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