“Go get Dr. Childers. It’s time.”
The other line was, “Baby, I’ll make you a star.”
Allegra Ennis smiled up at him. A warm, genuine smile. “Senior Chief Kowalski. I’ll turn your compliment right back around. You have a magnificent voice yourself.” The smile broadened. “A true basso profondo. That’s very rare. You should be singing Falstaff.”
He searched her face. There was nothing there but friendliness and devastating beauty.
“Falstaff is a good role for a bass,” he replied. “Or Boris Godunov. I loved Falchinetti as Boris. I heard him last year in New York.”
The lovely face brightened. “Yes, indeed. Such a powerful voice. What a privilege it must have been to hear him live.” She cocked her head to one side, sightless eyes riveted to his face. He understood that she was listening to his voice as intently as any art expert looked at a painting. “You would have the perfect voice for Hagen. I have Schumacher’s recording of the role. And I’ll bet you could sing ‘Ol’ Man River’ just like Paul Robeson.”
Her hand was like warm silk. He could feel the delicate structure beneath the skin, that magical combination of bones and sinews in the long slender fingers that let her coax such beautiful music from the harp strings. She hadn’t withdrawn her hand, so he held it for just a little longer.
“I have Schumacher’s CD, too, but I don’t sing along.” He snorted at the thought of him singing. “I’d love to belt out ‘Ol’ Man River’, if I could sing, which I can’t. You wouldn’t want to hear me when I do. I croak in the shower and it’s a lucky thing the shower walls aren’t glass, otherwise I’d shatter them.”
She giggled, the sound liquid silver. “Now, now, Senior Chief Kowalski. That’s for high C. You couldn’t reach high C, ever.” She gently withdrew her hand, sliding it out from his like a long caress. “And anyway, the idea of a note shattering glass is an old wives’ tale. Nothing ever shatters when I go up to high C.”
“Douglas,” he surprised himself by saying. No one on this planet called him Douglas, except Suzanne. But he couldn’t let Allegra call him Senior Chief or Mister or even Kowalski. In her mouth it would sound…odd. He was Kowalski or Senior Chief to everyone he knew except Suzanne…and now this woman. “Please call me Douglas.”
“Okay, Douglas. And I’m Allegra. So rest easy and take your showers in peace. No matter how badly you sing, you’re not going to shatter anything.”
Kowalski was vaguely aware of John staring at him in astonishment. Either because he had used his first name or because he knew his opera. John had no idea he loved opera. No one did.
John opened his mouth, no doubt to rib him—Kowalski would never live this down—when a chattering, laughing group of people came up to Suzanne, surrounded her and bore her away. John stiffened and followed right on her heels.
Kowalski was alone with Allegra.
She was smiling up at him, waiting.
He could look at her all he wanted, he realized. It was something he was never able to do with anyone, let alone with beautiful women. If someone like him stared, it was considered harassment or worse. He’d come across as creepy, sick.
Instead, now, he could look his fill. Study her features, expressive of every emotion she was feeling. She had such exquisite coloring, skin the palest ivory, framed by soft, shiny, deep-red hair, undoubtedly natural. God, he could look at her forever, but he didn’t dare. Better stick to the music.
“Those songs were truly beautiful. Who wrote them?”
A delightful little blush pinked her cheeks. “Thank you. Actually…um, I did. Most of them, anyway.”
“You?” Kowalski stared. Already having that voice and brilliance with a harp was an abundance of musical talent. To be able to compose that kind of music, too… “Do you record? Go on tour?”
“I used to,” she said softly, the smile gone. “But after…this,” she fluttered her fingers next to her eyes, “I don’t any more. I’m only here tonight because Suzanne and Claire insisted. It’s the first time I’ve sung in public since the…accident.”
Oh, God. Something tightened in his chest. She’d gone blind as an adult. “When did you lose your sight?” he asked bluntly.
“About five months ago.” A veil of sadness passed over her face as she dropped her gaze, the amusement, the liveliness, the vivacity gone. It was as if someone had switched her off. She looked away for a moment.
It took all his self-discipline not to touch her, comfort her. “I’m so very sorry,” he said. “It must be terrible to lose your sight.”
Allegra turned her head back toward him. She was silent for a long time, lovely face solemn and intent. “Do you know, Douglas,” she said softly, “the one good thing being…blind has done, is that it’s forced me to concentrate on people’s voices. Really, really listen. I’ve learned how to distinguish when people are telling the truth and when they’re spinning their wheels, being polite. I think you really are sorry. Thank you very much.”
Jesus. What could he say to that? A waiter walked by. “Do you—” he cleared his throat. “Would you like something to drink? Can you drink champagne while performing?”
“Sure an’ alcohol never stopped a girl from singing,” she replied, an impish gleam in her eyes, pure shamrock in her voice.
“Connemara,” Kowalski said. “Eastern part of the county.” He’d gone on stealth-training missions in Northern Ireland with the SAS for five years in a row. Whenever he had a free day, he’d gone down into Ireland. “But you haven’t lived there for a long time. There’s a heavy overlay of American.”
Kowalski signaled the passing waiter to bring two flutes of champagne for them. That made three glasses, but it was okay. The flutes were long, narrow and only one-third full. And anyway, he had every intention of sticking around until Allegra Ennis, like Elvis, had left the building. By that time he’d have burned off the alcohol.
“You have a wonderful ear, Douglas. And you’re bang on. When my mother died, my father and I moved to Portland. I was ten. When I go back to visit my cousins, though, I slip right into it. You’d think I’d never been away.”
“I guess it’s the early years that imprint a person. Give me your hand.” The waiter was approaching.
Utterly trusting, she held it out to him. He took it just as some fuckhead behind her jostled her. She stumbled forward, startled. Kowalski put an arm around her waist to steady her. He glared fiercely at the man who’d bumped her. The man flinched, raised his hands—sorry—and fled.
“You okay?” he asked Allegra. He’d brought their joined hands up to rest against his chest. With his arm around her, they were in an embrace.
“Yes, of course. So sorry,” she said breathlessly. “That was clumsy of me.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he answered grimly. “That fu—that idiot pushed you.”
She was so soft and warm in his arms. Slender, yet so richly woman. That lustrous spill of auburn hair spread over his arm, catching on his jacket and tickling his hand. Some fragrance, something light and spring-like, rose to his nostrils and he had to stop himself from sniffing deeply, like a dog.
He wanted to just stand there forever, with this woman in his arms. Gritting his teeth against the temptation, he made sure she was steady on her feet, then lifted his arm from her waist. He couldn’t just stand there, groping her. Much as he’d like to.
Not to mention the fact that he’d developed a hard-on—a real hard hard-on. And if she moved just half an inch closer, she’d feel it.
Kowalski had a great deal of control over his body. He’d spent a lifetime developing it. He could go without water, food, sunlight, sleep or sex for just about as long as he wanted. He never had unwanted woodies, especially not in public.
But there it was, total boner, in a room full of at least two hundred people. He could no more have stopped his body’s reaction to touching this woman than he could command his heart to stop beating.
He was still holding her hand. With the other he smooth
ed the tux jacket over his groin, and picked up a flute of champagne from the tray being held patiently by a waiter, whose eyes were studying the ceiling. Kowalski gently placed the glass in her hand, folded Allegra’s fingers around the stem and let her hand go. He picked up a flute of champagne for himself, giving the waiter the narrow-eyed stare he gave new recruits. The waiter backed away immediately.
Man, just holding her hand had made the boner swell to painful proportions.
“Do you have your own glass?” she asked, face turned up to his.
“Yeah.” Jesus, even her voice turned him on. Light, with that faint note of Ireland in it. It would turn a dead man on, and he wasn’t dead. He carefully touched her glass with his. The crystal rang true. “Cheers.”
“Slaintè.”
“Fad saol agat.”
The smile broadened. “Ye’ve spent some time in Ireland yerself, then.”
“Well, of course. Kowalski’s a famous Irish name, don’t you know?”
“I guess that would be the County Cork Kowalskis, then?”
“The very same.” Kowalski had a good ear, and he had the Cork accent down pat.
Allegra laughed and sipped. When she’d finished the glass, she sighed. “I guess I should get back on the stage. I promised Claire a couple more songs. Do you see Claire or Suzanne?”
“I think Claire went off to have a fight with Bud, and Suzanne…” Kowalski looked over the heads of the people in the room. “Suzanne’s near the buffet table on the other side of the room talking to some old geezer in a cummerbund.”
“Oh.” The sound was hollow with disappointment.
“What’s the matter? Do you need Suzanne for something? I can always go and—”
“No.” She shook her head, frowning. “No, please don’t. This is her evening. She needs to mingle. She’s the talk of the show, it’s going to be great for her design business. She worked so hard on the displays, she deserves to reap the reward.”
Allegra was radiating distress. Kowalski couldn’t pick up on the reason, but the air around her quivered with unhappiness.
“Allegra? Is there something wrong? You want me to go hunt Claire up?”
“No, no please. Don’t bother her. I hope she’s making up with Bud. Claire’s been so unhappy since they broke up.”
Yeah, maybe so, but it was Bud who was walking around with a week-old beard and red-rimmed eyes. Claire looked positively glowing.
“Okay, so you don’t want Claire or Suzanne. Tell me what you need. Maybe I can help.”
“Douglas…” She reached out, groping until she found his arm and clutched it. Without a word, Kowalski covered her hand with his, waiting for her to speak.
“Tell me, Allegra,” he said gently, when she didn’t speak.
“I hate this.” Her voice was a sudden fierce whisper. Her fingers dug into his forearm. “I hate it.” She bit her lip, eyes bright with the sheen of tears. Her fingers flexed open under his, then tightened again on his jacket sleeve. He felt her touch in every cell of his body.
“You hate what?” He kept his voice low.
“I’m afraid I—I need your help.” She drew in a deep breath. “I can’t make it up on the stage by myself. Could you—could you please accompany me?” She averted her face, deeply ashamed.
She was ashamed that she couldn’t see. Jesus. His throat tightened.
If she’d only been blind a few months, she couldn’t possibly have developed that extra sense blind people seem to develop as compensation for their lost sight. She’d trip over something or fall off the stairs. Hurt herself. God, he couldn’t bear even the thought of it.
“Of course I’ll accompany you.” Kowalski put a finger under her chin and turned her face around. He smoothed the wrinkle between her brows with his thumb. He couldn’t stand seeing her pain and frustration for another second. “It would be a pleasure. And that means I can get a front-row seat.”
“Silly.” She sniffled and gave a half laugh. “There aren’t any seats.”
“Front-row stand, then. I’ll be right here when you finish. That way you don’t have to worry about coming back down the stairs again.”
Allegra let out a long breath of relief. “Thanks so much. I won’t be long. Just a few more songs.”
“It doesn’t make any difference at all how long you take,” he said quietly. “I’m a patient man and I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you. For as long as it takes.”
She stopped, face turned up to his. He could feel the intensity with which she listened to him, to his words. To what he meant behind the words. She couldn’t see him, but she could sense him.
There was something happening here. He could feel it and so could she. She didn’t even pretend she couldn’t.
Her hand was still on his sleeve. She nodded, once. “Okay,” she whispered.
Okay.
Jesus, yeah. Okay.
Feeling a sudden sunburst of joy in his chest, Kowalski kept her hand on his arm and led her to the stairs. He gave his patented death glare to anyone within twenty feet of them. They took one look at his face and scattered. The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea for Moses. He would have thrown a grenade in front of them to clear her path. They made it to the stairs without incident and he stopped. Obediently, Allegra stopped, too.
“We’re at the stairs,” Kowalski said quietly. “If you lift your right foot, you’ll be on the first stair. There are four of them.”
She nodded and he took her up them and walked her to the harp. With a gentle hand to her back, he seated her. She reached out to stroke the smooth curved wood, smiling faintly at the familiar feel of the instrument. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“When the set is over, I’ll come up on the stage to get you. So don’t move, I’ll be here. You can count on it.”
Allegra slowly turned her head toward him at that, clearly understanding more than just the words. She nodded then turned back to her harp, leaning into it like a child leans into its mother. Kowalski walked back down off the dais to the glittering silvery sound of a glissando at his back. A salute to him.
His cheek muscles moved. It took him a full minute to realize he was smiling.
Alvin had his orders, and they were clear. He could follow orders, yes he could. Of course he could. Anything for Mr. Sanderson, anything.
Mr. Sanderson was going to help him start his music career. Being an orderly, wiping the shit from people’s asses and swabbing their vomit off the floor was not for him. Not for long.
Mr. Sanderson had seen that right away. Oh, yeah.
Mr. Sanderson was a legend. He could tell Alvin was meant for better things. He already had a plan mapped out to make Alvin a star, but he couldn’t do that if he was sent back to prison. No, Mr. Sanderson had to stay at Spring Harbor until he was released in a few years. No way could he help Alvin from jail. The only person who could send Mr. Sanderson back to jail was Allegra Ennis, and Alvin was going to take care of her.
Allegra Ennis was just a little speed bump on the road to his music career—and to stardom.
Alvin loped down the long, antiseptic corridor until he came to Dr. Childers’ office. He knocked softly.
“Yes?” Dr. Childers sounded annoyed.
“Dr. Childers…Mr. Sanderson needs…help.”
She put down her pen, looking alarmed, and rose. “Help?”
Alvin turned and walked back down the corridor. He could hear Dr. Childers’ heels clicking on the slate floor. And he could hear something else, the sounds of destruction, becoming louder as he approached Corey Sanderson’s room. Dr. Childers heard too, and made for the room at a trot. Alvin followed behind. He knew what she’d find.
Even knowing, though, he was shocked when Dr. Childers opened the door. In ten minutes, the room had been trashed, the expensive stereo equipment lying smashed on the floor, Mr. Sanderson’s china in a thousand shards, CDs lying in broken bits. And Mr. Sanderson…
He was keening, an unholy wail, as he
continued his destructive spree. A hospital-issue chair flew against the bulletproof glass of the windows, accompanied by a scream that had Alvin’s hair standing on edge.
Dr. Childers closed the door just in time. The sound of another chair smashing against the closed door could be heard in the hallway. “Nurse!” Dr. Childers screamed. It was the first time Alvin had ever heard her express real emotion. “Nurse!”
It was terrifying. But just as Dr. Childers moved to slam the door shut, Alvin caught a glimpse of Mr. Sanderson. Their eyes met and he could see the light of reason in Mr. Sanderson’s blue eyes. He even winked.
Alvin struggled to get himself under control. Mr. Sanderson was a genius. He knew what he was doing. He was setting the stage.
Tomorrow it would start.
Allegra stroked her beloved harp, Dagda, named after the fierce King of Eire. When his harp was stolen by a rival tribe, it flew back to his hand, slaying nine of his enemies.
Her Dagda wasn’t a fierce warrior. Not at all. Her Dagda was gentle. He was her friend, her confidante, her child, her lover and—over the past five months—her consolation. Dagda had kept her alive and sane when she thought she’d go mad. She’d lost her father, her health, her career, her memory and her sight in one night. If she’d lost her music she’d have thrown herself out the hospital window.
Suzanne and Claire had fought fiercely with the doctors and nurses to let her have Dagda in the hospital room. They’d pulled strings and cajoled and threatened. Claire’s father had gently reminded the Executive Board that the Parks Foundation had donated $12.3 million for the new Oncology wing last year.
And so Dagda had been with her the day she’d finally been able to sit up in bed. The harp had been placed right by her bedside where she could touch it. The nurses just cleaned around it every morning and every evening. In the way of humans everywhere, the unusual became the norm very quickly. And when Allegra had finally been able to get out of bed, she’d pulled herself upright on Dagda’s column.
The second she’d been able to sit in a chair, Suzanne had positioned Dagda next to her knees and Allegra had been able to strum the strings for the first time in what felt like forever. She didn’t need sight to play Dagda. Her hands knew what to do, all on their own.
Midnight Angel Page 3