There weren’t many faces I recognized as I surveyed the crowd. I had a few friends who’d take any excuse to dress up and try to make the society pages, but it wasn’t likely there were many photographers here at an opera premiere hoping to catch a glimpse of celebrities.
Wait . . . was that Richard Shaunessy?
He was the last person I would have expected to like the opera, but then Blythe Andrews appeared at his side, carrying two drinks, and passed one to him. That made sense. She’d been a big theatre freak in high school and tried to make it in New York for a time, but it hadn’t worked out. I hadn’t heard they were dating yet, which meant this was probably their first time.
She was way too pretty and nice for him, but I smiled to myself. I bet she knew what she was doing. She’d wrangled a date out of him to this black-tie opera premiere because she wanted to go . . . not because she wanted to spend time with cokehead Richard.
“Sophia,” came a deep, familiar voice from behind me.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight.
I wanted to shiver but commanded my shoulders not to move. Macalister had told me there was nothing between him and Evangeline, but I still had to mentally prepare myself for a long night of them looking like a couple.
He’d always looked good in a tux. It was the same classic one he usually wore with a black bowtie and white shirt with pleats and a line of black buttons down the front. His ice-colored eyes skated down my body from head to toe, taking in my dress. He’d seen it earlier—I’d texted him a picture of the one-shoulder dress that was such a soft pink, in certain lighting it looked white. It had an oversized bow on the shoulder, one large loop of it dropping down over my front. The skirt was A-line and had a slit all the way to my hip, but it was unlikely anyone would catch the band of white lace on my underwear there.
I’d already shown it to the one person I wanted to see.
I felt amazing in this dress, and a big part of it was the way Macalister was looking at me. Which he shouldn’t be, even as it made me dizzy and my heart beat faster. “Where’s Evangeline?”
“She messaged when I was on my way to pick her up. She’s ill.”
“Oh, no. She’s not coming?”
His eyes didn’t reveal whatever he was thinking. “No. You will take her place and join me in the box.”
A thrill flashed through me, and I clutched my wine tighter, hoping my eagerness didn’t show. The boxes were on the same level as the balcony, meaning the people inside were often visible to much of the audience. I dropped my voice and glanced around. “You think that’s okay?”
He gave a pointed stare. “I won’t sit by myself.”
He was right; it would look strange to see him there all alone. I swallowed thickly, keeping an even tone while my insides raced with excitement. “All right.”
The theatre itself was just as beautiful as the lobby had been. Gold filigree and ornate plasterwork decorated the arch over the black stage. The rich red curtain was trimmed in gold fringe and draped closed across the stage.
The box was its own separate balcony, and the two armchairs in it were wide, with low backs and the cushions covered in plush red velvet. The chairs angled toward the front, and as I took the seat to Macalister’s left, I felt like I was on stage. Rather than sing to the audience from the balcony like Eva Perón, I looked down at the playbill in my hand.
“What language is this opera in?” Macalister asked as he unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and lowered in his chair.
“English. It’s a modern opera that premiered in Chicago, and they’ve been trying to bring it here for a while. Your grant made that possible.”
There was an edge of relief in his eyes. He was glad it’d be in a language he understood. “I wasn’t aware opera could be in English. I thought those were musicals.”
I shrugged. “I thought so too, but no.”
When we went quiet, I plucked up my wine and took a sip. I was so fucking nervous, I thought I’d explode, and it was stupid. How many mornings had we been alone in his office discussing secrets? Sure, we’d sat across from each other, rather than together, and we’d been wearing business clothes rather than black-tie, but . . .
And—oh, yeah—we’d kissed a bunch of times and he’d seen me naked and brought me to orgasm.
This isn’t a date. No matter how much it feels like one.
I wanted the show to start so it’d distract from this uncomfortable longing. I pressed my lips to my wineglass and stole a glance at him, only to discover he was staring at me, the open playbill in his lap ignored.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
His forehead wrinkled with confusion. “Nothing.”
“Then why are you looking at me?”
His jaw clenched, only long enough to give me a sexy flash of it. “I enjoy looking at you. Have I not made that clear?”
My skin went hot as sparks coasted down me. “Oh.”
I wanted to tell him it was the same for me, but the lights dimmed, the orchestra began, and the curtain lifted, silencing us.
The production was completely different than what I had expected. The only opera I’d ever seen were the flashes of it in movies. A fixed stage with overly made-up women in big gowns standing in the center and belting out high notes in Italian.
Villain opened with a sparse stage and a chorus of young women in contemporary clothes. The music and story were dark and twisted, about a woman sold by her father into marriage to a terrifying rival. Hellbent on getting her revenge, she seduced her new husband and convinced him they should kill her father but fell in love with her husband in the process.
The set design was amazing. I wanted to take a million pictures and post them on Instagram, and slave over the images. The way they could paint the scene with just a few key pieces blew me away, and I was riveted. Macalister was too. At the intermission, he admitted he was enjoying it.
It was sexy too. The scene of the woman’s seduction was provocative and made my breathing go shallow. The chemistry between the leads was sizzling.
Perhaps it was in my nature to always fall for the bad guy, who I believed was secretly good, because during the climactic end sequence, the husband was wounded badly, and the wife’s emotional song as he lay dying cut my heart in two. I was right there beside her, asking for the devil to spare his life and let him live.
Tears trickled down my face, but I didn’t move to wipe them away, not wanting to call attention to them. My hand was tense on my armrest, itching to move, but I refrained.
Macalister’s cold fingers were abruptly on mine, pulling my hand down between our chairs.
I flinched in surprise, causing a tear to shake loose from my cheek and drip down my neck. We were alone in the box, and no one could see what he’d done, nor could they see how I turned my hand beneath his and laced our fingers together.
At first, I thought he’d done it solely to comfort me, and I had to take air into my body in controlled sips. But my mind was distracted by the woman on stage singing about how the love of her life was dying, and my heart broke further.
Macalister had probably held the love of his life in his arms while she was dying.
Had he taken my hand to find comfort with me as well?
I tightened my grip, and he answered in kind.
A cold, fluttery panic slipped inside me, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. I was already dumb enough that I’d developed feelings for him and gotten too attached. I could not be stupid enough to fall in love with Macalister.