Phoenix Alight (Alpha Phoenix Book 4)
Page 23
“Sorry, Gen. I meant in your spare time.”
“Oh. That’s the fun part. I have lots of free time. We’re strictly nine to five at the consulate. I go to museums. Concerts. Art galleries. Explore the city. It was rebuilt after World War II, with replicas of the old buildings. Absolutely drips history. And then there are all the Air Force bars near the consulate. Which is where I heard that your brother got married.”
“Which one?” Eleanor shot back.
“Pierce. Heard he left Special Forces.”
“Yeah. Pierce was injured. He’s flying a desk now. He got married last year*. He and Diana just had a baby boy.”
“Hey, that’s great. I didn’t know that. What’s his name?”
“Adam.”
“Congratulations, Aunt Nell. And your other brothers?”
“Harry remarried. He and Tasha are expecting**.”
“Wow! How is Quincy taking having a stepmom?”
Eleanor laughed. “She and Tasha’s daughter Rebecca are BFFs. It’s my understanding that the girls arranged their marriage for their own convenience and the baby is also their doing.”
Genevieve choked on the idea of someone arranging Col. Harrison D’Angelo into anything. “You give him my respectful congratulations.” It was difficult to be friends with Eleanor and Frankie’s family seeing as how their father and brothers outranked her. No matter that she had known the family since she was seven.
“I’ll do that. You wouldn’t believe how Tasha’s mellowed him.”
“That’s good. But tell me, Eleanor, how’s Frankie doing? Your sister is so cagey these days.”
Eleanor gurgled. “Well, that’s quite a tale, girlfriend. Tasha has almost no family. Just a brother. But what a hunk! Cameron Reynolds is in the Air Force too. He and Frankie absolutely sizzle when they’re together. Only Frankie acts like he’s contagious. While Cam acts like she’s the cure.***”
Genevieve felt for the poor schmuck. A D’Angelo could be hard on an unwary heart. “Yeah? She didn’t say anything to me, and we talked last week.”
“She hasn’t said anything to me either, Gen,” Eleanor said dryly.
“Then I’ll add that bit of info to the Espionage Act.”
“You had better. Will we see you at Christmas, Gen? That’s actually why I called. I have leave and I’m going home to Grape Creek for six glorious days.”
“I envy you! I don’t get stateside this holiday. I’m stuck in Frankfurt for the duration. I get to spend Christmas Day as I please, but not to leave the city.” Had she chatted enough that she could now casually ask about Eleanor’s non-military brother?
“Grant’s singing Handel’s Messiah in Frankfurt this Christmas.” Eleanor announced before Genevieve could frame a casual question.
She knew. On December 22, 24 and 26. With every performance sold out since June. The Angel of the Opera was this season’s hottest ticket. His fallen angel face was plastered all over Frankfurt. She and Mel had failed to get tickets. She and Dan had told anyone who would listen that they knew the famous tenor personally.
But Genevieve feigned ignorance. “Is he?”
“Yup. Mom is madder than a wet hen, even though he told her at Thanksgiving. I’ll tell him to give you a call. You can be homesick for Texas together.”
Genevieve wanted no pity calls from Grant. Bad enough she had this foolish crush on a guy who thought of her as merely his kid sisters’ fat little friend. “Don’t put yourself out. I’ve got plans for the holidays,” she assured Eleanor. “I’ve been invited to Christmas dinner by some colleagues. You remember Melanie and Dan Gilmore?”
“Sure. Last I heard, Melanie and Dan were in Guam. I didn’t know they had been reassigned. What are they doing in Frankfurt?”
“Recovering from Guam! Practicing being the best mommy and daddy in the Air Force. He’s a military attaché too. Mel’s on some sort of leave.” She figured her friends were military intelligence, but that was a guess best kept to herself.
“Of course. You have yourself a good Christmas with the Gilmores and say ‘Hey’ for me, won’t you?”
“I sure will. Give my love to your folks. Merry Christmas, D’Angelo.”
* Phoenix Ablaze
** Phoenix Aflame
***Now in pre-orders: Phoenix Alight
CHAPTER TWO
There were three fliers and a long blue envelope in her mailbox. The fliers went straight into the bin trash can provided by her landlord. The envelope she tucked carefully into her briefcase before she headed upstairs.
Her apartment was on the fourth floor. There was no elevator. Genevieve took the steep stairs two at a time, savoring the promise of that slim blue envelope. She hadn’t needed the return label to tell her Grant D’Angelo had sent her a letter. Somewhere, probably pressed between the pages of her high school yearbook, she had preserved the card he had sent her for graduation. His handwriting hadn’t altered much in the intervening years.
The apartment was one of three on the top floor. She had a bedroom and a living room. The kitchen was a narrow counter along one wall with the world’s tiniest fridge and stove. The minuscule bathroom was tucked between the bedroom and the door to the tiny balcony. Genevieve had rented the place on the strength of that balcony overlooking the patch of grass in the courtyard below.
She headed to the bedroom. She had showered after her afternoon workout, so she just changed her uniform for blue jeans and a sweater. The heat was on and the apartment felt stuffy. She opened the window in her bedroom just a crack, even though the raw, sleety winter air came rushing in.
It was accompanied by the liquid notes of birdsong. The other tenants had denied hearing it. But morning and afternoon it gladdened her heart. It had to be some acoustical fluke that directed some neighboring bird lover’s recording to her bedroom window.
Unconsciously she began to whistle a counterpoint to the haunting melody. The song lasted exactly as long as it took her to hang up her uniform and polish her shoes. More plausibly, she dragged out her tasks until the song was over. As the last notes died away, she latched the window against the raw evening.
In bare feet, she returned to the living room and retrieved her letter. Her heart beat faster. Even though it was desperately unlikely that the Angel of the Opera had abandoned his harem to send plain, prosaic, hefty Genevieve Carson a love note. But a girl could dream. Opening it would spoil her fantasy.
She needed to start supper and have a glass of Riesling. She could make herself a nice chicken-fried steak with cream gravy and some of those thin green beans she had bought at the vegetable store yesterday. She would spend a happy hour or so cooking and imagining that her lover had written pretty things to her.
The steak came out well. Not as good as her mom’s, although she used her recipe. But the beans were better than any she had tasted since she joined the Air Force. The sweet white wine had relaxed her. She found her long-handled letter opener and neatly slit Grant’s envelope, tacitly admitting that she would be saving it.
It contained a single sheet of hotel notepaper and two strips of cardboard. Tickets to the Christmas Eve Performance of Messiah. OMG. She skimmed the short note and then read it again.
Dear Genevieve,
Eleanor and Frankie both told me that you too are stationed in Frankfurt over Christmas. Too bad for us both. I hope you will make use of these tickets. Bring your guest backstage after the performance. We will go out for a late supper. I am looking forward to seeing a fellow Texan.
Yours,
Grant
Not exactly a billet-doux. Not even a request for a date. Grant expected her to bring her own. Genevieve swallowed bile. Afterward, she and her date would share an awkward meal with Grant and his Frankfurt arm candy. Only a masochist would go. She got out her laptop and looked up his email. Not the one that went to his website. The one that connected him to his family in Texas.
* * *
His phone pinged. Despite Linda’s glare, he picked it up.
&
nbsp; “I’m trying to talk to you,” she sputtered.
He held up a hand. “I warned you I was expecting something important.”
“Which I gather has arrived. You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
“Yup.” He savored the notification. Genevieve had written to his private grapecreek.net address. His server had rerouted it to him. The subject line was an uninformative: Thank you!
As in: Thank you, but I’m busy. Or, Thank you, but my boyfriend does not care for oratorio? Or, Thank you, I’ll be there with bells on?
Better not to dash his hopes just yet. He could enjoy his daydream for a few more minutes. “What was it you were telling me?” he asked his manager.
Mollified, Linda began to tell him about the fundraiser for the Alte Oper. Management expected him to sit at the table and sing lieder for his supper.
“Is it in my contract?” he asked.
“Of course. They’re paying you. The only thing we didn’t know was that they auctioned you off last month for forty thousand euros.”
“Apiece?”
“I think so. Seven other places at that table. Seven times forty. You do the math.”
“Am I being paid a quarter mil for this gig?” he demanded.
Linda snorted. “You are not. Fifty thou.”
He laughed at her worried face. “It’s a good cause. Even German concert halls need donors. I’ll behave myself – even if I’m landed with seven industrialists.”
Linda relaxed. She had been nervous about his response.
“When is this fundraiser?”
She sighed. “Tomorrow. It’s still tomorrow.”
“Okay, are we done?” He stood up.
“Sure. What are you going to do tonight?”
“Room service. A hot bath. And an early night.” He smiled blandly. And hopefully a torrid email.
It was not torrid. But it was good news. More or less. Probably less.
Thanks so much for the tickets. It was very thoughtful of you to remember your sisters’ friend. I too am sorry not to be able to be with my family for the holidays. We are looking forward to the concert and our supper. See you Christmas Eve.
Genevieve
We? Who was she bringing? Her boyfriend? Her lover? A nice safe female colleague? Shift and damn. He had no one to blame but himself for sending two tickets. But in four days his mate would be beside him in the flesh. In the meantime, there was always the traditional serenade.
Grant D’Angelo, Angel of the Opera, tenor extraordinaire, let the spellbinding notes of the phoenix love song pour out of his throat into the heart of his fated mate.
* * *
She was flying wing tip to wing tip through the hot dry air. Except that she wasn’t in a plane. She was the plane. The hot Texas wind lifted her wings and sent her skittering sideways. Automatically, she adjusted to control her trajectory.
Instantly, she and the other plane began to spiral clockwise in graceful synchrony. Beneath them the baking Texas hills rolled gray-green and brown. Far beyond the peaceful hills sparkled the Gulf of Mexico. The wind brought her the scent of sage and of her mate. She leveled out at the same instant as her companion, as in tune with his movements as if they were one.
Below her she could see the creek winding across the land. And the tracks of the pronghorns that had visited it, as well as the muddy ford where cattle had crossed. She let the wind lift her wings and soared above the liquid babble of the stream. She angled herself so she could properly view her mate.
In midair he began to sing to her. Of course. She was dreaming. Anything could happen in a dream and often did. His rich melody hung in the air bemusing her senses. His blazing form dazzled her eyes. A blinding rainbow of colors for which she had no names flashed from his feathers. His great hooked beak was open. He sang as he flew.
His told her of his abiding love. Praised her desirableness. Assured he was faithful. She knew herself beautiful, beloved, happy. Come to me, he sang. Come, come, come. Together we will fly forever. Together we will sing the stars to sleep.
Genevieve woke to beeping. Her alarm. Time for her run. She had spent too many years turning out at 0500 hours to sleep in when the sun was out. Not that the sun was up yet. Nor that the anemic sunshine of a German winter was any big deal to a Texas girl.
The last vestiges of her dream floated back. Just what a girl needed -- a gigantic feathery lover. Like Papageno in The Magic Flute. She shook her head at her own foolishness. Like all dreams, last night’s was a blend of desire and frustration.
Homesick for Texas, heartsick over her best friend’s brother, stuck in Frankfurt for Christmas, confined to a desk. No wonder she fulfilled her longings by flying over the Texas hills with her one true love. As if. As Nana B always said, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If dreams were true, Genevieve Hawk Carson would fly. Again.
Outside her window the lovesick bird lifted its voice to herald the dawn. She matched him in joyful harmony, note for note, the familiar melody lifting her spirits and filling her with anticipation.
About the Author
Take a vacation from the humdrum. Isadora writes feel-good PNR stories about heroic shifters and the sexy, sassy BBWs who are their fated mates. An Isadora Montrose Romance will instantly transport you to a thrilling world of sizzling passion and transcendent love. Join her for some rousing adventures and some spicy loving. A guaranteed happy ending every time.
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