Sexy in the City
Page 129
Edwina laughed, turning to her husband. “This tour must be going to her head.”
“No!” Angelique jumped up from the chaise, confronting the couple she considered poor excuses for human beings. “I’m eighteen now. Legally you can’t keep me locked up while you steal my money, money I rightfully earned.”
“Honey, you’d still be singing for the nuns if it wasn’t for us,” Edwina sneered, unaffected by Angelique’s outburst.
“I’d rather be singing for God than singing for the devil!”
“Well, you’d better get used to it. It’s not changing,” Morris piped in, standing up and walking toward her. She stood firm.
“Wanna bet?” Angelique stared into his hardened, stone gray eyes.
“I don’t have to bet. I guarantee it.” He slammed her down on to the chaise with such force she gasped. He cocked his head and chuckled.
• • •
Angelique concluded her last appearance at Lincoln Center and was alone in her hotel suite. She could hear the guards’ brisk voices in animated conversation. Listening carefully, her ear pressed against the door, she monitored their movements. When they left their post to walk down the hall, Angelique cracked open the door. She watched the guards approach a window at the end of the hall and point. All she could think of was freedom. She opened the door and made a dash toward the nearby emergency stairwell. She hadn’t the vaguest idea of where to go, just that she had to escape. She reached the stairwell, pushing open the heavy metal fire door and scurried down the steps. Freedom.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her from behind and forced her hands behind her back. She was tackled to the hard cold floor of the landing. She screamed and bit at the guards who subdued her. She fought them like a cornered wild animal. In a desperate bid she kicked at them.
“Let me go, you ogres! You’re on my payroll!” she screamed, thrashing and kicking. Though paid well with her income, the guards were loyal only to the Davidsons. Their employment depended on it and it made her furious.
The two sturdy men just laughed, hoisting her up the steps and down the hall to her hotel suite. Once within the confines of the room, she was confronted by Edwina.
“Naughty, naughty.” Edwina pointed her index finger and shook it. “I thought you might become difficult. I’m all prepared.”
Angelique spat at her.
“You need to learn a lesson,” Edwina said, revealing a small square box balanced in her hand. “You cannot escape and if you try, you will pay the consequences.”
Angelique watched as Edwina set the box on a nearby bureau. She opened it and removed a syringe, removed an amber bottle, and stuck the needle into it. Filling the chamber with clear liquid, she held it in the air. Releasing trapped air, the aspirated liquid bubbled up from the tip of the pointed needle. Angelique trembled, knowing what was next.
“No! No!” Angelique screamed as the guards held her down with their muscular arms.
“Nighty, night,” Edwina said with a sneer as she jabbed Angelique’s thin arm with the needle, the liquid entering a vein.
She flinched at the pain and soon felt herself drifting in and out of consciousness. The faces around her became distorted, the voices garbled, and then darkness overcame her.
• • •
After her attempted escape in New York, Angelique feared for her safety. She knew the Davidsons wouldn’t kill her as long as she sang. She was, after all, the goose that laid the golden egg. The Davidsons could, though, make her life unbearable and they did. She found herself being medicated to the point of lethargy during the day. As long as she was alert in the evening and capable of singing, that was all that mattered.
In Philadelphia, Angelique stood on stage before a sold-out house. Midway through the performance something snapped. A cold and clammy feeling crawled over her skin, leading to a cold sweat and heart palpitations. Angelique was paralyzed and abruptly stopped singing. Her eyes bulged and waves of nausea overcame her.
“Help me. Help me,” she cried, her voice low and garbled. “Someone please help me.”
She lurched toward the orchestra pit as the curtain fell. Guards apprehended her, dragging her backstage. She was carried to the dressing room where Edwina stood waiting. Angelique felt the needle jab her arm.
The headlines the next day attributed her fainting to exhaustion. Apparently, no one had heard her pleas for help. The explanation the Davidsons leaked to the press seemed to satisfy them. Angelique had never felt so helpless.
• • •
Life whirled around her. Sedated, she could no longer ask questions or attempt an escape. She was like a puppet with the Davidsons pulling the strings. She lost all perception of day and night, not knowing where she was or where she was going.
Prodded to perform, singing had been reduced to a mechanical act. Songs poured from her as if someone had turned on the radio and her performances ended as if someone had turned it off.
Back in Italy, the effects of the drugs began to take their toll. The sedatives, lack of adequate nourishment, and natural rest turned her into a gaunt skeleton. On stage at La Scala, her frail figure draped in white was haunting. As the curtain rose, the audience gasped. Then an eerie silence hushed the crowd as she began to sing in her pure, effortless voice. Silence turned to panicked screams as Angelique collapsed on the stage. The curtain fell.
After examining her in the dressing room, the doctor shook his head, muttering to himself in rambling Italian.
“Doctor, do something,” Edwina ordered, glancing at her husband, who paced the room like a caged bear.
Angelique lay on the couch so pale and still, she looked like a corpse awaiting burial. If not for her eyes blinking open and her shallow breathing, she could have surely passed for dead.
Edwina hovered over the couch. She tugged at the doctor’s arm. “You must do something.”
The doctor met her steely gaze. “Senora Davidson, the girl needs food and rest. Her schedule has been too ambitious. She cannot continue at this pace. She needs time off to recover.”
“Isn’t there a pill, a shot, something you can give her?”
“Woman, are you crazy? She needs to be taken off all medication.” The doctor’s eyes burned at hers.
“We have solid bookings for the next two years. A lot of money is on the line,” Morris added, stepping beside his wife.
“Money? Money? Is that your only concern? Keep it up and your meal ticket will be dead. She can’t go on like this.”
“So tell me, doc, what are we supposed to do? Wait six months, a year, or take two aspirins and call you in the morning?” Mo asked.
“Senor Davidson,” the doctor began, taking a deep breath, and continued, “The girl needs fresh air, food, and rest. Take her to the country. For God’s sake, no medication.”
“How long?” Edwina asked.
“Until she regains her strength. Maybe a few weeks, a month.”
“Do you know how many people will be disappointed?”
“I know of only two,” the doctor replied, staring at them.
“Great!” Edwina raised her hands. “Now we have to sit around on our bums. She’s an angel. Angels don’t die.”
“I don’t buy that gibberish. She’s a human being. Don’t ignore my advice.”
• • •
The rented chateau was located on the scenic River Loire running through a peaceful valley in the heart of France. The extravagant residence with its soaring towers and sculpted gardens was to provide a refuge for Angelique during her recovery. Though the Renaissance building with its series of halls, gardens, terraces, and galleries was comfortable, Angelique wasn’t relaxed. The deep moat surrounding the castle only reminded her of her status as a prisoner. The media attributed her appearance, collapse, and subsequent performance cancellations to the flu. No one knew of her plight and it added to her misery.
She did feel some relief. The Davidsons had flown to the Riviera for some sun and to Monaco to gamble away some of her earn
ings. Angelique thought the price was right to have them away.
As the days passed, she recovered from her physical ills. She was eating regular meals, her sleep cycle had returned, and she regained her strength and her wits.
In the quiet of her splendorous bedroom she could read and reflect. Magazines, newspapers, and books were strewn across the embroidered silk bedspread and stacked on the Sarouk rug. Angelique was determined to educate herself even more about the outside world. One day the information could come in handy. It was only a matter of time when the Davidsons would slip up and she would escape. She wanted to be prepared for that moment. Thoughts of escaping had given her something to live for.
Our World had become her favorite American publication. A comprehensive news magazine, it was known for its in-depth investigative reporting. She admired the great lengths American reporters went to uncover a story. Brian Andrews had to be the bravest or the dumbest of the lot. She was drawn to his adventurous exploits and gripping style and eagerly awaited his columns. She even fantasized about meeting him. By the picture above his byline, he was rather attractive. Yet a familiarity with the dark-haired man with ruggedly chiseled features caused goose bumps to crawl up her arms and a tingling down her spine. Visions of a man seated in the front row at the Met jarred her memory. He was the man she sang to, the man who cried at her song. She had already met Brian Andrews.
In a few months she was scheduled to tour America again. She had perfected her English to the point where she could speak without an accent. Maybe in the United States she would be set free.
Chapter 7
2013, United States
Brian was ready to jump out of his skin when he heard the elusive Angelique was coming to America. For three days she would be in his own backyard, New York City, performing at the Metropolitan Opera in Lincoln Center. After having traipsed all over France to secure information on her past, he had returned home to deal with her present. This was a lucky break.
Angelique had been in town for only a few hours when Brian caused a stir at the venerable Plaza Hotel. Her arrival time had been a guarded secret, but his connections had come through. He had staked out the hotel and claimed a seat in the lobby. Dressed like a casual guest in designer jeans and tennis shoes, he hid behind a fanned out newspaper, pretending to mind his own business until her entourage arrived.
He could grab only a glimpse of the petite singer flanked by her towering security guards before he sprung into action. Leaving his chair and the paper he approached the group, catching them off guard. As they scurried past he shot off a barrage of questions aimed directly at Angelique.
“Who are you? Who are the Davidsons? Are they holding you prisoner?”
• • •
For a moment she felt a spark igniting in her very heart and soul. She would recognize his face anywhere. That strong square jaw, the classical nose, those dreamy, dark, deep set eyes, the wavy hair. How did Brian Andrews know she was staying here? How did he know of her plight? She wanted to reach out to him, to run to him and tell him the truth.
As she stepped toward him, her lips parted to reply to his inquiry, Morris grasped her arm and pulled her inside the waiting elevator. His floozy wife followed.
“What’s Angelique to you? Money?” Brian screamed out the questions.
Hotel security apprehended him before she could respond. Angelique was certain this wasn’t the first time he had been escorted out of a hotel by force and it wouldn’t be his last.
So when Angelique heard his name as she sat eavesdropping on Edwina’s conversation in an adjoining room of their suite, she was startled. From Edwina’s nasal whine it seemed Brian was in pursuit of a story, her story. The thought of him investigating her made Angelique smile for the first time in months. This man never failed. And this time she wanted him to succeed, to uncover the corruption in her life. If her story were told, would freedom be far behind?
“Yes, Mr. Andrews, we do admire your work at Our World,” Edwina said. “No, no. I do understand. Could I have your phone number, please?”
She banged the receiver down in its cradle. “Pesky reporter!”
But Angelique memorized the phone number her guardian had recited dutifully before ending the call: (212) 338-9798. This wasn’t just any phone number, but a lifeline. She wanted to jump up and scream for joy. Instead, she smiled, secretly planned, and hoped her prayers for a new life would be answered.
She waited until the Davidsons went out to dinner to take the first step. She had picked at her plate of broiled chicken, delivered earlier by room service, thinking about the two hours she had before her performance at the Met. The Davidsons would be gone at least an hour and a half. Until today she never had a reason to use the telephone. She never had anyone to call.
She gazed at the pearly white phone on the desk next to her dinner. Pushing aside her plate, she reached out for the receiver. Her hands trembled and her palms perspired as she pulled it toward her. Jittery fingers lifted the receiver up to her ear. The hum of a dial tone was the sweetest sound she had ever heard. She punched in the numbers. One, two, three rings.
“Hello, Brian Andrews reporting,” he answered in a dusky voice.
For a moment she sat in silence, unsure of how to respond.
“Hello,” he repeated.
“Thank God it’s really you,” she said, keeping her voice just above a whisper.
“Who is this?”
“Angelique.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Angelique. I want to answer the questions you asked at my hotel this morning, before I was dragged away.”
“Who is this?” he asked again.
“I need your help. We don’t have much time. You must save me. I’m being held a prisoner here at The Plaza.” She was breathless.
“Come on, who is this?”
“You must believe me. I need your help. You must help me escape. I’m being held against my will.”
“You sly girl!” a security guard yelled, trudging toward her. “No phone calls!”
“Help me!” she screamed into the phone before the guard grabbed the receiver from her hand and slammed it down in the cradle.
• • •
Brian shook his head as the phone line went dead. This had to be a cruel joke. There was no way in hell the real Angelique would telephone him, much less ask him to help her. Only two people knew about his assignment investigating the singer: Sam and Stacey. Sam was too serious for horseplay.
Stacey, whom he had dated during and since college, always had a sick sense of humor whenever she felt neglected. And he had been neglecting her a lot lately. Angelique had taken over his life like some chronic disease. Still, you’d think Stacey would understand the importance of his assignment and the time commitment. She was, after all, in the news business herself. As the top-rated news anchor and reporter at WKNBC, she had her own share of erratic work hours and long nights. He knew, though, that she would never comprehend his tenacity, his constant quest for adventure, and his dogged determination to be the best. To her the news was a glamorous job; to him it was a way of life.
Brian dialed the telephone number listed on his caller ID and the line was continually busy. He dialed Stacey’s cell number, hoping she would answer on the second ring, as was her habit.
“Stacey, what’s the big idea?” he asked when she answered.
“Can’t you even say hello?’ she replied in her low voice, almost purring. “Brian, what are you talking about?”
“Your phone call. It had to be one of your sickest jokes to date. Where are you?”
“What phone call? What are you talking about? I’m home.” She sounded foggy and confused.
“You just called me, admit it.”
“I didn’t call you. I’ve been sitting here reviewing the line-up for Good Morning New York. You know I’m subbing as co-host tomorrow.”
“Come on, don’t act so innocent. I know better,” he scoffed.
“Brian, honest
, I didn’t call you.”
“You did. You just called pretending to be Angelique.”
“What? Brian, you’re getting weird.”
“Honestly, you didn’t call me?”
“No. Your recent assignment is going to your head. Sweetie, you need help.”
He was hung up on for the second time in one night.
• • •
The next afternoon while Brian sat perusing the reviews of Angelique’s performance the previous night, his telephone rang. He set down his newspaper and grabbed the phone.
“Hello, Brian Andrews reporting,” he answered.
“Sir,” the breathy, lilting voice began, “I haven’t much time to talk.”
“You called last night, didn’t you?” he asked, shocked that the mystery voice called back.
“Yes. I have to talk fast before I’m discovered. I want you to help me. I want you to help me escape. I know you spoke with Edwina. I memorized your number. You must believe me.”
He sat still, his heart palpitating at the thought that this really was Angelique, and that she wanted his help.
“I trust you.”
“Who are you?”
“Angelique. Please, you must believe me. You are my only hope. There isn’t much time,” she pleaded. “I have a plan. I’ve worked very hard on it.”
Brian swallowed hard. The biggest story in the world may have just landed on his lap. He listened intently while the mysterious voice on the other end outlined a detailed escape plan from the Plaza Hotel. He put pen to paper and recorded the precise directions and times. The plan was so well thought out, it was obviously the brainchild of a determined person who had spent a great deal of time engineering it. Could this be Angelique’s work, or were the Davidsons setting a trap because he had been prying? There was only one way to find out.
He decided to attend Angelique’s concert, wanting to see the person behind the voice, if she were indeed the voice. To see her and hear her would help him make the final determination as to whether to follow the plan outlined on the telephone. Would his future be worth it?