Caught in the Billionaire's Embrace Read Free Page B

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    â€œI have to confess that La Bohème isn’t one of my favorites,” she admitted. “I think Puccini was a bit reserved when he scored it, especially when you compare it to the exhilaration of something like Manon Lescaut. But I am enjoying it. Very much.”
    Of course, some of that might have had to do with the company seated in her box. Not that she had to tell him that. Not that she had to admit it to herself.
    â€œHow about you?” she asked. “What’s your verdict?”
    â€œI think I’ve seen it too many times to be objective anymore,” he said. “But it’s interesting you say that about Puccini’s being too reserved with it. I’ve always kind of thought the same thing. I actually like Leoncavallo’s interpretation of Murger’s book much better.”
    She grinned. “I do, too.”
    He grinned back. “That puts us in the minority, you know.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œIn fact,” he added, “I like Leoncavallo’s La Bohème even better than his Pagliacci, an opinion that will get you tossed out of some opera houses.”
    She laughed at that. “I like it better than Pagliacci, too. Looks like we’ll be kicked to the curb together.”
    He chuckled lightly, both of them quieting at the same time, neither seeming to know what to say next. After a couple of awkward seconds, Della ventured, “Well, if you’ve already seen La Bohème too many times, and you don’t care for it as much as you do other operas, then why are you here tonight?”
    He shrugged, but there was something in the gesture that was in no way careless, and the warmth that had eased his expression fled. “I have season tickets.”
    Tickets, she repeated to herself. Not ticket. Plural, not singular. Meaning he was indeed the owner of the empty seat beside his and had been expecting someone to occupy it tonight. Someone who might very well be with him all the other nights of the season. A wife, perhaps?
    She hastily glanced at his left hand but saw no ring. Still, there were plenty of married people who eschewed the ring thing these days. Della wondered who normally joined him and why she wasn’t here tonight. She waited to see if he would add something about the mysteriously empty chair. Something that might clarify the sudden drop in temperature that seemed to shimmer between them. Because she sensed that that vacant chair was what had generated the faint chill.
    Instead, he shook off his odd, momentary funk and said, “That is how I know you don’t normally attend Lyric Opera performances. At least not on opening night, and not in the seat you’re sitting in tonight.” He smiled again, and the chill abated some. “I would have noticed.”
    She did her best to ignore the butterflies doing the rumba in her stomach. “This is my first time coming here,” she confessed.
    His inspection of her grew ponderous. “Your first time at Palumbo’s. Your first time at the Lyric. So you have just moved to Chicago recently, haven’t you?”
    She was saved from having to reply, because the opera gods and goddesses—Wagnerian, she’d bet, everyone of them—smiled down on her. Her companion was beckoned from below by a couple who had recognized him and wanted to say hello—and who addressed him as Marcus, giving Della his first name, at least. Then they proceeded to say way more than hello to him, chatting until the lights flickered once, twice, three times, indicating that the performance was about to resume. At that, the couple scurried off, and he— Marcus—turned to look at Della again.
    â€œCan you see all right from where you are?” he asked. He patted the chair next to him that still contained the unopened program and rose. “You might have a better vantage point from this seat. You want to have the best angle for ‘Addio Dolce Svegliare Alla