EntangledTrio (6 page)

David’s limousine picked him up at De Gaulle airport Wednesday morning and whisked him directly to the opera house, where a visibly nervous Sergei Popov met him at the stage door and showed him to his dressing room.

“I’m afraid there will only be time for one orchestra rehearsal, then this afternoon Sophia will walk you through the production,” the general director rattled along in breakneck French, his accent so heavy David had to listen hard to decipher it. “The dress rehearsal is tomorrow evening, and Friday night we open. I really am terribly sorry to bring you in at the last minute—”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure everything will be fine,” David replied in his own not-so-rapid-fire French, forcing a smile. “We’re all professionals here, right?”

“And thank God for that,” came a familiar smoky tone from the doorway, and in walked Colette, beaming at him like sunshine on a summer morning. She looked absolutely stunning in black wool slacks and a creamy-white cashmere turtleneck, her blonde hair pulled back in a chic ponytail. She came up and threw her arms around him, brushing a soft kiss across his cheek. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you’re here, David. You have literally saved this production. Maybe not from failure, but definitely from mediocrity.”

“It can’t be that bad, not with you singing the lead.” Truth to tell, he’d almost turned down the engagement. The awful pain that had torn through him when he’d heard Colette’s voice on the phone had him convinced no good could come of seeing her again, at least not so soon. But when she told him how desperately she needed his help, he’d caved in five seconds flat. God, he was such a pushover for this woman. “Besides,” he added, lapsing into English after Popov gave them both a wave, then scurried off down the hallway, “you knew I was a foregone conclusion.”

“Not so! I try to never take anything for granted—or any
one
.” She studied his face for a moment, her smile fading. “You look tired. Did you get any rest on the plane?”

“A little. I can keep running on adrenaline for a few more hours.” Despite his residual wooziness, the warmth of her body was starting to have an all-too-predictable effect on him. He backed away reluctantly, moving toward the bathroom. “Give me a minute to freshen up and I’ll be good to go.”

Cold tap water splashed on his face revived him a bit, but did nothing to put out the fire below his belt.
Jesus Christ
. Rock-hard from a hug and a kiss on the cheek. How was he supposed to get through the next three weeks of smelling Colette’s perfume and holding her in his arms every performance? What the hell was he thinking, getting on that plane?

But there was no backing out now. He was here. He’d accepted the engagement, signed the contract. No matter how bad it got, he’d just have to grit his teeth and endure it. An entire production was counting on him.

Luckily, a couple minutes of imagining himself tumbling head-first into the orchestra pit or losing his voice in the middle of an aria finally killed his erection. Painting on his best smile, he emerged from the bathroom and followed Colette downstairs to the rehearsal hall.

The orchestra was already assembled, the air punctuated with the familiar groans and wheezes of instruments tuning up. The only other singer in attendance was a petite brunette, the score on the podium in front of her flipped open to José and Micaëla’s Act One duet. Nicole something-or-other. He’d seen her backstage at the Met a couple of times. Colette quickly made formal introductions then led him up to the conductor’s podium at the front of the room. “David, I’d like to present—”

“Aleksandr Petrovsky,” David croaked when he realized who was in front of him—only one of the most fucking amazing musicians in the world. Then David’s gaze zoomed in on the matching wedding bands on Petrovsky’s and Colette’s ring fingers, and suddenly his stomach plummeted through the floor. Hand outstretched, he stood rooted to the spot like some idiotic statue, staring into Petrovsky’s piercing green eyes. How the hell could he have forgotten who Colette’s husband was? And why hadn’t it occurred to him to ask who was conducting before he’d accepted this job? “I-I never thought I’d be lucky enough to work with you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it the moment the words had left his mouth. Petrovsky got showered with empty flattery every day of his life. And here he was, the no-name replacement tenor, doing the same damn thing. But what was he supposed to say?
“Hey, great to meet you! Hope there’s no hard feelings over me banging your wife!”
A hot, prickly flush crept up the back of David’s neck. Way to make a first impression!

Fortunately, Petrovsky was far too professional to sneer in his face, but gave him a polite nod in lieu of a handshake. If he knew about David’s past relationship with Colette, he gave no outward sign of it. Did he know? Or did he just not consider it relevant to the task at hand? “Good to have you with us, Mr. Lewis. Shall we get to work? Time is short.”

As if he needed to be reminded. Damn, but Petrovsky was one unflappable customer. Well, if he could ignore the elephant in the room, David would simply have to do the same. He and Colette took their seats next to Nicole while Petrovsky gave some direction to the orchestra, then turned to face the singers. “Let’s begin with Don José’s Act Two aria. Mr. Lewis, I trust you’re prepared?”

Nothing like hitting the ground running. David knew he should’ve taken a few minutes to warm up at the piano in his dressing room before heading down here, but seeing Colette had sent all rational thought flying from his brain. Good thing he’d had plenty of time to restudy the score on his flight over. “Anytime you’re ready, maestro.”

The first few bars were rough. Every note exposed an uncomfortable tightness in his tone. David gripped the podium with both hands, petrified that his wobbly knees would betray him, until an encouraging glance from Colette gave him permission to relax. Don José’s
Flower Song
was David’s favorite piece in the entire opera, and not just because he could count on a standing ovation at the end of it. One of the most heartfelt, sensual declarations of love ever set to music, it never failed to make his voice open up and soar.

Without thinking, he turned to Colette and sang it directly to her, like he would during an actual performance. Was it his imagination, or did she sit up the tiniest bit straighter, the roses in her cheeks deepening? By now the music had him firmly in its clutches, an endless river of sound pouring out of him, sweeping him along to the climactic final B-flat. It floated in the air like soft rain and dissolved just as quickly.

Silence followed the orchestra’s concluding notes, then came a swell of applause. Even Petrovsky looked impressed. He waited for the room to fall quiet again before asking, “Why did you sing the B-flat
pianissimo
?”

“That’s how it’s marked in the score, maestro.” However, it didn’t stop most tenors from hitting the note full-force, then standing back to collect their bravos. David had never particularly cared for that approach. It was a cheap, showy ploy to get applause. Still, it was how most audiences were used to hearing the aria performed. If Petrovsky insisted on him doing it that way, he supposed he’d have to.

But the maestro didn’t respond further, other than to shoot Colette a pointed look. When they exchanged smiles and nods, David had the sudden awkward feeling he’d just passed some kind of secret test.

His embarrassed flush slowly migrated into his cheeks. He hastily undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt and gulped down some water, hoping no one else had noticed.

He got a small respite from the tension by throwing himself into the Act One duet with Nicole. She had a sweet, silvery voice that melded well with his, and by now he’d warmed up enough to do an adequate job. When they finished, the conductor set down his baton. “That will be fine, everyone. Thank you for coming in on such short notice. You’re all free to go.”

David’s jaw nearly hit his chest. What the hell was Petrovsky doing, dismissing the orchestra when they still had pages of music to cover? When this was the only orchestra rehearsal they’d scheduled for him? Alarmed, David marched to the front of the room and waited behind the concertmaster and leader of the woodwind section for his turn to speak to the maestro.

“Yes, Mr. Lewis?” Petrovsky’s tone was brusque to the point of rudeness. In fact, he’d already thrown his score in his bag and started for the door. David had to sprint to keep up with him.

“Why did we skip the final scene? I thought we had at least another hour of orchestra time—”

“Which is quite expensive, especially when unnecessary. You obviously have a fine grasp of the role and a good working rapport with Colette. Your time will be better spent with Sophia, learning the staging. I’ll see you at dress rehearsal tomorrow night.” He strode on ahead, disappearing around a bend in the corridor.

“Don’t worry, it’s not you,” Colette said, coming up on David’s right side. “He’s running off to another rehearsal with the
Orchestre de Paris
. He didn’t expect to be double-booked this week, but the fates had other plans.”

“Well, rehearsal or no rehearsal, I’ll get up onstage and give it my all, I promise.”

“Of course you will.” Slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, she drew him down the hallway. “Let me tell you a secret. If Aleks likes the way you sing, he says nothing. If he doesn’t, he looks like he’s ready to vomit.”

“Then I guess I should be glad he likes me.” They both laughed. It was a relaxed, comfortable sound. David let out a sigh. Maybe the next three weeks wouldn’t be so awful, as long as he didn’t have to walk on eggshells every time Aleks was in the room. “So have you told him about—”

“Yes, he knows,” she replied softly. “Aleks and I have no secrets from each other.”

“And he’s still okay with us working together?”

“It was either engage a singer we knew would do a good job, or take our chances with whoever Popov could get on short notice. Aleks is a musician and an artist first. He knew there was no other option.”

“Wow. That’s what I call open-minded.”

“To be honest, I didn’t actually tell him who our new Don José was until
after
I called you. But he still agreed you were the best possible choice.”

“I hope you both think so after Friday night.”

She smiled. “I have no doubts.”