What’s he doing here?’ she muttered, jerking her head away seconds too late to avoid the familiar glinting gaze of the man who had plagued her dreams every night for the past week.
‘You know him?’ Jenny’s eyes widened, and she could not disguise the hint of envy in her voice. ‘What a dark horse you are, Ella. He’s seriously gorgeous. Who is he?’
‘His name is Vadim Aleksandrov,’ Ella said in a clipped tone, aware that Jenny would badger her for information all night. ‘He’s a Russian billionaire. I’ve met him once—briefly—but I don’t know him.’
‘Well, it’s obvious he’d like to get to know you,’ Jenny said musingly, intrigued by the twin spots of colour staining Ella’s cheeks. Lady Eleanor Stafford was renowned for being cool and composed—so much so that she had earned the nickname of ice princess by a few of the other orchestra members—but at this moment Ella was looking distinctly flustered.
‘I can’t understand why he’s here,’ Ella muttered tensely. ‘According to the gossip column in the magazine I read, he’s supposed to be at the film festival in Cannes with a famous Italian actress.’ The photo of him and his voluptuous companion had lodged in Ella’s mind, and to her annoyance she had been unable to forget it, nor dismiss the shocking image in her head of a naked Vadim making love to his latest mistress. His private life did not interest her, she reminded herself sharply. Vadim Aleksandrov did not interest her, and she absolutely would not give in to the urge to turn her head and meet the piercing blue gaze she sensed was focused on her.
But her prickling awareness of him did not lessen, and she had to force herself to concentrate as the audience settled and the RLO’s principal conductor, Gustav Germaine, lifted his baton. She adored Dvorak’s New World Symphony, and she was annoyed with herself for being distracted by Vadim’s presence. Taking a deep breath, she positioned her violin beneath her chin, and only then, as she drew her bow, did she relax and give all her attention to the music that flowed from wood and strings and seemed to surge up inside her, obliterating every other thought.
An hour and a half later the last notes of the symphony faded and the sound of the audience’s tumultuous applause shattered Ella’s dream-like state, catapulting her back to reality.
‘Good grief! Gustav’s almost smiling,’ Jenny whispered as the members of the orchestra stood and bowed. ‘That must mean he’s satisfied with our performance for once. Too right—it sounded pretty well perfect to me.’
‘I wasn’t entirely happy with the way I played at the start of the fourth movement,’ Ella muttered.
‘But you’re even more of a perfectionist than Gustav,’ Jenny said, unconcerned. ‘From the audience’s response, they loved it—especially your Russian. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you the whole evening.’
‘He’s not my Russian.’ Ella did not want to be reminded of Vadim Aleksandrov, or learn that he had been watching her. She certainly did not want to glance over in his direction, but, like a puppet tugged by invisible strings, she turned her head a fraction, her eyes drawn inexorably to the dark-haired figure in the front row.
Jenny was right—he was gorgeous, she admitted reluctantly. Music dominated her life, and usually she took little notice of men, but Vadim was impossible to ignore. He was tall—three or four inches over six feet tall by her estimation—with impressively broad shoulders sheathed in a superbly tailored dinner jacket. His jet-black hair and olivetoned complexion hinted at a Mediterranean ancestry, which made his vivid blue eyes beneath heavy black brows even more startling. His hard-boned face was exquisitely sculpted, with razor-sharp cheekbones, a patrician nose and a square chin that warned of a determined nature, while his beautifully shaped mouth was innately sensual.
Oh, yes—seriously gorgeous, and her reaction to him was seriously unnerving, Ella acknowledged, feeling her heart slam beneath her ribs when those blue eyes trailed over her in a leisurely inspection and his lips curved into an amused smile that warned her he was well aware of the effect he had on her.
‘So, where did you meet a sexy Russian billionaire?’ Jenny muttered beneath the sound of the audience’s applause. ‘And if you’re not interested in him I think it’s only fair you introduce him to me. He’s practically edible.’
Jenny was irrepressible, and despite herself Ella’s lips twitched. ‘I met him in Paris.’
Jenny’s eyes widened. ‘Paris—the city of romance. This gets better and better. Did you sleep with him?’
‘No! Absolutely not.’ Ella gave her friend a scandalised glance. ‘Do you think I’d jump into bed with a man I’d only just met?’
‘Not normally, no.’ Ella’s coolness with members of the opposite sex was well known. ‘But perhaps if he looked at you the way he’s looking at you now…’ Jenny murmured shrewdly.
Ella knew she was going to regret her next question. ‘How is he looking at me?’ she asked, striving to sound uninterested—and failing.
‘Like he’s imagining undressing you, very slowly, and stroking his hands over every inch of your body as he exposes you to his hungry gaze.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Jen! I don’t know what kind of books you’ve been reading lately.’
Jenny watched Ella’s face flood with colour and grinned. ‘You asked—I’m just telling you what I reckon is in your Russian’s mind.’
‘He’s not my Russian.’ Ella took a deep breath, and by sheer effort of will did not glance over at Vadim—but she could not dismiss the memory of the searing attraction she had felt the first time she had met him. A force beyond her control demanded that she turn her head, and as her eyes clashed with his brilliant gaze she felt a fierce tug of sexual awareness in the pit of her stomach. To her horror she felt an exquisite tingling sensation in her breasts as her nipples hardened, and mortification swept through her when Vadim deliberately lowered his eyes to the stiff peaks straining beneath her clingy silk jersey dress. Scarlet-faced, she jerked her head away from him and by sheer effort of will forced her lips into a smile as she faced the audience and bowed once more.
Vadim felt a surge of satisfaction when he noted the betraying signs that Ella Stafford was not as immune to him as she would like him to believe. When they had met a week ago he had been blown away by her delicate beauty, and intrigued by her coolness. He wanted her badly—perhaps more than he had ever wanted a woman, he brooded as his eyes skimmed over her slender body, following the slight curve of her hips, the indent of her tiny waist and the delicate swell of her breasts beneath her black cocktail dress.
Her hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, and for a moment he indulged in the pleasurable fantasy of removing the pins so that the pale blonde silk fell around her shoulders. To his shock, he felt himself harden. He hadn’t been this turned-on since he was a testosterone-fuelled youth, he acknowledged self-derisively, and he inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring slightly as he imposed ruthless self-control over his hormones.
The members of the orchestra were now filing out of the Garden Room. He was aware that Ella had determinedly not looked in his direction, but as she stepped forward she shot him a lightning glance, and colour flared along her cheekbones when he dipped his head in acknowledgement.
Her reaction pleased him. He had known when they had met in Paris and he had seen the flare of startled awareness in her eyes that the attraction was mutual. Sexual alchemy was a potent force that held them both in its grip, but for some reason she had refused his
