Chapter Twenty-three
Is Zander Freedman phoning it in?
Zander hurled his cell across the room. Serve him right for looking at the message boards on the fanzine site. He itched to jump online and defend his performances. But no knee-jerk reaction. And no excuses. He could always find people to tell him what he wanted to hear. Taking the pulse of his fans kept him honest, kept it real.
Silently cursing, he walked across the room and picked up his cell. After checking it for damage—none—he returned to scanning message boards, trying to assess the criticism dispassionately.
The unhappy concertgoers were less than five percent; everyone else approved of the increased contribution by the other band members.
Okay, then. He went into the bathroom, found another nicotine patch and added it to the two already on his hip, then rolled himself a cigarette. The band’s increased input hadn’t stopped every concert this week being a torture.
His nerves were strung so tight, his hands started shaking an hour before he went on. Through every song, another refrain played in his head. “Will my vocal chords rupture on this one?”
And when he survived to sing another day, he stumbled offstage knees weak with relief and dread already building for the next show.
He could feel it gnawing at his bones now, ahead of tonight’s performance, though it was still eight hours away.
The finished cigarette was a lumpy, misshapen thing. Not that he could smoke it. Unable to trust himself, he’d thrown out all his lighters. With an exclamation of disgust, he tossed the cigarette on top of those already in the trash and hauled the curtains closed, ignoring the Acropolis, starkly white under a noon sun. He didn’t need to look at fucking ruins, he confronted them every day.
Nights he woke sweating from nightmares in which his throat swelled and choked him while the crowds jeered.
He’d lost his appetite and was existing on protein shakes and crushed vitamin supplements. He’d started sending the other band members to do publicity while he holed up in his hotel room, obsessively reviewing his financial statements. But though he held a calculator more often than a microphone, the numbers didn’t change. Five more concerts to break even.
Sprawling on the bed, he closed his eyes and tried to nap. Thank God Elizabeth was too engrossed in finishing the first draft and helping Pat to care that he’d canceled two Skype interviews.
He’d made up for it with flowers—daily—and notes, saying he was giving her space to make her decision. Zander suspected that in his current state, he might beg.
He didn’t want to lie to her about what was going on with his voice and he didn’t want to tell her the truth either. One clear-sighted look from his biographer would be the tipping point for an avalanche of doubt. And right now holding fear at bay, holding his nerve, took everything he had.
Zander rolled over and jammed a pillow over his head to shut out the ambient light. He existed in no man’s land. Too exhausted, too sleep-deprived, too intensely focused on getting through the travel, the setup and the performance to think beyond today. Not to mention the constant care his voice required.
And today, he needed sleep. He concentrated on making his breathing slow and regular, but the clamor in his head didn’t let up.
Given the stress he could no longer hide, his band couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t cancel a few concerts and rest his voice, particularly when Jared was also taking it hard, since Kayla and the kids left.
Unable to explain his financial situation, Zander let them believe he was greedy for every last dime. And if their tacit disgust hurt—well, hell, he’d relearn the habit of disappointing everyone again.
Except for Elizabeth. For her, he would be better. And when his conscience whispered that meant telling her the truth? Zander ignored it.
* * *
“You’re here to help me ease the strain on my vocal chords for the benefit performance, not change my voice.” Zander fought to keep his temper and failed. “Millions of people have no problem with the way I fucking sing.”
“Do not yell at me please,” Signora Masutti said coldly. “Or use profanity.” All offended dignity, she lifted her chin. “And I am aware of preferences of masses. We in opera fight discrimination all the time.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not knocking opera.” Zander doused his temper with desperation. “But you have to understand, my skill lies in being able to throw the note away, not release it like a relief valve on an air compressor.” Yeah, that would really get her on his side. He tried again. “In opera, the emotion comes from the singer’s control. Every note is clean, pure. In rock, the emotion comes from vulnerability, knowing when to forget the technical. You need to give everything. Anything less is bullshit.”
She snorted. A small snort that somehow managed to encapsulate a world of classical disdain.
But Zander barely heard her, struck by the truth of his words. He sat down heavily, glanced around his hotel suite with its ubiquitous luxury, taking a moment to recall where he was. His gaze fell on an Etruscan vase. Italy…Rome. “You know I always thought,” he said huskily, “that my end would come with a bang.”
She twitched her chiffon scarf irritably. “What rubbish you talk now?”
“My heart would implode on stage, I’d crash my Viper, or be murdered by an ex-girlfriend. A death in keeping with my life,” he managed a ghost of a smile, “overblown, dramatic, with a touch of comic opera.”
“You insult opera again!”
“Turns out the Almighty enjoys irony.”
Signora Masutti crossed herself.
“Not with a bang,” Zander said slowly, “but a whisper.”
“You are mad.”
He refocused on her disdainful face. “You know what, Signora, we’re done. Take your condescending aria outta here.”
Her brow lifted suspiciously. “I think you insult me.”
“Only think? I must be losing my touch.”
Zander barely heard the pithy shredding of his character as she left. As soon as the door closed, he dropped his head in his hands. There would be no miracle. And he’d been a fool to hope for one.
If he canceled his charity appearance, two days out, without good reason, his name would be mud. More importantly, the vets would miss out on hundreds of thousands of dollars. Zander was the star attraction, the big name, and he’d left them no time to find a replacement. And financially he wasn’t in a position to make up the shortfall.
So he had to perform, which gave him two choices. Take his chances and sing live—or lip-sync.
If he sang live and his voice failed, the event would get publicity, but not the right kind of publicity. It would divert attention away from the vets and turn a serious issue into a sideshow.
And playing around with sound mixing—alternating between his voice live and a recording on the tough notes—wasn’t an option. He arrived in New York the day of the performance.
Which left him well and truly caught between a rock and a hard place. He thought about asking Elizabeth what Jesus would do. But Zander already knew the answer—he just fucking hated it.
* * *
The New York cabbie was charming, which was disappointing. Elizabeth had wanted rude, she’d wanted opinionated… She’d watched too many movies, the Haitian said. At least his driving matched her expectations, lots of gesticulating and horn blaring.
As the taxi jostled its way toward Zander’s SoHo duplex, her pulse accelerated to match the city’s frenetic energy.
Tearing her gaze from the Manhattan skyline, she fumbled in her bag for eye drops. Though she’d washed and changed at the airport, her eyes were a work in progress after seventeen hours in a pressurized cabin. As she tilted her head back, the taxi braked and she poked her eye instead. “Oww.”
Streaming tears, she waved aside the cabbie’s apology and sat back, telling herself to chill out, take a deep breath and stop making such a big deal of this. But her brain couldn’t control her body’s pinball slam between nerves and excitement. Seriously, people in lov—crazy about each other—enjoyed this sensation?
“Here we are, ma’am.”
Too late, Elizabeth made a grab for her handbag before the door opened. It toppled onto the pavement, spilling its contents onto the shiny shoes of a liveried doorman.
“Hi,” she said weakly.
“Miz Winston?”
“Yes.” Clutching her eye drop dispenser, she stepped over the contents of her handbag.
“Welcome to New York. I’m Ronnie.” He helped her collect the scattered items—pens and lipsticks, tissues and bank cards.
“I’m Elizabeth.” She retrieved her wallet from the gutter and opened it.
“I’ll pay the cabbie and get your luggage, Elizabeth.”
“Thank you, Ronnie.” Getting out of his way, she glanced up at the twelve-story building’s ornate cast-iron facade. The contrast with her bungalow, a nondescript clapboard house in need of a repaint, couldn’t have been more marked. At least Pat’s place looked good. He and Butterball had left two days ago to convalesce with his son’s family and check out the retirement home. Whatever he decided, his house was now fit for habitation.
“Elizabeth!” Dimity strode through the building’s revolving glass door, looking every inch the uptown girl, in a gray pencil skirt, slashed on one side to midthigh and a diaphanous white blouse. Her sleek ponytail bounced with every step.
“Thank God you’re here, I need female reinforcements.” She steered her into an austere white marble foyer. “Zee’s been in a snarly bear-fest for days. And Jared’s as bad since Kayla and the kids flew home.”
“The family aren’t on tour anymore?”
“Zee didn’t tell you? Things got dicey for a while, I’ll fill you in later. Looks like they’ll be okay, though. And Stormy scored an even better nanny job in LA, thanks to me.”
It was tough, but Elizabeth managed to keep the amusement out of her voice. “You’re a good friend.”
“Damn right.”
Ronnie arrived with her bags and Dimity frowned at the tinsel on the handles. “Who are you, little orphan Annie? Ronnie, keep them down here until the cocktail party’s over.” The PA hustled her over to the elevators. “Zee’s been delayed for another hour, so we’re holding the fort.”
“I figured I’d hide out in my room.”
“You figured wrong,” Dimity retorted. “I invited the publisher especially to meet you. He’s already a big fan of yours.” As she swiped her card for Zander’s floor, she scanned Elizabeth’s appearance. “You look surprisingly chic for someone who’s flown all night and all day.”
All for Zander. And now their reunion would be in front of his publisher and assorted celebrities. As though she wasn’t already nervous enough.
“While I remember, here’s your pass to the fundraiser.” Dimity produced a ticket from the breast pocket of her blouse. “I pulled a lot of strings for this, so look after it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She’d just have to make the best of this. “I’ve really missed you laying down the law.”
“I’ll pretend to be your friend later. Game face on.”
The elevator opened directly into the apartment, a vast white loft so flooded with light that Elizabeth had to shield her eyes until they adjusted. Floor-to-ceiling windows in every direction overlooked New York and the shaggy white rugs only added to the impression of standing among the clouds. To her left, a glass floating staircase with a chrome balustrade curved to a mezzanine floor.
Dark wood furniture anchored the living room, while modern art provided explosions of color. Through the sheer curtains stirring in the breeze, a sheet of water spilled over a six-foot verdigris copper sheet in a formal terraced garden, the splash merging with the babble of some two dozen guests. She could tell immediately that they were wealthy, the men doughy and soft, the women pencil-thin.
With ruthless efficiency, Dimity led her onto the terrace and began introductions.
Somehow Elizabeth mustered small talk, though her pulse skipped with the sound of every new arrival. And yet, busy placating Zander’s publisher Max over the extended deadline and promising to pitch him her next literary historical, she missed Zander’s entrance.
“Elizabeth,” his voice said behind her and she stalled midsentence, immediately and desperately shy. She turned and recoiled in shock.
“You cut your hair.” All the length gone and cropped close to his scalp. Even the color was darker, autumn gold with no sun-silvered strands to soften those fierce eyes, or uncompromising jaw. Still beautiful, but dangerously edgy.
“Yeah,” he said ruefully. “I’ve been getting that reaction since I got it cut this morning.”
“For the charity,” Dimity said. “You won’t believe how much money he raised.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, Zander drew her closer and brushed a light kiss on each cheek. “Welcome back,” he said huskily.
Ahh, she’d forgotten how good he smelled. His gaze met hers and all her nervousness fell away. They fit. Like an iPod in a docking station, like Doctor Who and the Tardis, as comfortable as an old cardigan, as uncomfortable as the blast of an open furnace. They fit.
“It’s good to be back.” She reintroduced his publisher, Max. No further explanation necessary, Zander dialed up the charm and within minutes, all was forgiven. When Dimity whisked him away to share the love, Max looked at Elizabeth, bemused.
“Tell me I didn’t just offer him another extension.”
She laughed, high on happy. She could still feel Zander’s kiss on her cheeks. “It’s the Z-factor,” she said.
For the next forty minutes, though she never gave a hint that she wasn’t engrossed in whatever conversation she found herself having, Elizabeth felt as though she and Zander were dancing a private waltz with no music. When she finally allowed herself a casual glance in his direction, he was staring at her like a wolf eying its next lamb. Resisting an urge to arrange herself tastefully on a platter with a sprig of mint, she shook her head slightly. Be careful.
Instead he broke off his conversation and walked straight over.
“Excuse us,” he said to her companions, caught her elbow and steered her away.
“I’ve been away two weeks,” she explained over her shoulder, “there are a couple of urgent issues to discuss.”
Zander took the first door into a guest bathroom. Hauling her inside, he kicked it shut and swung her against it, blocking her token protest with his mouth. The kiss was raw—all feeling and no finesse. It was the best kiss of her life and Elizabeth returned it fiercely, giddy with the sheer joy of being close to him again.
“God I’ve missed you,” he said hoarsely, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ve needed you.”
Concerned, she cupped his face and searched his blue eyes, noting the fine lines of strain at the corners. “Dimity said Kayla and the kids went home with Stormy. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it could wait. This can’t.”
He kissed her again, just as possessively, his hands sliding under her skirt to hook under the elastic of her panties.
Elizabeth stopped him. “People will be wondering where we are.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
He nuzzled her neck as he wrestled playfully with her resisting fingers. “We’re going public anyway.”
“No.” Shivering as he hit the sweet spot on her neck, she clamped his hands. “You’re waiting for my answer.”
“So what?” Zander laughed. “You’re turning me down?”
Elizabeth didn’t like the arrogance in his laugh. “I don’t think we should rush to change something that’s working the way it is.” She couldn’t think with him this close, so she pushed him away until they weren’t touching. “Right now we’ve got the best of both worlds, all the time we want together and privacy. Let’s reassess after the tour.”
“After the tour,” Zander repeated slowly.
He was listening, good. “There are a lot of practical implications to going public,” she reasoned. “For example, will our relationship overshadow the book’s release or how it’s perceived?” She hadn’t meant to lead with the memoir, but went with it. “It has potential to be fantastic, Zander, once we fill in the gaps, dig deeper.”
He folded his arms. “And the book comes first.”
“Not at all.” Elizabeth reached out to unfold them. “But my professional reputation will be affected by going public. We need to consider all the possible consequences before doing anything rash… Don’t look so suspicious. This doesn’t mean I’m not crazy about you.”
“Now say it like it’s a good thing.”
How had his mood changed so quickly? “Can you please stop getting so defensive? I want us both to be sure of our feelings before we go public.”
His jaw set. “You think we’ll burn out.”
“I don’t know. I mean, no. I hope not.” She looked at his face, closed down, pissed. “I’m saying this all wrong.”
“Then say it right.”
I’m scared. “This kind of intensity is new to both of us, so let’s take baby steps.”
He raked his hair, fingers fisting around the shorter strands. “Can’t you just once say yes with no ifs, buts and fucking maybes? I’m tired of following your rules.”
The unexpected venom stung. “It’s my life that will change irrevocably if we go public, not yours. I have more to lose than you do.”
He snorted. “You have no idea what the stakes are.”
“Sure, dismiss my concerns, that’s hugely reassur—” She broke off abruptly as someone banged on the door, and hurried to straighten her clothes.
“It’s Dimity. Open up.”
When Zander did so, the PA looked between them curiously. “Are you two fighting?”
“No,” Elizabeth said, simultaneously with Zander’s snarled “Yes.”
“I told you he had a short fuse,” Dimity reminded her.
“Out,” Zander said grimly. “Now.”
His PA tapped her watch. “It’s time to leave, we’re already running late.”
“Give me a second.” Shutting the door on her, he looked at Elizabeth, his face suddenly gray. “We’ll do this later.”
Concern displaced anger. “Zander, what’s wrong?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Sweet Jesus, woman. You want me to spill my guts while you’re playing it safe?” When she flinched, he rubbed his forehead. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m on edge about this performance.”
“What time should I come to Rockefeller Center?”
His gaze shied away. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t organize a pass. Security’s tight because of the President.”
“That’s okay, Super Dimity came up with one.” She looked at his face and said flatly, “You don’t want me there.”
“I decided a couple of days ago I wouldn’t be able to concentrate with you around.”
As an excuse it was pathetic. And from the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes, Zander knew it.
Her temper flared again, so much easier than hurt. “Sulk then,” she said and opened the door.
“Doc…” Zander caught her arm.
“One of us is going to blow this if we keep talking right now,” she said looking at his hand. “Probably me. I rarely lose my temper, but when I do…” Raising her eyes, she glared. “Watch out.”
Zander released his hold.
“Oh, and break a leg!” she snapped.