Temptation's Song

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?”