“I don’t think that’s funny,” Elle said.

“I need to know your rules for this situation, Signor Corelli. You have rules for everything else. So let me have them.”

Dominic cleared his throat. “All right, I make it a rule never to get romantically involved with anyone I’m working with. In my opinion it adds an unwanted level of stress to the workplace.” He turned and bent low to whisper in her ear, “But in your case I’m willing to make an exception.”

Dominic’s mouth descended upon hers and she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Their mouths hungrily devoured each other and the ache that both of them had been suffering for the past two and a half hours finally eased.

Never in his wildest dreams had Dominic thought a kiss could be this powerful. And he considered himself somewhat of an expert on the subject. It was so intense that as he was kissing her he found that the longer their mouths were locked in the act, the more he wanted. He could go on kissing her and never get enough.

JANICE SIMS

is an author of seventeen novels and has had stories included in nine anthologies. She is a recipient of the Emma Award for her novel Desert Heat and two Romance in Color awards. She also received an Award of Excellence for her novel For Keeps and a Best Novella award for her short story in the anthology A Very Special Love. She lives in central Florida with her family.

Temptation’s Song
Janice Sims

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

Some friendships last a lifetime. Temptation’s Song is the first of what I’m calling the Temptation Books, a trio of books about three friends who met at Juilliard, a performing arts school in New York City. In three different disciplines—Elle Jones in voice, Patrice Sutton in theater and Belana Whitaker in classical dance—they were not in direct competition with each other, but they were always there to support and lean on one another through times both good and bad. Be sure to look for Temptation’s Kiss and Temptation’s Dance in the coming months.

If you’d like to write to me you can do so at Jani569432@aol.com, or visit my Web site at www.janicesims.com. You can also find me on Facebook, and I have a reading group on Yahoo. If you’re not online yet you can write me at P.O. Box 811, Mascotte, FL 34753-0811.

Best always,

Janice Sims

Author’s Note

When I was a teenager I saw Grace Bumbry perform in Bizet’s Carmen. I think it must have been on PBS. I didn’t understand a word she sang, but just by the power and beauty of her voice, I was mesmerized. In December 2009 she was one of the recipients of the Kennedy Center Honors. I might not have ever thought to write about an opera singer if I hadn’t seen her perform all those many years ago.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Common Italian Words and Phrases

Chapter 1

Dominic Corelli sat in a balcony box at Teatro alla Scala, brooding. The room was dark, as he had requested. No one in the theater could see him, but he could hear and, when he stood, see everything going on below.

The opera house in Milan, Italy, had undergone several renovations since its opening in 1778 and today was one of the world’s most famous theaters. Maybe, Dominic thought, his mind roaming because the singer auditioning for him was performing badly, the architects were too good. Thanks to the wonderful acoustics in the auditorium he could hear every off-key note she was warbling.

“Grazie!” he exclaimed, denoting he’d heard enough.

The mezzo-soprano onstage, a petite Italian woman in her midthirties, realizing her time was up, abruptly stopped singing and smiled in the direction of his voice. “Grazie, Maestro,” she said before exiting the stage.

Because her voice had not been up to par, Dominic didn’t rise from his seat to get a glimpse of her. When auditioning singers, he preferred them to sing a cappella, and to be hidden from his view. To him the voice was everything. Lately the opera world was becoming as shallow as other forms of theater by showing favoritism to physically attractive performers. He remained true to the art form by hiring gifted singers rather than those who were easy on the eyes but possessed mediocre talent.

True, the role these singers were auditioning for was that of Adama, a woman who was so desirable that she could tempt Satan himself to give up his throne in hell for her. But in the story the devil had first been drawn to her singing, so Dominic was looking for a singer with a truly remarkable voice.

Yet, after three days of auditioning every mezzo-soprano in Europe, it seemed, Dominic hadn’t heard that voice.

His cell phone rang. Seeing that the caller was Roberto Ribisi, a La Scala employee who was assisting him during the auditions, he answered, “Roberto?”

“It’s nearly lunchtime. Do you want to break now, and continue at one-thirty?”

“How many more have we to go?” Dominic asked.

“Seven,” Roberto replied with a tired sigh.

Dominic smiled. He did not envy Roberto the job of keeping a bevy of sopranos happy. Opera singers weren’t called divas for nothing. They could be very demanding. Plus, poor Roberto was easily smitten by a pretty face. He imagined the women were trying to twist him around their fingers, hoping for a choice spot in the lineup to go onstage. In actuality, there was no choice spot. Dominic treated them all equally.

He was casting roles for his third opera, Temptation. He had worked with several of the women auditioning for the role of Adama. Still, he had no favorites. The moment the woman who deserved the role began to sing for him, he would recognize her.

He didn’t care if she was an established singer or a newcomer. All that mattered was that the purity of his composition be maintained. And for that to happen, he needed someone who was fresh, passionate and had the voice of an angel.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Dominic decided, not believing they would find whom they were looking for today. “Then I can go home and drown my sorrows in a good bottle of Chianti.”

“Very well,” said Roberto resignedly.

They rang off, and Dominic heard Roberto ask the next singer to take the stage.

Dominic settled back in his chair in the dark to listen. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer that this would soon be over.

Three singers later, his prayers were answered. He leaned forward, rapt, his heart beating excitedly. Her voice was pure and clean. It was as if he were in the middle of a primeval forest standing beside a waterfall, listening to the crystal-clear water pour forth.

She was singing an aria from one of his earlier operas. He had never heard it sung with such passion before. The tone of her voice as it dipped and soared brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to get up and watch her as she finished the song but forced himself to sit there until her voice trailed off.

Then he rose and went to get a look at her. He couldn’t see her clearly because every soprano in the house had run onto the stage to hug her and congratulate her. Those who had merely clapped for the previous singers had to acknowledge that they were in the presence of an exceptional singer.

This went on for several minutes. He had to phone Roberto to ask him to herd the singers off the stage, save for the last performer.

After everyone was seated again, Dominic looked down at the back of a tall, shapely woman wearing jeans, a T-shirt and athletic shoes. Her black, curly hair fell to the middle of her back and she was wearing a tiny backpack purse that Dominic found ridiculous. He laughed to himself. She was dressed like one of those kids who backpack across Europe for the summer as a graduation present to themselves. Still, she was somehow compelling to look at.

She was talking animatedly to Roberto, who was onstage with her. Even from this distance, Dominic could tell Roberto was taken with her.

She hadn’t turned around so that he could get a good look at her. Must I phone him again to get her to turn around? Dominic thought irritably.

Then he realized that it was he who was being foolish. He had been so mesmerized by her voice that he had forgotten that the next move was his: he could either say thank you and send her on her way, or step up and say, “What’s your name?”

He did the latter and she turned around, smiled and said, “Elle, Elle Jones.”

Dominic smiled. She was an African-American with flawless reddish-brown skin and huge, dark eyes, so dark they looked black from this distance, a nice contrast to her skin tone. And, he noticed, a full, sensually curved mouth, made for kissing.

She continued to smile up at him and Dominic knew that the role of Adama was hers.

He quickly dialed Roberto’s cell phone.

“Yes?” Roberto answered.

“She’s the one. But we can’t insult the last three ladies by refusing to hear their auditions. Ask Signorina Jones to take a seat and, when we’re done with the others, bring her to me.”

In all the excitement of auditioning for Dominic Corelli, Elle had forgotten to be nervous. However, when Mr. Corelli’s assistant asked her to take a seat in the front row, which every singer knew meant that they were interested in her, she felt her legs go slightly weak.

Trembling inside, she sat down.

She was a bundle of nerves. She was so excited it took every ounce of self-control she had to keep from jumping out of her seat and dancing for joy.

She didn’t hear the remaining three singers’ auditions. Her head was in the clouds, wondering what it would be like to meet Dominic Corelli. She had been following his career for six years now, ever since his first opera, Inferno, had debuted right here at La Scala. With Inferno he had joined the ranks of composers like Verdi, Rossini and Puccini, whose careers had all started here. She’d read that back then, not only had those composers written the operas that premiered here at La Scala, they had also conducted the orchestras during the performances. Dominic Corelli directed his operas, although he hired a professional conductor to lead the orchestra during staging of his operas.

Elle was here due to pure luck. She and her friends Belana and Patrice had been treated to a European tour by Belana’s father. Milan was a stop they had to make because Belana was not coming to Europe without a visit to the fashion capital, and Elle not without seeing Teatro alla Scala. When they got to Milan, Elle bought a newspaper. She had learned Italian in school. She wanted to brush up on it by reading a daily paper while she was in Italy. That’s when she saw the announcement that Dominic Corelli was holding open auditions for his newest opera, Temptation. This was unheard of. A composer of his stature usually only auditioned established singers, but an open audition meant that anyone could try out for the part of Adama, the heroine in Temptation. Elle could not pass up this opportunity!

She, Belana and Patrice were all graduates of Juilliard, the performing arts school in New York City. She was an opera singer who had understudied several established mezzo-sopranos in major productions and she was a member of the chorus of the Metropolitan Opera. At only twenty-five, she was doing pretty well. However, she wanted the brass ring: a starring role.

She had heard that Dominic Corelli was forward-thinking, a maverick. If he liked her, really liked her, he might take a chance on her and give her the role of Adama.

Even if he didn’t give her the role, at least she had fulfilled one of her goals in life: to sing the music of a living composer in his presence. After all, opera houses all over the world today mostly performed works by composers who were long dead.

“Ms. Jones?”

Elle looked up. Roberto was standing in front of her with his hand stretched out toward her. She took it and rose from her seat. The other singers around them were slowly leaving the auditorium.

Roberto, who was five seven to Elle’s five nine, leaned toward her. “Mr. Corelli wants to see you in private. Right this way.”

“Okay,” Elle whispered. Suddenly, her voice was cracking. Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t look all bug-eyed with excitement. You’ll scare the man!

Five minutes later she was being led into a private box at the top of the theater. She noticed that the dominant colors at La Scala were red and gold. The chairs and walls were covered with red velvet and the individual opera boxes were painted gold. It was very opulent and very Old World. It was easy to imagine patrons dressed in finery sitting in their private boxes, peering down onto the stage through opera glasses.

She was still admiring her surroundings when Roberto interrupted her thoughts. “Ms. Jones, may I present Dominic Corelli.”

Dominic Corelli turned around and Elle forgot to breathe. He had to be the most attractive male she’d ever seen. The son of an African-American opera singer and an Italian clothing manufacturer, he’d inherited the best traits of both races. His skin was a dark golden-brown and he had a day’s growth of beard on his square-chinned face. Dark brown, wavy hair was cut close to his scalp and tapered at the back of his neck.

When he smiled at her, dimples appeared in both cheeks and straight white teeth gleamed in his dark face. She was glad Roberto was still holding on to her arm.

“Please leave us, Roberto,” he said in lightly accented English.

Elle steeled herself for Roberto to let go of her. She did not swoon, but her legs were definitely giving her signals that she should sit down. In parting, Roberto smiled warmly at her, and that helped somewhat to calm her nerves.

Dominic cleared his throat and gestured to one of the red velvet-upholstered golden chairs. “Buon giorno. Shall we sit?”

Elle blinked, took a deep breath and then sat down. Dominic sat, too, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. His gaze swept over her face for a few moments that were nervous on Elle’s part. Then he smiled at her. “You have a good voice.”

“Grazie,” Elle managed, although the volume was little more than a whisper. She was being childish. She took a deep breath, sat up straighter on her chair and looked him squarely in the eyes.

“Where did you study?” he asked, thick brows rising in interest.

“Juilliard,” she said confidently. “I graduated nearly four years ago. I was hired by the Metropolitan Opera and have been in the chorus ever since. I’ve also been the understudy to Denyce Graves, among others.”

“How did you like being an understudy?”

“I’m grateful to those who’ve allowed me to learn from them,” Elle said with sincerity. “They were all gracious ladies.”

Dominic fell silent for a few moments, as if he were contemplating what she had said. Elle thought she might melt under his intense scrutiny. Those smoldering, dark eyes seemed to expose every one of her vulnerabilities. She felt naked.

Suddenly, he gave her a warm smile. “As I’m sure you will be to your understudy,” he said. “You’re going to make a wonderful Adama.”

He rose and Elle followed suit, unaware of what was proper to do next: shake his hand or hug him? He bent and kissed her on both cheeks. Elle breathed in the male scent of him. He smelled so good, she wanted to lean in and sniff him like a hound dog on a foxhunt. She resisted. Instead, in her excitement, she thanked him profusely: “Oh, God, thank you. All of those more seasoned singers, I didn’t think I had a chance! I can never thank you enough for giving me the opportunity.”

Dominic felt her body tremble a bit as he let go of her shoulders and peered into her eyes. His lips curved in a smile. He was plainly amused by her outburst. “You may not be thanking me a few weeks from now. I’m told I’m the devil to work for.”

Elle grinned up at him. “I’m sure we’ll work well together.” She had heard rumors that he was a bear to work for, but she chose not to believe them. In the world of opera he was considered a genius. Dominic Corelli’s shows sold out in a matter of hours after the tickets went on sale. Also, opera critics, who were notoriously elitist, raved about his productions. If she kept her wits about her and worked hard, this role could make her a star.

Remembering her promise to phone Patrice and Belana as soon as she knew the results of the audition, she pulled off her backpack purse. Looking at Dominic questioningly, she said, “I have people waiting to hear how the audition went. Is it okay with you if I quickly phone them? When do rehearsals start?”

“Of course, and in two weeks,” Dominic answered, smiling. He watched as she rummaged in the purse and retrieved a cell phone. “First things first,” he added. “I’ll need the number of your agent so that a contract can be negotiated.”

Elle stared up at him with wide eyes. “My agent?” she croaked.

“You do have an agent?”

“No, I negotiated my own contract. I got the maximum for a member of the chorus.”

Dominic grimaced. Could she possibly be as naive as she appeared to be? Talented, but entirely too trusting. A less scrupulous person would exploit this opportunity to take advantage of her.

He cleared his throat as he glared down at her. “Then who’s been looking out for your best interests?”

Elle blushed. “I have.”

Dominic laughed. “Then you have a law degree as well as a degree in—what is it you earned a degree in at Juilliard?”

“Music,” Elle said irritably.

“Music,” he calmly repeated. “That’s such a broad subject.”

“Voice,” Elle provided, eyes narrowed. “I’m also a classically trained pianist.”

To this, Dominic smiled. He liked the idea of his lead soprano also being a classically trained pianist. She may have an ear for composition. He was excited by the possibility that Elle Jones might prove to be stimulating to work with. “Prove it,” he challenged.

Elle had the cell phone open and was about to press a button that would connect her with Belana and Patrice, waiting outside in the Piazza del Duomo.

She closed the phone and with her head held high, said, “Lead the way.”

Dominic gestured for her to precede him out of the room. Once they were in the hallway, he said, “There’s a grand piano downstairs where you auditioned. What will you play for me?”

“One of your compositions,” she told him, surprising him. Elle relished the astonished expression on his handsome face.

She didn’t tell him that she had been the lead soprano in Inferno her senior year at Juilliard and had learned the entire score. That’s how she had chosen to sing the aria from Inferno for him.

Once they reached the auditorium, Elle sat at the piano and Dominic stood beside it, a smirk on his face—or was that a small smile? Elle couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, she intended to wipe it right off his face.

She launched into Burn in Hell. Dominic’s music was modern opera. It was passionate, inducing all sorts of emotions in the listener. It could be gently stirring or chaotic and jarring. It could be rhythmically moving and actually make listeners want to dance. It could make them laugh or make them cry. In some instances it was downright funky. The one thing it wasn’t was forgettable.

Elle recalled every note of Burn in Hell, and she played it beautifully. When she finished and slowly raised her hands from the piano keys, there were tears in her eyes. She brushed them away with the pads of her fingers as she smiled up at him.

Dominic shook his head disbelievingly. “Bellissimo! How did you remember that piece so well? It’s a difficult composition.”

Elle laughed shortly. “It’s nothing miraculous, really. I learned to play by ear when I was a kid. When I started taking piano lessons, my teacher had a hard time making me learn to read notes. I resisted for a long time. But when I got accepted at Juilliard, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fool my instructors there so I buckled down and learned. But I can still play by ear.”

Dominic smiled at her. “I like you, Ms. Jones. I like you a lot.”

Elle returned his smile. “Molte grazie, Maestro.”

“But you’re going to have to hire an agent. La Scala’s lawyers don’t negotiate with singers,” he said sternly.

Chapter 2

Patrice and Belana were waiting for Elle in front of the Duomo, the third largest church in the world. That morning they had agreed that while Elle was auditioning for Dominic Corelli, Patrice and Belana would be making a circuit through the Quadrilatero della Moda, the fashionable shopping district not far from La Scala and the Duomo.

When Elle spotted them she started screaming, “I got the role! I got the role!”

Both of her friends screamed as well and began running toward her. Other pedestrians on Piazza del Duomo didn’t appear startled by their screeching and calmly moved out of the girls’ path.

Patrice Sutton, five seven and athletic, reached Elle first and hugged her tightly. “Oh, girl, I’m so happy for you. It’s about time you got out of that chorus and got the chance to shine!”

Belana Whitaker, five four and even more athletic than Patrice due to more than twenty years of practicing ballet, hip-bumped Patrice aside for her chance at Elle. Patrice peered down her nose at her shorter friend and let the affront pass. Belana was bossy. Always had been; always would be. Patrice and Elle usually overlooked that particular personality trait of their petite friend, even though it was very irritating.

They jokingly referred to it as Belana’s Napoleon complex. Being smaller than either of them, she felt the need to throw her weight around from time to time.

Elle and Belana were jumping up and down with glee. “And you didn’t even want to come to Italy!” Belana cried. “We had to twist your arm.”

Belana’s light brown eyes sparkled with happiness as she looked up at Elle. She let go of Elle and the three of them began walking along the piazza. “Tell us all about it,” she ordered.

Elle was distracted by their beautiful surroundings. Didn’t they realize they were standing in the midst of history? The Duomo, the cathedral in front of which they stood, had been built in the fourteen hundreds and was a marvel of Gothic architecture. It was so huge it took up an entire side of the piazza. It consisted of several stories of sand-toned stone and its spires reached for the heavens. The day before they had toured the church and it had taken them some time to explore the entire structure.

“Isn’t it awe inspiring?” Elle asked no one in particular as she gazed up at it.

Both of her friends sighed impatiently. They didn’t want to hear another history lesson. Elle had been filling their heads with background information on every site they had visited since their trip had begun. It wasn’t as if they were going to remember any of it once they were back in New York City. Patrice and Belana were more interested in mingling with the natives, especially the male natives.

“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?

Eyes still boring into hers, he said, “Thank you for not fighting me on this.”

“I would fight you if I thought you were wrong,” Elle assured him. “But the fact is, I just put my friends on the train earlier this evening. I would welcome someone to talk to tonight.”

He gave her a grateful smile, which sent her stomach into somersaults. “Then I’m your man.”

They got out of the car and went into the hotel.

Chapter 4

“The Met must pay you well,” Dominic remarked upon entering the suite. “This is very nice.”

Elle locked the door behind them. “I can’t afford this. My friend Belana’s father, who’s a very successful businessman, paid for our trip.”

The suite, decorated in modern Italian, had a color scheme of earth tones. The thick carpeting muted their footsteps as they crossed the room. Elle gestured to the pale golden sofa in the living room of the suite. “Have a seat.”

Looking back at him over her shoulder, she added, “I’m going to change. These shoes are killing me. There’s a bathrobe behind the bathroom door in the spare bedroom, if you’d like to get out of your clothes, too.”

Dominic knew this was an innocent suggestion. She just wanted him to be comfortable, but the thought of getting undressed while he was alone with her in a hotel room made him imagine other reasons why she’d ask him to get out of his clothes.

Watching her leave the room, her full, shapely hips moving enticingly beneath the white sheath she had on, he felt his groin tighten. He managed a strangled, “I’m fine, thank you. But you feel free to do whatever it is you do to prepare for bed.”

“All right, then. If you say so,” she said lightly as she disappeared around the corner, into the hallway.

In her absence, Dominic removed his jacket, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his long-sleeved shirt at the wrists and rolled the cuffs up to his elbows. That was as comfortable as he intended to get tonight.

In her bedroom, Elle hurried to the closet, removed her dress and hung it on a hanger, kicked off her sandals, bent down, picked them up, returned them to their shoe box and placed the box on the closet shelf. Even with Dominic Corelli waiting for her in the next room, she was, admittedly, anal-retentive and couldn’t just toss her clothing in the closet.

She went into the adjacent bathroom, ran a brush through her long, curly hair and tied it back with a blue ribbon, washed the makeup off her face and flossed and brushed her teeth. When she stripped to put on her pajamas, Violetta’s card fell to the floor. She picked it up. She would keep it as a memento.

Barefooted, she went back into the living room.

Dominic looked up and burst into laughter. “You look like a little girl!”

He had expected her to change into something feminine and soft. He had been hoping for it. Just because he intended not to touch her didn’t mean he couldn’t get his fill of admiring her.

Elle folded her legs under her as she sat down. Amusement lit up her dark brown eyes. “I’m glad you find my pajamas so funny. That’s just the reaction from the opposite sex I was hoping for when I bought them. That, or an irresistible urge to revert to childhood and sit in front of the TV with a big bowl of popcorn and watch cartoons.”

His laughter under control, Dominic regarded her with a warm smile. She was an unusual woman, sitting in front of him with her legs tucked beneath her. Her face scrubbed clean of makeup and in pajamas. Either she was the most unsophisticated woman he had ever met, or she was confident about her sexuality.

Admittedly, she looked beautiful without makeup. Her skin was smooth and clear, a lovely shade of brown with red undertones. He bet he could actually detect it when she blushed.

Maybe he should test it.

“Believe me,” he said softly, his eyes caressing her face, “I am well aware that you are a fully grown woman underneath those pajamas.”

He had been right. She blushed all the way to the tips of her pretty ears. He got a certain satisfaction out of knowing he’d caused that reaction.

Elle cleared her throat. She had to mentally shake herself before she found she could think straight again after that hot flash he’d purposely inflicted on her. She would have to be on guard around him. It was obvious he liked to flirt. She wasn’t exactly an amateur herself. But now definitely wasn’t the time to practice.

That’s why she had put on the armor the pajamas were meant to be. She hadn’t met a man yet who had found them sexy. Except the men who were determined to get her into bed, no matter what. Dominic Corelli couldn’t be that hard up for a woman. He could have any woman he wanted. What would he want with a young, inexperienced, albeit good, opera singer dying for her big break?

If he were a less scrupulous man he might be coming on to her right now. But she sensed he was an honorable man. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have allowed him inside of her hotel room, no matter what he’d said. She was raised in Harlem, after all. She might be young, but she wasn’t naive.

Refusing to rise to the bait, she smiled at him and said, “Thank you for tonight. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”

Dominic relaxed with his arm along the back of the sofa and stretched out his legs. “I could never have ignored your call,” he told her. “You’re alone in a strange city. I know it must have been an ordeal for you.”

“I thought it was a myth,” Elle told him.

“What?”

“That Italian men pinch women tourists on the behind,” she said, looking at him with wide eyes. “Patrice, Belana and I went all over Italy and no one touched us inappropriately. I mean, there was flirting going on, on both sides, but no touching! And then along comes that cop, who acted like he took me for a common prostitute. He said that’s what women tourists are looking for when they come to Italy.” She hugged herself as if she were suddenly chilled to the bone.

“I assure you, most Italian men are respectful of all women, tourists or otherwise,” Dominic said. He wanted to go to her and wrap her in his arms, but thought better of it. “They are—we are—good husbands and fathers. We love our families. You had the bad luck of running into a drunk and a lout. Policemen aren’t exempt from foolish behavior. Isn’t it true that you can find disrespectful men anywhere on the planet, not just Italy?”

“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.

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