Defiant Diva (Singers in Love Book 3)

by Irene Vartanoff

  “Legalized gambling is unscrupulous exploitation of the poor. I do not gamble.” My voice was emphatic.

  “Sure you do. Every time you sign a new contract, you gamble that you’ll be able to sing a role five years from now.” Another streetlight showed a smirk on his face. “See? The board members have already educated me about how opera singers are contracted far in advance.”

  When I said nothing in rebuttal, he continued. “We don’t have to gamble. We can wander around, check out the scene, and talk.”

  “Do retired entrepreneurs do that? Wander a casino aimlessly?”

  “It wouldn’t be aimless if I was getting to know you.” A passing streetlight lit his face again briefly. “In public, no pressure, just a guy out with a girl.”

  I could study my score tonight, but I knew Carmen by heart. I did not know Dex Morgan, and I admitted to myself I was fiercely attracted to him. He offered me the opportunity to talk to him without desire overcoming us both. We would be safe, in public, with hundreds of people around us. “Are you meeting your friend to gamble?”

  “He doesn’t gamble. As for me, I can take it or leave it.”

  “I do have rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “I’ll send you home in the car in an hour or two. He’s meeting me at eleven.”

  “All right.”

  “Sweet.”

  “You’re quite the negotiator,” I said, already regretting giving in to the danger of his charm.

  “A skill I’ve honed in business.”

  Of course. Here I’d been thinking I was successfully holding Dex off. The truth was he was playing me on his line like an expert angler. But this fish did not want to be caught. Not yet, anyway.

  The chauffeur took us to the main entrance of the new casino, which was as lavish and gaudy as any classic European opera house or royal palace. Massive gold statuary dominated the circular entrance drive. The immense, three-story lobby featured marble everywhere, floor to ceiling. The enormous crystal chandeliers were of modern design but spoke of classic extravagance.

  “They’ve got the grandiose thing going on,” Dex said. “You should feel right at home.”

  Did he think I was attracted to opera for such trivial trappings? But it was true that of all shrines to culture, opera houses tended to be the most ostentatious and elaborately decorated. Even the restrained, clean lines of the Met in New York were punctuated with a fortune in Swarovski crystal chandeliers and red velvet on the seats, the walls, everywhere.

  The casino was a palace to a morally corrupt business, but I could not deny that it was beautiful and elegantly appointed. Around the edges of the entrance hall were restaurants. An escalator at one end led to couches and comfortable chairs and what looked like a hotel lobby. People with luggage were lined up in front of a counter.

  I frowned. “There’s a hotel here.” I turned to him with open suspicion.

  “Now, now, I promised we’d just talk.” he said, with a smile in his eyes, “No need to get pushy and tempt me.”

  Before I could remonstrate, he pointed us in the other direction. “The casino is this way. See the sign?”

  I glanced back at the hotel lobby. We were not in a completely safe zone, after all. “This was a bad idea,” I said, as we walked into the casino. The noise of slot machines, music, and people talking overwhelmed us. No smoking, as I’d always imagined in a gambling den. But this was in Maryland, which had stringent public smoking rules. The colorful slot machines, the piped in pop music, and the sounds of people talking all blended into a cacophony I did not care for. Not music. Merely noise, and not soothing.

  We walked around, gazing at the slot machines and the table games and noting the types of people playing them. Dex wanted to check out every separate room devoted to a specific game, such as poker. He showed interest in the cashier windows, too. We circumnavigated the gambling hall twice before he seemed to decide he had seen enough. We exited on the other side of the building to an indoor pedestrian mall wrapped around the casino. There the noise abated dramatically. We talked as we strolled past a variety of restaurants and high-end shops featuring all kinds of overpriced, glam trinkets.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “My friend is the owner of this casino. He wants me to consider buying in or even becoming partners. It’s an incredibly lucrative business.”

  I grimaced. “Gambling earns the most revenue from the poor. You saw those people in there. Very few of them can spare the money they’re risking. And there surely are better things to do with one’s evening than sit in front of a noisy machine.”

  He shrugged. “Most people already do that, alone at home. Television. Streaming movies. Computer games. They pay a lot for the privilege, too. Enormous televisions, collections of movies, expensive games. Subscriptions to televised sports, and more.”

  “Subscriptions to televised operas, too,” I conceded. “So you equate casinos with other forms of entertainment?”

  “People can overdo anything.”

  “I grant your point,” I said. “Perhaps I am also aghast at the sheer amount of useless leisure time spent gambling against a robot.”

  “They have live poker games,” he reminded me with a smile.

  I curled my lip. “Now you’re simply teasing.”

  We walked on, slowly, finally getting to know each other. Dex said he came from a comfortable, well-off background, both his parents professionals. “Their careers were the icing on the family money built up from prior generations. We were definitely upper class.”

  He grew up in Northwest DC and went to St. Albans and then on to Princeton. “I saw a few other guys in my class break out of the mold. Instead of becoming lawyers or working on MBAs, they accessed family money or venture capital to fund startups. When I got the tech idea, I knew this was my moment. I used a small inheritance for my share of seed money, got a couple of friends on board, and we pooled our resources. When we ran that dry, my grandfather kicked in a chunk of capital.”

  Dex smiled. “His investment made the difference for us, kept us going until we were far enough along to command a good deal from the big-time venture capitalists. When we had our product nearly ready to market, gotten all the kinks out, we went after the venture capital. The rest is history.” He said it nonchalantly, as if his achievement was something any college boy could have managed.

  “I suspect you seriously underplay how much hard work and creativity you must have put into your startup,” I said.

  “It was work, but it was fun, too. Exciting. Young guys love the challenge of competing against each other and achieving a win.”

  “But you sold the company?”

  “Running the business once it achieved a certain mass became more administrative than entrepreneurial. I’d rather do the big idea things. Right now I’m winding down the last of my involvement.” He pointed out a convenient couch in a nook where we could watch others pass by. We sat rather close to each other. Luckily, the seats were firm enough that we weren’t thrown into each other’s arms. That was where I wanted to be, but not yet.

  I asked, “Why not start another business? Isn’t that what Elon Musk and others like him have done? Taken their payoffs from one big hit and gone on to new ventures?”

  “I’m still searching for some new project to get excited about. With easy access to capital backing, it’s not that difficult to build a new business. Or I could do the acquisition thing. For now, I’m testing how I want to connect with the non-tech world.”

  “What are you interested in?”

  He shrugged. “Philanthropy. Like Bill Gates. Charities. The arts. The tech world doesn’t have to run parallel to other parts of our culture. Instead of leaving one world for the other or staying separate, I’m seeking an intersection.”

  Remembering that giant ten million dollar check, I said, “Isn’t the intersection cash?”

  “That’s a cynical analysis.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I’ve seen how opera c
ompanies are run. There’s a lot of catering to the people who make large donations.”

  He shook his head slightly. “That’s not my plan. I like to invest in companies that interest me. Because of the way arts institutions are constructed as nonprofits, I couldn’t buy stock, so I bought myself a position on the board via a donation. If it turns out I don’t see an active, interesting role for myself helping the Potomac Arts Center, I’ll bow out.”

  A lot to digest. Dex was so nonchalant about his silver spoon background and how it had helped him leapfrog over others to build a fortune. By comparison, my own ascendance in the opera world had been based on talent and the hard work necessary to support my God-given vocal gift.

  I said, “I should go home now. It has been a long day. Thank you for talking about who you really are. I’m not convinced my life has anything more than a passing connection to yours, though.”

  “A passionate connection, you mean.” He leaned temptingly close, the expression in his eyes revealing his desire.

  The blood rushed to my cheeks. I hurriedly stood. “Let’s not go there right now.”

  “We could. As you pointed out, there’s a hotel here. We could get a room,” he suggested with a smile.

  “You’re not serious.” The idea was at once degrading and thrilling. “Have you ever done that?”

  “Everything with you is a first,” he said, taking my arm to lead me back toward the casino entrance. Which was also the hotel entrance. Did he hope I would consent to a sordid encounter in a hotel room rented only for the purpose of sex?

  “Let’s go this way.” Dex steered me through the vast reception hall, not once giving the hotel registration desk on the mezzanine above us a glance. Was I relieved? Or disappointed? We had not spent any time in the casino itself except to walk through it once. He led me out a different door, to a terrace with a view of the Potomac River, with Alexandria, Virginia, on the other side, and Maryland and DC on our side. A mild breeze made the terrace pleasant, and discreet low-level lighting kept it from being too dark. We leaned against the solid stone balustrade and enjoyed the view of the city lights.

  “This is charming,” I said. “Nicer than inside.”

  Dex said, “I told you about me. Now you should talk about yourself. Start with where you got that pretty name.”

  I cast him a doubting glance. “I am quite positive you have looked me up on the internet and already know the answer.”

  “Perhaps, but I’d appreciate you sharing directly.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I spent the first part of my childhood in Vidalia, Georgia, and I was named for the onion. Daylia is short for Vidalia.”

  “You’re kidding. Parents have a lot to answer for. Although I should talk. Mine named me Jerome Poindexter Morgan, J.P. Morgan, like the famous Wall Street financier.”

  “They must have envisioned your financial success.”

  His mouth took on a cynical twist. “Financial success is a given when you start with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

  I tilted my head and stared at him, trying to understand where he was coming from. “Did you always hate being upper class?”

  Dex took a moment to ponder my question as he leaned his forearms on the top of the balustrade. “I didn’t like the sense of entitlement reeking off most of my classmates. We were luckier than other people, not better or smarter.”

  “Yet now, you’re engaged with charities run by the local elites instead of setting up your own foundation.”

  “For now. Remember, I’m looking for the right place to make an impact.”

  “I doubt that supporting opera, known to be stodgy and old school, will be your future.”

  He shrugged. “Other tech winners give to medical and political causes. The arts need more of us to pitch in.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Historically, art has been supported by kings and nobles. The wealthy.”

  “I like the idea of supporting the arts.” He turned his face away from the city before us and faced me. “But we were supposed to talk about you, and you’ve cleverly turned it back to being about me. So how did you get the name Fedora in the middle of Georgia?”

  “I didn’t. I made it up to sound European,” I said.

  He was startled into a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  I shook my head. “Having a European-sounding name is actually an advantage in the opera world.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  I shrugged. “I like my stage name. There’s an opera called Fedora, too.” I explained about Europe being the center of opera, how the opera companies had plenty of government funding and the audiences spanned all ages. “The most innovative opera productions all originate in Europe. For generations, American opera singers have had to prove themselves in Europe before they made any headway here.”

  We talked for a while more, filling in some gaps, enjoying the terrace. All the while I was aware of the physical current between us. We stood so near to each other. The temptation to touch his large hand, so close to mine on the wall, kept increasing. I wanted to feel his warmth. I resisted. Doubtless, security cameras kept watch here.

  Dex pulled back from the wall. “Let’s go. I want to kiss you, but not with a CATV camera recording us.” His eyes burned into mine, revealing his need.

  I inhaled deeply, my body tingling. We desired alike. I had known that truth from our first electric touch. I reached a hand toward him.

  A noisy group invaded the terrace, jarring us out of our private world. Dex showed no annoyance. He simply said, “Time for us to move on.” He ushered me back into the main hall, and across to the exit. When we reached the doorman, Dex asked for his limo.

  “You don’t have to send me home in your vehicle. I can get a cab,” I said, in complete denial of what we were feeling at this moment.

  Dex’s taut expression told me without words how little he agreed with me. When his limo arrived, I got in and Dex followed.

  I asked, “You’re seeing me home? Don’t you have a meeting?”

  “Being alone with you right now is more important to me than a mere business deal. I’m texting him to cancel.” He pulled out his phone and suited his actions to his words.

  The limo glided down the heights toward the lights of the capital city. We sat in a dark cocoon. Desire pulsed between us, unacknowledged verbally, and fraught with questions still unanswered.

  Dex took my hand in his.

  I shivered.

  He felt my body react. “One kiss, Daylia.” He tugged at my hand, pulling me toward him.

  I resisted. I raised my eyes to his, almost pleading. “We hardly know each other.”

  “One kiss. Something to hold me until I’ve jumped through all the hoops you require.” He pointed toward the front of the car, where translucent glass separated us from the driver. “We have privacy here.” In an obvious effort to lighten the moment, he added, “We can make out as much as we want.”

  I tried to draw my hand away, to deny my intense desire for his kiss. “Make out? Did you order this car so we could act like teenagers?”

  “Absolutely,” he grinned, but it wasn’t real. The effort behind his good-natured reply was obvious.

  I gave up trying to pretend. I leaned toward him. “One.”

  His arms went around me, enveloping me in his warm embrace. His lips touched mine.

  The next minutes passed in a passionate daze. One kiss? Say a thousand kisses, or perhaps one endless kiss that had neither beginning nor end. Touches, textures, tastes, and smells, everything the senses could record flowed through my brain. I was part of a whole, not alone, not sole.

  And then it ended. The limo arrived at my condo. I was jolted out of my sensual daze.

  Dex’s low voice spoke in my ear. “Invite me up.”

  I wanted to. I knew it was too soon. We hardly knew each other except in this overwhelming physical way. I sighed and shook my head. “Not tonight.”

  “We still have so much talking to do.”

&nb
sp; I gave him a cynical look. “I fail to believe we would only talk.”

  He spread his hands. “That would be your choice, my lady.”

  Was he daring me to be truly alone in private with him and continue to resist? I’d never backed down from a dare in my life. The mere thought of being with him, really being with him completely, excited me. I had to resist, despite my self-control being at a low ebb. He was so tempting.

  I said, “This building has a rooftop common terrace. No cameras.”

  Dex nodded slowly. “I get it. Another half step. Okay. I’m in.”

  Was I inviting trouble by letting him into my private space at all? Was I teasing him with hope? Or merely myself? Was I trying to draw out the moment of parting, trying to return our relationship to a calmer level? All those things were true.

  In the elevator, Dex held my hand, but tried nothing more. Did this elevator have a camera? Or was he also attempting to dial it back?

  Within a few minutes, we were holding wine glasses and lounging on a couch in the common penthouse entertainment rooftop area, with the lights of the city sparkling in front of us. A few neighbors sat a distance away, doing the same. A bartender worked nearby.

  “Nice job raising my hopes and then dashing them.” He saluted me with his wine glass. “Now tell me the rest of your life story.”

  I inhaled deeply and let out a relieved breath. We were back to sparring. “The online version wasn’t enough for you?”

  “Your website’s bio is extremely professional. None of the dirt.”

  I sighed. “There never was any dirt. I worked and studied and worked some more to achieve a viable career as an opera singer. It takes many years of serious education and training to build the voice and the proper support for it. Otherwise, we burn out young. I got lucky by winning the Glasgow Singer of the World contest very early on. That win catapulted me to international fame. Then I sang in a very transgressive version of Carmen that took place in a mental health treatment center, and critics made much of me.” I made a gesture of denial with one hand. “But you know all this from reading about me online.”