Sexy in the City
Page 126
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
More from This Author
Acknowledgments
I have a closet confession. I have always wanted to be a professional singer. However, if I were to be a singer, I would want to be the best in the world. Actually, the best ever heard. There is one problem. I am not a great singer. Not even close. My singing is confined to the car.
I am, however, an author and I can live vicariously through the characters in my novels. I created the mystical Angelique as the world’s greatest voice and mystery. From there I pursued the “What if?” and a novel was born.
Prologue
On stage, Angelique commanded the theater like a queen on a throne holding court, the audience her subjects. She stood alone, the only glow in the spotlight. The beam’s radiance shone down, illuminating her translucent complexion, delicate features, and platinum hair flowing over her shoulders and down to her waist. Like the gown of an ancient goddess, the loose folds draped from her willowy body, forming a puddle at her feet. She stood still, inhumanly still. Her only movement was her arms reaching upward, the long dolman sleeves of her gown spread out like wings ready for flight. Only her eyes added color as their icy-blue energy gazed hypnotically out into the mesmerized audience.
Angelique looked out into the darkness beyond the stage and into the front rows where admirers peered up at her in adoration and awe. She gazed into the front row, knowing those particular seats were coveted and costly, where men in dapper tuxedos and women in ball gowns dripping in jewels sat. As she sang, she wondered what would possess a person to pay so dearly just to be closer to her. Was it ego so they could tell their friends or was it adoration for her as an artist?
Ever since she began performing, the reverence audiences had shown overwhelmed her. She knew her voice had power, more than she had in her life. Sometimes she longed to be out in one of the rows of plush seats or up in the balcony instead of alone upon the stage. Sometimes she wished to be normal. Sometimes.
The only sound in the theater was the sound of her singing, a solo voice without accompaniment. Hers was so melodic, so pure, and so complete, it was never to have thought to exist. No human being had ever had the full range, even control, and the style she possessed.
As she sang she looked out once more into the ocean of people. A man seated in the front row captured her attention. His dark, ruggedly handsome looks could turn many a head, but there was a certain something that made her take notice. He possessed the confidence of a man comfortable in his own skin. Self-assurance was evident in the way he sat, eased back into his seat, a foot resting on a knee, and in the casual attire he wore. In a sea of black tuxedos, he wore tan khaki and didn’t seem to care. Yet tears were drizzling from his eyes as he watched her sing. A strong man with a heart, she thought. His dark chocolate eyes melted into hers and she almost missed a note. As she continued to sing, she pretended he was the only person in the theater and she sang to him. The romantic verse of the song made her wonder if she would ever fall in love, and if she would fall in love with someone like him.
• • •
Brian Andrews sat in the audience hypnotized by Angelique’s radiant beauty and riveting voice. He had never heard a voice like hers, strong as iron yet as fragile as crystal. She moved up and down the register, caressing each smooth, velvety note. Low notes, deep and dark, were as mysterious as the creature singing them. High notes pierced the silence like needles inflicting pleasure instead of pain. He shifted in his seat, muscles tensing as he experienced the emotions unleashed in her song. As the recesses of his mind filled with her music, he forgot time and place. He seemed to be transported out of his body to another, more peaceful and loving, location. Tears swelled in his eyes. He couldn’t hold them back as rivulets trickled down his cheeks and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. He met her intense gaze and knew Angelique was no ordinary diva.
Chapter 1
United States, 2013
“Brian Andrews reporting for duty,” he mused, saluting as he sauntered into his New York editor’s office with his usual cocky confidence.
“What am I to do with you?” Sam Greenberg asked, shaking his shiny, bald, head at his protégé. He leaned his stocky body back into his springy, worn swivel chair.
“Try giving me a raise, Sam.” Brian flashed his disarming smile, teeth like ivory piano keys set in a square dimpled jaw.
“You have more chutzpah than I. Take a seat.” Sam pointed to a rickety wooden chair across from his chipped metal desk.
Brian slunk his lean, yet athletic frame into the creaking chair. With his left hand he pawed at the sharply pointed boar’s tooth hanging on a leather cord like a pendulum around his neck. He had a habit of rubbing it for good luck before every new assignment. The pendant, tilted felt hat, wrinkled khaki safari jacket and pants gave him more the aura of an adventurer than a reporter, an image he liked to cultivate.
“What’s going on?” Brian asked, removing his fedora and setting it on a mound of papers stacked on Sam’s cluttered desk. He ran his splayed fingers through his thick, black hair. Sam was more pensive than usual.
“The competition is eating us alive. Without an exclusive, the magazine is in jeopardy of filing bankruptcy. I need you to investigate and uncover a biggie. This could be the story and break we need.”
“Where is it? China?” Brian leaned forward, interested.
“It’s Angelique.”
“Angelique who?” Brian asked, the name ringing in his mind. Where did he hear that name before? A magical voice from an ethereal creature on a stage long ago entered his thoughts. That Angelique.
“Don’t look so stunned. Remember, I gave you that ticket to her American debut ten years ago?” Sam sighed.
“Yes, I remember,” Brian answered. How could he forget? He had almost turned down the concert seat at the Lincoln Center. He had been into rock and roll, not classical, but as an intern seeking permanent employment, Brian had felt obligated to attend. After hearing Angelique he had been thankful for the opportunity.
“There’s a big mystery surrounding that woman and I need it uncovered,” Sam ordered, pounding his hand on his desk.
“Others have tried and failed.”
“Brian, you’re the best investigative reporter I have.”
“Every newspaper, magazine, and P.I. in the world seeks answers,” Brian said, caressing the boar’s tooth with increased intensity.
“I need answers,” Sam insisted. “Angelique is the world’s most beloved singer yet nothing is known about her. She doesn’t grant interviews. Her only public appearances are on the stage. Who is she? What is the secret behind her talent?” Sam roared. His voice usually bellowed when he was seeking the answers to life’s mysteries. “And what’s with that bullshit about her being found by nuns in a forest?”
Brian drew a deep breath. Angelique was certainly an unsolved mystery. “What makes you think I can succeed when so many have failed?”
“Brian, you have instinct. You have an uncanny ability to sniff out a story and get answers. You’ve proven it over and over again. You can do it, I know you can.”
“Sam?” Brian knew his editor was asking for the near impossible.
“Come on, my boy, the magazine and our jobs depend on it,” Sam said, standing, his glare penetrating.
“Okay. For you, Sam, I’ll go for it.” He rose from his seat, scooping up his hat.
“Whatever it takes. Remember, I’m on your side. And, Brian, be careful.”
“Don’t worry, angels aren’t my type.” He winked.
• • •
Angelique. The name echoed through th
e caverns of his mind. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor amid boxes of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, photographs, computer copies, and press releases strewn about. His apartment had never been neat. He was never in it long enough to do any serious cleaning. The papers just added to the unkempt disarray. With a sigh he picked up a European entertainment magazine. On the glossy cover was a photograph of the elusive Angelique. He stared at her perfectly oval face, pensive eyes, and silvery mane. There were so many unanswered questions.
He had spent the last week reviewing most of the data he had gathered from news bureaus, libraries, newsstands, and the Internet. There were always photographs, but never a biography, never an interview, never a story. Just short, pointed press releases. He pondered her photograph for a lead or at least some inspiration so he could begin his journalistic investigation.
Angelique was a beautiful creature in a unique way. She looked more like an apparition than a human being. Only her blue eyes, like pale aquamarines, made her appear human.
Brian was drawn to her eyes. Gazing into them was like looking into an abyss. They were empty, devoid of any emotion. There was no soul. Their cold lack of feeling made him shiver. In observing her overall appearance, she reminded him of a corpse.
Investigative assignments had taken him around the world. He had written reports from the refined—London, Paris, Rome—to the exotic: Bangkok, Bora Bora, the Amazon. Living out of a backpack in shabby rooms, eating weird food, seeing remote scenery and primitive people had given him an adrenaline rush. He had thrived on the adventure and had relished the nomadic lifestyle. Why couldn’t Sam have sent him to the Middle East instead of investigating Angelique? Hunting down singers wasn’t his forte. He would rather dodge bullets or bombs. Brian took a deep breath. Sam had given him this assignment and he knew he had to make the most of it if he wanted a future at Our World. If Our World had a future.
After wolfing down a small pepperoni pizza and a can of Coke for dinner, Brian returned to his pile of data on Angelique. There had to be some lead or missing link, he thought, leafing through a stack of photographs he had ripped from magazines or printed from the Net. Methodically, he laid out the photographs in a grid pattern on the carpeted floor. Some were studio head shots, others journalistic snapshots taken before, during, or after her performances. Most were secretly taken by determined paparazzi, as unauthorized photographs of her were prohibited.
“At least she can be photographed. She’s not a ghost,” Brian murmured.
He scrutinized the backgrounds and those people surrounding her. There was always an entourage of bodyguards who looked pumped-up on steroids. Something else stood out. In many of the photographs, a certain couple stood nearby. They were rather plain and could have easily been mistaken for wayward fans. The woman, though, seemed to be leading Angelique. The man had a sour, but alert expression and tense body language, like a guard. They hovered over Angelique like buzzards over the dead.
Brian set the photographs together for comparison. Through the years and in settings around the world, the couple was no farther than a foot away from Angelique. He had read that they were her guardians and managers. Surely, they had to be the key. Yet, why hadn’t they been interviewed? Who were they and what was their story?
He scooped up the photographs, determined to uncover the mystery. Angelique seemed too perfect. In an era of rock stars, You Tube, concerts, outlandish costumes, choreographed productions, pyrotechnics, and hype, she was always the unaccompanied solitary figure, alone in the spotlight before a sold-out crowd.
Through the years her fame had exceeded that of Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and Michael Jackson put together. Hers was a talent bigger than life. The public loved her. Be it France or Costa Rica, worldwide adoration for the singer bordered on worship. Her concerts, billed as “appearances,” sold out years in advance. People of all races and musical backgrounds comprised her audience. Her voice was an anomaly that defied the experts, a voice undefined. Angelique was the goddess of song.
Brian put aside the stack of photographs and shuffled through a pile of papers. Perusing the headlines of the gossip rags, Brian could see that rumors abounded. Some claimed Angelique was an angel sent to earth by God to unite the world and to bring peace through her music. The belief that she was an angel had gained so much momentum, the Catholic Church had condemned it as heresy. Brian agreed that her ghostly appearance and unequalled talent could give anyone pause.
Yet there were no records, no birth certificate, no known family or friends. Rumor had it that she was found as infant in the woods surrounding a French abbey and had been raised by nuns. It was as if she had indeed been dropped to earth to perform. She was never observed in public, at parties, at award ceremonies, or at celebrity haunts. No one had ever seen her eat or drink. After fainting during a couple of performances, there were questions about her health but the spells were attributed to exhaustion. She seemed to be the greatest mystery in the modern world.
Whomever or whatever she was, she was a public relations genius. This had to be some finely concocted fairy tale and the joke was on the public. Surely, if this woman was using her voice as a gift from God, why were the admission prices to her “appearances” so high? There wasn’t any mention of the proceeds being given to charity. Someone had to be getting wealthy out of all this hype. He scoffed.
Brian knew he had a lot of work ahead.
Chapter 2
France, 1999
Angelique would never know her past and feared she would never see her future. Her life had always been a mystery, a long and complicated mystery. Through the years she had wondered if she had been blessed or cursed with a magical voice.
Her voice was a natural part of her being. Like the mountains and the seas, it had always been there. She didn’t have to think about it. Singing was just something that occurred naturally, like breathing.
Long before anyone had heard her voice, she had known its awesome power and beauty. As she navigated the gravel paths surrounding the abbey as a child she sang aloud. Her only audience was the trees, the forest animals, the birds, and the wind. In the woods there was a peaceful serenity compelling her to sing. Singing was her only joy. Just as the woods provided an escape from the regimentation of the abbey, so had her song.
Within the cavernous walls of the cloistered abbey, silence was the law. The abbey was a matriarchal society in silence, solitude, spirituality, and strict order. The nuns treated her as a blessing in their midst, as an enchanted creature more than a mere child. They had named her and had baptized her Angelique from the French word ange, angel.
When she had grown old enough to read, she spent hours in the abbey’s library. Behind years of dust, she discovered volumes other than Bibles and hymnals. She pulled out classical books, books on geography, and on human relationships, opening up a world of wonder for her to explore. She discovered that hers was not the only way of life. There were children who lived in real families with mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. Other children were held, hugged, and kissed.
She felt a distance both physically and mentally between her and the nuns. The sisters would preach to and teach her—a life of order and protocol, of rules, and strong faith. Hers was a life of suppressed emotions, self-control, without the love and affection she yearned for.
Many a night she would lay awake in her cell of a room dreaming about a home and a family of her own. Maybe one day a family would come and claim her, she thought. As the years went by, though, she had given up hope and learned to accept her solitary life.
Angelique also knew the nuns had plans for her. At sixteen she would be recruited into their order as a novice, her destiny to lead the chaste life of a cloistered nun. After all, she had been a gift from God, and it was only proper that she spend her life serving Him.
Deep within her heart, though, Angelique felt like a sinner. She wished and prayed that she could care about the Lord as much as she loved music. When she realized a life in
music was more important than life as a cloistered nun she made plans of her own. She wanted to go out into the world and share her gift of song. After all, she had read books on famous opera singers who performed in the world’s greatest concert halls, who wore lovely gowns, traveled and toured the most famous sites, and led lavish lifestyles of unencumbered freedom. Life had to offer more outside the prison-like high stone walls, and iron gates of the abbey. She devoured books on geography, history, and languages and spent hours in her room preparing for life away from the Benedictine Abbey of St. Paul. She swore that when she was old enough she would leave the abbey forever. She counted the years, the days, the hours.
“You shall sing this Sunday in chapel, Angelique,” the Reverend Mother, a stern-faced woman with a kindly heart, told her one morning.
Angelique stood trembling in the choir loft before the congregation of nuns, her first audience. As she opened her tiny mouth, a pure, unblemished lyrical voice sang out in a range advanced for her fourteen years. The somber nuns’ veiled heads shook in awe and disbelief. Smiles radiated from faces that had so rarely shown emotion.
After her debut performance the nuns talked incessantly about Angelique’s magical voice. They smiled. Some held her hand in blessing. Reverend Mother, Sister Claire, even hugged her. For the first time in her young life the nuns were paying attention to her. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be loved. Maybe her voice brought love.
“My dear child, you are to be our soloist during the public mass this Sunday at the Basilique,” the Reverend Mother informed her another morning.
Angelique beamed with joy at the thought of singing in the magnificent Basilique Notre Dame in the town of Arques before a mixed congregation of nuns and townspeople.
To sing alone in the medieval choir loft was a daunting task for a teenage girl. As she sang, her voice radiated like the beams of sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows in the sanctuary. The congregation seated below sat mesmerized as she sang, a frail figure in a flowing white robe, in a voice that brought goose bumps and tears. Everything changed when the outside world discovered her voice.