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“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.
A couple of nights later, an unsuspecting Dominic got another dose of Elle Jones.
It was Saturday night and he was out on the town with his cousin, Gianni Romano. Gianni was the only son of his tia Maria, his father’s youngest sister. Of his father’s three sisters, Tia Maria had been the only one who hadn’t turned a cold shoulder to his new African-American bride when he’d brought her home to meet the family. Subsequently Tia Maria and Dominic’s mother, Natalie, had become best friends. The other sisters had come around eventually, but by then Dominic and Gianni had already forged a strong bond, as he and his mother spent a lot of time visiting Tia Maria. The women had encouraged the first cousins’ friendship because they wanted them to be close. Later, Tia Maria would give birth to a daughter, Dona Maria, and Natalie would give birth to two daughters, Ana and Sophia.
He and Gianni, who worked in the fashion industry alongside Dominic’s father, Carlo, had dined and were talking about their family when Dominic’s cell phone rang.
Gianni had been in the middle of telling him about his toddler’s new skill at launching himself like a daredevil off furniture, the greater the height the better. Dominic gazed down at the number on his cell phone’s display, saw that it was the police and quickly answered.
An officer said that they had a young American woman in custody and she had given them his number as someone who could vouch for her.
“What is the young woman’s name?” Dominic asked.
“Elle Jones,” said the officer.
“Exactly what is she charged with?” Dominic asked, astonished.
“Striking a police officer,” was the answer.
Before hanging up, Dominic asked for the address of the police station, assured the officer he did know Elle Jones and that he would be there as soon as possible.
Regarding Gianni across the table, he frowned. “Elle Jones is in jail for hitting a cop.” Dominic had told him all about Elle over dinner
Gianni laughed. “I like her already.”
“I’d better get over there before she takes the entire police station hostage,” joked Dominic, shaking his head.
The cousins rose and Dominic placed enough money on the table to cover their bill plus a generous tip. “Tell Francesca hello for me and buy little Gianni a helmet. He’ll soon graduate to trying to jump off the roof.”
“God forbid,” said Gianni. “Let me know how Signorina Jones fares.”
In front of the restaurant Gianni went to his Jaguar and Dominic to his Range Rover, where he sat behind the wheel for a moment, wondering why Elle Jones had struck a cop.
He started the car. He would soon find out.
Elle sat in the communal room of the police station alongside muggers, prostitutes and she didn’t know how many more types of criminals. She, Belana and Patrice had gone to dinner earlier in the evening and then she had gone to the train station to see them off to Rome. She was remaining in Milan in order to find an apartment and finish her paperwork. Her new agent had told her she needed to fill out the forms before she would be allowed to live and work in Italy during the time it would take to rehearse and star in Dominic Corelli’s new opera.
As she had been walking back from the train station, which was not far from her hotel, she was accosted by a strange man. He had apparently found her irresistible in her evening attire, a modest, sleeveless white dress, its hem falling about two inches above her knees, and a pair of white, strappy sandals. Without saying a word, and for no conceivable reason, he had reached out and pinched her on the behind as she had passed him. Right after that, Elle had turned around and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.
It hadn’t ended there, though. He had obviously taken her slap as an invitation, because he’d grabbed her and pulled her roughly against his chest. Even though they were about the same height, he was very strong and Elle couldn’t push out of his embrace.
She’d struggled, desperately looking around for someone to come to her aid. But the people passing them on the street had looked away, not wanting to get involved.
“Let go of me!” she’d yelled at him.
“Isn’t this what you tourists want when you come to Italia?” he’d asked, leering at her.
His breath had reeked of stale wine. Elle had tried to push him away, jerking her head back from him as he tried to kiss her. She felt something hard on his left side under his jacket. He was carrying a gun.
Now she panicked. Was she going to be attacked and killed on a Milan street?
Well, if he was going to try to harm her, she’d just as well go for broke. She kneed him. She heard the breath escape his throat and smelled his vile exhalation. Then she ran for her life, right into the arms of a uniformed police officer.
She was never happier to see anyone in her life. “Officer!” she cried in Italian, pointing at the man, who was doubled over in pain. “That man grabbed me against my will. And he has a gun!”
To her horror the man she had kneed removed a policeman’s badge from his inside jacket pocket and wheezed, “She’s under arrest for attacking an officer.”
“Me?” Elle cried, indignant. “He attacked me! Smell his breath—he’s drunk—drunk and out accosting innocent tourists. He told me I was asking for it!”
The uniformed policeman calmly cuffed her. “Miss, I advise you not to say anything else until you call your lawyer.”
So that’s how she had come to be handcuffed to a chair, sitting beside a bottle blonde who was dressed in a black leather dominatrix outfit and matching thigh-high boots. The woman smiled at her. “New to this part of town?” she asked in Italian.
She obviously thought Elle was a working girl, too.
“Very new,” Elle replied.
“I thought so,” said the woman, her black eyes roaming over Elle’s clothes. “You’re wearing white. There isn’t much demand for innocence anymore. They can find that on the Internet these days.” She reached inside her cleavage and produced a business card. “But you have potential. I’m Violetta. Call me and I’ll get you on the right track.”
Elle accepted the card and put it in her own cleavage. “Thanks.”
Violetta smiled. “We girls have to look out for one another.” She sneered at an officer who passed too close to their chairs. “Why are you people so slow?” she hissed at him. “Some of us have better places to be. Move your asses!”
The police officer bowed in her direction. “So sorry to keep you waiting, madam,” he said sarcastically.
Violetta kicked at him with her stiletto-heeled boot. He quickly jumped out of range.
“That’s right, run, you coward!” She laughed with satisfaction.
Elle glanced down at her watch. They had confiscated her purse, but let her keep her watch. It was after eleven. She wondered if they had actually phoned Dominic Corelli or had simply told her they would.
They had laughed at her when she had told them she had been hired by Dominic Corelli to appear in his next opera. She imagined that he was well-known here in Milan, and well respected. The derisive looks she’d gotten after making her claim was proof of that. They thought she was a raving lunatic.
She had hated to have to contact him, but she didn’t know anyone else in Milan. After this, he would probably inform her that he no longer wanted her in his opera. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even want her in his city.
Frowning, she sat up straighter on her chair and held her head up high. Why was she being pessimistic? She hadn’t done anything wrong. That drunken cop had put his filthy hands on her and if she hadn’t defended herself he might have done much more.
But how would she prove her innocence?
“Elle?”
Elle looked up into Dominic’s face. He smiled. She grimaced. “Signor Corelli, I’m innocent, I swear.”
“I know you are,” he said comfortingly.
He gestured to an officer standing nearby, who stepped forward and unlocked Elle’s handcuffs.
Elle looked on in amazement. Was that all it had taken, for Dominic Corelli to show up and vouch for her? If so, this was a crazy country. What about her rights as a human being? What about being innocent until proven guilty?
She stared up at him as she got to her feet. “What’s going on? Did they catch that officer in a lie?”
A short, middle-aged man in a dark gray suit came up behind Dominic and tapped him on the shoulder. Dominic turned around.
“You can take Signorina Jones home,” said the man. “The off-duty officer who accused her of striking him admitted that he had too much to drink tonight and may have behaved inappropriately toward Signorina Jones when he met her on the street.”
“Thank you,” Dominic said, shaking the gentleman’s hand. “I apologize for waking you, Felix, but Signorina Jones needed someone who knows his way around the legal system.”
“That’s why your family has me on retainer,” the lawyer said pleasantly. He smiled at Elle. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that very uncomfortable experience, Signorina.”
“Thank you,” Elle said in a low voice. She was so relieved that she felt tears fill her eyes. She didn’t allow them to fall, though.
“You can pick up your belongings on the way out and all evidence of this incident will be struck from the record. Except, of course, your statement about the condition the officer was in when he accosted you. That will remain on his record. He is being severely disciplined for his behavior.”
Elle felt some satisfaction upon hearing this news, and even though she wanted to press charges and see him punished to the full extent of the law, she wanted to get out of there even more.
“Thank you so much,” she said again to the lawyer.
Felix left and Dominic offered Elle his arm. She took it, grateful for his support. He led her over to the evidence room, where she retrieved her purse, made sure everything was in it and they left the police station arm in arm.
Outside, Elle breathed in the night air and looked up at the black sky. The city sparkled around them. Traffic, lighter at night but still somewhat heavy, made a racket as late-night pedestrians strolled leisurely down the streets.
“Are you all right?” Dominic asked quietly.
Elle met his eyes and smiled wanly. “Not really. But I will be after a good night’s sleep. I can’t let that guy freak me out. I’ve got an opera to star in, if you still want me, and nothing and no one is going to get in the way of that.”
Dominic laughed softly as he led her to his car. “Of course I still want you. Do you think I would get on the wrong side of a woman with your punching power? I saw that cop’s face. It’s already turning purple!”
Elle laughed. “He had it coming.”
Dominic knew those were just brave words. Elle was still upset. He felt her body shake with nerves as he helped her into the car.
Once inside Elle tried to relax against the leather seat. Dominic started the car and pulled into traffic. “Where are you staying?”
She told him. He was glad she was staying at a nice hotel with twenty-four-hour security. He would feel better about leaving her alone tonight. At least, that’s what he told himself as he drove the few blocks to the hotel. By the time he had parked in their lot, he had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to leave her alone tonight under any circumstances, and he didn’t care how much she protested.
They sat in the car a few moments after he’d turned off the engine. He turned to her. “Look, Elle, you’ve had a shock to the system, and I don’t think you should stay by yourself tonight.”
She started to protest but he stopped her. “If you won’t let me in the room, I’ll sleep outside your door. But I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes. Elle could tell he was determined. “There are two bedrooms in the suite. You can have one of them,” she said, her voice soft.
Dominic breathed a sigh of relief. There was something so vulnerable about Elle. His first instinct was to protect her. Surely he could smother his powerful attraction to her for one night?