“What?” Had she told Callista about him? She couldn’t have—could she? Callista had a frighteningly good memory. She came out with stuff that no one else remembered.
“Yes, you said you met him long ago, before you had us. Before you met Dad, even. And look, the concert’s tomorrow. Let’s go see him.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think so.” Panic surged through her. She couldn’t even imagine being in the same space with him. Just seeing his face again was a shock. “It’ll be too noisy.”
“It’s music, Mom, not noise. And I love his sound. It’ll be fun.”
“I’d really rather not.” Thankfully Carlo’s was only a few steps away, and soon she was able to fuss over whether to sit inside or out and whether to get an appetizer, and could drag her attention away from the man she’d had to work very—very—hard to forget all those years ago.
But that evening, alone in her hotel room—her daughter shared an apartment with two other female scientists and there was no spare bed—she pulled out her laptop and opened a browser.
It couldn’t hurt just to look up his name and see what he’d been up to. Could it?
It had been years—decades—since she’d seen him. She was curious to see what Amadou looked like now, and the poster had been an extreme close-up of his face so it was hard to get an overall impression.
She Googled his name. She’d always liked his name and the way it rolled off his tongue, in that deep, French-accented voice of his. He was probably here in Paris right now, with the concert so soon.
She glanced over her shoulder, as if suddenly afraid she was being watched. Which was silly, since there was absolutely nothing whatsoever wrong with what she was doing. He was an old friend. Not even a friend.
She clicked on the Wikipedia page at the top of her search, and her eyes darted to the right of the screen to see his personal details, wife, children, etc. And there were none, just his birthdate—he was a year older than her—and “years active” up to the present. Had he never been married? Never had children? It seemed impossible.
There was a recent picture of him performing live, standing at a mic, his face taut with emotion. A weird frisson of—something—swept through her as she studied it. He always had so much passion. Too much passion for normal life.
He did look different from the boy she remembered. In the picture he wore a sweat-dampened white T-shirt that outlined muscled shoulders and a hard chest. He’d been skinny and insubstantial when she knew him, barely eating and staying up all night. Now he had a muscled solidity that gave him an air of authority and confidence.
Of course, he’d always been confident. Infuriatingly so.
He didn’t look like a man of fifty-four. If she’d had to guess, she’d have said maybe mid to late thirties. His hair was still dark, his brown skin was smooth and unlined, and his eyes sparkled with the same bold mischief she remembered.
Or maybe she just imagined that. The picture was too small to tell.
She let out a sigh. Goodness, he was handsome. Always had been. As a sheltered girl from the German countryside, she’d found him overwhelming and impossible to resist.
Of course she eventually came to her senses after her family arranged her meeting with Prince Emil and she’d got swept up in the majesty of Altaleone.
Amadou would have become bored with her and broken her heart, she knew it even then. And the fact that he’d never married confirmed it. He’d probably spent his whole life skipping from flower to flower, drinking their nectar like a gorgeous, confident bee they had no chance of refusing.
Her phone buzzed, and she quickly closed the web page before answering, as if she’d been caught doing something naughty.
“Mom, I got us tickets!”
“Tickets to what?” Her heart started pounding.
“Amadou Khadem, of course! Did you think I bought opera tickets? I got two right up front—the ones they save for industry bigwigs and VIPs. I think the guy in the box office recognized my name or something. Sometimes it’s great being royal.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart.” Her voice sounded flat. Her thoughts spun and a sudden surge of adrenaline propelled her to her feet. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Of course I didn’t, but I need a night out as much as you do. I’ve barely been anywhere except to the lab for over a month. I have to attend an all-day conference tomorrow, but I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Great.” Did her apprehension show in her voice? Usually the spotlights threw the crowd into darkness, but if the seats were right up front Amadou might be able to see her. Though even if he did see her he probably wouldn’t recognize her after all these years. She was more than thirty years older and wore her hair differently. Maybe he’d wonder who that sweet old lady in the front row was.
“Mom, I need to finish up my Powerpoint for tomorrow, so I’ll see you at six, okay?”
“Yes, dear, good luck tomorrow.” Her children were so capable and confident that it often amazed her. How had they developed such a strong sense of self? Certainly not from her.
She’d always been somewhere in the background, smiling and supporting her husband. Maybe she should be embarrassed about it, but she’d really never wanted anything else.
She paced around the room, unable to settle. Seeing Amadou—even on the poster—had opened up a window to a part of her she’d almost forgotten. Was it her heart? Maybe somewhere more primal. The part of her that could see a man and say, wow.
She hadn’t felt the rush of attraction in…forever. She didn’t even remember feeling it for Emil, and maybe she hadn’t since their marriage was actually the brainchild of her well-connected relatives rather than a typical flirtation.
She had loved him, though, despite everything. She missed Emil’s sense of humor, and the way he used to kiss her good night no matter what. Even after all these months it was still hard to believe he was gone forever. And there was no way she could embark on any kind of relationship with the eyes of European society and the world press on her every moment.
So any stray sparks of desire she felt would best be quickly extinguished.
“I’m so sorry I was late! The last speaker rambled on forever.” Callista had grabbed a taxi from home and picked Lina up on the way so as not to deal with parking, and they’d jumped out, paid and were running into the theater a full hour after the concert was supposed to begin. “Do you think they’ll let us in?”
“I don’t know.” Lina wasn’t sure if she’d be relieved or crushed after all the time she’d spent trying to find an outfit that looked both hip and respectable at the same time. They’d probably missed him completely. “I suppose we can always play the royal card.”
“I don’t know if that works at gigs.” Callista shot her a grin. “Might have the opposite effect.”
They checked in at the box office, and the clerk told them to hurry. They’d missed the warm-up band and Amadou Khadem was about to play.
“Sweet!” Callista clapped her hands. “C’mon, Mom. We have to get all the way down to the front.”
People frowned and peered at them as they walked past the cheap seats, then the medium-priced seats and then past the expensive seats and the very expensive seats, until they got to the front row, right in the middle. One rather rude man even demanded to see their tickets, refusing to believe that they could just waltz up to the front like this.
Callista ignored him, and they’d just managed to settle into their seats and remove their jackets when the band took their places, and an emcee walked toward the mic.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen”— Lina was almost fluent in French, so she understood him—“we welcome one of the most celebrated stars of the international music scene. He just finished a six-week tour of the U.S. and we’re very lucky to have him here in Paris tonight. Here he is, the reigning king of desert soul—”
He turned to one of the wings and the drummer played a roll. Lina held her breath as a man emerged—not a myth or a legen
d and no larger than any other tall man—and walked toward the mic. She couldn’t even see him, really, without the spotlight on his face. He wore a black jacket and pants and his hair was cropped short.
See? She could look right at him and barely react at all. This was going to be absolutely fine.
The emcee threw up his hands. “Amadou Khadem!”
The spotlight hit his face, throwing his bold features into high relief. Hard cheekbones, that proud nose and those eyes that seemed to see right through you.
He walked up to the mic. “I’m always glad to be back in Paris, my favorite city and spiritual homeland. I’ve missed you.”
“We’ve missed you, too,” intoned the woman next to her. Lina turned to look at her, then turned back to him, wondering why he wasn’t speaking.
And as she turned their gaze locked, and she found herself staring right into the intense, dark eyes of the man she’d coolly left more than thirty years ago.
CHAPTER TWO
Is he looking at me? Lina wasn’t sure if he could even see her past the harsh glare of the spotlight. As he launched into the first song, looking deep into the back of the audience, she wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing.
Soon the power of the music took hold of her, and she got swept along, enjoying his strong, melodic voice and paying as little attention as possible to the movements of his muscled body as he paced back and forth on the stage, pouring his heart into each song.
Such passion. He’d always had a lot of passion. Way too much for a quiet girl educated in a German boarding school.
He didn’t look at her again either. No doubt she had imagined that moment of intense connection. She was just another face in a sea of them, and soon she would leave the concert with the crowd and not lay eyes on him again for another thirty years or so.
If even then. During the intermission she distracted herself with a glass of wine at the bar and annoyed Callista with questions about her own love life—which was apparently nonexistent.
She’d probably have said the same thing to her mother when she was that age.
The second half of the concert began with a fast-paced number that had much of the audience on their feet dancing. She stayed seated. She was in the front row and didn’t want to block anyone’s view.
Callista prodded her in midsong. “Mom, this guy’s trying to give you something.”
“What?” She turned to see a short, rotund man holding out a folded piece of paper.
“No, thank you.” She tried to be polite. Whatever it was, she didn’t want it.
“It’s from Mr. Khadem,” said the man, leaning in. He was blocking the view of the person next to her in the front row, and he was starting to look annoyed.
“Just take it, Mom,” hissed Callista.
Amadou was still singing, and she didn’t dare look up at him. But she took the note, totally forgetting to offer a polite acknowledgement.
She didn’t want to open it and read it, either. The person next to her would be sure to wonder what it was that had been worth obscuring his view at an expensive concert. And if it really was from Amadou—which seemed unlikely—what would it say?
“Read it, Mom!” Callista looked ready to grab the note from her. “Or I will.”
Her threat sent a jolt of panic through Lina. She might have mentioned an acquaintance with Amadou in passing at some point, but she’d definitely never told her about all the steamy summer nights she’d spent in his attic bedroom, or the long walks they’d shared in the mountains outside Zurich.
Even Emil never knew about her long affair with him. No one did, except her closest friends from school.
She cracked the note open and peered at it. Scrawled writing that she couldn’t read. For one thing, it was dark. For another she needed reading glasses. She had some in her bag. Was she really going to reach into her bag for some old-lady reading glasses in front of the celebrated Amadou Khadem and his audience of devoted fans?
Apparently, yes. At this point she was committed. And what did she care if he thought she looked like a middle-aged woman? She was, wasn’t she?
She fished out her glasses and put them on, then pulled the note to the right distance, and read it as fast as she could.
Please come up to my dressing room after the show.
She froze. Her eyes darted to him before she could stop them. Once again he stared straight at her—still singing—and held her gaze for a solid five seconds before she managed to tear it away.
He’d recognized her. Still, she didn’t have to go. Really, it would be better not to. He’d only be disappointed anyway.
And heck, maybe he was still mad at her for the way she’d ended things. Back then she’d thought that everything she did during that strange in-between period of her life was temporary, disposable, soon to be forgotten, but it was funny how everything stuck with you over the years, whether you wanted it to or not.
Yes, it would definitely be better to leave. He’d probably decide that he’d mistaken her identity and she was just someone who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Carolina he once knew.
“What does it say?” Callista’s whisper startled her.
“Oh, nothing.”
Callista gave her a disbelieving look but went back to watching the concert.
Now Lina’s heart was pounding. She barely dared look at Amadou’s face and tried to distract herself by staring at the members of his band, or his hands moving over his instrument. Every song brought them closer to the end of the concert, when she planned to betray him for a second time by sneaking off without seeing him.
She should never have left Altaleone. At this hour she should be lying quietly in her bed in the palace, finishing that mystery novel with the missing cat.
Her agony dragged on as the concert appeared to end, then Amadou kept coming back for encores. The entire crowd was now on its feet, cheering, and she had to do the same so as not to stand out, though inside she was dying of embarrassment and misgivings and looking everywhere but at the tall, imposing man in the center of the stage, only a few yards from her face.
Finally—she’d begun to think it would never happen—he exited and a big curtain closed and people started to gather their bags.
Thank goodness! She prodded Callista, who was putting on her jacket far too slowly. “Let’s hurry. We don’t want to get stuck in here.”
“Mom, we’re stuck anyway. We’re way up front.” The aisles had filled with people from the rows behind them. “Just relax. And tell me what that note said.”
“I can’t. We need to—” Panic surged through her as the short man materialized again, with a serious expression on his face.
“Please accompany me backstage. Mr. Khadem has invited you to his dressing room.”
“Wow! Awesome!” Callista’s thrilled exclamation would have made her jump if she wasn’t frozen to the spot. “I wonder why? Could he have recognized you just from you meeting him before?”
“Uh…” Lina wracked her brain for a way to get out of this. If they went upstairs Callista would quickly find out that they’d done a whole lot more than meet. Her family had told Emil’s that she was a virgin when they married, though luckily he’d had the decency never to even joke about it. Amadou could easily reveal that she was very far from being a virgin by the time she’d walked away from him.
And the way she’d done it. Her breath caught at the bottom of her lungs when she thought of the carefully typed letter she’d sent him. With no forwarding address. And he’d had the decency never to try to track her down. He must have known her crazy story was true when he saw the royal wedding pictures in the papers.
“C’mon, Mom, let’s go.” Callista pushed her forward. The man smiled, though it was a rather uncertain one, given her hesitation, and ushered them through the crowd off toward the side of the stage. “Isn’t this exciting?” her daughter breathed, as he led them into the wings, where technicians and other staffers rushed around pulling cords and packing up ins
truments.
Lina couldn’t gather enough sensible thoughts to respond. What would Amadou say when he saw her? Was he still angry? Or did he just think of her as an old friend? Really old. With reading glasses and a silver streak in her blonde hair.
They passed through a cluttered corridor, then up to a door with a crowd of people gathered outside. Their guide muttered something in French, and the crowd parted. Lina held her breath as they headed into the dressing room under the gaze of his entourage.
Amadou sat in a chair facing away from them, wiping his face with a towel. His shirt was drenched with perspiration and clung to his muscled shoulders. Lina wanted to blush at catching him so unprepared, but as soon as his man spoke, he sprang to his feet, dropped the towel and pressed his hands around hers.
She must have stuck her hand out to shake or something. She wasn’t even sure. “Hi,” she stammered, trying to act like she wasn’t about to explode. How did he still look so young? He didn’t even look ten years older than when she’d last seen him. Darker-skinned people often did age better. And barely a sprinkle of gray hair. She could see the silver more in the stubble on his hard chin.
Still so handsome.
She cursed that thought and tried to pack it off to some unused recess of her brain. He still hadn’t spoken yet. He stared at her face as if unable to believe his eyes.
Probably shocked by how different she looked. A matronly mother of ten. She’d never have predicted it herself.
“My God, Carolina.” He squeezed her hand. She could feel emotion roll off him, or maybe it was just heat. The dressing room was hot and filled with nervous energy, probably from the exhausting and exhilarating performance. “My God.”
Wow, this was the most awkward exchange ever. All her years of diplomatic training hadn’t prepared her for this. “The performance was wonderful.” Her attempt at appropriate speech came out sounding clipped and forced.
He stared at her for a moment longer, then, still holding tight to her hand, let out a loud laugh that shocked her and almost made her jump.
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