by Janice Sims
“You do have an agent?”
“No, I negotiated my own contract. I got the maximum for a member of the chorus.”
Dominic grimaced. Could she possibly be as naive as she appeared to be? Talented, but entirely too trusting. A less scrupulous person would exploit this opportunity to take advantage of her.
He cleared his throat as he glared down at her. “Then who’s been looking out for your best interests?”
Elle blushed. “I have.”
Dominic laughed. “Then you have a law degree as well as a degree in—what is it you earned a degree in at Juilliard?”
“Music,” Elle said irritably.
“Music,” he calmly repeated. “That’s such a broad subject.”
“Voice,” Elle provided, eyes narrowed. “I’m also a classically trained pianist.”
To this, Dominic smiled. He liked the idea of his lead soprano also being a classically trained pianist. She may have an ear for composition. He was excited by the possibility that Elle Jones might prove to be stimulating to work with. “Prove it,” he challenged.
Elle had the cell phone open and was about to press a button that would connect her with Belana and Patrice, waiting outside in the Piazza del Duomo.
She closed the phone and with her head held high, said, “Lead the way.”
Dominic gestured for her to precede him out of the room. Once they were in the hallway, he said, “There’s a grand piano downstairs where you auditioned. What will you play for me?”
“One of your compositions,” she told him, surprising him. Elle relished the astonished expression on his handsome face.
She didn’t tell him that she had been the lead soprano in Inferno her senior year at Juilliard and had learned the entire score. That’s how she had chosen to sing the aria from Inferno for him.
Once they reached the auditorium, Elle sat at the piano and Dominic stood beside it, a smirk on his face—or was that a small smile? Elle couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, she intended to wipe it right off his face.
She launched into Burn in Hell. Dominic’s music was modern opera. It was passionate, inducing all sorts of emotions in the listener. It could be gently stirring or chaotic and jarring. It could be rhythmically moving and actually make listeners want to dance. It could make them laugh or make them cry. In some instances it was downright funky. The one thing it wasn’t was forgettable.
Elle recalled every note of Burn in Hell, and she played it beautifully. When she finished and slowly raised her hands from the piano keys, there were tears in her eyes. She brushed them away with the pads of her fingers as she smiled up at him.
Dominic shook his head disbelievingly. “Bellissimo! How did you remember that piece so well? It’s a difficult composition.”
Elle laughed shortly. “It’s nothing miraculous, really. I learned to play by ear when I was a kid. When I started taking piano lessons, my teacher had a hard time making me learn to read notes. I resisted for a long time. But when I got accepted at Juilliard, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fool my instructors there so I buckled down and learned. But I can still play by ear.”
Dominic smiled at her. “I like you, Ms. Jones. I like you a lot.”
Elle returned his smile. “Molte grazie, Maestro.”
“But you’re going to have to hire an agent. La Scala’s lawyers don’t negotiate with singers,” he said sternly.
Chapter 2
Patrice and Belana were waiting for Elle in front of the Duomo, the third largest church in the world. That morning they had agreed that while Elle was auditioning for Dominic Corelli, Patrice and Belana would be making a circuit through the Quadrilatero della Moda, the fashionable shopping district not far from La Scala and the Duomo.
When Elle spotted them she started screaming, “I got the role! I got the role!”
Both of her friends screamed as well and began running toward her. Other pedestrians on Piazza del Duomo didn’t appear startled by their screeching and calmly moved out of the girls’ path.
Patrice Sutton, five seven and athletic, reached Elle first and hugged her tightly. “Oh, girl, I’m so happy for you. It’s about time you got out of that chorus and got the chance to shine!”
Belana Whitaker, five four and even more athletic than Patrice due to more than twenty years of practicing ballet, hip-bumped Patrice aside for her chance at Elle. Patrice peered down her nose at her shorter friend and let the affront pass. Belana was bossy. Always had been; always would be. Patrice and Elle usually overlooked that particular personality trait of their petite friend, even though it was very irritating.
They jokingly referred to it as Belana’s Napoleon complex. Being smaller than either of them, she felt the need to throw her weight around from time to time.
Elle and Belana were jumping up and down with glee. “And you didn’t even want to come to Italy!” Belana cried. “We had to twist your arm.”
Belana’s light brown eyes sparkled with happiness as she looked up at Elle. She let go of Elle and the three of them began walking along the piazza. “Tell us all about it,” she ordered.
Elle was distracted by their beautiful surroundings. Didn’t they realize they were standing in the midst of history? The Duomo, the cathedral in front of which they stood, had been built in the fourteen hundreds and was a marvel of Gothic architecture. It was so huge it took up an entire side of the piazza. It consisted of several stories of sand-toned stone and its spires reached for the heavens. The day before they had toured the church and it had taken them some time to explore the entire structure.
“Isn’t it awe inspiring?” Elle asked no one in particular as she gazed up at it.
Both of her friends sighed impatiently. They didn’t want to hear another history lesson. Elle had been filling their heads with background information on every site they had visited since their trip had begun. It wasn’t as if they were going to remember any of it once they were back in New York City. Patrice and Belana were more interested in mingling with the natives, especially the male natives.
“You were going to tell us about the audition, not more about architecture,” Belana reminded Elle. “I already know more about Gothic buildings than I ever wanted to know.”
“I know that’s right!” Patrice agreed.
They sandwiched Elle between them as they headed in the direction of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, where they would find a café and have lunch.
Both girls carried shopping bags and were casually dressed, as Elle was: Belana in a red T-shirt and white city shorts with sandals, and Patrice in jeans, a short-sleeved white blouse and Crocs. Belana had golden-brown skin and naturally wavy auburn hair that she wore long so that when she was dancing in a ballet she could put it up in the customary French knot at the back of her neck. Patrice had rich medium-brown skin and jet-black hair that she wore relaxed, short and layered. She liked what she called wash-and-wear hair, because as an actress her looks were always being altered for a role. She spent enough time in the makeup chair on the set of the sitcom where she was lucky enough to be a regular. Of the three of them, she was the most successful. She had also recently played significant parts in two films that had received excellent reviews when they had debuted at theaters.
Elle was the only child of a single mother who had raised her in Harlem. Patrice was the second child in a four-sibling family. She was raised by both parents on a ranch in New Mexico. Belana was the spoiled daughter of one of the richest men in America. She had an older brother and her family owned homes in six locations around the world. Her parents had been divorced since she was a toddler and her father had won custody of her and her brother. She hadn’t seen her mother in years.
Since their meeting at Juilliard six years ago they had supported each other through broken hearts, botched auditions and anything else life threw at them.
They found a small café and sat down at a sidewalk table.
A waiter appeared and offered them menus. Elle waved them off. “We’d like today�
�s special,” she told him in Italian, “and a bottle of your house wine.”
When the waiter had gone, Belana complained, “You know I hate it when you do that, Patty, and I don’t know what you’re saying. You could be ordering us squid or something equally horrible.”
Elle laughed shortly. “If you hear the word calamari, head for the hills.”
“Calamari,” Belana repeated, as if trying to commit the word to memory.
“Stop stalling,” Patrice told Elle. “Tell us about Dominic Corelli. Do his photos do him justice?”
“Not even close,” Elle admitted, her gaze flitting from Patrice’s face to Belana’s. Both women leaned toward her so that they wouldn’t miss a word she was about to say. “First of all, he’s taller than I imagined he would be. How many tall men have you seen since we’ve been in Italy?”
“They’re not that short,” Belana said in defense of Italian men. “Several have been taller than I am.”
“You’re only five four,” said Patrice. “Anyway,” she added, turning her attention back to Elle, “he has an African-American mother, doesn’t he? He probably got his height from her side of the family. What happened after your audition?”
“He told me he thought I was talented, and then he laughed at me when I told him I didn’t have an agent. He treated me like a not-so-bright child. I felt like an amateur telling him I negotiated my own contracts.”
“I’ve been telling you for years that you need an agent,” Belana said. She went into her purse and withdrew her BlackBerry. “I’m sending Fred a message. He can represent you.”
Patrice sniffed derisively. “Fred? He’s a pussycat compared to my agent, Blanca. This is Elle’s big chance. She needs Blanca.”
“Blanca Mendes is a shark in designer shoes,” Belana accused.
“Yeah, she wears nice things because her clients always get good deals. Face it, Belana. If you weren’t already rich, you would want her to represent you, too. It just so happens that you’re a dancer because you love it, not because it’s your way of putting food on the table.”
“I’m a good dancer!” Belana cried, hurt.
“You’re the best dancer in your company,” Patrice readily admitted. “That’s why it pains me that you’re not earning what you’re worth!”
Patrice was always interested in the bottom line. She had seen her parents struggling to keep the ranch going over the years. As one of four siblings, she had known what it felt like to wear discount-store clothes to school and have some of the more obnoxious kids look down on her. That’s why she worked so hard and why she had hired an agent who was a shark.
Belana sighed loudly and regarded Elle with a smile. “She’s right. Hire the shark.”
“What if she won’t represent me?” Elle asked innocently.
Belana and Patrice looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Just mention Dominic Corelli’s name, stand back and watch the shark attack,” said Patrice.
The waiter brought their wine and served them.
Belana, who was more wine savvy than her friends, took a sip first and declared, “Not bad!”
The waiter smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
“You speak English!” Elle cried, grinning.
“Of course,” he said with a naughty wink in Elle’s direction. He placed the wine bottle on the table. “I will return shortly with your fresh trout served with risotto and vegetables. My name is Paolo.”
“Thank you, Paolo,” Elle said.
He smiled at her again and left.
Belana shook her head in admiration and said, “He’s not too short for me!”
“But he is too young,” Patrice said. “He can’t be more than eighteen.”
“Isn’t that considered an adult in Italy?” asked Belana.
Belana and Patrice looked to Elle for the answer.
Elle hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know!” To which Patrice and Belana laughed.
“Finally,” said Belana. “A subject Elle knows nothing about.”
“Honestly, can we stay on the subject here?” Patrice complained, turning to Elle. “You said he was taller than you thought he would be. What else? You can’t have been in the room with a man that talented and good-looking without forming an opinion of him.”
Elle was remembering the sensuality with which Dominic Corelli moved. How his body, underneath his suit, had seemed so powerful. Warmth suffused her. “He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met,” she emphatically stated. “I’m glad he’s going to be my boss because if he were just another unattached singer in the production, I would probably be tempted to date him.”
“Tempted to date him?” Patrice mimicked in a prim and proper tone. It was her opinion that Elle was too guarded with her emotions since she’d been dumped by her last boyfriend. She practiced her craft endlessly, professing to her friends that when her big break presented itself, she was damned well going to be ready for it. As a result of her dedication, she had no love life to speak of. “You don’t date a sexy beast, girl, you jump his bones!”
“Throw him down and have your way with him,” Belana offered, getting into the ribbing of Elle.
“Turn him on, rip his clothes off and see if he’ll salute,” said Patrice.
“And if he salutes, see if he can go the distance,” added Belana.
Elle laughed. “Keep dreaming, guys. You know I could never come on to a man like Dominic Corelli.”
“What if he comes on to you?” Patrice asked.
Elle was stumped. Excited by the prospect, but definitely without a notion of what she would do if Dominic Corelli actually admitted he wanted to sleep with her.
“Let me enjoy the fact that he wants me in his opera,” she told them. “The idea of his wanting me in his bed is beyond me.” She laughed. “Besides, believe me, he doesn’t see me as a potential sexual conquest. He’s already laughed at my ignorance and told me he’s the devil to work for. So, don’t go dreaming up sexy scenarios in your love-starved minds!”
“Love-starved,” said Belana, offended. “I’m dating two men. And Patty is fighting off the advances of every horny actor in Hollywood.”
Patrice laughed. “You’re exaggerating a bit, my dear. I really am love-starved. I haven’t been on a date in five months. You’re representing all of us when it comes to dating.”
Belana snapped her fingers at them. “I’ve got it like that!”
Elle and Patrice laughed at her. “She’s not at all humble about it,” observed Elle.
At that instant, Paolo arrived with a food-laden tray and served their meals with a flourish. “Enjoy!”
They did. Seasoned with savory spices, the trout was baked to perfection and the risotto, made with saffron, was a delicate, appropriate accompaniment to the fish.
When they were finished they called Paolo over, gave him a nice gratuity, for which he thanked them, and sent their compliments to the chef. Paolo waved to them as they walked away.
When they were nearly out of earshot he grinned and exclaimed, “Bella!”
Chapter 3
The next day, Dominic was in the office of his spacious apartment in Milan watching the performances of the previous day’s singers on a flat-screen TV. He wanted to make sure that choosing Elle Jones for the female lead had been the right decision. Maybe he had imagined the tone of her voice? After all, by the time she came along he was so tired of auditioning singers that he’d begun to pray to be delivered from the task. He could have latched onto any competent singer.
A competent singer wasn’t all he needed for this role. He needed a star, someone the audience would be instantly enamored with and continue to love from opening night to closing night.
When he got to Elle Jones’s performance and saw her walk onto the stage, he felt his stomach muscles painfully constrict. It was a reaction he’d stopped having at the sight of a beautiful woman when he was in his teens. The feeling was a mixture of anticipation and excitement with a bit of sexual desire
thrown in.
He was glad he had not been watching her yesterday when she had sung for him. He would have had this same reaction before she had even opened her mouth, and who knew? His decision to hire her could have been based on sexual desire.
He was only human.
On the screen, she began to sing, and the expression on her face was sublime. It was obvious she loved the song and it was also clear that she wasn’t performing for him, but was singing to heaven. His mother had told him that her own best performances were not sung for an audience in an opera house, but a heavenly audience: God and his angels. She imagined that she was entertaining angels and it gave a certain quality to her voice that she was never able to duplicate when she wasn’t in that mind-set during a performance.
It was a feeling, according to his mother, that was hard to explain. But she said she had felt closer to heaven during those times than she had ever felt while sitting in a church.
Dominic believed her because when he was creating music he also felt more connected with God, the universe or whatever a person thought of as a higher power.
Could Elle Jones be a believer?
He smiled the entire time she was singing, and then he used the remote to stop the DVD player. Yes, Elle Jones had been the right choice, but there was something about her that made him wary. She was so young, only twenty-five, and inexperienced. Plus, there was the fact that he was wildly attracted to her. That could pose a problem. He made it a rule to never get personally involved with colleagues or staff. It could get messy. Artists were notoriously emotional creatures. His own personality could get volatile at times, especially when he was trying to bring his work to life on the stage. Would he be able to work with Elle Jones every day without growing evermore attracted to her? Also, the fact that she was attracted to him hadn’t escaped his notice. She had trembled at his touch, after all. Was she worth the effort?
He watched her performance one more time.
Yes, she was.