The Maestro's Mistress by Angela Dracup

speed,’ he told her. ‘In
the summer I judge the quality of my driving by the number of flies I kill with
the side windows.’
    Tara felt a lurch of nausea. The
speedometer now registered one hundred and thirty.
    ‘Are you afraid?’ he enquired
softly.
    She moistened her lips and looked
again into his face. ‘No. Was that what you wanted?’
    He laughed. ‘I’m glad you trust me.’
    Tara’s fingers were laced
together, her knuckles white. ‘I trust you because you’re the sort of man who
values himself very highly. You believe your life is important,’ she said
steadily. ‘You would never put yourself at real risk.’
    His lips curled again into his
habitual enigmatic smile. ‘What a curious little speech.’
    Tara judged she had hit the nail
on the head and felt herself relax.
    Xavier turned off the motorway at
the next exit, easing the car to a sedate seventy miles an hour. He reached out
and pressed a black button on the dashboard. Music surged from an array of
speakers: Bach, one of the Brandenburg Concertos. Tara’s uncertainties and
unease began to fall away from her with the smooth swiftness of rain coursing
down sheet glass. A spring of sheer joy bubbled up inside as the clear notes of
a flute, oboe and violin intertwined their voices in a musical conversation of
radiant beauty. A smile of pure pleasure lit up her face.
    ‘I used to play fragments from
the Brandenburgs with my father,’ she told Xavier.
    He nodded.
    ‘Years ago when I was just a
kid.’
    ‘Before you shot yourself in the
foot,’ he observed drily.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Rejected your musical talent and
also him for some incomprehensible reason, murdered your future
prospects as a player.’
    Tara was utterly dismayed.
    ‘You’ve been a stupid fool,
haven’t you?’
    She flinched, angry and wounded.
‘You don’t begin to understand!’
    ‘I most certainly do not. Do
you?’
    She stared at him, her eyes wide
with pain. ‘No,’ she said in a low voice.
    He drew up beside her house and
killed the whining engine.
    Tara turned to him. ‘Thank you,’
she said solemnly.
    ‘Today was helpful?’ he wondered.
    ‘Yes. Playing for Monica, being
scared out of my wits, realizing how much damage I’ve done… All of it.’
    ‘So – what will you do with your
life?’
    Her eyes swam with tears.’ She
shook her head.
    ‘I’ll see you into the house,’ he
said.
    He stood in the hallway, a tall
impassive figure looking down at her, his face neutral. ‘Will you be all
right?’
    ‘Yes. Would you like some tea
before you go?’
    He inclined his head graciously.
    Tara went into the kitchen. The
telephone on the wall rang.
    ‘Tara – it’s Mum. I’ve had to
stay late at the surgery.’ A pause. ‘Donald has suggested we go and get
something to eat together.’
    Tara heard the hesitation in her
mother’s voice. It had the effect of irritating her intensely, just as Bruno
did when he skirted around her, anxious not to offend. ‘Donald’s invited you to
dinner! Well, that’s great. Have a lovely time,’ she said cheerily.
    ‘Yes, well look…’
    ‘Mum! You’re perfectly entitled
to go out for a meal without getting my approval. I’ll expect you when I see
you. Right?’ Tara put the phone down and looked at it thoughtfully.
    She found Xavier sitting
motionless on the sofa, his hands lightly folded in his lap.
    Tara handed him a steaming mug,
then sat down opposite him staring into her own drink. ‘My mother’s got a date
with her boss. He’s a smooth talking doctor who just happens to be a lonely and
available widower. Isn’t that nice for both of them?’ she said sarcastically.
    ‘It probably is,’ Xavier agreed
evenly.
    The bitch! Tara thought, her eyes
narrowing with resentment at the idea of her mother swanning off to some
restaurant with another man when her father was hardly off the scene. She
glanced at Xavier. She sensed that he was acutely aware of the hostility and
bitterness that churned inside her, but that