Master of the Opera, Act 3: Phantom Serenade Read online

  She stood there for a while, soaking in the sensation of being dwarfed by the expanse of the sky. Her new self stretched along the interior surface of her skin, coursing along the nerves that sang with stunning sensuality. For the first time in her life, she felt like a woman, not a girl.

  For the first time in her life, she understood what that meant.

  6

  She drove home feeling like her little car had become an airplane. Though the night was cool, she put the top down and let the wind chill her ears and toss her short hair around her eyes with stinging bites. They reminded her of the way the whip had fallen on her vulnerable, upturned bottom, and how she’d been restrained, unable to defend herself. Totally at the Master’s mercy and every desire.

  The one orgasm hadn’t been nearly enough. She wanted more. Much more. In this erotic haze, even the seam of her jeans pressing on her clit could be nearly enough to make her come again. She wriggled, pushing herself closer.

  Her cell rang—a jangling new ringtone that nearly sent her swerving off the road.

  She grabbed the phone, if only to make it stop, and saw Roman’s name on the screen. He must have programmed the ring himself when he had her phone at his house. One of those techno beats that all sounded the same.

  She didn’t want to answer, but she did.

  “Hey there, sweet girl. Are you back yet?”

  What had she said she was doing? That was the problem with lies—it took work to remember and consolidate your stories. Oh yes, Albuquerque and new jeans. The glass-and-polished-tile mall with its bright lights and stores full of merchandise seemed so far from where she’d truly been that it made her giggle.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Oh, nothing—the DJ on the radio. And yep, I’m pulling into my hotel now.”

  “I thought you must be driving back and that’s why you didn’t answer my texts. Why don’t you come over? Model your new jeans for me?”

  “Oh, Roman.” She faked a yawn. “I’m so tired. I didn’t find any jeans I liked, either. I think I’ll crash.” That was a laugh. She wouldn’t sleep for hours, she was so wired.

  “I get it.” He sounded disappointed. “Tomorrow night, though, I’ll have your undivided attention. I thought we’d eat in the bar at Rio Chama—hang out and see who comes by. I’d like you to meet some of my friends, so look your best.”

  Shit. She sat in the dark car in front of her casita and thumped the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. Time for honesty. Past time. Only immature girls played games.

  “Look, Roman, I think we need to talk.”

  Strained silence.

  “I mean, you are such a great guy. Any girl would be lucky to have you interested in her, and we’ve been friends forever, but I’m just not sure—”

  “Say no more, sweet girl. I absolutely understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course.” His warm voice held a teasing smile. “We’ve been moving fast and you’re nervous about seeing my family as my girlfriend. But you don’t have to worry—they won’t mind that you’re not Hispanic or Catholic. You’re like a second daughter to them. Don’t give it another thought. We’ll talk about it over dinner tomorrow.”

  “The thing is, I don’t think I can make it tomorrow night.”

  “But you promised.”

  “I know, but—”

  “What—did you get a better offer?”

  Yes, actually. Which made her worse than dishonest.

  “Are you seeing someone else?” he continued, voice thick with suppressed anger. “Is that what tonight was about? After all I’ve done for you, you run off to dally with some other guy?”

  “No! I mean . . .” Yes. She was a terrible person. She blinked back tears. “I’m handling this badly.”

  “Yes, you are. I expected better of you, Christy. I expect better of you in the future, too. Now, I think you at least owe me the courtesy of meeting me in person, on the day and time we agreed upon, and we’ll discuss our differences.”

  She rubbed the back of her hand against her eyes. He was right. She owed it to him to break up in person. As for the Master, she’d have to slip him a note. Maybe he would understand and not punish her. Once she had things tied up with Roman, she could go to the Master’s realm freely. Turn herself over to his dark dominion.

  It was the right and mature thing to do.

  She slept poorly, shockingly enough.

  All night she twisted, tangling in her sheets, dreams knotting together. In one she screamed and crawled under a lashing whip. But the man holding it was Roman, his face contorted in rage. She begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. Each time it fell on her, it cut away pieces of her flesh. Her breasts shattered like glass balloons, sending blood flying. She flung up her hands to stop him and he cleaved them away, as easily as a knife through warm butter.

  The nightmare woke her and she bolted for the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet, the retching convulsive, leaving her weak. Naked, she lay on the cold tile, one arm wrapped over the scarred ridges on her belly, and fell asleep again.

  The stairs again. She ran down them, always down into darkness, never up into the light and escape. Her foot slipped and she fell, searching for the name to call, always hovering just beyond her reach.

  Cold air whistled past her cheeks, chilling her to the bone. In dread, she tensed for impact. Certain she would die.

  Then the Master held her. She clung to him, digging her fingers into the warm fur of his chest. He rumbled comfortingly and she looked up into his bear’s face, his icy blue eyes full of love.

  Tucking her under the covers, he told her to sleep. She snuggled in, safe and warm, drifting off to the caress of his paw on her cheek.

  When she awoke in the morning, she was back in her bed, holding the polished stone bear carving in the palm of her hand.

  She arrived at work the next morning feeling as hung over as if she’d partied all night. So not fair to suffer the aftereffects of overindulgence without having actually indulged in much of anything. Unless you counted kinky sex.

  If she did, she’d have to count it as an indulgence of the wickedest kind.

  In the harsh light of her hotel bathroom, she’d peered over her shoulder—looking for evidence of her extraordinary experience—to see nothing. Only the smooth expanse of her skin. Though her whole body ached. It reminded her of the time she’d taken a wild hair to bike with friends out to the seashore. She hadn’t been in shape, but the ten miles had felt fine. Glorious, even, with the coastal sunshine and good company.

  The next day, though, she’d been depleted. Sore in every muscle and joint, too exhausted to move. And yet she’d wanted to do it all again.

  This, too, was like a party hangover. She dragged her feet down the hall to her office, feeling far less than perky, but already her thoughts simmered, imagining what the Master might ask of her next. How exhilarating it would be. She chafed against the daylight, wanting to descend the spiral stairs and find him again. To submerge herself in his make-believe realm. But she must wait for the night.

  Until after she dealt with Roman.

  Sitting at her desk, she found a pad of paper and wrote a note for the Master. But should she write Master? It was odd, looking back at last night, how easily the word had come to her lips. Of course, she’d been half naked, fully aroused, and kneeling at his feet. The rules were different, then.

  No, that title belonged to the cuffs and the collar. Right now, her will was her own to exercise as she thought best.

  M—

  Will be delayed tonight. I know this breaks my promise, but it will ensure I can keep my future promises.

  Christine

  She hesitated over saying more, but nothing seemed right. Especially in case someone else found the note. She nearly said she’d accept whatever punishment he decided on but realized with a profound thrill that saying so would be redundant. That was already part of their agreement.

  How strange that the idea energized
her.

  With a thrill of delight, she added “Yours” before her name, meaning it for the first time in her life.

  With a light heart and sure-footed in her sneakers, she spiraled her way down the stairs, waving good morning to the various techs who greeted her. The opera house truly bustled with energy now, ramping up with increasing excitement—a project she belonged to. Next week the talent would arrive, taking everything to a whole new level as rehearsals started in earnest.

  In the bright lights, she made it to the bottom level in next to no time. Even the twinge from her dreams—that visceral feeling of her foot missing the step and the endless plummet that followed—didn’t slow her down.

  The lowest level, dim with only filtering light from above, echoed empty and still. At the plastered-over end, she laid her hand over the carved-in symbol, remembering the feel of his collar around her throat and the orgasmic sting of the whip.

  She slid the note under the door, finding a whisper-thin crack that allowed most of it under. It was the best she could do. On impulse, she kissed her fingers and pressed them to the image.

  A promise.

  “Why are you always lurking down here?”

  Christy whirled with a squeak, her heartbeat going from zero to sixty in half a second. “Shit, Carla—you scared me!”

  Carla swaggered up to her, hands on hips, and peered at the door. Then she slid her glasses down her nose and blinked at Christy with wide, contemptuous eyes.

  “What kind of idiot stands in a blind corner?”

  Christy pushed past her, hoping Carla would follow and not spot the corner of the note still sticking out from under the door. The props manager, however, stayed put.

  “Or do I miss the mark? Maybe you’re not the bubbleheaded girlie you want us to see. Could be you’re up to something.”

  Christy threw up her hands in exasperation and spun on her heel. “Oh right! I’m some sort of superspy conducting a deeply laid plan to sabotage you and my father’s opera house.”

  “And Charlie.” Carla pointed at her. “He’s part of your plan, too.”

  “For heaven’s sake—I was joking. I was being sarcastic.”

  “Were you?” Carla sidled up to her, meanness creasing her eyes behind the glasses. “Or you were trying to divert me by making my suspicions seem silly?”

  “Frankly, Carla, they are silly. I’m here to learn and do the best job I can.”

  Carla made a show of looking all around her. “Oh yeah, I see how you’re doing a real good job. Down here where you don’t belong. Skulking.”

  “I was not skulking.”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  Christy opened her mouth. Closed it again.

  Carla pounced. Forehead knotted, finger in Christy’s face, she shouted, spittle flying, “I will take you down, you little slut! You are done for here. Sashay your cute little ass back to Daddy or I will ruin you. Mark my words, you’ll regret crossing me and mine. I want you gone.”

  The woman was insane.

  Christy floundered, uncertain what to say, how to calm the raging monster Carla had become.

  The cheerful sounds of work from above filtered into the silence between them. Weaving through it came the song, comfort and longing. The whisper of her name.

  Christine.

  She belonged here. This was her place.

  “I won’t leave,” she said, bracing herself for more of Carla’s wrath.

  “Then a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.” Carla hissed the over-the-top threat and stalked off, a rigid scarecrow figure climbing the stairs.

  Christine.

  7

  After that, the day couldn’t have passed in a more ordinary way.

  Christy and Matt worked through the inventory, making satisfying progress. The mindless task gave her time to practice her speech to Roman—far better than indulging prurient fantasies. At one point in the afternoon, Charlie poked his head into the storeroom they were sorting.

  “Have you kids seen Carla?”

  “Nope!” Matt answered, making a gagging face behind Charlie’s back.

  “Not since first thing this morning,” Christy added. When she acted like Crazy Bitch from Hell, but never mind that.

  “If you see her, would you point her my way? She missed our afternoon planning meeting.”

  “Will do!”

  Matt waved at the empty doorway, a manic smile plastered to his face. “Sure thing, boss! Right after I rip off my testicles and feed them to your wife on a platter!”

  “Oh stop.”

  “Hey! Maybe she’s gone forever. Maybe she met with a Terrible Accident.” Matt dropped his voice like a voice-over in a TV movie.

  “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  “But I want that wish to come true! It doesn’t count if I really mean it.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I am?” He looked pleased. “If I knew what that meant, I’d probably be all flattered.”

  Three other people came by looking for Carla over the course of the afternoon. By the time they ascended from the depths up to the main level, organized teams were combing the different rooms, reminding Christy uncomfortably of the search for her. Surely she hadn’t been grabbed in a similar way.

  Hairs rising on the back of her neck, she thought of the theater ghost singing while Carla verbally attacked her. Had the Master done something to her?

  Surely not.

  Watching Charlie run a fretful hand through his hair as he talked with a group of techs down the hall, Christy fumbled her keys into the lock of her office door. It gave more grudgingly than usual. She flipped on the light.

  A scream of horror ripped from her lungs.

  Naked, bruised, and bleeding, Carla’s unconscious body draped over Christy’s desk. Red lines crisscrossed her flesh, crusted with scabs here, oozing blood there. Black-and-blue marks bloomed like exotic flowers on her Scandinavian skin.

  Perched between her breasts lay a redolent red rose.

  And a note.

  Did the Master leave Christy another present? Has she fallen too far under his spell to get out now, or can Roman save her?

  Christy explores more of the Master’s intoxicating world, the Sanclaro history, and her own inner strength in Master of the Opera Act 4: Dark Interlude , available for download February 20, 2014. . . .

  About the Author

  Jeffe Kennedy is an award-winning author with a writing career that spans decades. Her fantasy BDSM romance, Petals and Thorns, originally published under the pen name Jennifer Paris, has won several reader awards. Sapphire, the first book in the Facets of Passion series, has placed first in multiple romance contests, and the follow-up, Platinum, is climbing the charts. Her most recent works include three fiction series: the fantasy romance novels of A Covenant of Thorns, the contemporary BDSM novellas of the Facets of Passion, and the postapocalyptic vampire erotica of Blood Currency. She is currently working on Master of the Opera and The Twelve Kingdoms, a fantasy trilogy. Jeffe lives in Santa Fe, with two Maine coon cats, a border collie, plentiful free-range lizards, and a doctor of Oriental medicine. Jeffe can be found online at her website, JeffeKennedy.com, or every Sunday at the popular Word Whores blog.

  eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2014 by Jeffe Kennedy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  eKensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: February 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3158-3

 

 

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