She shook her head.
“Is it…? No, it isn’t Milan Kaspar. She doesn’t look pissed enough.”
A corner of her lip curled up. Damn him. He was fun and desirable and… God, would it be such a bad idea?
“Maybe… She’s smiling and she looks a little bit wicked, so maybe it’s…” He bent closer. She felt his breath. Everything tensed.
“Pears,” she blurted, pre-empting him.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m thinking about pears.”
“Pairs of what?”
“No, the fruit. Pears.”
He stared, nonplussed, for a moment.
“Why pears?”
“Why not?”
He nodded, as if considering this proposition seriously.
“Yes. Why not? Pears. Why not? I guessed wrong. You have to read me now.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to try. Look at me. A good, long look, right into the eyes. Can you see what is behind them, in my mind? Can you see it?”
His voice was low and hypnotic—only the glint in his eye gave away the lighthearted intention of his words.
“No,” said Lydia, but she could. So much so that her cheeks were hot and she was acutely aware of the danger of her position.
“Look closer. Look harder. What’s there?”
Sex.
“Optic nerves,” she said, flustered.
“Oh, Lydia.” He shook his head. “You disappoint me. Okay, forget about reading my eyes. Try my lips.”
He bent his head closer.
“Read your lips?”
“Mm-hmm.” He puckered them.
“How do I do that?” she whispered.
“You want me to show you?”
She nodded. She had crossed the line. It was going to happen now.
He put his hands on her cheeks, fingers reaching into her hair, and pressed his mouth to hers.
It felt so good to have all the angst, and the weighing up of pros and cons and rights and wrongs, taken out of her hands like this. To cede control to him was bizarrely liberating. All the worries about Milan and Sarah and the orchestra and everything spiralled up and away from her, replaced entirely by the delicious sensation of Karl-Heinz’s lips on hers.