She followed him to the green room and shared a seat on the sofa. The room was quiet and far removed from the lights and intrusion of the cameras. She wondered if this was an official goodbye.
“I hope my appearance didn’t startle you?” he asked.
“It would have helped if you had warned me. “
“I didn’t want you to feel abandoned.”
“I thought you planned it to help Stacey.”
“This was not about Stacey. We need to talk.”
She stared into his eyes, perplexed.
“I’ve given it a great deal of thought lately about what happened at the cottage. Perhaps we could continue our relationship and see where it goes.”
This was not what she had been expecting.
He continued, “I have to be on assignment in Moscow in a few days. I’ll be gone three weeks. Could you postpone your tour until my return?”
“Postpone my tour? Why?”
“I would like to go with you. As long as the Davidsons are at large, I fear for your safety.”
She laughed. “You want to protect me?”
He nodded.
“Oh, Brian, I have bodyguards and the local police. What could you do that they can’t?”
“Be with you 24/7.”
He was serious, too serious.
“My tour is all planned and I can’t change the schedule. I have staff and fans to consider. I just can’t change things at the drop of a hat. Besides, this is my big comeback.”
“I see.”
“I’m flattered by your concern, but I’m going to be fine.” She reached out and patted his hand.
By the grimace on his face he didn’t seem convinced.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
“What do they say, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder?’” She had hoped the words would ring true, but only time would tell.
Chapter 19
The world tour was becoming Angelique’s greatest success. Her return to show business had brought out crowds eager for a glimpse of the new Angelique. Without the angel hype and trappings, without the mystery, many wondered if she could maintain her fame. Would she sell out to modern staging, provocative costuming, the background singers and dancers, and the attitude that accompanied most modern divas?
Angelique was not a modern diva. Her audiences discovered her to be as sophisticated, beautiful, and as mysteriously talented as she had been in the past. Though the flowing white gowns were replaced with elegant high-necked, long-sleeved colorful gowns, her voice was still melodic and fluid. That ethereal voice still caused shivers and tears, gasps of awe and sighs of pleasure. The applause resounded from the rafters of the world’s greatest concert halls. The tour took her from Rome to Vienna, London and Paris, Madrid and Lisbon, Rio to Buenos Aires, and soon to Moscow.
Brian followed her progress through the media and Internet. Angelique was as big a star as ever and her fame was her own. An occasional e-mail or text arrived with notes about the sites she had visited, the people she had met, and the joy of not being held captive in hotel rooms. No short, “I have missed you” or “I love you” to warm his heart. Just hastily written messages. She was famous, after all.
In Moscow, he sat in his drab hotel room looking out over Red Square. Gilded spires swirled up from the historic Cathedral of St. Basil, the noise of traffic and guttural foreign voices, the scent of gasoline fumes drifting in through an open window. Funny, his entire career hinged on being alone and it had never bothered him. Until now. Being alone had meant independence and freedom, no strings attached. All of a sudden he wished for strings. He also worried about her while in the past, he only had himself to be concerned about. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be alone. He shook his head. Damn, one woman had to disrupt his way of life.
He was a journalist and he had a job to do. Angelique was a singer and had her own career to consider. Just as he had feared, their lives had taken off in opposite directions. Angelique’s world tour included a one evening performance in Moscow. He was surprised and hopeful when she had a ticket held for him.
Out of all the women in the world to want, he had to pick one adored by millions and out of his reach.
• • •
Angelique was giddy with excitement at having Moscow as a stop on her world tour. The concert to be held at the Bolshoi was a first. Just knowing she would be in the same city as Brian and having him seated in the audience made her secure and lightheaded with anticipation.
Angelique paced in the wings of the stage as prelude music played. Strains from violin and full orchestra wafted in the stuffy air. She awaited her cue, hands clasped in front, eyes closed, drawing in calming deep breaths to quell the jittery anxiety that, now that she was in charge of her own life, always hit right before her entrance.
Just as the music stopped, the lights dimmed and Angelique was led out on to the darkened stage. At her mark she stood alone awaiting the spotlight. The heavy velvet curtains parted, a beam of white light aimed at her still form. As a fine mist of fog rose from hidden machines in the floor, she began to sing. Like pressed keys on a piano her notes ebb and flowed. The harmony and range was like fine threaded silk to solid granite. Without orchestral accompaniment she stood alone in the spotlight, a place where she felt most at home. At least she used to. Singing to the audience was love. What was love? Was love really something to be reserved for a special person?
She gazed into the audience in hopes of seeing at least one discernable face. From the stage all she could view was darkness. Breathing, coughing, fidgeting could be heard from the depths, the only sign people were seated before her. Not having eye contact or a view of who she was singing to had never bothered her before. On this tour, though, she longed to see a human face. She longed to see one face in particular. Brian was somewhere out there? Just thinking about him made her smile.
“Angels don’t reveal emotions. Angels don’t smile,” Edwina had once said.
The memory made her smile even more, and after finishing her opening song she smiled so brightly she thought it would surely light up the theater. She had never felt so free, so safe, and so alive on stage before.
As she leaned over to bow, gunfire exploded over her head. The shot was so close she could feel airflow and hear the whiz as the bullet missed her by mere millimeters and she could smell the acrid scent of gunpowder. For a second she was so startled she didn’t know whether to drop to the floor or flee the stage. Before she could react, someone shoved her down and covered her, shielding her. As the house lights went up, chaos erupted in the theater. Screaming echoed off the walls, footsteps trampling the floors.
She peeked from under the weight of her bodyguard and could see the brightly lit theater. Women in ball gowns and men in tuxedos were making a hasty exit. Audience members in the balcony were hanging over the rails for a better view of the melee below. The shouting was deafening. What looked like undercover police huddled around someone in the front row, shouting orders and drawing guns. She couldn’t understand what was being said. Though she could sing in Russian, she was not fluent in the language. She didn’t need to know the language, though, to know that someone had just tried to kill her. If she hadn’t bent over at that precise moment, she would be dead. The thought made her tremble. She would never truly be free and safe.
After the theater cleared, the seats empty, an eerie silence permeating the space, the bodyguard rose, offering her his hand. She took his hand and stood. Her legs were weak and wobbly.
Police rushed the stage to surround her. Others fanned out in the theater.
“Are you all right?” the guard asked. “Considering the circumstances, I think I’m doing quite well,” she mumbled, nervously smoothing her taffeta gown.
“I don’t understand. We had metal detectors at each entrance and exit to prevent such a problem,” the guard, who resembled an American football linebacker, said. He adjusted the headphone of his two-way radio. “They have a suspe
ct in custody, but they think he was working for someone else.”
“The Davidsons?” she asked. The idea of Edwina and Morris Davidson hiring someone to kill her made her nauseous. They seemed to have disappeared like bugs, back into the earth, after her story made the press. She thought they would stay underground. Using her money to kill her was a new low. If they had indeed targeted her.
“Miss Angelique,” the guard interrupted her thoughts. “There is an American reporter, a Brian Andrews, being held outside. He says you wanted to meet with him after the show. Ordinarily, I would not bother you, but he is the one who wrote that big story about you. He seems rather . . . persistent.”
“Brian?” she asked. Just when she needed him the most, he was here. This was the second miracle of the evening.
“I can have guards escort Mr. Andrews to your dressing room, if you’d like.”
“I’d like.” Angelique smiled, lips trembling. She’d like that a lot.
The guard whispered into his mouthpiece and, after, accompanied Angelique to her dressing room. Before entering the space, he said, “Your dressing room was inspected thoroughly for threats and is safe. A contingent is at your hotel with dogs checking out your suite.”
“Thank you,” she replied as the guard opened the door and she entered.
“I will be stationed outside if you need anything.”
She nodded. Having guards who were actually concerned about her safety was reassuring. Nonetheless, the world was a very sad place when she needed armed guards to protect her life.
She sat on the damask covered chaise, scooting up and crossing her legs at the ankle. Smoothing out the gown, she knew she would rather be singing for the crowd than being guarded in her dressing room. She had been cheated just as the audience members who had scrambled at the sound of a gunshot were cheated. The only consolation was being able to see Brian.
A knock rattled the dressing room door.
“Come in,” she said, taking a deep breath.
The bodyguard stuck his head in, “A Mr. Brian Andrews is here to see you.”
“Send him in.” She stared at the door as the guard opened it wider.
Ever the adventurer in drab olive slacks, plaid shirt, and brown leather bomber jacket, Brian looked as handsome as ever. The boar’s tooth hung from his neck. He raked his wavy hair with his hands as he approached the chaise.
“Angelique, must I always come to your rescue?” he asked, kneeling at her side, the corners of his eyes wrinkled.
“Oh, Brian.” She sat up, flinging her arms around his neck. She missed him, needed him, had to reassure herself that he was really there for her.
He put his arms around her, pulling her against him. She knelt on the chaise clinging to him, absorbing his warmth and comfort.
“Oh, Brian, I’m so scared.” Tears swelled in her eyes.
“Better frightened than dead,” he whispered and brushed his lips against her soft cheek.
She turned slightly so that his lips met hers. His familiar taste and touch was reassuring, the tingling electricity from his kiss unsettling. She drew away.
“You don’t know how happy I am to see you.” She stared at him, still ensconced in his embrace.
He met her gaze. “I was in the balcony when all hell broke loose. He shot from the front row. It all happened so fast. At first I wasn’t sure if you were hit.
My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.”
“He?”
“The shooter was a young Russian man. His aim fell short when you bent over to bow.”
“It’s the first time I ever bowed in a concert.” A shiver raced up her spine.
“You picked the right time or you have one heck of a guardian angel.” He grinned, his dimpled jaw as disarming as ever.
“Who is the man and why did he want me dead?” she asked.
“The Soviet authorities are looking into it. Last I saw, they had the man cuffed and en route to the headquarters.”
“Do you think it was the Davidsons?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I wouldn’t be surprised, though you never know. Heck, someone killed John Lennon. Presidents aren’t immune either. The thing that matters most is that you’re safe, and they have the suspect in custody.”
“What I wouldn’t give to go back to those days at Cape James, to the secluded cottage with only you and the sea.” She closed her eyes, longing for the sand, undulating waves, the quaint cottage, soft bed, being alone with Brian and away from the world. She could swear she smelled the mist and tasted the salty air. She opened her eyes to reality.
“You were right, Brian, those days weren’t real, were they?”
He grasped her hand, drew it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles one by one. “The days may have not been real, but what I felt was.”
“I still feel it,” she said.
Why did the price of fame have to be so expensive?
“Brian, please come to my hotel suite this evening. We can order dinner and have a quiet evening together. My nerves are frayed and I really need a familiar friendly
face,” she said, not wanting to appear needy. She was just so lonely.
Before he could reply, a knock rattled the door.
“Come in,” she said.
The bodyguard stepped in. “Excuse me, but the authorities would like to speak with you regarding the incident in the theater.”
“Mr. Andrews will be leaving and you may send them in.”
The guard left, closing the door behind.
“Tonight?”
Brian stood, a grin on his rugged face. “Tonight.”
Chapter 20
When Brian entered her luxurious suite, the first thing he noticed was how small and vulnerable Angelique was in relationship to her opulent surroundings. She sat wrapped in a long silk kimono on the leather sectional sofa amid the pillows, almost lost in the deep cushions and oversized furniture. In deep thought, her eyes sparked open at his entry and met his concerned gaze.
Fear glimmered in her eyes and in the tremor of her parted lips. Even her hands, though clasped firmly on her lap, trembled. For all the bravery she exuded in the theater, the consequence of her close call with death was settling in.
“Brian,” she stuttered, her lips forming a shivering smile.
Before she could rise, Brian approached and seated himself beside her. Before she could utter another word, he embraced her. Wrapping his arms around her fragile silk ensconced frame, longing to protect her, assure her. She hugged him in turn. As she burrowed against his chest, Brian closed his eyes, wondering when the nightmare would end and Angelique could find peace once and for all. Hadn’t she suffered enough already? Wasn’t being an orphan, being raised in a cloistered abbey, being the prisoner of the Davidsons and of her own fame enough? He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter to keep his tears from escaping and to quell the fire of anger burning within him. Animals killed for survival. Humans killed and maimed for power, money, and entertainment.
Why were the Davidsons, if indeed they were behind the threat, eager to kill Angelique? They already had her money. They had broken her heart and had come close to stealing her soul. Perhaps they felt Angelique was of no further use to them. If they could not benefit from her talent, why should anyone else? He swallowed hard. A bitter aftertaste filled his mouth.
Angelique’s stirring broke him away from his thoughts. Maybe he was thinking too much. He slowly released her from his grip and placed his hands on her sloping shoulders.
She looked up, rivulets of tears streaming from her eyes and down her pale cheeks. With one hand she swiped at them. After sniffling and clearing her throat, she spoke.
“Thank you, Brian, for being here. I don’t know how I could have coped with this if not for you.”
He patted her shoulders. “All you have to do is call and I’ll be here for you. Anywhere. Anytime.”
“Even in Moscow?”
“Even in Moscow.” He reached out to touch her hair, letting s
ilken strands slip through his fingers. Spun angel hair. He smiled.
• • •
His nearness and warmth, familiar spicy scent, and gentle touch calmed her. Ever since she left the theater she had the jitters. After speaking with the authorities, the magnitude of the murder attempt and the threat that still existed chilled her spine, and she shivered as if iced water had been pumped into her veins.
Even though her security guards whisked her into the limousine and into her secure suite, she was afraid. The darkness of night and hidden shadows, of being in a strange city, a Gotham of drizzle and fog, fed her terror.
Knowing Brian was there for her offered the only stability and comfort. Actually having him seated so close, to feel him, smell him, to hear his reassuring words was an answered prayer.
“If I had to spend the night alone, after what happened, I would have gone crazy,” she said.
He released his hand from her hair, instead reaching down to clasp her hands in his.
“They want me dead. Since I can no longer provide for them, I am of no further use,” she said, her voice wavering, but her gaze glued on his.
“Do you really believe that?”
“I . . . I don’t know what to believe anymore. I thought, after the cottage that everything was over. Yet, I now feel the worst has just begun.” She glanced down at their clasped hands.
“Or has ended.”
She looked up. “For us or for them?”
“We’re in this together, Angelique. We’re survivors. A couple of petty criminals with embezzled money and dubious intentions are no match for us, honey.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“I believe it,” he said, stroking his boar’s tooth.
She gazed at the boar’s tooth, wanting to believe everything he said. They had already been through hell and back together. Whatever dark chasms she had to defeat, Brian Andrews was the man to have on her side.
• • •
After ordering dinner, of which she just nibbled, Brian poured frothing champagne into crystal flutes. He handed one to Angelique. She eagerly sipped the foam drizzling down the glass, licked the foam from her lips, and giggled.
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