Aloof composer-conductor Lamont Johansson, aka LJ, knows he’s grasping at straws trying to introduce opera to the Andromeda System. He’s certainly taking enormous financial risks. When the brilliant, erratic diva, Daphne Basini, arrives on Al Sufi—two weeks late—he finds he’s attracted to her and is amazed that her voice is the voice he’s been searching for all his life. Suddenly there is more at stake than a successful opera season. He’s risking his heart as well.
Deanna Basini’s arrival on Al Sufi is not at all what she expected. She’s supposed to hook up with her sister, Daphne, but Daphne has decamped again without notifying the opera company that hired her. And again, Deanna is forced to masquerade as her more famous, impetuous and sexually adventurous sister in order to save Daphne’s flagging career. Deanna’s resentment fades under LJ’s critical demands and encouragement. She finds her desire for him intensifying alongside the guilt she feels for deceiving him.
Daphne hasn’t been delayed by normal circumstances. Venus has taken over her body and is leading her through a whirlwind of sensual pleasures. When Daphne gains the upper hand and finally arrives on Al Sufi, she discovers she might not rescue her career, but with Venus’ help, she might push LJ and Deanna together.
Their passion for music brings Deanna and LJ together. Will deception drive them apart?
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
His Virtual Diva
Copyright © 2011 Dee Brice
ISBN: 978-1-55487-937-3
Cover art by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books
Look for us online at:
Smashwords Edition
His Virtual Diva
Virtual Seductions
By
Dee Brice
Dedication
As always, to Himself. And many, many thanks to my critique partners, Donna and Phyllis, who supported me when the Muse took several extended vacations. Special thanks to Phyllis for a creative blurb!
Also, many thanks to Tracy Martin for letting me pick her brains about the dedication and hard work it takes to become a successful singer.
Prologue
Mars, slamming against an invisible barrier at light speed, swore as if his voice alone could shatter the obstacle. When it failed to yield, he pounded it with a fist that had pummeled planets into space dust. The barrier didn’t even ripple.
Gliding to Mars’ back, resting her delicate chin on his massive shoulder, Venus waved one slender hand. The particles separated and allowed Mars, Venus and a late-arriving Jupiter to see beyond the invisible barricade. An enormous vessel floated in a silvery miasma, spinning slowly to create its own gravity.
Jove, the name Jupiter preferred, tilted his head, allowing the three to hear what was happening aboard the space station. Never a god to be outdone, Mars waved a fist and they could see inside the vessel.
“Three unidentified sources of powerful interference, Captain. Just outside our galactic shields,” a female humanoid with lieutenant’s chevrons announced to her unseen superior officer.
Venus hissed at Mars. “Back up.”
“Why?” Mars snarled, something he was prone to do, but not usually at Venus.
“To see,” Jove said in his most god-like voice, “if we are the source of that interference.” Jackass or something even more denigrating laced his voice.
“Interference lessening, Captain, but not by much.” The lieutenant turned around as if directing her report to someone behind her.
“Hades!” Mars swore, raising his fist to smite the barrier. Jove pulled him away while Venus gently knocked on the barrier. No response.
“Incoming ship, Captain. Expected to dock with us at seventeen hundred clicks.”
“They’ll have to open the barrier then,” Jove said, his expression indicating he’d known that all along.
“Interference getting stronger, Captain. Hold The Ifsu I until interference issue solved? Aye, Captain.”
The order to the approaching spaceship must have gone out on a different channel because the gods didn’t hear it.
Glaring at Jove, Mars accused him of cutting off their ability to hear.
“Part of the interference is moving away, sir. Toward Ifsu I.” The female no longer sounded so calm.
Halfway between the barrier and the incoming spaceship, Venus waved Jove and Mars away from her position. “The crew are awakening their passengers and preparing to dock at Al Sufi Base. That space station just inside the barrier,” she told them. One lovely shoulder lifted in a delicate shrug, “I’ll see if I can get closer.”
“No!” Jove and Mars roared, fortunately at one another. Otherwise their combined voices might have blown Ifsu I into bits of space garbage.
“Silly goddess,” Jove complained, his smile fond. “That ship could be armed.”
“So? Even if it had weapons, it couldn’t harm us. We’re gods—”
“From a different galaxy,” Jove reminded him. “Light years away from our own planets.”
“And whose idea was it to look for a new home galaxy?” Mars folded his muscular arms over his massive chest. His upper lip curled into a sneer.
Before Jove could defend himself, he heard Venus laugh.
“I’m onboard,” the goddess whispered as if anyone on that ship could hear her.
“Get back here,” Jove commanded as Mars darted toward the approaching vessel.
“Oh my.” Venus sighed. “I haven’t seen such male perfection in a thousand millennia. And there’s this near-perfect female specimen. Just the body to have a little fun in.”
“Venus, no!” Mars roared. Too late.
Ifsu I burst forward, through the barrier and into the Andromeda Galaxy. It carried with it an unknown human female, her body possessed by the sex-starved Goddess of Love.
Chapter One
Al Sufi…
Stasis. Damnation, Deanna Basini absolutely hated intergalactic travel if for no other reason than stasis. Go to sleep in a tube filled with something viscous that almost shut off every autonomic system in your body and made you seem dead. Wake up groggy, disoriented and starving, hundreds—maybe thousands—of light years later and still have to go through customs and immigration. The next time Daphne begged her to meet up, she’d make damn sure it was in the Milky Way.
Getting in on the ground floor of the Andromeda Galaxy’s opera development was the opportunity of a lifetime—as long as Daphne stayed focused on the work and didn’t let some basso or tenor or techie distract her. That was why Daphne had begged Deanna to make the trip and had paid for her transportation as well. Deanna’s job was to keep her sister focused.
Stepping down the gangway and onto the solid ground of Al Sufi—Andromeda’s capital planet—the Moorish architecture had her gawking like some hick who’d never left home before. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to wear one of those outfits that covered women from head to toe with only the tiniest veiled window to look out. Heck, even Earth had given up those. Burkas, she recalled the name at last.
Right. After a long and bitter battle between the sexes, during which the planetary birth rate dropped to near extinction, women on Earth had won the right to dress as they pleased.
Shaking off those kinds of thoughts that led nowhere, she followed other passengers who seemed to know where they were going. She soon arrived at the baggage claim area, but didn’t see her sister. What she did see, however, was a young woman in a bright red sari holding a placard with her name on it. D. Basini. Which could have been meant for Daphne or her. But Daphne should have arrived a couple of weeks ago. Which meant her sister should be the person waiting for her—not this stranger with her impatient expression who now waved the placard like a semaphore urging Deanna to hurry.
Oh dear, oh dear. What had Daphne done this time? If she’d gotten herself thrown in jail, Deanna couldn’t afford her sister’s bail—no matter how small. And if Daphne had lost her job because of being thrown in jail…
The young woman didn’t bother to introduce herself, just hurried Deanna onto a vehicle that resembled a cross between a camel and an elephant. It moved a lot faster though, reminding her of vids she’d seen of elephants stampeding across old Earth savannahs, pursued by very large, very fast cats. Once the animal vehicle got moving, it felt almost the same as sitting still.
The quiet stillness gave her time to worry about her sister and why Daphne hadn’t met her at the spaceport. No sooner had she started wringing her hands and chewing on her lower lip, than they arrived where they’d been headed. Or so she assumed since they stopped with an abrupt jerk.
The young woman hustled her up wide stairs that went on and on, up and up until Deanna’s thighs burned and her lungs felt on the brink of collapse. Not good for a singer to run out of lungpower. Brass and glass doors, enormously high and wide, opened automatically, but barely allowed them inside a domed foyer before they began to close. A fountain sat in the middle of the entry and took up most of the floor space. The sparkling blue water played from bowl to bowl as it cascaded from top to bottom. A wide rim beckoned her to sit, rest awhile. Her guide, however, slanted yet another glare in her direction. Deanna hastened to follow.
At last things began to look a little more familiar. Ticket booths, playbills posted behind glass cases mounted on massive columns, carpeted stairways and aisles leading to doorways that led to the auditorium. The arches above the doors had the same Moorish design as those she’d seen earlier in the spaceport, these including red and gold stripes. She could hear a piano playing, voices singing scales. Ahh, rehearsal about to begin. No wonder her sister hadn’t come to the spaceport herself.
She’d just slip inside, take a seat at the back and wait until Daphne had a break. Her guide, however, had other ideas and motioned Deanna forward. Uncertain the young woman would understand her desire to sit in the back so as not to disrupt the rehearsal, Deanna followed her down the hallway to the last set of doors. Impatient gestures urged her to go inside and seemed to instruct her to continue all the way down the aisle to the stage. Maybe that’s where Daphne was, resting until she needed to sing. But if rehearsals were just starting, shouldn’t she be warming up with the rest of the company?
As she continued down the long side aisle toward the stage, the singers stopped singing one-by-one until nobody was warming up at all. The man who’d been leading the chorus slowly turned toward her, spearing her with dark gray eyes glaring from a silver-skinned, craggy face. Were it not for his decidedly pissed-off expression, she might have found him attractive.
“So nice of you to join us, Ms. Basini. Once you’ve warmed up we’ll begin with your Act One aria.”
“B-but—” His frown deepened, making her choke on her protests—the first being she wasn’t who he thought she was. The second being she had absolutely no idea what opera, never mind what aria, he expected her to sing. Hopefully, the music would be familiar and not something written by an Andromedan composer or—ohmigod! She recognized him now—Plutonian Lamont Johansson. His silver skin should have alerted her to his identity. He was also infamous for his short-fuse temper and his melodic but strange music. If he’d chosen one of his own compositions, she was dead. Or would be, right after she found her sister and strangled her.
Squaring her shoulders, she continued down the aisle, then up the steps to the stage. The cast members added their glares to Lamont’s. With a sinking heart, she admitted she wouldn’t find any camaraderie here. Ever since Daphne flaked out on her last gig with a different company, Deanna hadn’t had friends with common interests in opera.
“How late am I?” she muttered, not expecting an answer.
“Two weeks, three days, five hours and forty-three minutes,” Johansson replied, his voice as cold as his silver eyes. “We’ll take this up after rehearsal.”
Oh joy! All that time Daphne had missed. Time during which he and the entire company had built up resentment if not downright hatred for Daphne. Uh duh, me. Since they all think I’m her. Since Deanna looked enough like her older sister to take her place. Again.
How many times had she saved her spur-of-the-moment, let’s-pick-the-roses, he’s-sooo-sexy-and-hot sister from professional suicide? Three? No, four times this year alone.
Betting Daphne had decamped once more, Deanna amended her estimate. Make that five times and counting. But this time, by damn, when she caught up with Daphne…
* * * *
Lamont watched his diva climb the stairs, looking like an aristo going to the guillotine. Her reputation for a temper as quick as his own had preceded her across two galaxies, so her calm demeanor surprised him. For him to scold her in front of the cast was well within his rights as conductor-director of the company. He expected her to react like the harridan her reputation named her, not this shame-faced mouse who took her place at the back edge of the chorus.
“Center stage, Ms. Basini. You are, after all, the star.”
That sarcastic announcement earned him a flash of temper from eyes as green as Pluto’s fjords in summer. Just a glimpse. Like gunpowder exploding a ball from a prop pistol, a display sufficient enough to appear real from the audience while being safe for the cast on stage. He watched her work her jaw from side-to-side, yawn a couple of times as she moved as far downstage as she could without falling into the orchestra pit.
At his nod, the pianist played scales, working up and down from middle C. Her range astounded him. Her audition vids had shown her a competent mezzo-soprano, capable of contralto. This…performance was the only word he could think of to describe her vocal fluidity—her tessitura over the highest to the lowest notes. He could hear her singing Madama Butterfly as well as any of the three different soprano roles in Tales of Hoffman. Carmen could have been written for her.
“Enough,” he said when he caught himself swaying to her increased speed as well as octaves. He forced himself to begin the rehearsal and remain focused on it while her voice sounded other melodies—his own compositions—in his head. He’d never thought to find a voice to match the notes he conjured in his dreams. He’d compromised, writing one part into two or three because no one voice… But here, now, there was a voice.
Her voice.
If only he could count on her to show up on time and to rest her voice and body when not performing. Perhaps this time, unlike all the other times and conductors and directors she had bailed out on, he could convince her to behave. After all, they were both at the ends of the colonized worlds. Both needed to prove themselves, if only to themselves. She needed to prove she could stick to the job even after she became bored to tears. He needed to prove that opera, in all its forms, deserved intergalactic status. If the citizens of Al Sufi enjoyed opera, he could spread it throughout Andromeda and beyond.
Even more, now that he had found the voice, he could write the music that had haunted his dreams for years.
Shaking his head as if throwing off impossible dreams, he refocused on his newly arrived leading lady. He’d read her credits and knew she’d sung Hoffman’s Giulietta several times. He also knew most performers forgot the lyrics of one opera while they rehearsed others. Even though the rest of the cast had been in rehearsal for more than two weeks, they still carried librettos. The words were transcribed in the intergalactic phonetic symbols that let them sing no matter what the original language. Some of his native singers would need some coaching as to phrasing, so they’d sound like they understood the words, but their diction and pronunciations were perfect.
Ms. Basini carried her libretto, but seemingly noted only her blocking. Could she have that enormous degree of recall in addition to her incredible vocal range?
The rest of the rehearsal passed in ever-slowing minutes. Realizing his inability to focus on the music in front of him was tiring everyone, he dismissed the company. Elation buoying his soul, he retreated to his private quarters, her voice singing as yet unwritten melodies in his mind.
* * * *
Somewhere in the Andromeda System-Two Weeks Earlier…
Daphne Basini halted mid-stride, her attention captured by an image of herself on a gigantic overhead screen. Accustomed to seeing herself through the eyes of others—envy in women’s, lust in men’s—this image took her by surprise. Her lavender dress hugged her curves, the above the knees hem showing off her thighs and calves to perfection. Almost everything else looked…different in subtle ways.
Her hair, which she kept short to accommodate the heavy and hot wigs she wore for performances, had grown to shoulder length. A strange occurrence that had apparently transpired during stasis—although she hadn’t noticed the length before now. Her bust line seemed fuller, her waist narrower, her hips a little wider. Not too much wider, she noted with a brief prayer of thanks, resisting the urge to check out her backside. An appreciative whistle from somewhere behind her assured her that her assets were just fine both front and back.
With a small smile at her overhead image, she continued on her way through Andromeda’s renowned bazaar—a Mecca for shoppers from all over several galaxies. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to explore every nook and corridor and then decide where to buy the perfect gift for her parents and sister.
She needed a map to decide where she wanted to go and track what shops she’d want to revisit. And did she really care that an entire opera company awaited her arrival on Al Sufi? Maybe a little. Maybe a lot. She was, however, the star, so why should she care about them? Even though Lamont Johansson would be furious with her if she were late for the first rehearsal.
She’d never met the company’s conductor-director, but he had a reputation as a stickler for promptness, among all the other rules he reputedly lived by. He supposedly insisted on the entire cast knowing the lyrics and libretto to every opera and every song whether you sang them or not. As company Diva, she had enough on her plate—or would have when she got to Al Sufi—without having to learn everyone else’s parts. After all, she’d have media appearances and interviews, vid ops for fans, dining with the financial backers and charming them into giving more. And rehearsals, she admitted with a small sigh.
Okay, so maybe she did feel a little…guilty. She just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to shop in the largest mall in several galaxies. Check out the goods, especially those of the male persuasion. She hadn’t planned this trip so she’d have time to tour the outer planets. Obeying some impulse—she could hear her sister asking So what else is new? —she had stayed on the spaceship until it docked here—wherever here was. Not that it mattered. Sooner or later she’d make her way to Al Sufi.
Besides, she wasn’t late yet. LJ couldn’t fire or demote her to the chorus. Yet.
Dismissing a twinge of conscience—divas were almost always forgiven for misbehavior—she took stock of her surroundings. Spying an area with a large congregation of women—no doubt shoppers like herself who were also strangers to the bazaar—she got in line. A few minutes later she found herself in front of a large stage-like platform. The other women had made way for her and now stood behind her in a circle like a half-moon. Unlike on Earth, they kept a respectful distance. That surprised her more than somewhat, but she figured what the hell? If they wanted to give her first choice at whatever was about to go on sale, she’d take it.
She desperately needed to find new lingerie for herself. Ever since coming out of stasis, her lacy bras teased her nipples to the point of climax. Her silk thongs rubbed her labia and anal ring, making her crave release. She was certain anyone standing near her could smell her arousal. Which, now that she thought about it, might make this impromptu detour worthwhile. Especially if that someone standing near her was a hunk like the one just disappearing around the corner of the platform. Rising on tiptoes, she tried to see where he’d gone, but couldn’t.
A low, slightly dissonant note sounded. Some sort of reed instrument, she thought. Not a clarinet or oboe, but something in between. The air itself seemed to tremble with anticipation. She drew a deep breath, inhaling the aromas of myriad subtle perfumes coupled with scents of female musk.
Oh dear. What had she gotten herself into? More important, how could she get out of it? She turned, suddenly claustrophobic and needing fresh air.
That respectful distance closed around her. Pressing her belly against the edge of the stage, forcing her up a set of stairs that hadn’t been there even seconds ago, the women urged her upward.
Okay. They expected her to perform—although how they knew she was a singer, she couldn’t begin to guess. Looking down into a sea of faces, her heart thudded in sudden fear. Every face wore an expression of adulation she’d never seen before—not even after she’d sung her heart out and given her very best performance. Not even after she’d given her lover of the moment the best head he’d ever had.
As if that last thought had summoned him, a man appeared to her right. Before she could examine him in greater detail, another man appeared and took her left hand. Then, as the first captured her right hand and raised it to his chiseled lips, they both stood perfectly still as if inviting her to appraise them. Their eyes, forehead and hair were covered by some sort of headgear reminiscent of those worn by Middle Eastern women a couple of centuries ago. What was it called? Oh, yeah. Burka.
The one to her right had a cleft in his square chin, a strong neck and wide, muscular shoulders. Thick dark curls matted the area between his flat brown nipples, narrowing and arrowing down washboard abs to the tiniest modesty cloth swaddling his enlarging male attributes. His powerful thighs and calves were lightly matted with the same dark hair as his body. When did I get so prissy? His cock is swelling, as are his balls. And I’m getting very warm.
A gentle squeeze brought her attention to the man to her left. His jaw and chin bore thick blond curls that framed moist pinkish lips she wanted to taste. More slender than his companion, his musculature was much the same, although his chest and legs had no discernable hair.
Oh my Mars and Jove! These two were so hot her knees knocked. Her bra cups felt so rough, her nipples ached and hardened as if craving to burst free. To feel their hands and tongues and teeth. Her thong was soaked to the point of discomfort—like a wet bikini bottom when you first got out of the water.
“If neither of these pleases you, Goddess, we have others you may choose from.” A wizened crone peered up at her from milky eyes.
Daphne suspected the old woman had cataracts.
Goddess? Surely she had misheard. Daphne looked at the semi-circle of women in the front row. “I’m not—”
“If you wish privacy, Goddess, we have that as well,” the crone continued.
Was she deaf as well as partly blind? Daphne wondered.
“Privacy, yes!” She seized the word like a jumper in freefall praying her parachute would open before she hit the ground. “Privacy,” she repeated in a calmer voice, as if deserving of this hunky smorgasbord.
“When you wish others—if you desire more now—you have only to say, Goddess.”
More? I can have more just like these two? Maybe even better?
“Oh… I shall begin with these two and let you know.” With a nod, she indicated the old woman should lead the way.
Instead, a gong resounded throughout the entire bazaar. It echoed off far distant, unseen walls and made her raise her hands toward her ears. No. A goddess didn’t react the way mere mortals did. Besides, she’d heard louder noises while on stage. True, those she’d expected and usually yawned as a means of easing the pain in her ears. As the reverberations faded, canvas walls rose from the floor.
The women surrounding the stage moaned as if mourning not being allowed to see their goddess having sex with two Adonises. Daphne gulped down a groan of her own and wished for a more substantial structure to smother her shouts when her newfound acolytes brought her pleasure.
Acolytes? Maybe these people really believed she was a goddess. Maybe these hunks were a kind of tribute. Maybe this was a dream kindled by being in stasis for months with no male companionship. She twitched, looking forward to whatever these well-endowed men had in mind.
Damn. For the first time in her life she wished she was not a screamer.
Her suitors opened tent flaps and then guided her to a long and wide chaise that sat near a burbling fountain. The sound soothed her concerns about outsiders hearing her, even though she doubted such a soft noise would muffle her screams of bliss.
The flaps closed, leaving them all encased in golden light from an unseen source. A combination of scents wafted on a gentle breeze. She caught hints of violets and lavender, of basil and mint, of creamy chocolate and deep dark cocoa. Trailing their fingers up her bare arms, the men gently pressed her shoulders, urging her to sit and then recline on the chaise. Their hands felt soft yet strong and she trembled, anticipating how those hands would feel on her body.
As one sat at her feet, the other at her head, she realized she now wore a gossamer gown similar to those depicted in paintings and statues of Greek and Roman goddesses. The fabric was so sheer she could see her pubic hair and hardened nipples.
The man at her feet removed her gold-colored sandals, then began to massage her soles and arches. She smothered a moan of delight as she bit into a fruit offered by the man at her head. The morsel tasted like strawberries and watermelon. Or perhaps she thought it tasted like that because of its bright pink flesh and tiny yellowish seeds. She had barely swallowed when he leaned down and kissed her. He tasted like the fruit, with a hint of mint as well. His hand caressed her cheek, slid down her neck to cup her swelling breast. Her nipple pearled against his palm.
She pushed him away, smiling up at him to take any sting from her rejection. “Have you names?” she asked, looking from one to the other and noticing they’d removed their headgear. She focused on the man still massaging her feet.
Despite having a blond beard and blond body hair, his head was covered in ebony curls. His eyes glittered like lapis lazuli. “I am called Inuus, Goddess.”
Sweet Jove! He bears the name of a god of sexual intercourse!
Her mouth went dry while her pussy heated. “And you?” she managed to say, looking up.
“My name is Facinus, my Goddess.”
Who was a phallic god to protect against… His now bare and exposed cock bounced up from its nest of dark curls, mirroring those on his head. His eyes shone golden-brown, glazed by lust. She lost her train of thought. Facinus, God to protect against… His cockhead kissed her cheek. Precum glistened in its slit.
Against the evil eye. Although she could find nothing even remotely evil about his long, thick cock. In truth, she wanted it buried deep inside her channel.
“Will you tell us your name? Since your arrival, we have yet to hear it.”
She fought back lust and tried to think beyond the needs racing through her body. Athena? Not when her body raged with hormones not wisdom. Artemis? A virgin? No way! Aphrodite?
Her limbs flailed as if possessed by a two-year-old in a fit of temper. Never an insipid, pale and blonde Greek goddess, but one even more renowned for her beauty and sexuality. She was a dark-haired, voluptuous goddess Romans worshipped and adored. Just as these men and others would soon do as well.
“Venus,” she told them, drawing them both into her arms and wondering whom to kiss first.
As if her name alone had granted them permission, they began to make love to her. They had barely touched her when bliss overtook her. After millennia of causing people to fall in love, she had the chance to once more make them fall in love with her.
Sometimes being a goddess was so worth the effort.
Chapter Two
Butterflies battled with wasps in Deanna’s belly. She sooo wanted to avoid Johansson and the lecture she—her sister Daphne—so richly deserved. Not knowing the terms of Daphne’s contract only added to the turmoil churning acid in her stomach. If LJ, as the company members called him, demanded she repay her sister’s transportation and any advances he might have given, Deanna would have to confess her true identity—which would lead to a whole new set of problems. Would he believe her or suspect she’d fabricated a web of lies and had gotten caught in it? Would he care that she wasn’t Daphne and expect her to repay him anyway? She could pay him back if he let her fill in for her sister. If he’d give her the chance to prove she could sing as well as Daphne.
Even better. That insidious little voice she tried to ignore whispered yet again in her mind. It sounded even stronger than usual, probably because nobody here could refute her claim. If she had the guts to say it out loud. If she could prove herself to LJ and the rest of the company by her actions and her singing. If she could keep from revealing who she was. If Daphne stayed away long enough for Deanna to make a favorable impression and could ensure a smooth transition if her sister did appear.
Rubbing her damp palms over her denim-covered thighs, she willed herself to take the last few steps to the rehearsal hall door. As she tapped a light knock on the doorframe, music came from the other side. A beautiful melody, unlike any she had ever heard, had her pressing her ear to the cool wood surface in an attempt to hear every note. When the music stopped, she knocked again—just as the melody started up once more.
She leaned against the jamb, content for the moment to let the music calm her frazzled nerves. She felt the notes steal under her skin, burrowing deeper and deeper until she heard them in every fiber, every synapse, every cell in her body. Unable to resist, she opened the door, then crept inside, inching closer and closer to the man creating the magic.
Long, blunt-tipped fingers caressed ivory and black keys, his span incredible and so delicate she felt as if he played her body. Unaware, she hummed, instinctively sensing when the notes would dip low and chest-vibrating and when they would soar upward like birds taking wing through the crown of her head. Effortless and pure.
He stopped playing. She held the final note for several beats, then let it fade like smoke from an extinguished candlewick. At last he looked at her, his silver-gray eyes fringed with lush ebony lashes mirroring her sense of awe.
“Who are you?” he whispered as if in church.
Her heart plummeted to her toes before lodging in her throat. It pounded so hard she knew it would shatter her vocal chords. She’d never sing again. Assuming, of course, that Lamont Johansson didn’t throttle her after she answered his question. Which would only lead to more questions, ones she couldn’t answer—at least until Daphne arrived. Which would, no doubt, lead to more questions her sister wouldn’t answer. Couldn’t answer if she wanted to maintain a career in opera.
“Your audition vids…” He shrugged, spreading his fingers as if letting the words slip free. As if he couldn’t find the right ones to say.
Her face heated, yet her heart settled where it belonged. His unvoiced compliment echoed her own pride in her talent. Not something she heard often, even from her parents. Daphne won their praise, leaving little for her. Deanna’s pleas to have opportunities equal to Daphne’s had fallen on her parents’ tone-deaf ears. Her folks harped that it was Deanna’s role in life to support Daphne in every aspect of hers. To do otherwise was selfishness on Deanna’s part. Every aspect included filling in like a lady-in-waiting to a queen when Daph got sidetracked. Sidetracked had obviously happened even before she got to Al Sufi. Biting her lips, she willed resentment from her mind, promised herself that one day she would step clear of her sister’s shadow. Someday—just not today.
“I sent what you requested, Mr. Johansson. I assumed you were satisfied with that. Otherwise why would you have hired me?”
He snorted. Standing, raking one hand through his already disheveled ebony hair, he slanted her a half-smile. “I thought you might want to disprove what is said about you. That you might want to redeem yourself.”
She lowered her gaze to the tips of her open-toed espadrilles. She’d hoped Daphne had intended just that—disprove and redeem. Her latest disappearance killed that hope. Not enough to make Deanna betray her sister unless she absolutely had to. Raising her chin, she met LJ’s steady gaze.
“I missed the ship I was supposed to take which resulted in my arriving…two weeks, three days, five hours and—I seem to have forgotten the number of minutes I was late.” She risked a cheeky grin.
“Forty-three,” he provided with studied solemnity, then grinned back.
Her tummy did a slow roll. Her heart sped to double, maybe triple its normal beat. That smile made him look so handsome, so approachable, she almost blurted out her real name. His dark silver eyes looked lighter, as if his smile lit his entire soul. Everything about him struck an answering chord in her.
“I’m not going to ask how you managed to miss your ship.”
Oh, goody! ‘Cause I’m not sure I could tell you. Certainly nothing believable anyway. “Thanks,” she muttered, once again seeing censure in his eyes.
“From now on, however, I expect promptness. Be you scheduled for fittings or rehearsals or—” he waved one hand— “whatever. I am counting on you, Ms. Basini, to help me bring opera to Andromeda.”
Tempted to promise she’d meet his every expectation, she said, “I’ll do my best.”
“Make sure you do.” Closing the discussion, he held out his hand. “I’m hungry. Please join me for dinner.”
She put her hand in his, feeling like she’d avoided a monumental disaster.
“You’re cold,” he stated as if blaming her.
“Stasis, Mr. Johansson, does that to a person.”
He grunted, his high forehead and chiseled features tinted a lighter silver. A Plutonian blush?
“I’ll arrange for a masseuse.”
“I’ll be fine once I thaw out.” She struggled to ignore the warmth in his hand. Fought not to imagine him rubbing her tight neck muscles, her tense shoulders, her hardening nipples. Those kinds of images belonged to adventurous Daphne, not cautious Deanna. But then, as far as Lamont Johansson knew, she was Daphne. Would her sister’s reputation for falling into immediate lust and bed with her conductors lead LJ to expect the same behavior from her? If so, he had a long wait coming. Deanna cared more about her career than an affair that would end badly.
Like Daphne’s always did.
The Next Day…
As Deanna approached the callboard, other cast members moved away. She summoned a slight smile and ignored the pang of hurt in her chest. If Daphne had deigned to appear on time, these same people would have welcomed Deanna as part of the company without question. Her sister had that ability to make everyone in her sphere like each other, make them feel like a family that—despite occasional disputes—stood together. She would have basked in Daphne’s light, even when filling in because her diva sister had a headache or an assignation with some new beau.
This situation was different and made her nauseous. Not that she doubted her ability to perform the roles. Just that she’d always had her sister there before she had to fill in for her. On those occasions, the cast already knew her, accepted her and thought it fun to fool the conductor. This time…
She fought down her growing resentment and ignored the worry about Daphne’s safety that had kept her awake most of the night. Tried to forget all the expectations from her voice instructors and her parents that she sing like Daphne, act like Daphne, be…Daphne.
Now she had the opportunity to earn a place of her own. It might take a little longer to make friends, but she could do it. Would do it. True, she made friends more slowly than Daphne did, but what mattered most to her was proving herself the consummate professional.
Writing down her roles, she commented to no one in particular, “Interesting season.”
“You think?” a young-sounding female voice said. “Easy when you have the best roles.”
Deanna looked at the slender woman also copying information. “What part are you singing in Hoffman?” Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffman was one of Deanna’s favorites. She especially loved the Barcarolle, which, in her role of the courtesan Giulietta, she would sing. A frown formed between her brows. In fact, it appeared she would sing Olympia and Antonia as well. Somebody besides Deanna herself liked her singing. One person playing all those soprano roles hadn’t happened in several hundred years.
“Nicklausse and the Muse,” the young woman replied. “I’m Lily.”
“Daph—Dee,” Deanna said, offering her hand. “Call me Dee.” The nickname being the first step toward establishing her own identity seemed easier than she’d thought it could be. Whether the rest of the world—like LJ and company—would accept it and her remained to be seen.
The girl hesitated to take her hand, but finally did. “Nobody knew you’d sing all the leading female roles. I mean LJ hadn’t even posted the cast.” She jutted her pointy chin at the casting sheet. “I was hoping I’d get Giulietta—not too big a reach for me.” Slanting Deanna an appraising look, she added, “Your vocal range is incredible.”
Not knowing what to say, Deanna nodded her thanks. As they copied the cast lists, Deanna studied her companion from the corner of her eye. Not very tall—about five feet, six inches—curly blonde hair and cream-white skin, Lily could play any ingénue role that came her way. Problem was Grand Opera had very few parts for very young women. And if her vocal range was limited to mezzo-soprano, as her being cast in two mezzo roles seemed to indicate, Lily’s career would be equally limited. If she was talented enough, however, she could make a fairly good living. A lot of operas had roles for mezzos—some very challenging and appreciated by audiences.
“Looks like we’ll be working together a lot,” Lily observed, tucking a notepad into the back pocket of her denims. She rocked from heel to toe on her hot pink platform sandals.
“Looks like,” Deanna agreed. “Would—”
“Want to get something to drink?”
“I…I’d like that.” Had she just made her very first opera friend? All by herself?
* * * *
Lamont wandered into the bistro in time to see Lily and Ms. Basini sit at a small table for two. In truth, he’d followed them in hopes of discovering more about his reticent-seeming diva. With the callboard outside his office door and him being blessed with a keen sense of hearing, he’d eavesdropped on the women’s conversation. Curious that Basini now called herself Dee. Perhaps taking a different name was her way of turning over a new leaf—a new persona that behaved.
As for Lily English… He liked her willingness to learn from the more experienced troupe members, yet distrusted her enthusiasm. At times it seemed too much. Still, he’d cast her as Thirza, the female lead in The Wreckers by Englishwoman Dame Ethel Smyth—one of the few successful woman composers of opera. Since the opera was obscure even in its composer’s time, no one—even those in the company—could fault or praise Lily’s performance, except him. He could count on her delivering an acceptable performance. With Basini in a lesser role, Lamont expected Lily would work hard and seize the opportunity to outshine the diva. He’d learn if Lily had the temperament, the determination to stick with a career that her voice limited to mostly secondary parts.
He was also curious to see how Basini would react to being cast in a secondary role. From what he’d heard and read about Daphne Basini, she wouldn’t like it. Would likely pitch a diva fit and storm out of rehearsal. He also knew she’d return, her point made that she was the star regardless of what part she sang.
What her newly renamed persona might do, he had no idea. Last night as they ate, he’d tried to draw her out, determine the root cause of her stormy affairs with several of her conductors and a few leading men. According to the rumors, among her leading men she preferred bassos and baritones, but sometimes took a tenor as her lover. No one had been brave enough to publish the type of conductor she preferred. He only hoped he wasn’t her type. At least that’s what he’d hoped before he met her.
Now, with this cooperative willingness and no signs of diva in her behavior, he almost wished he were interested in her as a bedmate. But no. He’d tried that once and soon learned that divas and conductors were entirely too self-centered to make good partners out of bed. Or in bed either. Even there, one always wanted to lead, to be on top, to maintain control. Which only resulted in mutual dissatisfaction—both sexually and professionally.
Yesterday, she’d said, As you are trying to broaden opera’s appeal, I’m trying to forget my more disreputable escapades. With that admonition, she’d turned the conversation to less personal topics—such as the weather on Al Sufi and whether she’d have time to tour the planet.
He started to object to her mediocre work ethic, but recognized she was only making conversation. Something in her eyes told him nothing would interfere with her singing. And that was all that mattered to him.
Which left him with an unexpected problem. How could he make her protect her voice when he wanted her to sing—not only in performances, but also for him.
Now that he had found the voice…
* * * *
“LJ’s staring at you,” Lily told Deanna as they lingered over Andromedan tea.
To her, it tasted like Turkish coffee—dark and sweet and as addictive as chocolate. Lily assured her LJ had developed the brew so his singers could indulge their caffeine cravings without damaging their voices.
“Probably counting how many cups we’re drinking,” Deanna countered. “He seems obsessed with our vocal health.”
Shrugging, Lily made a small moue. “With yours anyway. And who can blame him? He’s invested a great deal of time and credits in this venture. Your late arrival has us all scrambling to keep the performance schedule.”
Deanna gave an inward sigh. Not that she didn’t deserve the criticism, just that she hoped to put it behind her. If she expected to take Daphne’s place, she had to take the company’s resentment as well. “I’ve sung all the roles before,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “Except for Avis, that is. Are you familiar with The Wreckers?”
She kept her photographic and auditory memories to herself. Once she saw the libretto, heard the lyrics and orchestral arrangements, she could recall all at will.
“Nope, but I’m looking forward to doing it.” Lily raised both arms over her head and arched her back like a stretching cat.
Deanna suspected the pose was for LJ’s benefit and snuck a look in his direction. Finding him gone, a silent yet gleeful giggle spread through her chest. Not that she wanted him for herself.
Don’t you? The snigger in her personal demon’s voice made her bite back a denigrating retort. Instead, she cautioned her young companion. “Trust me, Lily. You don’t want to get involved with anyone who has the power to ruin your career.”