by Janice Sims
“I know,” Elle said, trying to be fair. “I won’t let this experience change my opinion of Italy. I’ve loved my visit here.”
Dominic smiled indulgently. “I’m glad.”
“Thanks again, Signor Corelli.”
Dominic was taken aback when she called him Signor Corelli. But then he remembered that was how she’d addressed him at the police station. She considered him her employer, after all. They hadn’t gotten to know each other on a social level yet. Earlier, he had been presumptuous to address her as Elle. But then, he had been a bit emotional upon seeing her sitting next to an apparent prostitute. He’d forgotten social niceties.
“Why don’t you call me Dominic?” he said.
Elle blushed again and said, “Maybe when I get to know you better.”
Dominic laughed softly and shifted his big body into a more comfortable position on the sofa. “Come now, we’re going to be working together. Everyone calls me Dominic.”
“I can’t,” she insisted. “I’ve spent the last six years studying your work. I think you’re a genius and I’m going to have to work my way up to calling you by your first name. So don’t insist, because it won’t make the process go any faster.”
“My father is Signor Corelli,” Dominic said. “You make me feel old before my time.”
Elle laughed softly. “I know how old you are. You’re thirty-three. You’re a young genius.”
“You’ve done your homework,” Dominic said, impressed, “though I’m hardly a genius. What else did you dig up on the Web about me?”
“I didn’t have to use the Web to find information on you,” she said, smiling secretively.
“Everything I needed was at the public library. Although I did search for you on Google once and there were a lot of hits. But I don’t really trust the Web when it comes to accurate information. There’s a lot of gossip on it.”
Dominic knew this to be true. He had been linked with women on the Web whom he had never met. He was currently supposedly dating Italian actress Mia Serrano. She had come to a couple of his operas at La Scala and been invited backstage, but he had never dated her.
“It’s no wonder you were a musical prodigy,” Elle continued. “Your mother is one of the greatest mezzosopranos of all time, and your grandmother, Renata Corelli, one of Italy’s premier sopranos.”
Dominic smiled at the mention of his mother and grandmother, both of whom he loved dearly. His grandmother had passed away four years ago. She had doted on him, and he had doted on her. He had been with her when she died, at her favorite place on earth, her villa on Lake Como. He had held her hand as she lay on a chaise longue in the middle of her beloved garden. When she slipped away, there had been a smile on her face as if she were seeing something beautiful in her mind’s eye at the moment she succumbed. He had bent and kissed her forehead and whispered, “Rest until we meet again, my darling.”
“Yes,” he said to Elle. “They were a great influence on me. Among my earliest memories is sitting in the family’s box at La Scala watching my grandmother or my mother sing.” He looked her straight in the eye. “They were both good in their time. However, they didn’t have your talent.”
He didn’t know why he’d said that. It was true. But he knew, as a director, that it wasn’t good to build up a singer’s ego too much. Some singers could become impossibly demanding when they knew how you truly felt about their talent.
So he was surprised by Elle’s reaction to the compliment. Instead of beaming in satisfaction, she started weeping. It was the most amazing thing to watch. Silent tears fell down her cheeks and her chest began heaving, then all of a sudden the sound came on and she was bawling.
Dominic went to stand up, and Elle held up the palm of her hand, signaling that she wanted him to stay where he was. “Please don’t get up,” she said through her tears. “I’m just a bit emotional. I mean, since I was a kid people have told me I have a gift but I usually took it for granted. After all, they were my friends and family—they were obligated to encourage me. But for you to tell me you think I’m gifted means everything to me. You can’t imagine how much.”
When she felt confident enough to meet his gaze, he saw only humility in her eyes and it touched him in ways he’d never felt before.
A crack developed in the mental barriers he’d erected around his heart, built to guard against feeling too much for a woman lest she begin to mean so much to him that he put her before his work. It’s just a crack, he told himself. After tonight, I won’t let myself be alone with her. She’s some kind of witch. She’s made me want her inside of three days.
Elle got up. “Excuse me,” she said, and left the room.
He was glad to see her go. He needed time alone to think.
Five minutes later, his treacherous heart beat excitedly at the sight of her when she returned. He noticed she’d washed her face and had adopted a new attitude.
“Enough about my wonderful talent,” she joked. “I know all about your background but you don’t know much about mine. Aren’t you a little wary about hiring an unknown? What will the Milano opera community have to say about that?”
Dominic felt more at ease with this question. Now he was in his element. “I don’t give a damn what they think,” he said. He was a bit of an egomaniac and he knew it. Anyone who worked with him knew he was single-minded and didn’t allow anyone to dictate how his operas should be cast.
“I have the final say,” he told her. “It’s in my contract. My work, after all, is my own vision. I know how I want it staged and I know whom I want to portray the characters I created.”
Elle grinned and leaned forward. “Who will portray Cristiano, then?”
Cristiano was the name that Satan took in the story line when he was in the guise of a human. In the libretto, he takes great pleasure in using a name so close to that of Christ, the son of God, his greatest nemesis.
Interested in her opinion, Dominic asked, “Who do you think would make a good Cristiano?”
“Are we in fantasyland here?” Elle asked. “Or do you want a living singer who can actually play the role? If I could choose anyone from any time, I would say Luciano Pavarotti, in his prime, would have been the perfect Cristiano.”
Dominic had to agree. She was very astute, this girl from Harlem. He had imagined Pavarotti when he was composing the music for the opera. “You’re right,” he told her. “But, sadly, Luciano is no longer with us. Name someone who is still on this plane of existence.”
Elle thought for a few minutes and said, “When it comes to the voice you would need and the physical bearing, the ability to project and make a character come alive, it would have to be Spanish tenor Jaime Montoya.”
“Montoya,” Dominic said, considering the brash young singer. Jaime had a reputation for being arrogant, hard to work with and a womanizer, to boot. Okay, Dominic would be a hypocrite if he held being a womanizer against the singer. He had his fair share of women’s names in his little black book, too.
He couldn’t deny that Elle had a point. Jaime had the voice and the bearing. He also had a huge following in Europe and elsewhere in the world. As much as Dominic wanted to think that opera aficionados came to his shows simply to enjoy his work, having a box-office draw like Jaime in the role of Cristiano couldn’t hurt.
He was auditioning singers for the role next week.
“Elle,” he said, looking at her expectantly. “May I call you Elle?”
“Of course, Signor Corelli,” said Elle to his utter frustration.
“Would you like to sit in on the auditions for male lead next week? You can join me in my box.” The request was impulsive. He’d never asked anyone to sit in before.
“Will Jaime be auditioning?” she asked with a mischievous spark in her eyes.
“Yes, I’m told he’ll be there,” said Dominic, wondering why she was so interested in the Spanish singer. Did she have a crush on him, or was she only interested in playing opposite him in the opera?
He would not have them carrying on an affair right under his nose!
Taking a deep breath, he mentally checked himself. Why was he getting irritated—and a little jealous, he was man enough to admit—over a scenario that might never unfold, especially if he didn’t hire Jaime Montoya?
“I’d love to,” Elle said, giving him a gorgeous smile.
His groin grew tight again, and he quickly changed the subject. “All right, that’s settled,” he said. “Let’s talk about practical matters, shall we? Such as where you’re going to live while you’re here in Milan. My sister, Ana, has an apartment she’s going to have to sublet because she’s moving to New York. She’s a model and has been hired by an agency there. We hate to see her go, but she has to be independent.”
He sounded genuinely regretful about his sister moving away. Elle thought he must be very close to Ana and the note of sadness in his voice made her want to offer comfort.
“Is she very young?” she asked sympathetically.
“Only twenty-three, a baby,” he said. He met her eyes. “Not much younger than you are. Have you got a brother who’s missing you?”
“I’m afraid not. I wish I did have a brother or a sister, but after my mom had me when she was eighteen, she felt I was enough.”
“She raised you alone?” asked Dominic. His dark eyes were full of sympathy.
“Yes, and don’t feel sorry for me,” said Elle. “I had a great childhood. Isobel—that’s my mother—and I grew up together and we’re very close. Sometimes it felt more like we were sisters than mother and daughter. We lived with my grandparents in a brownstone in Harlem. It has been in the family for more than a hundred years, according to my grandfather. I know that’s not old compared to your standards, but for America, especially black America, it’s a big thing to say a house has been in the family for that long. Anyway, something on that house was always being repaired, but I loved it. Still do. My grandparents are gone now, but Isobel and I live in it together. Since I’m working in New York I figured, why pay rent somewhere else?”
Dominic was smiling at her and he suddenly realized that he was happy. He would be content to sit up all night talking to her, but he could tell by the drowsy expression in her sultry eyes that she was exhausted. She had had a shock and she needed to rest.
“That’s interesting,” he said, noting how comforting it was for her to still be living in her childhood home. “What comforts you at bedtime nowadays? Should I read you a story? In your pajamas you look like you might appreciate that approach.”
Elle smiled at his humor and yawned daintily with her hand over her mouth before replying, “Sing me an Italian lullaby.”
Dominic smiled. She didn’t know how adorable she looked curled up in that chair, or how the sound of her voice caused a physical reaction in him. Just sitting across from her for the past half hour had rendered him hard.
“I don’t sing,” he lied.
“Come now, Signor Corelli,” she said softly, her voice a gentle caress. “When you were growing up you took voice lessons.”
“You and your research,” Dominic said with a short laugh. “If I had been any good at singing, I’d still be doing it. You’re the singer. Sing me a lullaby.”
“Oh, all right,” Elle said, pretending to be put-upon. She’d been slouching, so she sat up straight before beginning Keb’ Mo’s “Lullaby Baby Blues.”
“Lullaby baby blues. Time to kick off your walking shoes.”
She didn’t sound anything like a classically trained singer, many of whom, even when they were singing the blues, made the song sound like classical music. She sounded like a soul singer, her deep voice gritty and very sexy.
When she finished, Dominic wanted to go to her, pull her into his arms and kiss her until both of them were breathless with desire.
Instead he smiled at her and said, “Why do you sing opera when you can do that? There is undoubtedly more money in being a pop star than an opera star.”
Returning his smile, Elle answered, “Because even though I like other kinds of music, it’s opera I’m passionate about. When I’m on that stage, it’s as if I’m transported to a spiritual place. It’s as if I’m…”
“Singing to God?” Dominic asked with an expectant expression.
Elle laughed shortly. “Yes, that’s it! It’s very addictive, that feeling. It feels better than sex!”
“Really?” Dominic said with a smile. If singing was better than sex to her, exactly whom had she been making love to? It had to be someone really inept in bed.
If he ever made love to her she would definitely not compare singing to lovemaking. There would be no comparison.
Elle hid her face, which had grown hot with embarrassment, behind her hands. “I can’t believe I said that.” She regarded him with laughing eyes. “I think I’ll go to bed on that note.” She got up. “The bed’s already turned down in the spare room. I hope you sleep well. Good night.”
Dominic got up, took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. After kissing it, he said with a smile, “Buona notte, nightingale. Thank you for that beautiful lullaby.”
He released her hand and Elle, blushing, turned and walked away, holding the hand he’d kissed close to her chest. She knew, in spite of the awful incident earlier in the evening, that she would have sweet dreams tonight.
Dominic watched her go. He would definitely burn in his bed tonight, with her only a few feet down the hall from him.
What he needed was a stiff drink, or a cold shower.
He went over to the bar. No liquor. Not even a bottle of wine.
He headed to the spare bedroom. A cold shower was in order. Looked like he’d be using that robe she’d offered him, after all.
Chapter 5
The next morning, Elle awakened at half past eight. She showered and then dressed with care, even though she figured that when she walked into the living room of the suite there would be no sign of Dominic Corelli. Having seen her safely through the night, undoubtedly he had fled at the first glimmer of daylight.
She couldn’t blame him. Why had she let it slip that she loved singing as much as, maybe more than, sex? Because of that he probably now thought that she was an unsophisticated rube who shouldn’t be let loose on the unsuspecting citizens of Milan. She needed to be babysat for her own good, much like a small child needed to be kept away from fire to prevent her from burning herself.
“Buon giorno!”
Dominic Corelli was sitting on the sofa, reading the morning paper, a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He had put back on his jacket and shoes and straightened his tie. As handsome as ever, he appeared fresh and ready for a business meeting or morning mass.
“Buon giorno,” Elle said, smiling warily.
Dominic cast an appreciative eye over her. She was wearing a navy blue wrap dress that accentuated her curves. It wasn’t too clingy, with barely a glimpse of cleavage. She wore three-inch-heel pumps in the same shade. Because his family on his father’s side had been in the clothing business for many years, he was of the opinion that a woman’s clothing should complement her natural beauty. Elle’s did.
Her hair was in a neat, upswept style that allowed her lovely facial features to take center stage, and made her neck look even more swanlike. He liked her neck and couldn’t wait to caress it with his lips, while breathing in the warm, sweet, feminine scent of her.
He held up another cup of coffee in a takeout container. “I hope you like cream and sugar.”
“I do. Thank you,” she said, stepping forward and taking the coffee. She sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “Anything interesting in the paper?” she asked.
“No, the world is still in chaos and that doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon,” he said with a smile. He looked her in the eyes. “How are you feeling this morning? You look lovely, but that’s just the physical you. How is the emotional you?”
“Both sides of me are doing well, thanks, and you? How did you sleep?”
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br /> He gave her an enigmatic smile. “I slept like a baby.”
Elle took that as a compliment, since she had sung him a lullaby last night. She was grateful that he reminded her of that pleasant interlude, rather than her singing’s-better-than-sex misstep.
She sipped her coffee as Dominic folded the paper and placed it on the coffee table. “What are your plans today?”
Elle shrugged. “I really don’t have any plans. I was going to make a few phone calls and then maybe tour the city some more. There are still so many things I haven’t seen yet.”
“What were you going to do for lunch? Surely you’ll be ravenous after all that sightseeing.”
“Find a café somewhere.”
“No, you’re coming home with me,” he said, giving her that unnerving intense look, as if he was undressing her with his eyes.
Elle looked at him questioningly and Dominic laughed a bit. “Not my house, my parents’. I always have lunch with them on Sunday when I’m in town. My sisters will be there, too.”
Elle panicked. He wanted her to meet his whole family in one fell swoop? Couldn’t he allow her to meet them one at a time instead of en masse? “I don’t want to impose,” she began timidly.
“You’re going to meet them eventually,” Dominic told her, as if it were a done deal. “My mother doesn’t get to socialize with many Americans. She would love to meet you. She was born in Louisiana but she spent a lot of time in Harlem while she was with the Met.”
“Oh, yeah, she was with the Metropolitan Opera when she met your father,” Elle said, feeling a bit more at ease about meeting Natalie Corelli and the rest of his family.
“It was a whirlwind romance,” Dominic told her. He sipped his coffee. “But I'll let her tell you about it.” He reached inside his coat pocket and retrieved his cell phone. “I’m going to phone and tell her you’ll be coming with me.”