Master of the Opera, Act 1: Passionate Overture (6 page)

U
pstairs, everyone else had gone home, and most of the lights were out. Christy sat at her tiny desk and pulled her cell phone out of the drawer. There was simply no point in taking it below the top level, since she had to turn it off anyway so it wouldn’t drain the battery searching for a network connection.

She hesitated over adding the unhappy face, hoping it didn’t look too young. But she didn’t want Roman thinking she was blowing him off. Hopefully he’d answer soon. Having Carla find her here texting wouldn’t go over well.

Maybe she should just call him. That might be weird, though, because they hadn’t done phone calls yet. What if he was in a meeting or something? No, she’d wait a few minutes. If he didn’t answer, she’d send something else.

While she waited, she opened the BNoD to the stupid Mozart index and recorded the locations of all Mozart-related, flute-type objects. Maybe it wouldn’t take long and she’d find it right away. The masked man hadn’t bothered her all day. It could be he’d leave her alone now.

Though it hadn’t sounded as if he planned to.

The shrill whistle of an arriving text made her jump.

Which made her laugh.

Want to push it back to 9?
followed right after.

She wished.
Better not. I don’t know how long it will take.
She hesitated, then took the leap.
Maybe tomorrow?

Reluctantly, she slid her phone back into the drawer. What a great guy. It totally sucked that she had to wait two more days to see him. Grabbing her stack of supplies, including the monster flashlight /club, she headed out the door. Then, feeling a little superstitious—or maybe heeding the voice of caution—she set it all down again and pulled out a notepad. She made a list of the rooms she planned to check and added the time, 6:45. Just in case.

The note looked a little like a bad omen, a stark square of white on her bare desk, and she shivered.

Then she steeled herself and descended to the lower levels.

 

After a while she stopped jumping at every little noise. The opera house crouched, quiet and still, and Christy decided against playing music. If the ghost—or whoever—decided to visit her, she wanted warning of his arrival. So she could do what, she didn’t know.

Starting with the storeroom simply named Mozart, she sorted quickly and efficiently through box after box. Being in the room felt like being in a Monty Python version of
Amadeus
. The wild and wacky props, costumes, and improbable furniture relaxed her more than anything else could have. With a thrill, she located the brightly feathered bird costumes that should go with
The Magic Flute
, but no—it would be too logical to keep the flute itself in the same vicinity.

Nine o’clock. Exhausted, starving, and covered in layers of grit, she finally locked the promising all-Mozart room and headed down the hall to the next location. Reaching the end of the pool of light, she flicked the switch to light the next length of hallway.

And nothing happened.

She snapped the switch down to off, and back on again. The lights flared, briefly, and died again.
Just fantastic
.

It had been enough to see the door to the next storeroom, though, not that far down the hall. Determinedly turning on the flashlight— she could just see herself telling Carla she had been afraid of the dark—she panned the beam down the hallway to spot her goal and headed for it.

Something black fluttered into the edge of the stream and she snapped the light over . . .

Him.

With a cry, she jumped back, dropping her tablet, markers, pens—but clinging to her only weapon.

“Good evening, Christine.” With the flashlight spotlighting him, icy blue eyes glittered behind the black mask. With a rush the dream came back, her blood quickening with the memory, the shimmering sense of unreality and blood loss making her head swim. She hadn’t seen his eyes before, had she? He moved, fluid as a cat, the cloak parting to show his lean, masculine body dressed in formal evening clothes. Across his black-gloved hands lay a golden flute with ribbons trailing from it, incongruously fanciful against his grim appearance. “I believe you’re looking for this.”

“How ...” She ran out of breath, inhaled, and tried again. “How did you know?”

One side of his mouth quirked up, curving the sensual lips. With nothing else to see of his face, his lips and those crystalline eyes demanded her attention. “I know everything that occurs in my opera house.”

“Have you been hiding it from me?” He didn’t look like a tech. Or a ghost. All that searching she’d done, and he’d had it all the time. She was pissed off. Which was better than afraid. Or fascinated.

“I’m giving it to you. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Beware of strangers bearing gifts.”

He laughed, low and sensual. “I believe that’s
Greeks
bearing gifts.”

“Still applies.”

“But we’re not strangers, are we, Christine?”

“One very creeptastic and scary meeting doesn’t change anything. I amend that. This makes two creeptastic and scary meetings.”

“I don’t want to frighten you.”

“No?” Her pitch rose a little too high. “Then what’s with the cloak and mask? Why do you skulk around and torment me?”

“Do I torment you?” He stepped closer. “How so? As you say, we’ve barely met.”

“This,” she answered instead. “This is tormenting me. Hiding the flute so that I kill myself looking and now taunting me that you have it.”

“But I wasn’t hiding it. I’m offering it to you.” He took another step closer, holding out the flute, like a tribute.

“Don’t come any closer.” She kept the flashlight beam on him but adjusted her grip, ready to swing it at his face.
Just swing it hard enough to break his nose
, her college “Don’t Be a Victim” instructor had said.
You don’t have to knock him out—a broken nose hurts like hell and bleeds like more hell. Hit it and run like the wind.
Of course, the instructor had told them to scream, too. Something that would not work for her with everyone gone for the night. Or with ghosts.

“Then you come to me.”

“If you really want to give me the flute, set it on the floor.”

Those lips curved in amusement and he went down on one knee, laying the flute on the floor with a kind of reverence. Then he looked up at her. “A gift for a beautiful lady.”

“Okay.” He didn’t move. “Um, thanks.”

He laughed under his breath, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that he was mocking her. Uncoiling, he stood, and she flinched back another step, afraid for a moment that he might pounce on her, like an enormous black bird of prey.

Instead he swept her a deep and ironic bow. Then faded into the dark, leaving the golden flute behind, shining on the floor, alluring and lovely.

She played the light over the hallway but saw nothing. He’d vanished like the ghost he couldn’t possibly be.
Where?
A fine frost of fear brought goose pimples to her arms, even while her blood still surged in response to his sensual presence.

Uncertain what to make of it all, she seized the flute and made her way to leave her hard-won prize on Carla’s desk.

W
hen she stumbled outside, still in somewhat of a daze, and made her way to her vehicle, a sleek sports car was keeping it company. Head swimming with fatigue and low blood sugar, not to mention the dreamlike hangover of her encounter in the depths of the opera house, she frowned at it. The door swung open and Roman popped out.

“Christy!” He strode up to her and cupped her face. “I was worried sick! I must have sent you a dozen texts and you didn’t answer.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “Sorry—I was down in the storerooms and left my cell in my office. Didn’t even have it turned on.”

He smiled at her with affectionate concern. “It’s past ten o’-clock. It’s not even season yet. You don’t have to work this late. I can’t imagine what kind of ‘emergency’ could rate this level of dedication.”

“Oh, well, Carla needed—”

Roman held up a hand to stop her, then relieved her of her bag and slid an arm around her back, gently guiding her to his car. “Say no more. Carla is an überbitch. I’ll talk to Charlie about it.”

“Oh, no! Please don’t. It’s fine. I found what she needed and—” She stopped in the act of settling into the buttery leather seat. “Wait. I have my car.”

“Let me give you a ride home. Have you even eaten? We’ll stop and get some takeout. You look like you crawled out of a Dumpster.”

She ran her fingers self-consciously through her hair. “I wasn’t planning to see anyone,” she grumbled when he got into his side of the car. “And how am I supposed to get to work in the morning?”

“I’ll give you a ride. I have to head up to Taos early anyway.”

He wasn’t planning to spend the night with her, was he? It was way too soon for that, even with fabulous Roman Sanclaro.

“Um, what?” She realized Roman had asked her a question.

He slanted her a look. “Head in the clouds? I asked what Carla had you looking for.”

“Oh, a flute—why?”

“Just curious.” He gave her that charming smile. “Where do you want to stop for food? We’ll take it back to the hotel.”

“About that—Roman, I’m not ready for—”

He put a warm hand on her thigh, right above the rip she’d somehow gotten in her jeans. No wonder he thought she looked like hell. “I’m not interested in rushing anything with you, sweet girl. I just want to feed you and tuck you into bed, alone. I’ll be back in the morning, after you’ve gotten some sleep and had a chance to clean up.”

She amended his plan by asking him simply to drop her off, along with her small pizza from Dion’s, saying that she’d left her hotel room a mess. Mainly she didn’t want him to see Star, the stuffed kitty she’d been unable to leave behind. It was stupid, but having Star with her reminded her of the times before, when she was happy and the ground had been steady under her feet.

Roman kissed her good night at the door, long and sweet as before, but she felt too jumpy to really enjoy it. She kind of wished she’d just been able to drive herself back, to think about the ghost bringing her that flute—a physical object. What did it mean?

And what did he want from her?

Electing to pull a Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow after all, she wolfed down her Tuscany pizza, took a long, hot shower—ever more grateful for the pine-scented shower gel to wash away the grime of the day—and fell into bed.

 

Waking from a deep and blessedly dream-free sleep, Christy didn’t even think about what had happened the night before until she had dressed—in a nicer outfit, since Roman was picking her up, even though she’d be back to making her inventory—and was applying her makeup when she paused in the act of putting on lipstick. She stared at her face in the mirror as the memory of the night before came back.

Was she losing her mind?

It all seemed so hazy and dreamlike. A movie she knew she’d seen but couldn’t quite recall the details of. As if she’d been under some enchantment, like a Disney Princess.

A sharp rap on her casita door snapped her out of her reverie, and she gathered her things. Roman stood on her doorstep in a gorgeous suit with a bag of pastries and a broad smile. He looked her up and down appreciatively. “Now there’s the lovely Christy I know.” He cupped the back of her neck and leaned in to give her a kiss. He tasted of coffee and chocolate, sweet and warmly enticing.

“Good morning to you, too,” she said, smiling.

He took her laptop bag and handed her the pastries with a wink. “I thought I’d better be more proactive in keeping you fed.”

She rolled her eyes and got in the car when he held the door for her. “Yesterday was a fluke.”

“I hope so. We can’t have you withering away to a shadow of your former self before you even get to see opening night.”

“True.” She laughed ruefully.

The ride up the hill took practically no time, the sky shining a promising vivid blue against the morning sun.

When they pulled up backstage, however, the glare of multiple police lights greeted them. Flashing red, blue, and white, they were scars against the graceful opera house. Charlie stood by her car, talking with a uniformed officer. A waterfall of relief gushed over his face when he spotted her.

“Christy!” he called. “Jesus Christ, girl, you scared us all half to death.”

“Sorry—I, um, got a ride home last night. I never even thought someone would notice I left my car here.”

Charlie glanced at Roman, smoothing away a flash of something sour. “Good morning, Mr. Sanclaro. Good of you to take such good care of our Christy.”

If Roman caught the barbed tone, he didn’t show it, shaking Charlie’s hand and smiling with easy charm. “Is that what this is all about?” The sweep of his hand took in the multiple cop cars and tense atmosphere.

“No.” Charlie looked grim, shaking his head like a horse shooing flies. “I’m afraid I have bad news. Tara’s been found. Or rather, her body has. A tech found her early this morning, on one of the lower levels.” His faded blue gaze caught Christy’s. “Not far from one of the storerooms you were working in, I think. The detective needs to interview you. You, too, Mr. Sanclaro, I imagine, if you were here.”

Her stomach clenched and her thighs turned watery. Roman put a supportive arm around her waist. “Has she—I mean, was she ... ?”

Charlie worked his lips over his teeth. “The cops aren’t saying much, but Danny—the tech—said she looked like she’d been dead a while. And like she’d been tortured.”

 

It was hours before Christy made it to her tiny office. The detectives were kind and didn’t really question her story, though the lead detective seemed to suspect she’d left something out. Which she had.

Somehow she thought bringing up the theater ghost might be a bad idea. Given that he didn’t exist and that it might make people think she was nuts. Understandably.

At the same time, if he wasn’t a ghost, he could be the key to the investigation, into resolving Tara’s horrible murder. They were using the word freely now, and Christy’s stomach roiled with guilt, confusion, and terror.

Could the ghost have done it?

Was she next?

Just because he’d been gentle so far didn’t mean he wouldn’t, couldn’t turn into a monster. All the serial killers seemed nice to their neighbors. The phantom, with his eccentric clothes—including a cloak and mask—could never be called normal or unassuming.

She needed time to think. If she mentioned the theater ghost without some kind of proof, they’d think she was neurotic. Charlie might even send her home, to protect her.

She opened her desk drawer.

And her heart sank through her stomach, a stone plummeting down an empty well.

A red rose sat inside, as fragrant and flagrantly lovely as the one the ghost had tried to give her two nights before. A note hung from the stem, tied with a bit of ribbon that matched the ones on the magic flute. Three words, in cursive script, graced the thick vellum.