Rhapsody (32 page)

Sonia stared at her son, her brows knit
together in concentration. "Misha, I haven't wanted to discuss this
with you, but I think it's time you considered searching for a new
agent. I think that Manny might be mixed up with—"

"Mama!" Misha broke in. "I think you have a
vivid imagination. Manny and Sasha have done a fantastic job for me
so far. I get booked into the best concert halls. I get dates
playing with the greatest orchestras. I play the best festivals.
And besides, the music company is flourishing. It's phenomenal. My
CDs are selling like hotcakes, the distribution is fantastic, the
publicity is first-rate. What more could I ask for?"

"I've wondered about all that," Vera said
matter-of-factly.

"What do you mean?" Misha asked, turning to
her.

"Well, it seems almost too perfect, Misha,"
Vera said, choosing her words carefully. "How do Manny and Sasha
always, and I mean always, manage to book you into the best concert
halls? Everybody in the music world knows that some of the places
you play are hell to book. Top stars are kept waiting or even have
to settle for less. And why are your CDs distributed better than
nearly anyone else's? Why do they get the most prominent retail
space in the stores? I'm not saying they don't deserve it. I'm just
saying that it's very curious that from the very beginning this
upstart company of Manny's and Sasha's has done what even major,
well-established companies sometimes can't do for their
artists."

"You should listen to Vera," Sonia said,
nodding her head. "I can tell that she's been thinking along the
same lines that I have."

Misha laughed. "Maybe the two of you have
some special female intuition that men don't have." He was trying
to make light of what they'd said, but in actuality he was afraid
that they were zeroing in on potentially bothersome problems that
had been worrying him as well. He simply hadn't wanted to think
about them.

"I don't think female intuition has anything
to do with it," Dmitri said, speaking up for the first time.

Everybody at the table turned to look at
him.

"What are you saying, Dad?" Misha asked.

Dmitri cleared his throat, then spoke. "I
agree with your mother, Misha. I think it's time that you looked
for a new agent. Something is beginning to tell me that Manny and
Sasha may not be altogether trustworthy."

"Are you saying this because of that one
stupid dinner in Brighton Beach?" Misha asked. "Or is it because
you think Manny and Sasha are lovers or something."

"No," Dmitri said, shaking his head.
"Definitely not. I don't care if they're lovers, but I certainly
don't like to think that Manny and Sasha are involved in any way
with those people. Because"—he paused and looked into his son's
eyes—"that involves you by association."

"I don't even know any of those people!"
Misha countered defensively.

"You don't have to, son," Dmitri said. "At
least for people to associate you with them in their minds." He
cleared his throat again. "In any case, I'm not denying that Manny
and Sasha have done a good job for you so far. But I think they've
been awfully secretive, particularly regarding the recording
business. Every time I broach the subject or try to ask questions,
they brush me off. The long and short of it is, I smell a rat."

Misha looked at his father thoughtfully.
"I'll talk to them about it," he promised. "But I'm not going to
fire them now. They've been with me since the beginning, and I owe
them my allegiance."

Sonia emitted an audible sigh. "So what are
you going to do about this Russian tour?" she asked.

"I'm not going to do it," Misha said.

"Well, it's up to you, Misha," she said. "You
know we'll back you up whatever your decision is."

"Thanks, Mama," he said.

"But I do hope you'll give a new agent some
thought," she added.

"You're not going to give up, are you?" Misha
said.

"Not on your life, young man," she said.

After dinner, Misha hailed a taxi on Central
Park South, and he and Vera slid in. He gave the driver Vera's
address, and the taxi sped off toward the East Side.

"You want to come in for a nightcap?" Vera
asked.

Misha was looking out the window distractedly
and didn't answer her for a moment. "I don't think so, Vera," he
finally replied. "I ...I—"

She patted his arm. "Misha, you don't have to
explain yourself to me. It's Vera, remember?"

He drew his gaze in and smiled at her. "I
know," he said. "And I'm really glad to see you. You know, your
letters and telephone calls practically keep me alive while I'm on
tour."

"Yours make a big difference to me, too," she
said. But they don't replace you, she thought.

"We'll have to get together alone," he said,
"before I leave again."

"That would be great, Misha," Vera said. "If
you've got the time."

"I'm just sort of bushed tonight," he said.
"I want to hit the sack." I've got to get ready for Serena's
arrival tomorrow, he thought.

"You just need a good night's rest," Vera
said. He never has to go to bed early if there's something he
really wants to do, she thought. I wonder what's really up?

"I guess so," he replied.

The driver pulled up in front of the town
house where Vera's apartment was, and Misha started to get out.

"I can get inside safely, Misha," Vera
said.

"No," he insisted. "I'll walk you to the
door." He turned to the driver. "Wait here, please. I'll just be a
minute."

He walked Vera to the door. She took her key
out and turned to him. "Good night, Misha," she said. "Call if you
get a chance." I can't push him, she thought, or he'll run
away.

"I will," he promised. He leaned over and
kissed her chastely on the cheek. "Talk to you later." He turned
and rushed back to the waiting taxi.

If only I could talk to her, he thought. If
only I could tell her about Serena. Tell her about the love of my
life.

He suddenly realized that Vera was the best
friend he had, but she was the last person in the world he could
tell about Serena.

When Misha saw Serena emerge from the Customs
area, he could swear that his heart skipped a beat. He had never
known what that meant. Nor would he have even believed such a
physical manifestation of romantic anticipation was possible. His
body's response to the sight of Serena, however—her long black
hair, dark glasses, chic trim black pants suit and high-heeled
boots—had made him a firm believer.

She didn't see him, and he called to her.
"Serena! Over here!"

She turned her elegant head toward him and
took off her dark glasses. Misha was gratified to see her generous
lips immediately spread into a smile as genuine as his own.

"Misha!" she called back, heading in his
direction.

He held his arms out, and she went into them,
returning his hug. He thrilled at the touch of her and her unique
scent, an exotic blend of musk and citrus and the mysterious Far
East.

She kissed him on both cheeks, airily, he
thought, as if they were friends, not lovers. But he soon knew
why.

"Misha," she said, drawing away from him,
"this is Coral Randolph, my agent."

Misha looked over and saw a painfully thin
woman somewhere in her middle years, her age difficult to
ascertain. She had shiny jet black hair, like shoe polish, he
thought, parted down the middle and severely cut in a short page
boy. It contrasted almost grotesquely with her white-powdered skin
and plum-hued lipstick. Her eyebrows were plucked to thin arches,
if not entirely penciled on.

"How do you do?" Misha said to her, extending
a hand. He had expected Serena to be alone and was disappointed
that this strange woman was with her, but he tried not to let his
feelings show.

Coral Randolph took his proffered hand and
shook it with surprising strength. He noticed that hers was very
long and thin, her nails perfectly manicured and lacquered the same
plum shade as her lips. She wore an enormous pearl set in gold on
one finger.

She looked him directly in the eye. Her gaze
was intense and appraising and, he thought, absolutely
fearless.

"It's a pleasure, Misha," Coral said in an
eastern boarding school voice. "Serena's told me so much about you,
and of course I know your beautiful playing quite well."

"Thank you," Misha said.

"Look," Serena said excitedly. "There's
Sal!"

Misha looked over to see a young lady
approaching them. Her hair was cut like a man's, and she wore an
expensive-looking man-tailored suit, complete with a tie.

"Sally Parker, Misha Levin," Coral said
quickly, by way of introduction. "Sally's my assistant."

Sally nodded but ignored Misha's extended
hand. "Hey, guys," she said. "Let's get a move on. I'm
double-parked."

She had the voice and manner of John Wayne,
Misha thought.

Serena and Coral turned and started to follow
her.

"But . . ." Misha began.

"What is it?" Serena asked, smiling.

"I thought you'd ride back in with me," he
said. "I have a limo waiting."

"Oh, God!" Serena said. "I didn't think. Sal
always picks us up. Why don't you ride with us? Just get rid of
your driver."

"It won't take a minute," Misha said. "I'll
meet you right out front. Okay?" Damn, he thought, no necking on
the way back into the city.

"Shake a leg," Sally/Sal said.

Misha rushed out of the terminal and down to
the curb where his limousine was parked. He quickly paid the
driver, tipping him generously, and dismissed him, then rushed back
up the sidewalk to where the three women stood waiting for him.

"What about your luggage?" Misha asked.

"Oh, we Fed Exed everything from Paris,"
Serena said. "It's so much easier that way. Ready?"

"Yes," Misha said.

"Let's get in," Serena said.

The car was a vintage Phantom V Rolls-Royce,
an immense, shining black presence at the curbside.

"My God, it's magnificent," Misha
enthused.

"It's Coral's," Serena said, opening the door
and sliding onto the backseat's luxurious and aromatic black
leather. Coral slid in after her, and Misha got in next to Serena
on the other side.

"So it's yours, Coral," Misha said, his eyes
sweeping the interior of the car appreciatively.

"By default," Coral said. "Actually, it was
my step- grandmother's. My grandfather gave it to her, and the old
dear left it to me."

"All set?" Sally/Sal asked from the driver's
seat.

"Yes," Coral said. "And Sal?"

"Yeah?"

"Please don't drive too fast on the way into
the city. Okay?"

"You got it," Sally/Sal said.

As they drove into Manhattan, Misha found it
difficult to keep his hands off Serena. He gathered from her
somewhat ladylike distance that this was not the time or the place
for any touchy-feely games. With Coral, the vampire, on the other
side, and John Wayne in the driver's seat, he thought, I guess I'd
better restrain my natural impulse to ravage Serena here on the
backseat.

Sally/Sal dropped Coral off at her apartment
building in the east Sixties at Fifth Avenue. Just the sort of
address she would have, Misha thought, at least from the looks of
her. World-class shopper, world-class breeding and taste, and
probably a patient of world-class plastic surgeons, psychiatrists,
nutritionists, and personal trainers.

They rolled majestically down Fifth Avenue to
Fourteenth Street, then went crosstown and rolled down Seventh
Avenue, eventually pulling up in front of Serena's SoHo loft
building.

"See ya, Sal," Serena said as they slid out
of the Rolls-Royce.

"Yeah," Sally/Sal said. "See ya later,
Serena."

As the big car rolled away, Serena and Misha
entered the lobby of her building. It had obviously been
expensively renovated, but there was no doorman.

In the elevator, Misha turned to her, and
they fell into each other's arms, kissing passionately, hungrily,
desperately, making up for the torturous wait while driving into
the city. When the elevator car stopped at Serena's floor, they
were in a clinch and didn't part for a few moments.

They finally entered Serena's vast loft,
which was both her photography studio and home, and made a beeline
for the bedroom. Without preamble they rapidly undressed, tossing
their clothes on the floor. They fell onto the bed, devouring each
other with an urgency and need born of long absence.

Later, much later, they lay entwined in each
other's arms, whispering in the near-darkness, sipping glasses of
wine that Serena had gotten in the kitchen.

"How long are you here for?" Misha asked
her.

"Two days," Serena said. "Two days of
back-to-back meetings. Then I'm off to Helsinki for a shoot. Three
or four days shooting models in furs."

"Damn," Misha said.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm going to be here the rest of the week,
then I'm off to Berlin for a performance," he said.

"Well, maybe . . ." she said teasingly,
"maybe I can fit you in between meetings tomorrow and the next day.
Huh? What do you say?"

Misha laughed. "You need to ask?" He pulled
her closer, hugging her tightly. "You couldn't cancel some meetings
while I'm here? So we could spend more time together?"

Serena pulled away from him. "No way," she
said in a firm voice.

Misha saw the cross look on her face. "Okay,
Serena," he said. "I just wondered."

"Remember one thing, Misha," she said. "My
career takes precedence over everything else. I don't miss meetings
or assignments. There are lots and lots of photographers out there
waiting in line to take my place."

"I understand," he said.