Master of the Opera, Act 1: Passionate Overture

by Jeffe Kennedy

  No sense letting Charlie know they’d spooked her. Imagining the theater ghost, crying Christine.

  The hotel shower gel smelled of pine needles, a surprisingly sensual fragrance, like the depths of the forest, where no light filtered through. She rubbed it into her skin, enjoying a long-held fantasy about how it might be to have the devastatingly handsome Roman Sanclaro finally kiss her.

  She updated it in her mind. He’d grown up, become more fully a man now, with his MBA and a more worldly air. He was the type to ask first, with that ironic smile to show his nod toward the gentlemanly thing. His full lips would be warm, maybe with a hint of after-dinner brandy on his breath. It would be everything she’d dreamed about, way back when.

  The image of the carved whip and collar floated through her mind, dark and taunting. It worried her that she seemed fixated on it. Not a good sign. But all of this was new to her. Feeling a little emotional and uncertain was natural. What mattered was how she handled it. With rationality, not obsession.

  She pushed the image away, locking it in with the other bad thoughts she no longer allowed herself to have. Those days were past. She could be normal and happy. “I control the environment of my mind,” she said out loud, repeating what the counselors had helped her affirm.

  With a last rinse, she made herself turn off the gloriously hot water and step out of the shower. Toweling off briskly, she rubbed in the lotion that matched the body wash but didn’t linger over it. On the counter, her little diamond watch—another graduation present from her dad—showed she didn’t have much time left. Fortunately her pixie bob would dry fast, with a little gel and some tousling. Her father hadn’t been thrilled about the change, but she loved the spunkiness of it.

  He did not know about her tattoo. Never would, if she could help it.

  She went for the standard little black dress. That should be sophisticated enough for wherever Roman took her. The short skirt and her splurge stilettos made her tanned legs look long. Adding a pair of dangly earrings—silver spirals with a pinpoint of turquoise that she’d gotten for a steal at the Indian Market—she spiked up her hair a little more, then did her eyes up all smoky.

  Perfect.

  “Look out, Roman Sanclaro!” she told her reflection. The new, grown-up her was saucy like that.

  Unfortunately, the new her didn’t have a matching coat—and she was pretty sure her usual bubble coat made her look twelve. Not what she was going for. Oh, well, hotel to car to restaurant, right? She could pull that off.

  Roman pulled up in front of the lobby at exactly eight o’clock. Before she got to the passenger door, he’d come around the car and opened it for her with a reproving smile. “Allow me.”

  She slid into the low-slung sports car—quite a trick in the short skirt not to flash the guy standing right there. Pulling on her seat belt while he walked back around the car, she took in the glowing lights of the dash. The gentlemanly thing seemed nice enough, but it was weird to sit and wait like this. For lack of anything better to do, she folded her hands in her lap.

  “You look gorgeous.” Roman flashed her a grin as he settled into his seat. He trailed a light finger down her bare arm. “But we’re at pretty high altitude—spring comes late here. Won’t you be cold?”

  She wouldn’t have been, if he hadn’t made her wait while he opened the door. “Not unless you’re making me eat outside. And thank you. You look spiffy yourself.”

  He did look good, in his sleek gray suit jacket and matching shirt, open at the neck. They zoomed down Cerillos toward the Plaza, then around and up Canyon Road. There Roman was forced to slow, weaving his way past the narrow, crooked turns and laughing tourists enjoying the darkening spring evening, despite the snow-chilled air sliding down from the snowy slopes above.

  At a one-story white building, sandwiched amid the galleries, he handed the valet a folded bill and escorted her with a guiding hand on her lower back.

  “Geronimo is one of my favorites,” he murmured in her ear. “I thought it would be suitable for your introduction to Santa Fe dining.”

  Roman didn’t have to say a word to the hostess—they were seated immediately in a cozy candlelit booth, nestled between curved, low white walls. A waiter showed Roman a bottle and uncorked it at his nod of approval, pouring for her first. When he left, Roman raised his glass in a toast.

  “To the most beautiful girl in the room.”

  She clinked her glass against his, hoping she hadn’t blushed. The wine tasted surprisingly good.

  “It’s good. I don’t usually drink red.”

  He sat back and slung an arm along the top of the curved seat, his tailored shirt tightening against his pecs. “It’s one of their best—I knew you’d appreciate it.”

  The waiter returned, setting down a plate of hors d’oeuvres.

  “And you already ordered.”

  “I hope you don’t mind.” He gestured at the plate with his wineglass. “I called ahead, to make sure they’d have all my favorite things. So tonight would be a special treat for you.”

  Even in her sweetest fantasies, she hadn’t imagined this kind of thoughtful attention from him. Though that stuff on the crackers looked suspiciously like raw meat. Her father didn’t hold with food he couldn’t identify the ingredients of from five feet away.

  “Steak tartare.” He snagged one and popped it in his mouth, eyes closing in pleasure as he chewed. She took one and put it on her little plate, resisting the urge to poke it with her finger, hearing her father’s voice in her head.

  “It won’t bite you.” He watched her, a laugh sparking in his brown eyes. “Just try a taste.”

  That’s why she was doing all this, right? The new, adventurous, anything-is-possible Christy. She took a bite.

  It was raw meat. But, as with the wine, the flavor spread in her mouth, rich and full, tingling her senses. She smiled at him. “Delicious.”

  “Me? Or the steak tartare?” he teased her.

  “Both.”

  He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers, a warm and sensuous press of his lips. “I was hoping you’d think so. I’ve always wanted a chance for us to get to know one another, outside the family stuff. Remember when I took you to your senior prom?”

  Remember? She would never forget. Her boyfriend had dumped her a week before and she’d felt the ground shifting beneath her, the shimmering sense of that old instability, like the slow loss of blood into hot bathwater. Unable to deal, she’d declared she wouldn’t go, despite her father’s blandishments. In a fit of anger, she threw the dress she’d bought onto the fire, to end the arguments once and for all.

  And then Roman had taken the train down from Harvard that afternoon, bringing her a sequined dress that one of his girls told him was all the rage. Like a prince in a fairy tale, he’d rescued her.

  “It was the best night of my life.” Christy swallowed some wine to clear the tightness in her throat. “I’ll never forget it. Though it must have been awful for you—having to hang out at a high-school prom with a teenage girl.”

  “Not at all.” He stroked her hand thoughtfully. “You were so adorable. Besides, every girl should go to her prom.”

  “How did my dad bribe you?”

  Roman’s eyes flashed with a bit of surprise, then he shook his head ruefully. “It wasn’t really a bribe, but I was fighting with my dad then and he’d cut me off. The spending money came in handy. Don’t be mad.” He widened his brown eyes into a sad puppy look, then smiled when she laughed.

  “I knew something like that had happened. I didn’t mind. I just felt kind of bad that you got stuck with me all the time, like a bratty little sister.”

  “I’m not being bribed now,” he murmured. “And you are all gorgeous girl.”

  His polished charisma filled the small restaurant like a rich cologne. A woman at a nearby table even snapped their picture surreptitiously with her phone, clearly thinking they might be celebrities.

  The rest of the evening followed suit. Roman
offered her plate after plate of exquisite food, as pleased with her responses as if he’d made everything himself, flirting shamelessly. The waiter seemed half in love with him, bringing out extra tidbits and blushing at Roman’s extravagant praise.

  Christy dreamily watched the lights roll by as Roman drove them through the streets that wound through the adobe houses. She was a little drunk on wine, sated with excellent food, and warm from her dream date’s attentions. Roman suggested after-dinner drinks at a great little bar he knew, but Christy begged off, thinking of an early morning and that massive inventory.

  The carved image of the whip and collar returned, along with that haunting tenor. Was it the theater ghost?

  Stop thinking about it.

  Roman pulled into the hotel drive just then and she was suddenly sorry she’d declined drinks. Now she’d be alone with her thoughts. She nearly said she’d changed her mind.

  “Thanks,” she said instead. “I had a really good time.”

  He undid his seat belt and opened his door. She did as well, and he pointed at her. “Wait.” He smiled. “I’ll get your door.”

  It still seemed silly, but she waited. He lifted her up out of the low seat and ran warm hands down her arms—and silly became romantic.

  “I’d like to see you again.”

  “Okay,” she agreed easily. Hopefully not too eagerly. Innocent twelve-year-old Christy was jumping up and down for joy.

  His eyes glinted warmly at her under the hotel awning lights, his full lips curving with pleasure.

  “And I’d like to kiss you.”

  “Okay.” She breathed out the word, unable to think of something more articulate.

  The kiss was even better than she’d fantasized, a brush of his lips that deepened, hot and sensual. He put his hands around her waist, pulling her close, while she slid her hands up behind his neck, toying with the shorter curls there, just as she’d always wanted to do.

  “Mmm.” He pulled back. “The sweetest thing I’ve tasted all night.”

  She giggled. So not sophisticated, but she felt too giddy to care.

  “I’ll call you.” He opened the lobby door and watched her go inside. “Good night, sweet girl.”

  In the morning she arrived at the opera house ready to tackle the inventory in truth. The bright, sunshiny day helped. Plus a steady replay of Roman’s kiss. She might even have sung along with “Call Me Maybe” on the car radio on the way in.

  What other people didn’t know wouldn’t get her laughed at.

  “Good morning, Charlie!” she sang out, imagining herself as one of the Angels. She could totally be the Lucy Liu character, in a non-Asian way and with lighter hair.

  Charlie took in her worn jeans, sweatshirt, and cross-trainers, nodding in approval. He pointed at her iPad. “What’s that for?”

  “It’s a newfangled computer thingy. I’m going to create what us kids call a database.”

  He glared at her, chewing on his lip to hide a smile. “Cute. You’re sure frisky this morning.”

  “Just happy to be starting my new job.”

  “Uh-huh. What if I don’t want the inventory in a database?”

  “Don’t say that! It’ll be so much better.” She laid her tablet on the desk and tapped it meaningfully. “It’ll be searchable.”

  “Searchable, huh?”

  “Yesss.” She drew out the word, nodding along and giving him a manic smile.

  He laughed. “Ah, the vigor of youth. Well, I won’t hold it against you if you give up halfway through.”

  “I’m converting this inventory to electronic if it kills me.”

  A shadow darkened Charlie’s face and the room chilled. Christine .

  Did she hear that—or imagine it?

  “Did you—”

  Charlie cut her off. “Don’t worry. I’m sensitive, what with Tara’s people so convinced something happened to her. Just look after yourself. Her office is still sealed by the police, but I found you something else that’ll work. Not fancy, but ...”

  “I don’t need fancy.”

  Charlie huffed a laugh. “Good thing.”

  He had a point. The office turned out to be hardly worthy of the name. It was more of a closet—or a vestibule between other rooms—barely big enough for a student-sized desk, and three of the “walls” were closed doors. One opened onto the long, curving main corridor, all the way around the bend from Charlie’s. “Shouting distance,” he’d called it, but an uneasy feeling in her stomach doubted he’d hear her, even if she did shout.

  One of the other two doors led into a studio with floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall and a ballet bar inset. The last opened into a minuscule closet, barely big enough to wedge her body into. But it did give her a place to hang up her coat. Plus, a couple of battered posters from previous seasons stood rolled up in the corner. She stole a few thumbtacks from the empty bulletin board down the way and hung the posters on the bare walls—one on the door to the studio—to liven up the place.

  Then she could delay no longer. She tucked a pen behind her ear, grabbed her tablet and the Big Notebook of Doom, and headed down the stairs.

  She started out on the second-lowest level. Not that she was avoiding the lowest one, creepy though it might be. No, she told herself, there simply wasn’t any point in going down there again since that corridor had been walled off. Surely the inventory items listed for that level would be in other rooms and no one had updated the massive list.

  This, she smiled to herself, was why they needed a database.

  She unhooked the massive ring of keys Charlie had given her from her belt loop and sorted through it, looking for the correct room number. The lock in the institutional-style door didn’t want to turn but finally gave way to total gloom and a muscular, musty smell reminiscent of the elevator. Feeling around for the switch, she wished she’d thought to bring a flashlight with her. Please don’t let a spider bite me. God or a scorpion. Did they have those here?

  The overhead light came on with a snick and a whirr, as in the old gym in her high school. The one that hadn’t been rehabbed. Sure enough, it was one of those gray metal kind, with a frame to protect the bulb. Odd that such old lights would be on a motion sensor, but she hadn’t found the switch.

  Feeble light chased away most of the shadows, showing a room packed with boxes upon boxes—some cardboard, some wood—and none labeled. With a sigh, she thumbed on the iPad and started a list of things she needed: flashlight, fat Sharpie markers, gloves.

  She started with the box nearest the door, sitting on the floor to sort through the contents. Mostly folded cotton kimonos in this one. Or the under kimono, rather. Whatever those were called. Flipping to the correct level and room in the Big Notebook of Doom, she scanned the list for something like that.

  This was going to take forever. Maybe this was what had scared Tara away.

  She hoped that Tara had indeed run off to Acapulco with her boyfriend. Maybe she’d taken one look at the BNoD and run as fast as she could. If Roman Sanclaro invited her on a sexy little beach vacay, she might be entirely tempted.

  Tempted, but she wouldn’t do it. After the season is over, she’d tell him. They could go in the winter, when the opera house had closed up.

  Half daydreaming about the fantasy beach trip—how good would Roman look in swim trunks?—and concentrating on checking things off her list and entering them into the tablet, she lost track of time.

  Humming along with the music, she became aware of the crick in her neck. Then her head snapped up and she winced as her muscles caught. Music? No, there wasn’t ... Yes. There. That golden tenor wafted down the hallway through the open door, now clearly audible, then gone again. She knew the tune but couldn’t place it. Something sweet and sad, a song of longing. Of love lost and never forgotten.

  Mesmerized by it, she followed the sound into the dim hall. The bare bulbs opened small gaps of light down the hallway for a few doorways, then gave up against the darkness beyond. Her sneakers makin
g soft whispers against the grit on the cement floor, she chased the tantalizing wisps of song, pulled into the deeper shadows.

  Just when they had faded beyond hearing, the golden notes surged again, teasing, beckoning, offering ... something. Like the singer, she longed for what she’d never had, yearned for it with a deep, sexual need, feeling as if she’d lost something precious, never quite grasped, always barely beyond her reach and now—gone forever.

  She had to place her hand against the near wall to guide herself in the deep gloom, feeling her way across the floor. Intent on the music, senses roused in response, she barely felt the chill concrete, nearly desperate to find the source. Wanting, a bone-deep need, surged through her, overcoming everything else.

  Christine.

  Her breath shuddered out, wanting to call back to him.

  Christine.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice bounced back, unbearably loud and jangling after straining to hear each whispered note.

  “Christy?”

  She whirled around, heart clenching, to crash straight into Charlie. A little shriek escaped her.

  “What the hell are you doing here in the dark?” His industrial-strength flashlight pointed down toward the floor, light bouncing back up to illuminate his genial cowboy face so that he looked more like a kind of evil gnome. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Ah—” Her voice came out on a squeak and she had to swallow it down. What had she been doing? “I, um, thought I heard music.”

  Charlie looked past her, as if he could see something in the impenetrable black. “Echoes of the techs, probably, from upstairs. The acoustics in this place are funny that way. I came to see if you wanted to break for lunch.”

  “Yes!” The prospect of getting out into the sunshine dispelled the sticky web of neediness that still stirred uneasily inside her.

  “C’mon, then. I have a hankering for green chile.” Charlie turned decisively back to the weak lighting down the hall, a pale gleam at the end of the tunnel. “And next time bring one of the flashlights. It’s not safe.”

  “I thought you said Tara ran off—that she couldn’t have ...” don’t say died “... disappeared down here.”