Malibu Music Read online

  Watching him striding up the beach, Bianca had to smile. She couldn't stay angry with him for long. He was too good-natured, too sure of himself and his appeal. She heard him whistle shrilly and saw Barney come bounding towards him, barking wildly and dancing in the sandy beach. Then, in one graceful fluid motion, Gerry dived headlong into the surf, the ecstatic dog right behind him.

  Later that afternoon Bianca made up her mind she had better call Tom to see if he knew of any playing jobs. Her financial situation wasn't critical, but she'd feel more secure with some money coming in.

  As she dialled his number, she thought about her playing. With her recent intensive practice, she felt more confident, but she had just about decided that she didn't really want to pursue a solo career. Music would always be an important part of her life, but she was beginning to seriously doubt that she had the drive and dedication it took to become a concert artist. She heard Tom's voice on the line.

  'This is Professor Schiffren.'

  'My, I'm impressed,' Bianca said lightly.

  His voice warmed immediately. 'Bianca? It's good to hear from you. The damn phone has been ringing off the hook with budding musicians ever since I started here.'

  'That bad?'

  He groaned. 'You have no idea. I think my university career is going to be quite brief. I prefer coaching serious students. All these kids seem to want is a free ticket to quick success. They're far more interested in my connections than my musical expertise.'

  'Oh, Tom, that's too bad.'

  'Well, enough of that. How about you? Are you practising hard? Doing your homework?'

  'Yes,' she replied truthfully. 'I'm soaking myself in Brahms. Laura has a wonderful record collection, and I'm going to the library this afternoon to look for a biography.'

  'Good girl.' He laughed shortly. 'I wish my other students were as obedient and pliable.'

  'Tom, the reason I called…' She hesitated. 'I was just wondering,' she plunged on, 'if you knew of any playing jobs around that I could audition for.'

  There was a short silence. 'I'm thinking,' he said at last. 'We do get calls here occasionally for musicians to fill in What did you have in mind?'

  'Oh, anything really. I'm not fussy. Since music is all I really know, it's the only way I can think of to earn a little money.'

  'Listen, Bianca, if you're broke, I can…'

  'No,' she broke in hurriedly. 'I'm not broke. I'm okay for now, but I should be earning something. Besides, I'm getting itchy fingers. I'd like to start playing again professionally, preferably with a group of some kind.'

  'Well,' he said slowly, 'if you're not fussy, I did get a call from a restaurant right in Malibu a few days ago. They want some strolling gypsy violinists for their dinner crowd.' His voice was apologetic. 'I know that's probably not what you had in mind, but the pay is good, and it's close by. Want to give it a try?'

  Bianca thought it over quickly. Tom was right. It wasn't what she'd had in mind at all, but she couldn't afford to be choosy. She knew there weren't that many jobs floating around for unemployed violinists.

  'Yes,' she said at last. 'I would like to.'

  'Okay. Just a minute and I'll get the address for you. I'll give them a call first and tell them I'm sending you over. Let's say tomorrow morning at eleven.'

  'That sounds fine.'

  He gave her the address. 'If they've already filled the spot, I'll call you right back, and we'll try to find something else. If not, let me know how it works out.'

  'Thanks a million, Tom. I knew I could count on you.'

  'Always, Bianca,' he said firmly. 'In every way.'

  After they'd hung up, Bianca stood by the telephone for a long time. Strolling gypsy violinist! Quite a switch from the concert hall. She glanced down at the address she had scrawled on the pad by the phone. 'Rumania House,' she murmured aloud. It was on La Cienega Boulevard, one of the main thoroughfares.

  She'd never done that kind of work before, but still it might be fun to try. And if it didn't work out, no harm would be done. She felt a little anxious, but also intrigued. She smiled. 'I'm going to have an adventure,' she said aloud.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning Bianca arrived at the Rumania House restaurant promptly at eleven o'clock. She was dressed sedately in a businesslike beige linen suit and sensible bone-coloured pumps. Except for one persistent cowlick in the back, her unruly black hair had for once decided to behave, and she felt that at least she would make a good impression on her potential employer.

  It had been an easy place to find on the busy boulevard, and although the front of the restaurant was unprepossessing, once she had parked Laura's BMW in the wide parking lot and gone inside, she was instantly charmed.

  The decor and atmosphere were decidedly old-world, she thought as she wandered through the foyer looking for signs of life. A sign on the front window had said they didn't open for dinner until five o'clock, but the door had been unlocked.

  She found her way to the dining room, which turned out to be a series of small rooms separated by white latticework partitions and trailing green plants. There were four or five tables in each small section, with squat candles and checked tablecloths on them.

  The ceiling was criss-crossed with heavy dark wooden beams that matched the padded leather banquettes and chairs at the tables, and the windows all along one side of the room were of a peculiar smoky glass, opaque and casting a dim interesting light on the interior. Yes, she thought, pleased. Definitely old-world. There was an intimate atmosphere, cozy and warm, which would probably be enhanced at night when the candles were lit.

  'Miss Jameson.' She heard a voice call her name and looked up to see a small dark woman walking briskly towards her. She wore a black dress with a heavy pearl necklace around her neck, and her tiny hands flashed from an assortment of brilliant rings. 'I am Madame Tedescu,' she announced.

  'Yes,' Bianca replied, moving towards her. 'Mr Schiffren sent me to audition for you.'

  The little woman waved a hand in the air. 'No need. If Mr Schiffren says you can play, I know you can play.' She looked Bianca up and down very carefully, the black eyes as bright as buttons in the finely wrinkled face. 'I only want to see what you look like.' her husky voice was heavily accented.

  Bianca stood perfectly still, her violin case in her hand, her bag slung over one shoulder. She felt nervous under that penetrating, appraising gaze, but resisted the impulse to squirm. What difference did it make what she looked like? She was a musician, not a dancer.

  As if she could read her mind, Madame Tedescu went on briskly. 'You will have to wear a costume, you see.' She cupped her chin in her hand and nodded. 'You'll do, I think, with some make-up. You'll need a wig. Or you can probably pull your hair back, like mine, and I will find a black chignon for you. What are you? A size ten, eight?'

  Bianca nodded, totally confused. 'An eight, usually. If it's not too skimpy, that is.'

  Madame Tedescu smiled wickedly, wrinkling her wizened face even more. 'Ah, but skimpy is what we want, isn't it? I think an eight. Come, I'll get the costume.' Her voice was brisk, businesslike now. 'Take it home and try it on. If it's impossible, we'll find a larger one tonight. Come with me.'

  Stunned, Bianca followed her. She couldn't believe it. The woman hadn't even heard her play. And what was she supposed to play? Wasn't there any music? They were in a tiny, windowless dressing room now. A long metal clothes rack all along one wall was hung with brightly-coloured dresses. Madame Tedescu whipped rapidly through them, took a swath of scarlet satin off a hanger and thrust it at Bianca.

  'Be here at six o'clock,' she said. 'That's when our rush hour starts. You will play until midnight, with time out for supper in the kitchen and two fifteen-minute breaks.'

  She named a salary. Bianca was impressed. 'But, the music,' she faltered.

  The little woman waved a hand in the air. 'The music is simple. Just gypsy airs. Whatever you like. Sarasate. Kreisler. Enesco. You know the kind of thing I mean. There wi
ll be two other violinists and an accordionist. They will help you.'

  Bianca was still hesitant. It was all happening too fast. Her head was spinning. She looked down at the slinky costume. She wasn't sure she wanted to be on display like that.

  'Well?' Madame Tedescu was saying. 'Is there a problem?'

  Bianca made up her mind. She needed the money. She wanted to play. And she wanted an adventure, something different. 'No,' she said finally. 'No problem.'

  Her head was still whirling when she arrived back at the beach house after that short, unsettling interview. Her main concern was what she would play. She wished she'd asked Madame Tedescu the names of the other two violinists. If she could at least talk to one of them she might get a better idea of what was expected of her.

  She got out of the car, dragging her violin case and costume behind her. That costume! Would it even fit? And what was she going to do with her hair? There was no way she'd be able to make it behave into a sleek chignon. It had a definite mind of its own, and went whichever way it happened to feel like at the moment. Six o'clock! She'd never be ready.

  She was halfway to the door, so absorbed in her anxious forebodings that she hadn't even noticed Gerry standing at the group of mailboxes until he called to her.

  'Hey, what's up?' Startled out of her brooding, she whirled around to see him ambling casually towards her, a large stack of mail in his hands, a concerned expression on his face.

  She forced out a smile. 'It's a long story.' Somehow, his very presence reassured her. She couldn't imagine anything upsetting his equilibrium, and right now she needed that kind of strength. 'Come on in, and I'll tell you about it.'

  He followed her inside. 'Do you want some lunch?' she called over her shoulder, moving towards the kitchen. She was suddenly ravenous.

  'Sounds good.'

  She set her violin case, costume and shoulder bag down on the kitchen counter and turned to face him. He was lounging casually up against the door frame, his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking tanned and relaxed and comforting in his worn jeans and white knit shirt.

  'I've got a job,' she announced.

  He pushed himself away from the wall and walked slowly towards her, dark eyes alight. 'That's great, Bianca. But why the long face?'

  She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. 'I've got the jitters.' She looked up at him. 'It's all happened so fast.' She told him about the job, Rumania House, Madame Tedescu. When she had finished, she spread her arms in a helpless gesture. 'She was so vague about everything. I don't even know what to play.'

  He was grinning now, his even white teeth flashing against his tanned face. 'You've got a problem, kid.' He chuckled deep in his throat and reached out a forefinger to touch her lightly on the nose.

  'What's so funny?' she snapped, backing away. 'Some help you are.'

  'Oh, I'll help you.' He chuckled again, totally unconcerned at her growing anger. 'But I'll have to admit I enjoy seeing you ruffled. You come on so cool and controlled all the time that it does my black heart good to see you're only human after all.'

  'Oh, I'm human, all right,' she retorted. 'You're the one with nerves of steel.' She had to smile. 'I thought you'd be a tower of strength to lean on in my moment of crisis, and all you do is laugh at me.'

  He eyed her carefully. 'Is that how you see me, Bianca?' he asked gently. 'A tower of strength?'

  She ran a hand nervously through her short dark hair. 'Well, I at least thought you'd try to help,' she replied lightly, evading the probing question.

  'I said I'd help you. Why don't you fix us a sandwich or something while I run next door and look through some old music I've got stored there.'

  She stared. 'Music? What kind of music?'

  He shrugged. 'I told you I'd done a little bit of everything before I started writing. I used to play piano in a combo. Many long years ago.'

  She stood open-mouthed. Was there no end to the surprises this man could spring on her? 'You make yourself sound ancient, Gerry,' she said slowly.

  'Not in years, maybe,' was the curt reply. 'I'm thirty-two. But my vast and varied experience of life started at a very tender age.' He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face the kitchen counter. 'Come on, now, get cracking with that lunch. I'll just be a few minutes.'

  As he turned away from her to leave, his hand shot out and gave her bottom a light playful smack. She drew in her breath sharply and turned to confront him, but all she saw was his retreating back as he ambled jauntily out of the kitchen.

  'That man!' she muttered through clenched teeth. But she had to admit she was feeling much better. Although his light-hearted, playful attitude was aggravating, even infuriating at times, it did serve to put things in a more realistic perspective. She had no idea how he intended to help her, but she was certain it would be another surprise.

  Feeling uncomfortable in the beige linen suit, she decided to change her clothes before she tackled lunch. She glanced with distaste at the sleazy red costume still sitting crumpled on the drainingboard, and her heart sank. She'd have to face that, too, eventually. Later, she promised herself. With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she gathered up the costume and went into the bedroom. When she hung it up, she cringed at the low-cut bodice. What had she got herself into?

  By the time Gerry returned, carrying a stack of tattered sheet music, she had already changed into jeans and a cotton shirt and was slicing tuna sandwiches.

  'You found something!' she called as he breezed into the kitchen, brandishing the music.

  'I told you I would,' he chided, peering over her shoulder at the sandwiches. 'Looks good. I'm starved.'

  'Let me see,' she said, reaching for the music. While she leafed through it, Gerry got down a glass from the cupboard over the sink and went to the refrigerator for some milk.

  'Want some?' he asked, lifting the carton.

  'Please,' she murmured. The music looked simple enough. Two of Lizst's Hungarian Rhapsodies, Zigeuner, some Enesco, and, of course, Brahms' Hungarian Dances.

  She looked at Gerry. He was leaning against the counter, chewing thoughtfully, making himself right at home. She watched as he took a long swallow of milk then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  'Got any pickles?' he asked politely. 'Potato chips?'

  'I'm surprised you haven't already found them,' she said dryly.

  'Oh, I don't like to push,' he rejoined modestly, lowering his eyes.

  She had to laugh. She was grateful to him, after all. 'Gerry, this music is wonderful, just the thing for a strolling gypsy violinist.'

  'Right,' he said with satisfaction. 'Eat up, now, and we'll run through it.'

  She shook her head. 'I can't eat. I'm too nervous.'

  'Eat, I said,' he ordered sternly. 'How can you stroll properly tonight without sustenance? Go on, eat.' He reached across, picked up half her sandwich and thrust it at her.

  'Oh, all right,' she said, taking it and forcing down a bite.

  He reached for the other half. 'But so long as you're not hungry, I might as well finish up your sandwich. Don't want to waste food. Think of the starving children in Greece.'

  She stared. 'What starving children in Greece? Children don't starve in Greece.'

  He shrugged. 'I don't know. That's what my mother used to tell us when we were kids and wouldn't eat our carrots.'

  'And then you ate your carrots?'

  He shook his head, grinning, his mouth full of her tuna sandwich. He swallowed. 'No way. I still can't stand them. I told her to send them to the children in Greece if she was so worried about them.'

  She eyed him wryly. 'I'll bet you were just as impossible when you were a little boy as you are now.'

  He nodded. 'You're right.'

  'Your poor mother!'

  He laughed shortly. 'My poor mother is now living in a luxury condo in Florida, thanks to her impossible son.'

  Bianca was touched, but also confused. Her visions of Gerry as a struggling writer living off the generosi
ty of his friends in Japan were slowly fading. He had offered to loan—no, give—her money. She eyed him carefully. He had turned away from her and was rinsing out his glass at the kitchen sink. She took in the shabby jeans, moulding his firm muscular hips and thighs like a second skin. The white knit shirt, stretching tautly over his broad shoulders as he leaned forward over the sink, had definitely seen better days. He badly needed a haircut, and the white sneakers on his feet were worn almost beyond repair.

  He was an enigma to her, a puzzle, and this made her vaguely uncomfortable. She had sensed from the beginning of their friendship that he was hiding something from her. On the surface, he seemed absolutely open, frank and sincere. Yet she was intuitively aware that there were hidden depths to this unusual man, so pleasant and boyish in some ways, yet so secretive and withdrawn in others.

  He was drying his hands now on the towel he'd found inside the cupboard under the sink, and she watched as he folded it neatly and returned it to the rod fastened to the door.

  As though he had sensed her troubled gaze on him all the while, he turned slowly to her and once again ran a finger lightly down her nose.

  'Don't worry about it, Bianca,' he said softly. 'I just want to be your friend. I like you. And I'll never hurt you.'

  She was gazing now directly into those mysterious dark eyes of his, fathomless pools of liquid brown, almost black. She sensed behind them a wealth of experience, a solid self-confidence, and yet, too, the merest hint of pain.

  'Come on,' he said abruptly, taking the music from her. 'Let's get started. You've only got a few hours.'

  She followed him into the living room, still immersed in her speculations about this strange man. She took out her violin and went to the piano. He was sitting there, the music spread out on the rack, leafing through it. While she mechanically tuned the instrument, her thoughts were still on Gerry.

  Why shouldn't she trust him? She believed him when he said he'd never hurt her. He was a tease, and he was arrogant, but there didn't seem to be a malicious bone in his body. There was no reason why they couldn't be friends. After those first few blatant attempts he'd made to seduce her, he'd backed off when she'd made it clear that wasn't what she wanted. And they'd been pretty feeble efforts. He hadn't pushed her, had never forced anything on her.