DIVA (8 page)

Slowed by the mob of people in the aisle, he recalled the glorious day he’d driven Rachel to a concert and saw the gorgeous girl with the coppery hair playing principal flute. After begging and pleading—she always made him beg—his sister had introduced them after the concert. Then, the ultimate insult. Even now his cheeks burned with embarrassment. A quick hello, a smile of dismissal, and The Diva had begun talking to another musician.

Enraged by the memory, he plunged into the Royal Festival Hall lobby.

This time he would not allow her to dismiss him.

This time she would pay attention or pay the price.

_____

She closed her dressing room door and sank onto the plush satin chair facing the makeup table. Solitude at last. For twenty minutes she had endured the obligatory meet-and-greet that required her to smile and be gracious, suffering the attentions of wealthy old men whose predatory eyes roved over her body while their stodgy bejeweled wives feigned smiles and made inane comments. Complimenting her dress of all things! How insulting.

But now she was alone. Her mantra had worked its magic. Before going onstage she had chanted it twice.
Never give in to fear. Act successful and you will be successful. Believe in yourself and you cannot fail.

Now she could celebrate. She pumped her fist in the air. A perfect performance! Five minutes ago Guy St. Cyr had murmured those very words in her ear. She would never forget how his muscular body had pressed against hers the last time they made love seven years ago. Or the painful aftermath.

A flood of embarrassment crept up her neck at the memory.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we were married?” she’d said. “We’d be a team.”

“But I’m already married, luv. Abigail and I have a life together, and two children. You don’t need me. You’ll have scads of suitors. You don’t have to marry them. Enjoy them and focus on your career. Married lovers are best. They’ve got their own wives.”

And Guy still had his. Now he was headed home with Abigail, an Englishwoman with a long nose and a stingy mouth.

She would return to her hotel room and an empty bed.

She studied her reflection in the mirror outlined with blazing lights above the makeup table. Guy was right. Plenty of men had been eager to woo a beautiful young flutist. She’d sampled a few—none of them married—and stayed emotionally aloof. Until Ramon.

She slammed her palms on the table.
Forget Ramon. Focus on your career.
If tonight’s performance didn’t warrant a recording contract, nothing did.

She slipped off the spaghetti-straps of her gown and plucked baby wipes from a container. Wiped her underarms and freshened her deodorant. Her mascara and eye shadow looked fine. She dabbed lip-gloss on her lips, wiped her fingers on a tissue and tried to relax.

Impossible. Horrible memories intruded. The car in the parking lot. The voicemail message from a man who knew her secrets. The notes Jake had thrown away. The final frightening message:
Soon we’ll be together
.

And now Jake was hinting that he might leave her. Tears flooded her eyes. Jake was her rock, the one person she could depend on. The one person she could confide in. She couldn’t bear it if he deserted her.

A tap sounded on the door. “Belinda? It’s Jake. Are you ready?”

She gathered herself. Rose from the chair. Pasted on a smile.

When she opened the door, Jake swooped inside and hugged her, giving off a faint odor of sweat that his aftershave and deodorant failed to mask. Jake had worked hard tonight, too.

“You were incredible, Bee. A fantastic performance. Your best ever!”

Yes, but did it get me a recording contract?

“What did the orchestra manager say?”

“I haven’t talked to him yet. Come on. A limo’s waiting to take us to the Royal Trafalgar. Wait till you see the Rooftop Lounge. It’s fabulous.”

______

Lurking in the corner of the Rooftop Lounge, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. He had talked his way in easily enough, flashing his concert program, just another distinguished gentleman in his rented tuxedo, black bow tie and white dress shirt.

The view outside the window was spectacular. Glittery lights on the Houses of Parliament. A spotlit statue of Lord Nelson on his horse in Trafalgar Square. But not half as stunning as his beloved. He turned and watched her greet her admirers. A half hour ago she had swept into the lounge like a goddess, accompanied by a tall bearded man in a tux.

Jacob Ziegler. His rival. Fury boiled into his throat.

Now Ziegler was deep in conversation with two white-haired older men, three bigwigs, chatting and sipping champagne.

His gaze returned to his beloved, positioned near a table with silver platters of hot and cold hors d’œuvres. The moment she arrived a swarm of sycophants had surrounded her. Now the crowd had dwindled to one couple, a young man and woman in their twenties. He started toward them, but a scrawny woman in a low-cut red gown stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He wanted to put his hands around her bony neck and throttle her.

“Great performance, hmmm?” she said, smiling at him with garish scarlet-painted lips.

When he didn’t answer, the bitch snatched a shrimp canapé from a roving waiter’s tray and headed for the bar. That allowed him to sidle up to Belinda, chatting now with the young couple, Brits, judging by their accents.

“I don’t know how you do it,” the woman said, eyes wide with admiration. “That’s the most difficult piece in the flute repertoire.”

“No mystery there,” he said, stepping closer. “Ms. Scully is the best flutist on the planet.”

They all turned to look at him, Belinda included, gazing at him with her incredible sapphire-blue eyes. He extended his hand to his beloved. “Barry Silverman. I’ve been a huge fan for years. Your performance was marvelous.”

She smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

His erection, stoked by the silken feel of her hand against his palm, pulsed with desire. It almost made him forget his lines. Almost.

“Nonsense. You deserved both of those standing ovations.”

To his great relief, the young couple turned and left.

“Thank you so much.” She withdrew her hand and looked over his shoulder as though she was seeking others who might be more important. Didn’t she understand that he was the most important person in her life?

Maintaining his smile, he said, “How do you like London? Have you been here before?”

Her eyes met his. “Yes. Guy St. Cyr lives here. I studied with him.”

He locked eyes with her so she couldn’t look away. “Marvelous city. I’ve been here two years working a security detail for a British industrialist. A nice chap, but he doesn’t care for music.”

“That’s too bad. Some people don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Quite right. I gave notice last week so I can get back to New Orleans.”

“New Orleans is lovely,” she said, glancing around the room as though she was looking for someone. “I played a concert there recently.”

Yes you did, three weeks ago. I watched you from my seat in the fourth row.

“I operate a security agency there. If you ever need a security expert, I’ve got extensive experience. That’s why the Brit hired me to drive him around.” His fingers curled around the fake business card.

She gave him a polite smile. “Thanks, but I love driving.”

Loved driving? He could change that. He pressed the business card into her hand. “Take my card, Ms. Scully. You never know when you might need a driver to keep you safe. My rates are quite reasonable.”

Her smile disappeared and her sapphire-blue eyes grew distant. “I’m sure they are, Mr. . . . ?”

His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She couldn’t even remember his name. He mustered a smile. “Barry Silverman.”

She turned and smiled at an older man who was approaching them, one of the white-haired bigwigs.

Anger boiled into his gut. How could she ignore him this way?

“I’m flying home tomorrow,” he said. “What about you?”

“I’m not leaving till Sunday. We’re going to Ronny Scott’s tomorrow night. The jazz club.”

We’re
going.
Belinda and loverboy Ziegler.

“I loved your encore. Were those your own variations?”

“Yes.” She gazed at him, unsmiling.

The bigwig was almost upon them. His heart plinked his ribs, a xylophone clang of anxiety. “Would you like me to drive you home from the airport? Cabs are in short supply sometimes.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Silverman. Now if you’d excuse me—”

“You know,” he blurted, “this has been the most exciting night of my life. Meeting you, I mean. I’ve been a fan of yours for years. I own every one of your CDs.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Silverman,” she said, and walked away.

A tsunami of rage erupted inside him. Another kiss-off.

After all his planning and preparation, not to mention his financial sacrifice, The Diva had dismissed him as if he were a flea. This he could not allow. No more friendly persuasions.

This called for action.

CHAPTER 8

Monday, 23 October

Stifling a yawn, she veered off the I-10 onto the long City Park exit road that ran alongside Metairie Cemetery. She couldn’t wait to get home and fall into bed. The concert had exceeded her wildest expectations. Rave reviews in London’s three biggest newspapers and a fabulous recording contract from the orchestra. But the trip home had been exhausting.

Their seven-hour flight from London had landed at JFK at four. After a mediocre meal in the food court, she and Jake boarded their flight to New Orleans. She’d tried to sleep, but a cranky infant two rows behind them had cried non-stop until they had landed at eleven-fifteen.

She stopped at a traffic light at the intersection of City Park Avenue and glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten past midnight. In five minutes she’d be home. She yawned, willing the light to change. This intersection was spooky at night, a cavernous underpass with massive concrete columns that supported the eight-lane Interstate overhead, and City Park Avenue was deserted. Not a single car passed through the intersection.

Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror.

The idiot had his high beams on. How rude.

Mercifully, the light changed. She turned left onto City Park Avenue, slowed for the next light to turn green and accelerated out of the dark underpass. The SUV followed, its headlights a blinding glare in the rearview of her Infiniti coupe as she drove along City Park Avenue, surrounded by cemeteries on both sides. New Orleans lay below sea level, so residents buried their loved ones above ground in crypts and mausoleums.

Cities of the Dead. A shiver danced down her spine.

Anxious to get home, she accelerated.

Behind her, the SUV matched her speed, an ominous presence. Blinded by the lights in her rearview, she glanced at her wing mirror. There were no cars behind the SUV. Why was it tailgating her?

A whisper of fear plinked her mind.

Delgado Community College appeared on her left. She rolled down the window, and hot humid air hit her face. In the daytime, students would be clustered outside the buildings or walking to their cars in the parking lot. Now the lot was empty, the buildings dark.

The SUV drew closer.

She hit the gas and her Infinity coupe spurted forward.

So did the SUV.

Her palms grew sweaty on the wheel and her neck corded with tension. To her left was the familiar sight of City Park where she went for her early morning runs, a sunny cheerful space with lush green grass and duck ponds, birds chirping from live oak trees and people walking their dogs.

Now it was pitch dark. She accelerated to fifty.

The SUV matched her speed.

She looked to her right. No help there, nothing but darkened homes, no porch lights, not even a car parked outside.

The sour taste of fear filled her mouth.

The SUV slammed her bumper.

Fear exploded into panic.

Her heart pounded like a sprinter nearing the finish line. She stomped the gas, and wind whipped through the window onto her face. The engine whined, matching the frantic thrash of her heart. The SUV remained inches from her bumper, its lights blinding her. She floored the accelerator, sweaty hands gripping the wheel, desperate to reach the safety of her house.

Desperate to escape the maniac in the SUV behind her.

The SUV rammed her car again and sat on the bumper, forcing her to go faster. Bile rose in her throat. This couldn’t be happening. Any second she would wake up, sweaty and terrified, safe in her own bed.

But this was no dream, this was real. A living nightmare.

The idiot would make her crash, like the drunk driver who’d killed her family. Tears burned her eyes. She would die in an accident like Blaine and her parents, die before her time, her life snuffed out just as her career began to blossom. Just as she’d always feared.

She stomped the brakes. Heard them screech against the wheels.

The car bucked, but didn’t slow down. The SUV backed off.

Her arms went weak with relief. She was safe.

No! Headlights glared in her rearview as SUV came at her again and hit her left bumper, pushing her toward the sidewalk.

She thought her heart would stop. She tried to turn the wheel.

Impossible. Panic sat on her chest like a grand piano, squeezing the air from her lungs. A light pole flashed by, then a fire hydrant.

A huge tree trunk loomed in front of her.

“No,” she screamed. “No, no, no.”

With a deafening bang and a bone-jarring impact, the car hit the tree, and her airbag deployed, hitting her face and chest, a one-two punch that drove her back against the seat.

Too stunned to move, she inhaled the sour stink of the airbag, heart pounding, unable to catch her breath, dimly aware that the SUV was speeding away. She heard a hissing sound and peered through the windshield.

Steam was rising from the crumpled hood of her car. The impact had broken her radiator. Her hands trembled.