” “You have it,” he declared confidently. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. His arm closed in around her middle and she was caught. They all stay!” “And you yourself?” Brendon laughed. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. She went into shock. ‘Hilary was right. He smiled tenderly. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. ” “Why?” she asked.
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