“Ah, you desire that I should be selfish, Señorita.” He followed her edict and poured himself a cognac and seated himself, but he set it down on the table beside his chair after only one swallow.
“How can you experience insight or God or love or anything of importance until you first have access to the instrument?” She touched his hand, which resulted in an instantaneous surge through his body. “In my profession, my body is truly my instrument, so I am very aware of this fact. I do not play a flute or a piano, I do not carry a sword, everything I utilize—everything—is within myself.”
Damnation, he wished those beautiful red lips would cease forming words without vocals.
“My dreams have come true, Alejandro. I sing in the opera. Everyone told me this was an impossibility. How did all the people come into my life to make this a reality? The roll of the dice?”
“You did it all, as you will inform me, Nicolette.”
“I pray,” she replied simply.
“Nicolette, are you telling me…” A wave of shock washed over him. The diva prayed? He was truly astonished, and he had to fight the curiosity that began to infiltrate his thought processes. He dared not encourage her, or she would never cease talking. But he had to know. “…that you bend on your knees and bow down to Someone?” Other than your own reflection, he wished to say but bit his lip.
“I will never pray, ‘God, give me…’ because it removes me from the equation. I pray, ‘Creator God, please change me however I need to be changed.’ It opens me up to receive from the most powerful energy in the universe and strengthens that connection with my Creator.”
That didn’t surprise him. She positively required to be center stage. “Ah, so I should pray, ‘Mother Mary, please change me however I need to be changed so that my people are no longer starving, so that the literacy rate will rise, so that industry is introduced into España, so that my country will no longer suffer from the aftermath of the war with America, so that the extreme political factions of the left and right will stop fighting each other and destroying my country.’”
“I notice that none of the concerns of your heart are for you, Alejandro. All are for your country.”
“Ah, let me try again, then. ‘Mother Mary, please change me however I need to be changed so that Nicolette will begin to sing.’”
She frowned, but he observed resolve in her eyes. Praise the heavens.
Lowering her head, she motioned to him to be silent, a command he obeyed with both relief and apprehension. He closed his eyes momentarily.
Nothing happened. He heard no sound. Slowly he opened his eyes, and he saw her staring through the French doors onto the terrace.
“Señorita Nicolette?”
“I am thinking.”
“Ah.”
“There is so much moonlight, the night sky is lit, and it is a warm night. Shall I sing on the terrace?”
He glanced onto the terrace, the Eiffel Tower in full view, the evening glorious. Candles strategically placed added to the effect. In truth, the terrace was completely private, and no one could see them as they were on the top floor. Her voice might be heard, of course, but it would not detract from his experience.
He nodded his agreement, and they moved through the door. She placed her bag behind a wooden screen on the terrace. She moved into full view, lit by the moonlight, luminescent, the Eiffel Tower behind her. Her white silk jacket billowed about her, almost blindingly bright against the darkness. The diamonds she wore in her hair sparkled like stars. She looked somehow wilder, even with her prim hairstyle.
He seated himself, quite comfortable in the wooden furniture. He set his cognac beside him.
“First, I will sing a piece from Verdi’s Rigoletto.” She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
“Nicolette, the agreement was that I should hear Carmen.” He sat up in his chair.
“And you will, Your High—Alejandro.” Abruptly she opened her eyes, but he saw in them none of the anger he might have expected. “I am here because you believe in my abilities, am I not? Trust me, then, and allow me to make magic.”
He frowned.
Noting his expression, she added, “And if you don’t believe in me, have faith in mystery.”
He had faith in disaster, would that suffice?
She moved to stand in front of him, not eight feet away, the Eiffel Tower her backdrop. She certainly knew how to set the stage. He ran his hands along the smooth walnut of the chair. She was already casting her spell, and he did not wish to say anything further to destroy the illusion. He was surprised to realize that he did trust her, despite her mischievous streak with which he was on more-than-familiar terms.
And then she began to sing.
“Gualtier Maldè! Caro nome,” she sang in Italian. Her voice started out low and soft before riding upon runs and trills, light and lilting, like the sound of a mockingbird.
“The name of him I love so much, be engraved on my loving heart!” Within seconds, he felt they were the only two people in the world, the Parisian night sky highlighting her every movement. He heard the words, but it was the amazing acrobatics of her voice and her delicate rendition that stunned him.
“Dear name, which first made my heart beat.” He had never been so completely in the moment.
“You must always remind me of the delights of love! With my thoughts my desire will always fly to you.” And as she sang, the two of them alone together on a seventh-floor terrace in Paris, it became shockingly easy to believe that she truly was singing to him and only to him, as he had known in his heart it would be. Her eyes captured his, and her voice was that of an angel’s, reaching to him, seeking him.
“Dear name, which first made my heart beat. And until my dying breath, dear name, it shall be yours.” He was sure now that he must be crazy. He would have sworn that she meant every word. The love she embodied surrounded him. His heart grew full, and he felt cherished. He knew it was just a planned production, and yet…
And as the contrast between that feeling and his own life collided, the emptiness of his existence and the lack of being visible to his family became starkly vivid.
A tear began to roll down his cheek. He had rarely cried since that day. He thought the grief might burst forth from him, and he didn’t give a damn. That was why he was here, to finally release his demons. He was well beyond ready to do this.
The despair overtook him, the sense of loss, the unfairness. He beheld the child who would never know normal development through all the stages of childhood and adulthood. The child who would never know anything but a mother and father who were perfectly happy to live separately from him. No, who chose to be apart from him.
What could I have been thinking? He would never know that happiness, and there was nothing that could be done about it now. This was all delusion.
He had released the pain, let it out of its cage, when he should have left it there. He had nothing to replace it with. He had nothing but burdens.
He buried his face in his hands. Was there a point where a man could accept no more sorrow in his life? It seemed that the only emotion bottled up inside him was grief and that it could destroy everyone. He couldn’t let anyone see it. There was no room for anything else. No room for joy or love or…
She was still singing as if he weren’t crouched in his chair with his face covered by shaking hands. He curled his fingers like claws, the fingernails digging into his forehead.
She continued singing as if this was perfectly normal behavior. As she sang, her hand descended and rested lightly on his bowed head, gently stroking his hair.
A violent tremor ran through him. He lifted his head, and as he did so, Nicolette ran her fingers along his chin, his lips, followed by an elegant sweep to her heart. Slowly she ran her finger along his lips, as if she were memorizing them. She stepped back, but her song wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
No, her music was like armor, strong, invincible, challenging his grief and fear, inviting it to com
e out and do its worst.
He allowed the emotions to release, and he was suddenly blinded. The song was unbearable. She was unbearable.
His life was unbearable.
She was the seductress in full bloom. When his vision returned, he saw that she had taken off her white silk wrapper, now hanging over the wooden screen, and that she wore the formfitting, black raw-silk dress, her milky-white breasts almost bare in the moonlight. A black velvet choker containing a gold cross hung from her neck, and a black lace shawl was draped strategically over her shoulders.
She shook her head, and her now-loose hair flew about her, inviting him to wildness, even as the gold bangles coming from her ears caught the light. A red rose had been placed in between her beautiful breasts.
His lips went dry. He didn’t know when she had ceased singing, because he heard the music still.
“Nicolette,” he said thickly, in a voice that did not belong to him. “It is no longer necessary. There is no point. You may go home.” His grief was so raw that he could not bear to have her in the same space with him.
She smiled reassuringly at him, as if to tell him that his deplorable display was their secret. Her smile coaxed him, comforted him. She began to sing again, but now her body swayed, and her hips moved provocatively.
Somehow she looked even more enticing than he remembered, and that was saying something. She was joy and torment, love and hate, peace and chaos, and she made him real. She brought him to life, like the puppet who had not existed before this moment in time.
But he did not go on this journey alone. Her voice—her miraculous, marvelous voice—went with him, a heavenly guide and companion as he faced his demons.
“Una voce poco fa,” she sang. Blinking the moisture out of his eyes, his surprise overcame his thoughts for a moment. She still wasn’t singing the Habanera.
“A voice just now.” As he strained to listen, to connect to the words, the throbbing in his head lessened, the pain chased away by her siren’s voice.
Of course. He knew the song. Gioachino Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, yet another opera set in Spain.
“The voice I heard just now has thrilled my very heart.” Rosina recalls the voice of her beloved and writes him a letter, determined to win him over the objections of her guardian.
“I am docile, I am respectful, I am obedient, sweet, and loving. I can be ruled, I can be guided.” His hands stopped shaking, and a reluctant half smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as she expertly portrayed Rosina’s subterfuge. Coy and demure in her mannerisms, Rosina appears to be meek and complacent. Only the gleam in her eye, the turn of her smile, and the tilt of her head indicates otherwise.
“But if crossed in love, I can be a viper.” She covered herself demurely with the lace shawl, behaving like a schoolgirl, then letting the shawl slide to the ground, slowly framing a shapely silhouette.
He watched her, transfixed, until he laughed out loud. She feigned airs of innocence and naivety while, at the same time, making it quite clear that she needed no assistance in baiting the big fish nor in reeling it in.
“My heart already is pierced, and it is Lindoro who hurled the dart.” Again she displayed the range of her trills and scales, astounding him with the beauty of her voice and her delivery. She laughed and cajoled, and he was right there with her, completely immersed in her imagery, present with her in all respects, sharing her emotions. He was convinced that Rosina would be victorious in the end, that she would accomplish whatever she set out to do.
He felt the joy of knowing one’s own power. He was flooded with…bliss.
She had played both parts of the same woman so expertly and with such believability, transitioning back and forth before his eyes, that he was dizzy with amusement.
She curtseyed, and he both clapped and burst into laughter. He surprised even himself. He rarely laughed, but he could not contain himself. And he found that he did not wish to.
Nicolette leaned close to his face, and he could feel her breath on his ear as she sang. She pulled away, and he was sorry that she had. He was perspiring at the same time he could not control his laughter.
In only a few moments she had opened him raw, exposing feelings that had been hidden and covered, and once she had released them, she had replaced them with joy and hope.
And then, without more than the slightest pause, while he still reveled in the feeling, she effortlessly picked up the black lace shawl from the terrace and draped it provocatively around her shoulders.
“Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame.” She began to sing the piece he had long awaited as she moved about the terrace. Only this time, instead of being eight feet away, she was six feet, four feet, two feet away. Teasing him, taunting him. He felt himself grow agitated and then…quite…aroused.
“You call it in vain if it chooses not to come!” No, no, he couldn’t do this. He wasn’t supposed to desire her in this way. She was too precious for that.
She was giving the performance of her life. Why? She was no man’s puppet, and yet, for him, she was giving everything. The reaction of his body made it impossible to be unaware that she was giving far more to the part than was required.
“If you don’t love me, I love you.” This wasn’t part of the bargain. She did not have to give so much.
“And if I love you, watch out for yourself!” The realization that she was pouring herself into the part touched him deeply. Along with agitating him on every level. The sentiment blended with and escalated the other strong emotions he had felt during the evening.
“Love is far away, you can wait for it. If you wait for it no more, it is there!” He was surrounded by her gift, fully aware of the fact that she was offering from her heart. It was unconditional love. A pure love. For him.
He felt the barriers shattering. A flood of feeling came to the surface. His hands shook. In connecting to her, in receiving, he began to connect to himself and to the source of her gift.
He felt a rising anger for the abandonment and heartless abuse of his childhood. Surprisingly, it did not consume him. Instead he was overcome with relief.
And something else. Something invaluable. A sense of himself. As if he were meeting himself for the first time. He felt the fog lifting. He began to see things clearly.
The person he saw was not entirely to his liking. But he wasn’t a monster either. He was a child. A man. And a king.
And suddenly Alejandro de Bonifácio, the crown prince of Spain, no longer had the need to run from who he was.
Those who had erased him were wrong and had not had the right to do so. And in that understanding he saw his own nature. His father had exercised a cruelty he would never have imposed on another human being. And yet he had imposed it on himself, as he had been taught to do. As he had had modeled for him.
In denying himself, he had been half a man.
He now chose to be a whole man.
His imperfections did not loom so terribly at him, did not threaten his very existence. Imperfections that he had assumed to be the cause of his abandonment. He saw now that he did have a connection to something or Someone greater than himself. He had been guided all his life. He had had Esteban, who truly loved him, and now, when he needed her, this extraordinary woman had come into his life and shown him that joy was within him. That hope was within him.
That life was within him.
There was a magnificence to his life and to his existence that he had never before grasped. He saw his own strength and wisdom.
He was brought forcibly back into the serenade. She was drawing a line down his lips, then his chin, with her fingertip.
She was touching him in the middle of this stunning music. What could she be thinking? Did she wish to make him lose all sense of reality?
“Nicolette,” he murmured, “don’t, I beg you…” This was his one true weakness. He didn’t want his tainted nature to color an otherwise beautiful moment. She was too special, too dear, to view in such a debased way, s
uch a one-dimensional way. She was the most amazing woman he had ever known—or would ever know.
But she increased her efforts, swaying and singing to perfection, the range and intensity of her voice devastating to him at this range. Her sultry voice reverberated through his blood.
There had never been any doubt. He had always desired her, from the moment he had first seen her. He could no longer hide from the truth.
She absolutely awakened every part of him.
And yet he believed, no, he knew, that he could control his impulses. Did he not understand discipline above all else? He had had no incentive to do so with other women. But with Nicolette, he must.
She was his treasure.
And then something unexpected happened, and he thought he would explode. She sat in his lap, one leg draped to the side. She ran her fingers along his muscular arms. What was she playing at? What could she be thinking? This was too much. There was such a thing as making a person feel he was on the stage with the singer, but this was beyond the illusion.
He was in a dream, his desire was raging, and she stopped singing and she kissed him. Gently at first. But he could not be gentle with her. He put his arms around her waist and pressed her close to his chest. She put her arms around his neck and then began running her fingers through his hair as she kissed him back. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, and she responded in kind. He was sure then that he would go mad. He felt the fullness of her breasts against his chest as if it were the first time he had ever had such a sensation.
“Alejandro,” she whispered.
It was heavenly to hear his name from her lips. He stared at her. She was so beautiful in his arms, her black hair falling all about her shoulders, her beautiful breasts visible to him.
He began tenderly kissing those exquisite breasts. She gasped and then pulled his lips to hers. He longed to take her breasts into his mouth and tease her into ecstasy. He was insane for this woman. He ran kisses along her cheek. She leaned her head back and gasped.
He tore off his cashmere cutaway jacket and threw it to the ground, the white-rose boutonniere flying from the jacket. She loosened the maroon silk tie and threw it as well to the ground, unbuttoning his shirt. He ran his hand along her hips and her thighs, slowly caressing every inch of her thighs, desperate to rip the dress that separated them and to caress the inside of her thighs. He took her hips into his hands and pushed them closer. Her eyes opened wide as if she were startled, and then she closed them blissfully.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 25