Temptation's Song (Kimani Romance)

by Janice Sims

“I do,” Elle said.

  She felt a lot better after her mother’s pep talk. Everything Isobel had said made sense, especially the advice about avoiding being alone with Dominic. It was the only way she was going to be able to resist him, and she knew it.

  “Okay,” she said to her mother, “I can avoid him. But tell me this. How do I avoid falling in love with him from a distance? I’ll be seeing him practically every day. I can control whether or not I’m alone in a room with him, but I can’t control how my heart feels about him.”

  “Honey, I have no cure for that,” Isobel said regretfully.

  Elle laughed. “I didn’t think so, but I thought I’d give it a try.”

  They changed the subject and talked a bit about her mother’s job at a firm on Wall Street and the stockbroker who kept asking her to dinner. When Elle asked her why she hadn’t gone out with him, her mother guffawed and said, “I’m too old for that kind of stuff.”

  “You’re going to be forty-four on your next birthday. That’s not old!” Elle exclaimed.

  “He’s thirty-five.”

  “So, you’ll be a cougar,” Elle joked. “It’s all the rage these days. Heck, Cher was ahead of the curve. She was dating younger men twenty years ago.”

  She had her mother cracking up. “I’m not Cher,” Isobel said through her laughter. “I’m just an accountant.”

  “A very sexy accountant,” Elle said. “Go out with the man, Isobel!”

  “Maybe,” her mother hedged.

  “Promise me before I hang up,” Elle insisted. “Dinner’s a big step. You can start with getting a coffee with him and go from there. Go, Isobel. You might like him.”

  “All right, a coffee,” Isobel promised. “Maybe even a short chat at the watercooler. That won’t be too intimidating.”

  Elle laughed until there were tears in her eyes. “Okay, that’s something. I’d better let you go. Have a great day. I love you!”

  “I love you, too, baby. Remember to keep your eyes on the prize.”

  “I will,” Elle vowed.

  “Okay, then, ’bye, baby,” said Isobel.

  “’Bye,” Elle said fondly.

  After they hung up, Elle got up and stretched. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t had lunch yet. She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. There was a nice little restaurant nearby that she liked. She would have some lunch, come back home and begin learning the score Dominic had given her. She wished she had access to a piano so that she could play the score while she sang it.

  Chapter 9

  “What do you think?” Sophia asked Elle after showing her Ana’s apartment. The address was only half a mile from the theater. In a pinch Elle could walk to work. And the neighborhood appeared to be peopled by young professionals with children. There was a market nearby and several restaurants, all within walking distance. Elle had thought about leasing a car, but it looked like she would be able to get by without one. If she needed to go someplace that wasn’t within walking distance, she could hail a cab or take the train.

  It was Wednesday afternoon, and Sophia had phoned her an hour ago. She’d told her she was coming over and to pack her things because she was moving into Ana’s apartment tonight. Elle was glad to hear it. She really didn’t feel like imposing upon Belana’s father any longer, even though he’d told her when she’d spoken with him over the phone to stay at the hotel as long as she needed. Elle balked at running up the bill any higher, even though he was a millionaire several times over. She didn’t want to be beholden to him more than she already was.

  When she’d told him that, he’d laughed and said, “You’re like a daughter to me. You can pay me back by bringing down the house at La Scala. I’m coming to opening night with Belana. I’m telling all my friends to come.”

  “Thank you! I’ll try not to let you down,” Elle had said with a smile.

  “I know you won’t. Now, I’ve got to run. Don’t bother me with talk of a hotel bill again. ’Bye, Miss Opera Star.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Whitaker.”

  Now she turned to smile at Sophia, who was regarding her with raised brows, awaiting her opinion of the two-bedroom apartment. “I love it!”

  What was there not to love? It had beautifully polished hardwood floors and was fully furnished in shabby-chic style. Good, solid furniture was upholstered in primary colors and the carpets’ shades were muted. It all went together well in a modern hodgepodge.

  Plus, there was an upright piano in the back next to the balcony doors. Elle walked over to it and played a few notes.

  “Dominic had that delivered,” Sophia told her. “He said you played and might find it useful.”

  Elle’s heartbeat sped up at the mention of his name. She hadn’t spoken to him since the incident. She imagined he was giving her space. “That was very thoughtful of him,” she said to Sophia.

  Sophia walked over and opened the balcony doors. A slight breeze blew in and on it the smell of something delicious cooking. Sophia sniffed the air and said, “That smell makes me hungrier than I already am. I missed lunch today.”

  She turned back around and looked at Elle, who still had her hand on the piano keys but had not played any more notes. She looked sad to Sophia and she was dying to ask her why. But after her argument with Dominic she had resolved not to stick her nose in his business again. That meant not asking Elle questions about their relationship.

  She looked around the apartment. She’d had a cleaning service come in and go over it with a fine-tooth comb. The air was clean and fresh and the walls, ceilings and floors were immaculate.

  She and Elle had brought in Elle’s belongings, which consisted of two large suitcases filled with clothes and several shopping bags filled with everything she had purchased while in Milan.

  Elle was in a pensive mood. Sophia decided that maybe she should just give her the key and go, before her empathy got the best of her and she wound up asking questions.

  She walked over to the foyer table where she had left her purse and got the apartment key out of it. “Here’s the key, Elle. Ana has it set up so that the utilities are taken care of automatically every month. And Dominic made sure that the rent was included in your contract. So, you’re set. You’ve got my number if you should want to talk about anything. Do you want to talk about anything?”

  Elle smiled at her. “I’m not very good company today, am I? I’m sorry. I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Like what?” Sophia prodded her.

  Elle sat down on the piano bench and peered up at Sophia. “What am I getting myself into? Am I as good as your brother thinks I am? Will I succeed, or will I fail?”

  Sophia walked over to a chair near where Elle was sitting. She sat down and sighed softly. “Dominic wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you were up to the task. He’s obsessed with his work, a perfectionist to the bone. When he heard you sing and then looked at you, you were Adama in his eyes. So quit wondering if you have the talent to do what will be asked of you. Whether you’ll succeed or fail is entirely up to you. I say you’ll be the biggest star to perform at La Scala since Pavarotti.”

  “Is that a fat joke?” Elle asked, pretending to be aghast.

  “Never!” Sophia cried indignantly. “I worship his memory like every other good Italian.”

  “I meant myself,” said Elle. She looked behind her. “I think my butt has gotten bigger since I’ve been in Italy.”

  “If it hasn’t, you haven’t been enjoying yourself,” said Sophia, who wasn’t thin herself. “No, my dear, you look great. The only skinny women we tolerate are those clothes hangers who prance up and down the runway in fashion shows.”

  “You’re talking about your sister,” Elle reminded her.

  “I’m not saying anything Ana hasn’t heard a million times,” Sophia told her. “She’s only doing it to be different, to claim her individuality. Think about it—Dominic is this musical genius. I’m a formidable businesswoman. She has to do something that she thinks defi
nes her. She chose modeling. She’s wrong, of course. What she really is, deep down, is an artist.” She got up. “Follow me.”

  Elle followed her to one of the bedrooms. Sophia went to the closet and in it was a pile of oil paintings, all covered with thick, off-white drop cloths. She chose a large one, removed its cloth and presented the painting to Elle.

  Elle took the painting and held it at arm’s length in order to get a better view of it. It was a self-portrait of Ana. She marveled at the detail. The sepia-toned likeness reminded Elle of an aged photograph. There were even subtle cracks in it like the weathering a photograph gets as it ages.

  “This is really good,” said Elle. “It looks so much like her, but why are her eyes so sad?”

  “Because that’s how Ana feels about herself,” Sophia said. “She’s not doing what she really loves.”

  “She’s only twenty-three,” Elle said in Ana’s defense. “She has time to make a few wrong turns before she comes back to this.”

  “That’s what Momma says,” Sophia told her while she bent over to remove the drop cloth from another painting. This one was of Dominic.

  In it he was standing onstage at the opera, obviously receiving accolades after the final curtain. He looked so handsome in his tuxedo. He held a single rose in his hand that someone had given him.

  Elle took a sharp intake of breath upon seeing the portrait of Dominic, and Sophia didn’t miss it. She smiled. “She really captured him, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” breathed Elle. “She did. It’s like he could walk out of this painting and be here with us in this room right now.”

  “Spooky, isn’t it?” Sophia joked.

  Elle handed the painting back. Sophia was right. She felt a little spooked by how realistic the painting looked. She wondered if on some night in the future, overcome with loneliness, she might be tempted to come into this room and get this canvas of Dominic just to hold it?

  She almost didn’t want it in the apartment with her.

  But that was too foolish to say out loud, so she smiled at Sophia and said, “Did she take lessons or is she naturally that talented?”

  “No lessons,” said Sophia. “Imagine how good she could be if she had lessons. But then again, some of the most successful artists were self-taught.”

  She put the painting away. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? Want to go somewhere and grab a bite to eat?”

  Elle did, so they went down onto the street and took a stroll in the neighborhood. When they got to a quaint family restaurant on the corner, they went in and were seated by a young man in black slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt with the cuffs turned up.

  He didn’t offer them menus but recited what the chef had prepared for them today.

  Elle looked at Sophia across the table after he had taken their orders and left. “You’re so nice to look out for me the way you’re doing.”

  “Don’t mention it, Elle. It’s my pleasure,” Sophia told her, smiling. “Now that you’ve found someplace to live, we can concentrate on your social life.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m going to have much of a social life,” said Elle. “We begin work in a few days.”

  Sophia laughed. “Too bad. I wanted to introduce you to a friend of Matteo’s. He still lives with his parents, but lots of Italian men don’t leave home until they marry.”

  The following week, rehearsals began and Elle was swept up in the chaos that was part and parcel of staging an opera. She was introduced to the large cast and found she was familiar with some of the principal players. The chorus was mostly students from La Scala’s school of the performing arts, who gained experience and volunteered for the opera to count as part of their grades.

  Her understudy was a mezzo-soprano from Milan who was only a year younger than Elle.

  Petite and pale with huge brown eyes and long, straight brown hair, Teresa Maldonado reminded Elle of those Renaissance masters’ paintings of the Madonna she’d seen in an art gallery she, Belana and Patrice had gone to here in Milan.

  Surrounded by the rest of the cast, Teresa regarded Elle shyly. “Oh, Signorina Jones, I’m honored to be chosen to learn from you. I hear wonderful things about you. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea, or warm water and lemon for your throat?”

  Elle smiled down at her. “That’s very sweet of you, Teresa. But you’re my understudy, not my gofer. Tell me about yourself. Where did you train?”

  “Right here,” said Teresa proudly. “The school has been open since early this decade. It’s fairly new, but a good school. I hear you went to Juilliard. I’ve always heard about it and thought it might be something like the school depicted in Fame. Is it?”

  “If you mean, are the students as dedicated to their craft as the students in the movie, then yes. They’re really serious about achieving their goals. They work very hard.”

  “But no dancing in the streets and bursting into song in the hallways?” Teresa asked sincerely.

  “Maybe once in a while,” Elle joked. She liked Teresa.

  Everyone stood around chatting with one another until Dominic entered the room.

  When he appeared the jovial mood among the cast members was instantly dampened. You could hear a pin drop. He didn’t even have to clear his throat to get their attention. All eyes were riveted on him, including Elle’s.

  Today he was impeccably dressed in a navy blue designer suit. He also wore a long-sleeved white shirt with a crimson silk tie and black Italian loafers. He was clean shaven, to Elle’s disappointment. She thought he looked very sexy with a day’s growth of beard.

  His tall, well-built body fairly pulsed with power as he paced a bit before stopping to regard them. He didn’t even look at her when he began: “Welcome, everyone. You’ve all been chosen for a reason—I believe in your ability to translate my music into a living, breathing organism, which is what I believe an opera is.”

  Elle heard Teresa whisper, “I think I’m going to faint,” she was so excited to be in Dominic’s presence. Elle turned to look at her. She was grinning like a fool. She didn’t appear faint, so Elle returned her attention to Dominic, who was now casually sitting on the edge of a sturdy table. “Temptation is part modern, part traditional. I’ve combined classical and hip-hop music to bring something new to the audience. I’m taking a risk but with your help I think I can pull it off.” Now, he glanced in Elle’s direction. “For the first two weeks, feel free to refer back to the score while we’re rehearsing. However, by the third week I expect you to have learned your parts and I don’t want to see any paper on the stage.” He paused for a couple of minutes so that what he’d said could sink in. Then he added, “Shall we begin? Signorina Jones, you have the opening aria.” He looked at the pianist, a short Italian man with a receding hairline. “Vincenzo. Music, if you please.”

  Elle didn’t take the stage fast enough for him, so he clapped his hands with a sharp, staccato beat and cried, “Quickly, Signorina Jones!”

  Elle nearly ran onto the stage. Dominic shouted, “Careful. What do you want to do, trip and break your leg? Then where would we be? The rehearsals would have to be postponed because the lead soprano would be incapacitated.”

  Elle didn’t let him fluster her. So what if he was being an ass? She didn’t care if he shouted at her all day: she was a professional. She would do her job.

  Dominic cued Vincenzo to start playing. Onstage, Elle had already taken a deep breath and was ready to begin.

  When the curtains rise in the first act, Elle’s character, Adama, is singing in a blues club in Milan. The club is smoky. The crowd is loud and boisterous. Adama sits on a stool onstage with only a piano player behind her to enhance her skills as a singer. The song she sings is about loneliness. She’s written it herself and it’s heartrending.

  Elle didn’t need notes. Over the past four days she had played it at least twenty times on the piano. She had saved her voice, though, until now. She felt the meaning behind the song, passionately knew how it felt to be as lone
ly as Adama. She looked straight into Dominic’s eyes as she sang a song he had conceived on paper.

  “I can’t take this desolation, this black hole of misery, and I keep hoping, praying that you’ll come back to me.”

  After she sang that last verse, Dominic had to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow and compose himself. He cleared his throat, quieting the enthusiastic applause from her fellow cast mates, and said with apparent sincerity, “Let’s hope you’ll do that song better on opening night, Signorina Jones.” But it was a fabrication. He had loved her performance.

  Elle was finally flustered. What more did he want from her? She knew the others had thought it was flawless. I won’t let him get to me! she thought with vehemence.

  Eyes narrowed, she smiled and said, “I’ll work on it, Signor Corelli.”

  “You do that,” said Dominic. Then he turned his gaze away from her and focused on Jaime Montoya. “You’re next, Signor Montoya.”

  Jaime rolled his eyes and walked onto the stage from the wings. When he passed Elle, he whispered, “You were superb. He’s a fool.”

  “Did you say something, Signor Montoya?” asked Dominic.

  Jaime stood at center stage and bowed slightly from the waist. “Perhaps my ear for music isn’t as refined as yours, Maestro. But I thought Elle’s performance was perfection itself.”

  “I’m not concerned with your ear for music at the moment, Signor Montoya, but your voice. Let’s hear Cristiano’s first solo, shall we?” He smirked. “And I see you have your score with you. Good. If Signorina Jones had been able to refer back to hers maybe she would have performed better.”

  After Jaime’s solo, Dominic said, “I was mistaken. Having your score with you made no discernible difference to your performance. Both you and Signorina Jones have a lot of work to do.”

  Unlike Elle, Jaime saw red. “I’ll have you know, Maestro, that I’m not accustomed to being maligned by my director. I would appreciate it if you would hold a civil tongue in your head when speaking to me!” he said angrily.