In David's book, a rock-n-roll violinist had no place in a concert hall, much less for a classical performance. But there was more to Alex than his tattoos, and the two men are irresistibly drawn together by music and destiny... An M/M (MaleXMale) romance in the "Harlequin" style.

Excerpt from Chapter One:

The orchestra finished tuning. The conductor walked onto the stage in an Armani tuxedo, perfectly pressed, his long black hair hanging over his shoulders like the finest silk. His face was expressionless, focused. The orchestra stood as he entered; Orchestra Hall, filled to capacity, rang with polite applause. But David Somers' disinterested poise was merely a sham; he was irritated to the extreme. It was only his strong sense of duty which had brought him back to the stage tonight for the second half of the program.

He looked coldly stage-left to where the soloist stood, waiting to make his entrance. David had seen the other man for the first time only seconds before, and he had been left with the impression of a street thug.

Tattoos, indeed, he had thought with disdain. There was no place for such a thing in the refined world of classical music. True, the soloist had worn the traditional tails expected by an artist making an appearance with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, one of the finest symphony orchestras in the world, but that was de rigueur, expected of him, regardless of his personal tastes.

"Lastislav Voitavich is ill," David's personal assistant had told him, as he had arrived at the back entrance to Symphony Center an hour earlier, "but we've managed to get a replacement soloist."

David had raised an eyebrow. Such last-minute substitutions were rare, but not unheard of. There were plenty of violinists that would kill to take the stage with such a prestigious orchestra under his baton. There were few conductors on the classical music scene of his stature, let alone of his relative youth.

"Has the replacement performed the piece before?" David had inquired, unfazed.

"Several times," the assistant had assured him.

"That will be sufficient," David had said.

It would be just that – sufficient – nothing more and nothing less. That was the way of all last-minute substitutions of this kind. It would not be a memorable evening, but David would ensure the audience did not leave disappointed. The symphony, at least, would be outstanding, as befitting someone of his international stature.

"There is one thing, though," the assistant had said, clearly intimidated by the dark-haired maestro.

David had looked down at the young man with disdain. He did not appreciate being troubled with such nonsense before a performance – he needed time to prepare, to focus on the music, to review the score.

"What do you wish to tell me?" David had asked, coolly.

"The soloist…," the assistant had stammered, uncomfortably. "He…ah…" The man's voice trailed off.

"I do not care who he is," David had replied, "as long as he can play Sibelius."

"He…he can, of course!" the assistant had nearly squeaked.

Five minutes before he had taken to the stage for the second half of the concert, David realized what a mistake he had made by not pressing the issue further.

It is a concert, he thought, as he stood, waiting for the soloist to enter, nothing more.

He nodded towards the wings and the audience gasped with pleasure as the young man with flaming red hair took to the stage. David's eyes narrowed. The unseemliness of the entire situation had taxed his patience to the limits.

Alex Bishop. A rock star masquerading as a classical violinist, David thought, watching the man walk towards him. Tattoos and groupies. He didn't doubt the man was competent; David's assistant was young, but not stupid. Still, David loathed this "new breed" of musician who all too often graced the cover of Newsweek, Time and, more recently, Rolling Stone.

Tattoos, indeed.

Several "whoops" came from the audience – teenagers and younger concert-goers who, no doubt, had heard of the man. David ignored them. He signaled for the concert master to provide the soloist with an opportunity to tune.

David turned to face the orchestra, his back to the audience. The Sibelius violin concerto was a challenging, but not an overly difficult piece. He had rehearsed them well.

The orchestra will shine, despite any lack in the quality of fiddle playing.

He raised his baton and looked at the man who stood to his left, trying to ignore the tattoos and the long hair which fell across the soloists' back in a torrent of crimson. Alex was attractive enough – tall and muscular – taller than David himself. Still, thought David, despite his apparent comfort on stage and his undeniable stage-presence, he was nothing more than a pretender to this world of music. All hype and no substance – a creation of Hollywood agents and a second rate player, no doubt.

Alex looked up at David, his instrument tucked under his chin. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and David was surprised to see that the redhead's dark eyes simmered with passion and focus. Still expressionless, David raised his baton slightly higher, the signal to the orchestra for the downbeat of the piece. One deft flick of the baton, and the orchestra began the first measures of the Sibelius Violin Concerto in D Minor.

As a conductor, David had always preferred the less emotional modern repertoire to the sweeping romanticism of Brahms, Mahler or Sibelius. Tonight's program had been a nod to the rather wealthy benefactors who kept the orchestra in the black, financially. It was a tedious thing, to be required to stoop to accommodate the common musical tastes of his benefactors, but David tolerated it, knowing that in the end he would be able to include a less tonal, more challenging piece of music later on in the orchestra's performance schedule. The Sibelius concerto was no exception in David's mind; he was unmoved by its soaring and plaintive melodies, although he knew his audience would respond to it quite enthusiastically.

David glanced over at Alex and their eyes met again as Alex began to play the first few notes of the melodic line. The audience gasped with pleasure as the heady tones of Alex's violin filled the concert hall. In spite of himself, David raised an eyebrow, then, with practiced concentration returned to the score that sat on the podium in front of him. He didn't need to read the music– he knew every measure from memory, but he sought the distraction. He found himself almost uncomfortable listening.

Strange, David thought. He is better than I had expected.

Alex finished the opening phrase of the movement with ease, and David once more found himself surprised by the intensity of the redhead's playing, as well as the natural musicality and the full and warm tone of the sound. The violin Alex played was serviceable, but it was no Stradivarius or Guarneri. Still, David found it remarkable that the instrument sounded nearly as resonant as any fine instrument David had heard.

The evening progressed and Alex began the second movement, a slow and sensual adagio. Again, David found himself transported by the artistry with which Alex conveyed the depth of the music and, again, the black-haired conductor found himself struggling to maintain his focus and not lose himself in the performance. After the third and final movement, the crowd jumped to its feet. Amidst the screams of the younger audience members were resounding calls of "bravo!" from the older patrons.

The audience was satisfied with no fewer than four bows, each time calling back both soloist and maestro to the stage with more cheers and applause. As they walked back and forth across the stage for each bow, David struggled to make sense of the broad-shouldered man he followed. He watched with interest when Alex bowed to the audience, expecting him to react as a rock star might and toss an article of clothing to his adoring fans. Alex did nothing of the sort, instead bowing politely and maintaining the decorum David expected from the soloist with a world-renowned symphony. If anything, David noticed, Alex appeared slightly uncomfortable with the crowd's response, although he smiled personably and with apparently genuine appreciation.

After the final bow, David followed the redhead offstage. He had intended to walk directly to his dressing room, but there were several fans already crowding the wings. David, irritated with the lack of security, attempted to walk around the crowd next to the long ropes which held the curtain and backdrop in place. Several of the orchestra musicians were also milling about, also anxious to congratulate the young violinist on his performance. Seeing David, they nodded formally – they had long since learned that the maestro kept to himself and did not wish to be disturbed after a performance. David nodded back at them, then sidestepped the approaching fans and slipped out the door to the hallway.

He closed the door behind him and looked up into a pair of dark eyes. Alex, it appeared, had also sought to avoid the crowd backstage. He smiled, comfortably. In his right hand, he held his violin and bow. Quickly taking his instrument in his left hand, he held out his right to David. David took it and the two men shook hands in silence. Then, as if Alex's hand had conveyed something approaching an electric shock, David withdrew his hand quickly and said, quite stiffly, "We appreciate your willingness to fill in at the last minute."

"My pleasure," Alex murmured, watching David as if unsure of what to make of the man. "I've played it a few times before, although never with such a skillful conductor."

David, used to compliments, was unfazed. "Thank you," he said, mechanically.

Alex looked at David, his feet shifting slightly beneath him. Something about the dark-haired maestro made him feel suddenly awkward, clumsy. The maestro's dark eyes seemed to glitter for a moment, as if he, too, was uncomfortable with the exchange.

"Listen," said Alex, swallowing hard, "we're having a little party at my place. Just a few friends, a couple of beers, that sort of thing. Nothin' fancy."

"I appreciate the invitation," David answered coolly, "but I am expected at a donor's party in a few minutes."

"No problem," Alex mumbled, surprised at himself for having even thought that someone like David Somers would be interested in something as mundane as a few beers. "I understand."

David said nothing, but his gaze did not waiver. Then, uncharacteristically, he began, "Perhaps, after I am finished, we…."

David's words were drowned out by several shouts as two starry-eyed girls launched themselves at Alex, nearly knocking his violin out of his hand. He bent down, managing to catch the instrument just as it was about to hit the ground, but when he stood up once again, David had vanished. Alex managed a self-conscious grin as another woman planted a wet kiss on his cheek, missing his lips by a hair's breadth.

"Alex!" A tall woman with cascading auburn hair and a dress cut low to reveal her ample breasts pushed the offending fan away, giving her a scathing look.

"Leslie," he said, smiling more comfortably now.

"You looked like you needed to be rescued," she laughed, staring daggers in the direction of some of the women who crowded Alex.

Alex laughed and they walked down the hallway to the green room, where he had left his coat and case. Leslie shut the door behind them, and the sounds of giddy girls faded.

Alex wiped the rosin off the strings and underneath the fingerboard and bridge of his violin with a small white cloth. He gently laid the instrument in its case, loosened the hair of his bow and locked it into place in the lid. He clicked the case closed and picked up his coat.

"You're a bit quiet tonight," said Leslie, smiling. "Disappointed with the performance?"

Alex smiled. "Nah," he said. "It was one of the best concerts I've played."

"Sounded pretty good to me," she laughed, "but then, I'm no musician." She looked at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "So, how was he?"

"He?"

"The maestro," she laughed. "David Somers. You said it yourself, he's probably the best young conductor on the classical music scene. Did he live up to his reputation?"

"He…," Alex hesitated. He wasn't sure how describe David. "He's certainly a difficult man to approach. Still…"

Leslie's musical laughed filled the room once again. "I wasn't talking about his personality, silly boy, I was talking about his musical skills." Then, eyeing Alex carefully, she added, "But it seems as though he might have made more than just a musical impression on you."

Alex's jaw tightened involuntarily. "Stop playing matchmaker. Even if he was my type," – he emphasized the word and looked at her, shaking his head slightly, "he'd be way out of my league."

"Can't help a girl for trying to end up with a Michigan Avenue apartment of her own, can you?"

Alex laughed softly. "You couldn't afford it without a roommate, anyhow."

She frowned. "No, probably not." Truth was, Alex had been paying the entire rent and utilities on the apartment they shared for more than a year now – he had insisted on it, now that he was making good money performing. The advance on his first recording hadn't hurt, either.

"Hey," Alex said, with a smirk, "I've got a least a few more year's rent to pay you back before we're even, anyhow."

"Eh, you're right," she said, tossing her hand in the air, as she often did. "I figure I've got about five and a half more years before I'm out on the street – that's about how long I paid the rent while you were in undergrad and grad school."

He opened the door to the green room, grabbing his case with his right hand. She wrapped her arm around his as they walked back into the crowded hallway. He stopped and signed autographs for a dozen or so fans, then Leslie began to push through the crowd, leading Alex to the stage door. The fans, assuming that Leslie was Alex's girlfriend, looked more than disappointed. Some were even openly hostile towards her. She ignored them – she was used to it by now – she had become quite adept at fending off the women she called, "simpering spineless sluts."

Alex pushed the stage door open and they stepped out into the cool night air. As they stepped out of the Symphony Center artist entrance, Alex saw a limousine waiting. The driver held the door open and a lone figure walked quickly over, avoiding any contact with the public. David Somers, dressed in a dark coat with a white scarf flung about his neck, ducked into the limo and, as he sat down, he looked back to where Alex stood. For an instant, the two men's eyes met, and then the driver closed the door.

Leslie looked at Alex strangely. He saw her watching him and sighed.

"What?" he asked, in mock irritation.

"Nothing," she replied, suppressing a grin. "Nothing at all." The couple crossed the street and headed for the short cut through Millenium Park to their apartment.