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Almost as if that thought had cued the orchestra, the music swelled, and the lights dimmed. Della couldn’t resist one last look at her companion as the room grew dark, but when she saw him gazing at her—and noted the seat between them still empty—she quickly turned her attention to the stage.
After that, she fell into the world of Mimi and Rodolfo and their bohemian friends, leaving her own reality behind. So much so, that when the lights came up for intermission, it took Della a moment to return from nineteenth century Paris to twenty-first century Chicago. She blinked a few times and inhaled a deep breath and, before she could stop herself, looked over at her companion—who was looking at her in the same way he had been when the lights had dimmed, almost as if he’d spent the entire first half of the opera watching her instead.
That strange buzz erupted in her belly again, so she quickly glanced at the crowd. The myriad splendor of the women’s gowns made them look like brightly colored gems amid the gilt of the auditorium, the sparkle of their jewelry only enhancing the image. Della watched many of the ladies link arms with their companions as they left for intermission, and noted how the men bent their heads affectionately toward them as they laughed or chatted.
For a moment, she felt a keen regret that this night couldn’t last forever. Wouldn’t it be lovely to enjoy evenings like this whenever she wanted, without regard for their cost or the risk of being seen in a place where she shouldn’t be? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a night out at all, never mind one like this. Geoffrey kept her locked away like Rapunzel. She spent her time reading books, watching downloaded movies and staring at the walls that were, for all intents and purposes, her cell. Even if the place Geoffrey had provided lacked bars and held sufficient creature comforts, Della still felt like a prisoner. Hell, she was a prisoner. And she would be until Geoffrey told her she could go.
But even that thought brought little comfort, because she had no idea where she would go, or what she would do, once Geoffrey decided she was no longer necessary. She would have to start all over again with virtually nothing. The same way she had when she left the old neighborhood behind.
It was all the more reason to enjoy tonight to the fullest, Della told herself. Who knew what the future held beyond even the next few hours?
“So what do you think so far?”
She turned at the sound of the rich, velvety baritone, and her pulse rippled when she saw the smoky look he was giving her. Truly, she had to get a grip. Not only did the guy show evidence of being a class-A heel, flirting with one woman when he was supposed to be out with another, but he was also way out of Della’s league.
“I have to confess that La Bohème isn’t one of my favorites,” she admitted. “I think Puccini was a bit reserved when he scored it, especially when you compare it to the exhilaration of something like Manon Lescaut. But I am enjoying it. Very much.”
Of course, some of that might have had to do with the company seated in her box. Not that she had to tell him that. Not that she had to admit it to herself.
“How about you?” she asked. “What’s your verdict?”
“I think I’ve seen it too many times to be objective anymore,” he said. “But it’s interesting you say that about Puccini’s being too reserved with it. I’ve always kind of thought the same thing. I actually like Leoncavallo’s interpretation of Murger’s book much better.”
She grinned. “I do, too.”
He grinned back. “That puts us in the minority, you know.” “I know.”
“In fact,” he added, “I like Leoncavallo’s La Bohème even better than his Pagliacci, an opinion that will get you tossed out of some opera houses.”
She laughed at that. “I like it better than Pagliacci, too. Looks like we’ll be kicked to the curb together.”
He chuckled lightly, both of them quieting at the same time, neither seeming to know what to say next. After a couple of awkward seconds, Della ventured, “Well, if you’ve already seen La Bohème too many times, and you don’t care for it as much as you do other operas, then why are you here tonight? ”
He shrugged, but there was something in the gesture that was in no way careless, and the warmth that had eased his expression fled. “I have season tickets.”
Tickets, she repeated to herself. Not ticket. Plural, not singular. Meaning he was indeed the owner of the empty seat beside his and had been expecting someone to occupy it tonight. Someone who might very well be with him all the other nights of the season. A wife, perhaps?
She hastily glanced at his left hand but saw no ring. Still, there were plenty of married people who eschewed the ring thing these days. Della wondered who normally joined him and why she wasn’t here tonight. She waited to see if he would add something about the mysteriously empty chair. Something that might clarify the sudden drop in temperature that seemed to shimmer between them. Because she sensed that that vacant chair was what had generated the faint chill.
Instead, he shook off his odd, momentary funk and said, “That is how I know you don’t normally attend Lyric Opera performances. At least not on opening night, and not in the seat you’re sitting in tonight.” He smiled again, and the chill abated some. “I would have noticed.”
She did her best to ignore the butterflies doing the rumba in her stomach. “This is my first time coming here,” she confessed.
His inspection of her grew ponderous. “Your first time at Palumbo’s. Your first time at the Lyric. So you have just moved to Chicago recently, haven’t you?”
She was saved from having to reply, because the opera gods and goddesses—Wagnerian, she’d bet, every one of them—smiled down on her. Her companion was beckoned from below by a couple who had recognized him and wanted to say hello—and who addressed him as Marcus, giving Della his first name, at least. Then they proceeded to say way more than hello to him, chatting until the lights flickered once, twice, three times, indicating that the performance was about to resume. At that, the couple scurried off, and he—Marcus—turned to look at Della again.
“Can you see all right from where you are?” he asked. He patted the chair next to him that still contained the unopened program and rose. “You might have a better vantage point from this seat. You want to have the best angle for ‘Addio Dolce Svegliare Alla Mattina.'”
The Italian rolled off his tongue as if he spoke it fluently, and a ribbon of something warm and gooey unfurled in her. Even though the vantage point would be no different from the one she had now—which he must realize, too—Della was surprised by how much she wanted to accept his offer. Whoever usually sat there obviously wasn’t coming. And he didn’t seem to be as bothered by that as a man involved in a romantic relationship should be. So maybe his relationship with the usual occupant of the chair wasn’t romantic, in spite of the red, red rose.
Or maybe he was just a big ol’ hound dog with whom she’d be better off not sharing anything more than opera chitchat. Maybe he should only be another lovely, momentary memory to go along with all the other lovely, momentary memories she was storing from this evening.
“Thank you, but the view from here is fine,” she said. And it was, she told herself. For now. For tonight. But not, unfortunately, forever.
Two
Marcus Fallon sat in his usual seat at his usual table drinking his usual nightcap in his usual club, thinking the most unusual thoughts. Or, at least, thoughts about a most unusual woman. A woman unlike any he’d ever met before. And not only because she shared his passion for, and opinions about, opera, either. Unfortunately, the moment the curtain had fallen on La Bohème, she’d hurried past him with a breathlessly uttered good night, scurried up the aisle ahead of everyone else in the box and he’d lost her in the crowd before he’d been able to say a word. He’d experienced a moment of whimsy as he’d scanned the stairs on his way out looking for a glass slipper, but even that small fairy-tale clue had eluded him. She was gone. Just like that. Almost as if she’d never been there at all. And he had no idea how to find her.
He lifted his Scotch to his lips again, filling his mouth with the smooth, smoky liquor, scanning the crowd here as if he were looking for her again. Strangely, he realized he was. But all he saw was the usual crowd milling around the dark-paneled, richly appointed, sumptuously decorated room. Bernie Stegman was, as usual, sitting in an oxblood leather wingback near the fireplace, chatting up Lucas Whidmore, who sat in an identical chair on the other side. Delores and Marion Hagemann were having a late dinner with Edith and Lawrence Byck at their usual table in the corner, the quartet framed by heavy velvet drapes the color of old money. Cynthia Harrison was doing her usual flirting with Stu, the usual Saturday bartender, who was sidestepping her advances with his usual aplomb. He would lose his job if he were caught canoodling with the patrons.
Thoughts of canoodling brought Marcus’s ruminations back to the mysterious lady in red. Not that that was entirely surprising, since the minute he’d seen her sitting opposite him at Palumbo’s, canoodling had been at the forefront of his brain. She’d simply been that stunning. What was really strange, though, was that once he’d started talking to her at the Lyric, canoodling had fallen by the wayside, and what he’d really wanted to do with her was talk more about opera. And not only because she shared his unconventional opinions, either. But because of the way she’d lit up while talking about it. As beautiful as she’d been, seated alone at her table in the restaurant, she’d become radiant during their conversation.
Radiant, he repeated to himself, frowning. Now there was a word he’d never used to describe a woman before. Then again, that could be because he’d seldom moved past the stage with a woman where he found her beautiful. Meaning he’d seldom reached a stage where he actually talked to one. Once he bedded a woman—and that usually came pretty early after meeting one—he lost interest. But that was because few women were worth knowing beyond the biblical sense.
Unbidden, a reproving voice erupted in his brain, taking him to task for his less-than-stellar commentary, but it wasn’t his own. It was Charlotte’s sandpaper rasp, made that way by too many cigarettes over the course of her eighty-two years. More than once over the past two decades since making her acquaintance, he’d let slip some politically incorrect comment about the opposite sex, only to have her haul him up by his metaphorical collar—and sometimes by his not-so-metaphorical collar—to set him straight.
God, he missed her.
He glanced at the pink cosmopolitan sitting opposite his single malt on the table, the glass dewy with condensation since it had been sitting there for so long. The rose, too, had begun to wilt, its petals blackening at their edges. Even the opera program looked limp and tattered already. All of them were at the end of their lives. Just as Charlotte had been the last time he’d sat at this table looking in the same direction.
She’d died two days after closing night at the Lyric. It had been seven months since her funeral, and Marcus still felt her loss keenly. He wondered, not for the first time, what happened after a soul left this world to enter the next. Was Charlotte still able to enjoy her occasional cosmo? Did they have performances of Verdi and Bizet where she was now? And was she able to enjoy the rare prime rib she’d loved to order at Palumbo’s?
Marcus hoped so. Charlotte deserved only the best, wherever she was. Because the best was what she had always given him.
A flash of red caught his eye, and Marcus glanced up. But it was only Emma Stegman, heading from the bar toward her father. Marcus scanned the room again for good measure but saw only more of the usual suspects. He knew everyone here, he thought. So why was he sitting alone? Hell, Stu the bartender wasn’t the only guy Cynthia Harrison had tried canoodling with. If Marcus wanted to, he could sidle up next to her and be headed to the Ambassador Hotel, which was adjacent to the club, in no time. And he sure wouldn’t lose his job for it. All he’d lose would be the empty feeling inside that had been with him since Charlotte’s death. Of course, the feeling would come back tomorrow, when he was alone again… .
He lifted his glass and downed what was left of his Scotch, then, for good measure, downed Charlotte’s cosmopolitan, too, in one long gulp. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he waited for the taste to leave his mouth—how had she stood those things?—then opened them again …
… to see a vision in red seated at a table on the other side of the room. He could not believe his good fortune. Seeing her one time had been chance. Seeing her twice had been lucky. Seeing her a third time …
That could only be fate.
Forgetting, for now, that he didn’t believe in such a thing, and before he risked losing her again, he immediately rose and crossed to where she was seated, signaling for Stu at the same time and gesturing toward her table. Without waiting to be invited, he pulled out the chair across from hers and seated himself.
She glanced up at his appearance, surprise etched on her features. But her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, reassuring him. That was another new experience for him. He’d never had to be reassured of anything. On the contrary, he’d taken everything in life for granted. That was what happened when you were born into one of the Gold Coast’s oldest and most illustrious families. You got everything you wanted, often without even having to ask for it. In fact, you even got the things you didn’t ask for. Usually handed to you on a silver platter. Sometimes literally.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
This time it was she, not Marcus, who spoke the words he had said to her at the Lyric.
“On the contrary,” he replied. “I’m beginning to like meeting you like this.”
A hint of pink bloomed on her cheeks at his remark, and delight wound through his belly at seeing her blush. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a woman blush. Not shyly, anyway. Not becomingly. Usually, if he made a woman blush, it was because he’d suggested they do something in the bedroom that most of society considered shameful. It was all the more reason, in his opinion, why it should be enjoyed.
But he was getting way ahead of himself. Anything in the bedroom with this woman was still, oh … hours away.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “I think you already have.”
He feigned surprise. “So I have. Then you’ll have to let me buy you a drink.”
She opened her mouth to reply and, for a moment, he feared she would decline his offer. Another new experience for Marcus. Not only fearing a woman would turn him down—since that almost never happened—but also feeling a knot of disappointment in his chest at the possibility. On those rare occasions when a woman did turn him down, he simply shrugged it off and moved to the next one. Because, inevitably, there was always a next one. With this woman, however …
Well, he couldn’t imagine a next one. Not even with Cynthia Harrison falling out of her dress less than ten feet away.
“All right,” she finally said, as Stu arrived at their table. She looked at the bartender. “I’ll have a glass of champagne, please.”
“Bring a bottle,” Marcus instructed before the bartender had a chance to get away. “The Perrier-Jouët Cuvée Belle Epoque. 2002.”
“Really, that’s not necessary… .” she began, her voice trailing off on the last word.
Deciding it was because she didn’t know how to address him—and because he wanted to give her his name so that he could get hers in return—he finished for her, “Marcus. Marcus—”
“Don’t tell me your last name.”
He halted before revealing it, less because she asked him not to than because he found her command curious.
“Why not?”
“Just don’t, that’s all.”
He started to give it to her anyway—never let it be said that Marcus Fallon ever did as he was told—but for some reason decided to honor her request. That was even stranger, since never let it be said that Marcus Fallon did the honorable thing, either. “All right.” He lifted his right hand for her to shake. “And you are …?”
She hesitated before taking his hand, then gingerly placed her own lightly against his. Her fingers were slender and delicate against his large, blunt ones and, unable to help himself, he closed his hand possessively over hers. Her skin was soft and warm, as creamy as ivory, and he found himself wondering if that was true of the rest of her. The blush on her cheeks deepened as he covered her hand with his, but she didn’t pull hers away.
His appeal for her name hung in the air between them without a response. “Della,” she told him finally. “My name is Della.”
No last name from her, either, then. Fine, he thought. He wouldn’t push it. But before the night was over, he’d know not only her last name, but everything else about her, too. Especially where each and every one of her erogenous zones were and what kind of erotic sounds she uttered whenever he located a new one.
Neither of them said anything more, only studied each other’s faces as their hands remained joined. She had amazing eyes. Pale, clear gray, the kind of eyes a man could lose himself in forever. The kind that hid nothing and said much. Honest eyes, he finally decided. Noble. The eyes of a person who would always do the right thing.
Damn.
Stu cleared his throat a little too obviously beside them, and she gave a soft tug to free her fingers. Reluctantly, he let them go. She lowered her hand to the table near his, however, resting it palm down on the white linen. So he did likewise, flattening his hand until his fingers almost—almost—touched hers.
“Will there be anything else, Mr.—?” Stu stopped before revealing Marcus’s last name, obviously having overheard the exchange. Quickly, he amended, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Marcus waved a hand airily in his direction, muttering that Stu should bring some kind of appetizer, too, but didn’t specify what. He honestly didn’t care about anything, other than the intriguing woman who sat across from him.
“Well,” he began, trying to jump-start the conversation again. “If you’re sitting here in the Windsor Club, you can’t be too new to Chicago. They have a waiting list to get in, and last I heard, it was two years, at least, before anyone added to it could even expect an application. Unless you’re here as a guest of another member?” That would be just his luck. That he’d meet a woman like this, and she’d be involved with someone else.
“I’m on my own,” she told him. Then, after a small hesitation, she added, “Tonight.”
Suggesting she wasn’t on her own on other nights, Marcus thought. For the first time, it occurred to him to glance down at her left hand. Not that a wedding ring had ever stopped him from seducing a woman before. But she sported only one ring, and it was on her right hand. The left bore no sign of ever having had one. So she wasn’t even engaged. At least not to a man who had the decency to buy her a ring.
“Or maybe,” he continued thoughtfully, “you’re a member of one of the Windsor’s original charter families who earn and keep their membership by a simple accident of birth.” He grinned. “Like me. As many times as they’ve tried to throw me out of this place, they can’t.”
She grinned back. “And why on earth would they throw out a paragon of formality and decency like you?”
His eyebrows shot up at that. “You really are new in town if no one’s warned you about me yet. That’s usually the first thing they tell beautiful young socialites. In fact, ninety percent of the tourist brochures for the city say something like, ‘Welcome to Chicago. While you’re here, be sure to visit Navy Pier, the Hancock Tower, the Field Museum and the Shedd Aquarium. And whatever you do, stay away from Marcus—” Again he halted before saying his last name. “Well, stay away from Marcus-Whose-Last-Name-You-Don’t-Want-To-Know. That guy’s nothing but trouble.'”
She laughed at that. She had a really great laugh. Uninhibited, unrestrained, genuinely happy. “And what do the other ten percent of the travel brochures say?”
“Well, those would be the ones they give out to conventioneers looking for a good time while they’re away from the ball and chain. Those are the ones that list all the, ah, less seemly places in town.” He smiled again. “I’m actually featured very prominently in those. Not by name, mind you, but …” He shrugged. “Those damned photographers don’t care who they take pictures of.”
She laughed again, stirring something warm and fizzy inside Marcus unlike anything he’d ever felt before. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I find it hard to jibe The Bartered Bride with bump and grind.”
“There’s more to me than opera, you know.” He met her gaze levelly. “A lot more.”
The blush blossomed in her cheeks again, making him chuckle more softly. She was saved from having to respond to his comment, however, when Stu arrived with their champagne and a tray of fruit and cheese. The bartender went a little overboard with the presentation and opening of the bottle, but it was probably because he, too, recognized that Della—yes, Marcus did like that name—wasn’t a usual customer. In fact, there was nothing usual about her. She was, in a word, extraordinary.
After receiving approval for the champagne, Stu poured a glass for each of them. As he did, Marcus told Della, “I am notorious in this town. Ask anyone.”
She turned to the bartender, who was nestling the champagne in a silver bucket of ice. “Is he really notorious?” she asked.
The bartender glanced first at Marcus, who nodded imperceptibly to let Stu know his tip wouldn’t be compromised by his honesty, then at Della. “Oh, yes, ma’am. And not just in Chicago. He makes the society pages all over the country, wherever he goes, and he’s a regular feature on a lot of those celebrity websites. If you’re seen with him, it’s a good bet you’ll wind up there yourself. He’s infamous.”
Della turned to Marcus, her eyes no longer full of laughter, but now brimming with something akin to … fear? Oh, surely not. What would she have to be afraid of?
“Is that true?” she asked.
Still puzzled by her reaction, but not wanting to lie to her—especially since it would be easy enough for her to find out with a simple internet search—he told her, “I’m afraid so.”
Her lips parted fractionally, and her expression became almost panicked. Deciding she must be feigning fear as a joke, he played along, telling her, “Don’t worry. They never let riffraff like the paparazzi into the club.
You’re perfectly safe with me here. No one will see you with me.”
It occurred to him as he said it that that was exactly what she feared—being seen with him. Not just by the paparazzi, but by some individual in particular. An individual who might not like seeing her out with Marcus. Or anyone else, for that matter.
She did have that look about her, he decided as he considered her again. Pampered, well tended to, cared for—at least on the surface. The kind of woman who made her way in the world by making herself available to men who could afford her. There were still a surprising number of such women in society, even in this day and age when a woman shouldn’t have to rely on her sexuality to make her way in the world. Beautiful, elegant, reserved, they tended to be. At least on the surface.
Not that he’d ever seen Della among such women in the level of society in which he traveled. That only fueled his suspicion that she was merely visiting the city. Dammit.
It took a moment for her expression to clear, but she finally emitted a single—albeit a tad humorless—chuckle. “Of course,” she said. “I mean … I knew that. I was only kidding.”
He nodded, but there was a part of him that wasn’t quite convinced. Maybe she really was attached to someone else. Maybe she even belonged to that someone. Maybe that someone wouldn’t be too happy about her being here tonight alone. Or anywhere alone. Maybe that someone would be even more unhappy to find her with another man. Maybe she really was afraid her photo would show up somewhere with Marcus at her side, and she’d be in big, big trouble with that someone.
Just who was she, this mysterious lady in red? And why did Marcus want so badly to find out?
In an effort to dispel the odd tension that had erupted between them, he lifted his glass of champagne and said, softly, “Cheers.”
There was another small hesitation on her part before, she, too, lifted her glass. “Cheers,” she echoed even more softly.
The toast didn’t put an end to the frisson of uneasiness that still hovered over the table, but it did put a bit of the bloom back in her cheeks. It was enough, he decided. For now.
But certainly not forever.
Della gazed at the man seated across the table from her as she sipped her champagne, and she wondered exactly when the evening had jumped the track and started screeching headlong into a dark, scary tunnel. One minute, she’d been about to embark on the last leg of her evening by enjoying a final glass of champagne at Chicago’s celebrated Windsor Club—which she’d gotten into only by bribing the doorman with another small fortune—and the next minute, she’d found herself gazing once again into the gold-flecked, chocolate-brown eyes that had so intrigued her at the opera.
