had learned to modulate the pitch and knew it sounded sexier and much different from the higher, more nasal tones of her youth.
He hesitated a moment, as if he thought he recognized her. Andrea forced herself not to look apprehensive even though her heart rate increased, but his pause was fleeting. Her eyes, tinted green by contact lenses and further camouflaged by non-prescription eyeglasses, were unfamiliar to him. He would remember brown eyes, if he remembered them at all. Perfect make-up further disguised the face he had only ever seen without cosmetics. Andrea had never worn her hair up when she was with him. There was no recognition, no remembrance. He returned the smile and nothing about his had changed.
He laughed and said, “Well, you may look like a schoolgirl, but I’m sure you’re not silly.” He scrawled his name on the programme absently, but did not relinquish his hold on it.
Andrea could not fake a blush, but she did incline her head down and glanced away shyly before tilting her face toward him again, staring directly into his heavenly blue eyes – she couldn’t deny the magnetism – and saying deliberately, “The way you play the orchestra is breathtaking. They say you’re a genius and . . . I believe it.”
He was not abashed by the compliment in the slightest, accepting it as his due, but raised a brow. “Interesting turn of phrase . . . play the orchestra. Almost poetic.”
Andrea inched out further along the limb. “I also heard you lecture once, a few years ago, but . . .” she offered up another anxious laugh, “this is going to sound foolish . . . I was too nervous to talk to you afterwards.”
“Which lecture?” he asked, ignoring her little confession and apparent embarrassment.
Of course, she thought, he doesn’t care that I was nervous or why. He only wants to know the part about himself.
“On the development of talent at a young age.” Andrea paused momentarily, then added in a confident tone, “I think one of the reasons I was afraid to approach you afterward was because I wasn’t sure I agreed with all your theories.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought then said with conviction, “I still don’t.”
As she spoke the last words, she stared at him unblinking. His demeanour altered perceptibly.
Hooked!
It was all she could do to keep from happy dancing and saying,
“Yessss!” out loud. Instead, she fixed him with a cool stare, a subtle challenge.
Aaron glanced around at the small milling crowd then back at Andrea.
“Are you with anyone?” he asked.
“Um . . . no. Why?”
“Just a moment.” He turned away from her, still clutching her programme she noted, and addressed a slight, young man hovering near him.
She heard him say, “Tony,” then caught only a few whispered words, not feeling well, before the aide took immediate action. The fellow cleared his voice and offered sincere apologies, but declared that the Maestro would be unable to stay any longer as he was feeling the effects of a rigorous and unforgiving tour schedule. He politely asked everyone to please leave. He was rewarded with a murmured chorus of disappointment, but these were people who were too well-mannered to press further.
Aaron turned back and placed his hand on Andrea’s arm as she feigned a motion to depart.
“Not you,” he said quietly. “I know it’s late, but would you have dinner with me?”
Andrea watched the others leave and Tony the aide following them out of the dressing room. She smiled and asked in her best incredulous tone, “You want to have dinner with me? Surely, you must have other things planned?”
Tony had closed the door behind himself. They were alone.
“You’re a breath of fresh air. I know this may seem surprising, but it isn’t all glamour and black tie parties. I don’t have any commitments for tonight. All I was going to do was go back to an empty hotel room and order room service. I’d love to discuss that topic of young talent over dinner with you instead.”
Andrea chuckled on the inside . . . Yeah, right. You just can’t stand that someone disagrees with you and I must be converted. You can’t wait to tell me how right you are and how wrong I am.
“Well, actually, um . . . I had dinner before I came here. I’m not really hungry. But if you’d like my company . . .”
“I would love the opportunity to talk with you and get to know you.”
She laughed shortly and wondered if he wanted to get laid, or something, as well. “That could be a problem, the getting to know me part, I mean. I’m only in town for the night. I . . . um . . . I traveled here just to see you.” She hastened to add, “I mean to see you conduct.”
Playing the ingénue was having the desired effect. God, he lapped up the worship.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Well, it’s an unusual name. I don’t have a drop of Greek blood in me, but my mother had an incredibly warped sense of humour. She was an entomologist of some note and specialized in arachnids . . . absolutely loved spiders. Doctor Letitia Webb. She named me . . . Arachnia. So, can you believe it? My name is Arachnia Webb.” A suitably doubtful expression creased her forehead
He stopped and looked at her, studying her for a moment then nodded. “I like it. It’s unusual. Truly unforgettable.” He scrawled something on the programme above his signature and handed it back to her.
She read, “To Spiderwoman”, and laughed out loud. “Well, I’ve been called that, but I’ve never seen it in writing.” She timed her pause then said, “You know, even your signature looks somehow . . . musical.”
“I don’t suppose you know any good restaurants around here?” Aaron asked as he divested himself of the black tailcoat, throwing it carelessly over the back of a chair. It slid to the floor and he did not deign to retrieve it. He sat down in front a dressing table peering into the mirror and preened.
Andrea resisted the urge to pick up the jacket. She responded to the question, an opening for which she had dared not hope. Although she had set up a number of contingency plans, his invitation to dine was a gift.
“Well, I thought the restaurant at my hotel was more than acceptable, if you’d care to try it.”
“Wonderful. I trust your judgment. We’ll go there.” He flashed his thousand-watt grin. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
Andrea gave him her best Mona Lisa smile full of seductive promise. “So am I. Really.”
Andrea’s only concern, though not a major one, was the limousine driver. He would probably remember her and though it would make little difference, any complication needed to be considered. During the short drive to the hotel, all the while making introductory small talk about the evening’s performance and the tour schedule – it was all about him – Andrea mulled over the best possibilities.
The doorman was already at the curb as the limousine coasted to a smooth stop in front of the hotel’s main entrance. They got out of the car while he held the door open for them.
The chauffeur came around as well with a professional economy of movement. His words were clipped and quiet. “Shall I wait, sir?”
Before Aaron could say a word, Andrea squeezed his arm to gain full attention and looked directly into his eyes when he turned to her. She said softly, “It could be a long dinner and a very leisurely discussion. Perhaps he should come back . . . later?”
The expression on Aaron’s face was all she hoped it would be. This was perfect. Andrea had a vision of herself holding a baton, weaving an elaborate invisible web in the air, conducting the ultimate symphony.
Once inside the hotel – the lobby was almost deserted at this late hour – Andrea first guided Aaron towards the dimly lit restaurant. Part way there, as they passed the elevators, she stopped and said, “Would you mind terribly if we went up to my room first? I really would like to freshen up a bit.”
Aaron played his part as if he’d read the script. Andrea almost felt a twinge of disappointment that he was so predictable, but he looked as unsurprised by this overt come-on as she had anticipated. He expected adulation, and groupies were groupies. The high quality ones were a mainstay of his life.
“In fact,” she continued, “we could order room service, have a lovely dinner, perhaps even some champagne, and enjoy some comfort and privacy up there. No reason our debate can’t be friendly.”
Aaron said nothing; he did not have to.
They stepped onto the elevator and watched the doors slide shut without a sound. Andrea linked her free arm through his. She felt the trembling vibrations of captive wings along invisible strands like the continuous bowing along a cello string.
Andrea stood over the king-sized bed gazing down at Aaron, who was partially reclining, pillows piled behind him against the cherry wood headboard. He was sipping from his champagne flute as he watched Andrea slowly stripping for him, teasing him.
He was slightly heavier than she remembered, perhaps a little prone to gustatory indulgence, but still trim enough. His genes had been almost as kind to him as Andrea’s had been to her, though she suspected it was more his vanity that held him in close check. She felt no warmth at the thought, but it crossed her mind that they would have made a beautiful couple, the kind that would turn heads. Well, his loss.
Andrea’s outer clothing was a black velvet pool on the deep pile, cream-coloured carpeting. She was down to just her black lace panties and lace top stockings; and the boots. The boots, she felt, added a little something to the overall effect. She reached up and unfastened the barrettes holding her hair in place, discarded them, and shook the lustrous mane. She stood tall and unashamed, with her shoulders thrust back, exhibiting her luscious, all-natural breasts.
Aaron’s erection was a testament to her seductive display. He had good reason to thank his parents further for their contribution to his genetic superiority. Andrea, however, had little trouble reconciling her awe at his magnificent member with her resolve to deprive him of its use.
She had placed her tote bag casually beside the bed between the night table and the stand upon which the sterling ice bucket perched. The bottle of champagne nestled in the crushed ice was still half full. Andrea’s glass stood empty on the night table.
She leaned over Aaron and curled her fingers around his rigid penis
.
“Well, Maestro, you’ve certainly made your point,” she said, giving him a little up-and-down stroke, “and I concede.” She released him, wiggled out of her briefs, and climbed up on the bed to straddle him. She held her arms wide. “To the victor go the spoils.”
Without taking his eyes off Andrea’s tits, Aaron extended his arm and set his glass atop the matching night stand on the other side of the bed. He reached up and very lightly stroked the rounded curve of Andrea’s left breast.
She closed her eyes and moaned deep in her throat. She knew it sounded genuine. It was easy enough to feel transported back in time, to recall the thrilling newness of her first sexual encounters. In the present, it was equally simple for her to feel the thrill of knowing she was composing her own concerto. How satisfying it was to know that for possibly the very first time, the Maestro was totally unfamiliar with the score.
Andrea swayed over top of Aaron, half opened her eyes, and with a sufficiently dreamy look, said, “You are so amazing. I can’t wait to explore all your areas of expertise.”
She leaned over him and deliberately brushed her nipples back and forth across his chest. Her lips curved in a coquettish smile and she bent close to his face, kissed him very lightly on the lips, and worked her way down his chin, his chest, his belly. She tickled him with the tip of her tongue. She explored then pretended to discover his sensitive spots. In fact, she remembered them clearly.
His responses were encouraging. The man’s libido certainly seemed to have kept pace with his career.
Andrea slid her warm fingers over the gentle curve of Aaron’s cock. Her nails were not too long, but well-shaped and painted in a favourite dark berry hue. She raked them, lightly over the velvet head and taut skin, following the line of a bulging vein. Beneath her touch, the beast pulsed and twitched, an entity in its own right.
Aaron groaned and reached down to twine his fingers through her hair, pressing her head with a gentle insistence. Andrea the actor had to force herself not to grin widely.
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