Chapter Two
She was here. Christopher Nolan Fitzpatrick could practically feel her presence. It had taken him considerable time and money, two private investigators, and several wrong turns, but Fitz’s search was over. He’d found Gigi Wentworth.
According to the current investigator’s report, she’d changed her name—one of the many reasons the trail had gone cold—and was now working as a lady’s maid in Esmeralda Cappelletti’s household. A lady’s maid! In an opera singer’s home.
How far the spoiled heiress has fallen, Fitz thought wryly, his eyes narrowing as they roamed over the interior of the Summer Garden Theater.
Gigi was nowhere in sight. But she was here. Fitz was certain of it. The tensing of his shoulders, the uncomfortable roil in his gut, and the inability to breathe easily were nothing new. Fitz always had this visceral response whenever Gigi was near. His reaction to the woman was the source of his greatest frustration.
He managed most areas of his life with decisiveness and precision. Not so where Gigi was concerned.
If only she’d stayed hidden.
But, of course, she hadn’t.
Fitz consulted his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes. He would have preferred to leave this particular errand to one of his subordinates. Unfortunately, the stakes were too high, and the need for privacy too great, to trust anyone but himself.
And so here he stood, loitering in the wings of a New York theater, waiting for the troublesome woman to show her face.
A theater wasn’t a bad place to hide, Fitz admitted to himself. A bit obvious, but Gigi had always been a bit obvious. She embraced drama as though it were as vital to her existence as air. This place was so filled with drama that Fitz’s skin crawled.
He crossed his arms over his chest, felt the perfectly cut wool of his jacket move smoothly with the gesture.
Someone whispered his name loudly enough for him to hear. Fitz glanced to his left. A pack of young women huddled closely together. Heads bent, they spoke in rapid, hushed whispers.
Occasional pauses accompanied their swift glances in his direction. Fitz welcomed their interest like a cold rush of biting air on bare skin. He tried to ignore their conversation, but the acoustics in the theater were top-notch.
“I hear he plans to purchase the theater from Mr. Everett.”
Giggles followed this statement. More glances were tossed in Fitz’s direction. Fitz blew out a slow hiss of air. He’d never liked being the center of attention.
“I do so hope the rumor is true,” one of them said in a stage whisper—Fitz finally understood the odd term—and then added, “He’s very handsome.”
Another pause, longer than the first. More glances and giggles, accompanied this time with heartfelt sighs.
Fitz shifted his stance and put his back to the lot of them.
There, he thought, problem solved. Or . . . not.
The whispers grew louder. “I’d be more than willing to assist Mr. Everett with the negotiations. I can be quite persuasive.”
Fitz shook his head. The female interest in him wasn’t new, nor would it last. He was not a man ladies sought for light company, not once they got to know him. He was distant. Reserved. Some would say broody. Others would say callous and unfeeling.
It wasn’t that Fitz didn’t have feelings. Of course he did. He simply didn’t make outward displays. He was gifted with numbers not words. He preferred to read contracts and study ledgers. He had little acquaintance with literature, philosophy, or art.
On more than one occasion, Gigi had called him boring and unimaginative. She had not been wrong, especially when compared to her.
Gigi Wentworth was Fitz’s complete opposite in every way. Where he thought through every action, she leapt in without a second glance. He followed the rules. She pushed the boundaries. She was engaging, romantic, and full of smiles.
Fitz was . . . none of those things.
Men had always been drawn to Gigi, Fitz included. But she’d never crossed a line. Not until Nathanial Dixon. From the beginning, Fitz hadn’t trusted the man. He’d tried to warn Gigi. His advice had gone unheard.
At least her family had been able to keep her scandalous behavior secret. Fitz wasn’t especially pleased with his role in their duplicity, but deception had been necessary. Her reputation was safe, for now.
For how long?
If Fitz’s hired man had been able to locate her, surely someone else could as well. A reporter, perhaps, especially now that her sister’s wedding was nearly upon them and the Wentworths were once again in the news.
Another round of giggles sent Fitz on the move.
Where was Gigi?
Fitz wanted this business over.
His gaze scanned the theater quickly, restlessly, ignoring the men, focusing solely on the women. He willed himself to be patient. More hushed whispers wafted over him, the speculation about his presence growing more absurd.
Whose fault is that?
He could set the record straight, tell them he had no plans to buy the theater. But then he’d have no cause to be milling around backstage on a Monday afternoon less than two weeks before opening night of Esmeralda Cappelletti’s return to the American stage.
Allowing Mr. Everett to believe he was interested in purchasing the theater hadn’t been Fitz’s finest moment.
Although the stage was abuzz with activity, rehearsal wouldn’t get under way until Esmeralda graced them with her presence. Like most divas with her level of international acclaim, the opera singer operated on her own schedule, caring not that her whims inconvenienced others.
No wonder Gigi felt at home in the diva’s household.
As Fitz waited along with the rest of the cast and crew, he, too, felt their frustration. His hands slid into his pockets.
Patience, he told himself. Gigi would show herself soon enough.
There’d been a time when he’d despaired of ever finding her. She’d left Boston in the middle of the night. Not alone. No, not alone.
She was alone now.
The investigator’s report had been clear on that point. It had been unclear on many others. For instance . . .
What had led Gigi to change her name? Why had she become a lady’s maid? Just how far had she fallen? And, most important of all, where was Nathanial Dixon?
Gigi had arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria with the man. They’d lived extravagantly. Both had vanished a few days later. Gigi had been located two weeks ago.
Dixon was still missing.
The conclusion was obvious enough. The scoundrel had abandoned her.
Fitz’s gut roiled. He’d warned Gigi about the man. Fitz hated being proved right. Hated more that Gigi had suffered at Dixon’s hands.
The specifics of her disgrace are not your concern.
No, Fitz’s goal was simple. Though he feared his task would not be easy. His attention moved to the stage. Gigi could be anyone she wished in this false world, where nothing was as it seemed and donning disguises was an everyday affair.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick.” A sultry female voice interrupted his thoughts. Fitz turned away from the stage to face the incomparable Esmeralda Cappelletti.
He’d met the singer two evenings ago, at a party thrown specifically for Fitz by Mr. Everett. In an attempt to woo him, or rather his money, the theater owner had encouraged Esmeralda to use her charms to persuade him to invest.
Of average height, the diva was fashionably curvy. Her eyes were nearly black as coal, and her ebony hair spilled in wave upon wave down her back. There was no denying she was alluring.
Fitz remained unmoved.
Only one woman had ever captured his interest. The thought brought a slice of mind-numbing regret. So many things he would do differently, given the chance. Then again, nothing would come from entertaining such a notion.
So he smiled at Esmeralda. She reached out to him.
Knowing his role in this particular drama, Fitz took the outstretched hand and swept a brief kiss across the knuckles gloved in fine kid leather. “Miss Cappelletti.” He released her hand. “Always a pleasure.”
“I should think we are beyond such formal address.” Eyes locked with his, she curled her slim fingers around his forearm. “You must call me Esmeralda. And I shall call you Christopher.”
“My friends and family call me Fitz.”
“Then I shall call you Fitz.”
He inclined his head. “I insist you do.”
Her smile turned beguiling. The opera singer was very good at making a man feel special. Gigi had been blessed with the same gift.
“Tell me, Fitz. Have you come to watch today’s rehearsal?”
“Among other reasons.” He did not expand.
Esmeralda possessed an awe-inspiring presence. Her exotic heritage could be Italian, as she claimed. Fitz suspected she was possibly Spanish but probably Mexican. Her age was indeterminate, anywhere from twenty-eight to forty years old. Since she had a twenty-one-year-old daughter, Fitz was leaning heavily toward the upper end of that range.
“What is your first impression of the Summer Garden?” Esmeralda asked, her distinctive Italian accent thicker than before. “You approve, yes?”
Fitz swept his gaze over the stage’s riggings, past the row of dancers warming up, and beyond the other players in various poses. The entire scene was too loud, too messy, too chaotic. In sum, everything Fitz avoided in his well-ordered life.
The burdens he carried were too heavy for disorder.
And yet, this glimpse of what it took to produce an opera utterly fascinated him. The way all the various working parts, seemingly unrelated and hectic, eventually came together and created something orderly was similar to what he did as an investment banker. “I approve.”
Clearly pleased with his answer, Esmeralda slipped her arm through his. “You must allow me to show you around.”
Esmeralda had an entire opera company waiting on her. “Another time. I’m afraid Mr. Everett is waiting for me to review the accounting books with him.”
“You would prefer numbers to my company?” From her stilted tone it was obvious she’d taken offense.
“I am a financier,” he said simply. “Numbers are my business.”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say, Fitz realized a moment too late. A tantrum built in the diva’s eyes. The private investigator had done his research here as well. Upsetting Esmeralda was never a wise move.
Fitz switched tactics. “Perhaps you would escort me to the office while pointing out various areas of interest along the way.”
After a moment of quiet contemplation, Esmeralda performed a very Gallic shrug. “That would be acceptable. Come. We go now.”
Lips pressed into a pretty pout, she began the abbreviated tour. They wove through the labyrinth of rigging and freshly painted set pieces. Esmeralda chattered and pointed and generally entertained Fitz with her candid observations. What he found most amusing was how the thickness of her accent came and went with her enthusiasm.
Fitz found he rather liked the singer, which came as a surprise. Perhaps it was her hard-driven will to excel in her profession. A trait they shared.
A movement to his left caught his attention. He snapped his head in that direction in time to see a cloaked figure moving along the far wall.
The shadowy form moved with soft, elegant steps, floating along like a tender snowflake, slowly, smoothly, and yet coolly controlled.
Fitz’s heart kicked an extra-hard beat.
That flowing, almost poetic grace could only belong to one woman. Georgina Catherine Wentworth, the missing daughter of the wealthiest family in Boston.
Fitz let out a slow, imperceptible hiss of relief. His search was over.
Now came the tricky part.
Gigi stuck to the shadows out of pure survival instinct. Disaster had struck in the form of a man.
Disaster always came in the form of a man.
Of all the people to come looking for her, why did it have to be . . . him? Gigi continued moving, deliberately and carefully. She didn’t dare glance in his direction for fear he would catch a glimpse of her face. Oh, but the urge was strong.
Don’t look, Gigi told herself.
Do. Not. Look.
She looked.
Her feet dragged to a halt.
Her breath clogged in her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribs. It was him. Christopher Fitzpatrick. Fitz. Once a friend, turned villain. No. Not quite a villain, but certainly an antagonist in her story.
Fitz was exactly as she remembered. The far-too-serious boy with the shy manner and kind smile who’d grown into an even more serious man, the one her father had expected her to marry—insisted upon actually. An impossible demand. Fitz was everything Gigi was not. Principled. Driven. Someone who knew his purpose in life.
Gigi had always felt a little on edge in his presence. Fitz had been the only person to make her feel that way. She averted her gaze.
It was no use. Fitz’s image remained branded on her mind. She knew every facet of that strong, coldly handsome face. She knew the full breadth of those wide, muscular shoulders, the intense green eyes that were the same rich color as the velvet curtains of the theater. His hair, a shade nearly as black as a raven’s feather, was expertly cut. Gigi expected no less.
Fitz was always the picture of perfection, a man who never took a misstep, never showed any sign of human frailty. She couldn’t help but feel a little inferior in his company and had grown to dislike him because of that.
Why was he here? Why now?
Alarm stole through her limbs as a thought took hold. Her worry turned into sheer panic. Had something happened to someone in her family?
No, Gigi would have discovered something that awful in the Boston newspapers. She read them daily, always looking for news of her sisters, her mother, even her father.
Fingers fumbling for purchase, Gigi adjusted the mobcap on her head and melted deeper into the shadows. Casting a discreet glance from beneath her eyelashes, she watched in stunned fascination as Fitz disentangled himself from Esmeralda’s hold on his arm.
He took a step in Gigi’s direction.
His eyes were unreadable from this distance. She held her breath and prayed for . . . what? What did she want? More time? A moment of inspiration? A deep hole in the floor to sink into?
Fitz took another step toward her, then stopped abruptly when Esmeralda called out to him. He was forced to turn his back on Gigi.
This was her chance to slip away from the theater. It would not be easy. Fitz stood halfway between her and the backstage door. She would have to be careful. Stealthy.
As she edged behind a rack of costumes, one thought kept spinning around in her head. The charade was over. All because of the appearance of a single man. Not just any man.
Gigi stole another glance in his direction, felt her heart drop to her toes. He looked so very austere.
Some things never change.
He’d interfered in her life once before, to disastrous ends. And now, here he was again, when she was so close, a mere fifty dollars away from redemption.
Bitterness raced through her veins. Gigi glanced toward the exit again, back to Fitz, back to the exit. He continued to stand between her and the door.
No way out. Yet.
Perhaps if she kept out of sight until he left the theater. Surely, there was a nook or hidden alcove where Gigi could wait out the next hour or so without being seen.
Inching to her right, she glanced around the ornate theater, ablaze in light. The expert woodwork, elaborate chandeliers, and vibrant frescoes were too well lit.
A string of angry Italian came hot and fast over the sound of the orchestra. All other conversations halted. The musicians quit tuning their instruments. Gigi did not need fluency in Italian to recognize Esmeralda’s obvious displeasure.
The diva marched out on stage and began waving her arms while flinging out demands. No stranger to her mercurial moods, Maestro Grimaldi ascended from the orchestra pit and smoothed the singer’s ruffled feathers with softly spoken words meant only for her ears.
Almost immediately, Esmeralda’s mood grew less violent, her demands less vitriolic. A good sign. Rehearsal would begin soon.
Not soon enough.
Gigi took a step toward the backstage door. She looked to her left, to her right, back to her left. Her gaze brushed over Fitz. He still barred her way to the exit, his attention divided between the stage and . . . her.
Resentment flared. How Gigi hated skulking about.
With an impatient huff, she moved to a spot within the folds of the velvet curtain.
The opening notes of the prelude sounded from the orchestra pit, pulling Fitz’s gaze in that direction. The music besieged Gigi, urging her to forget his presence, begging her to stare in wide-eyed wonder at the stage, to sigh in pleasure and allow her mind to drift, to dream.
There’d been a time when she would have given in to the impulse. That sort of behavior belonged to another woman, from another place and time. Gigi was Sally Smith now. Her life was that of a servant to a young woman in need of her guidance.
Poor Sophie. She had looked so ill at ease when her half sister had arrived at the town house. Despite her half-sister Penelope’s attempts to make light conversation, Sophie had still appeared nervous.
The young woman had suffered a great deal for what she’d done in a smaller theater much like this one. At least her half siblings had forgiven her. Today’s luncheon was a solid step toward others forgiving her impulsive act as well.
Sighing, Gigi returned her attention to the stage.
Composed now, Esmeralda launched into the first verse of “Habanera,” the most famous aria from Carmen. Once upon a time, the operetta had been Gigi’s favorite.
No more. The lead character had no idea the pain she would soon suffer because of love. Gigi knew. Oh, how she knew.
She closed her eyes and counted to ten.
The strains of the aria flowed over her. Esmeralda was an unrivaled talent. She conquered the descending chromatic scale with practiced skill. What a joy it would be to sway to the music, Gigi thought, to indulge her senses in the lovely, perfectly pitched notes.
Gigi forced open her eyes.
Arms outstretched, Esmeralda glided across the stage, her voice expertly dipping through the verses.
“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle,” love is a rebellious bird, “Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,” that none can tame.
The heart-wrenching melody washed over Gigi, each note more superb than the last.
Fitz’s attention remained riveted on Esmeralda. Now or never. Gigi set out, moving quickly through the shadows. Whispers followed her, their content impossible to ignore.
“Who is he?” someone asked.
Gigi couldn’t fault the young women’s curiosity. Men with the kind of wealth and power Fitz possessed rarely lurked backstage during rehearsals.
“I hear he’s planning to buy the Summer Garden.”
Gigi found that hard to believe. Fitz and his cousin Connor were corporate financiers known for their ruthless business tactics. They stopped at nothing, acquiring large companies, then dismantling them for profit. No, Fitz wasn’t here to buy the theater.
He’d come for Gigi.
Renewed panic clogged her throat. She gritted her teeth and continued toward the backstage door. Almost there.
“They say he hails from Boston.”
They would be right.
Fitz’s family was one of the most established and respectable in Massachusetts. Gigi’s family was wealthier but lacked the same level of prestige among the Boston elite. Harcourt Wentworth’s greatest wish was to see one of his daughters married to a member of the Fitzpatrick clan.
“His name is Christopher Fitzpatrick.”
“He looks like a Christopher.”
Did he? He’d always been Fitz to Gigi, once a friend, a good friend, who’d become a stranger nearly overnight. She hadn’t understood the change in him, why he’d grown distant. She—
“Sally.” A hand closed over Gigi’s arm, making her jerk in surprise. “Sally! Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
Gigi gave a little jerk. “No, I . . .” She pulled in a shaky breath of air. “You startled me.”
“I know, dear.” With an apologetic grimace, the older woman patted Gigi’s arm. “You were caught up in the music again.”
Gigi opened her mouth to protest, then decided it was as good an excuse as any. “I suppose I was.”
Mentally shaking herself, she forced a smile for the theater’s premier wardrobe mistress.
Mrs. Llewellyn smiled back, adding another pat to Gigi’s arm. This time, Gigi’s smile was almost, nearly real.
The wardrobe mistress wore her mousy brown hair in an ordinary bun at the nape of her neck. She had sparkling hazel eyes, features that had aged quite well due to a set of high cheekbones, and an inner beauty that radiated out of her like a sunbeam splitting through a dingy cloud.
“Have you heard the news?” Before Gigi could respond, Mrs. Llewellyn continued, “The theater may be changing hands soon.”
Hoping to end the conversation before it started, Gigi made a noncommittal sound deep in her throat. The wardrobe mistress had given her part-time work as a finisher, paying her a fair wage for the detail work. She would never wish to insult Mrs. Llewellyn. But, oh, Gigi really—really, really—didn’t want to discuss the latest theater gossip.
Clearly undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm, the older woman peered around Gigi’s shoulder. “I tend to believe the rumors. Mr. Fitzpatrick spent most of the morning looking around the theater. He seems to be awfully—”
“Calculating?” Gigi suggested.
“Oh, no, dear.” Mrs. Llewellyn gave a little laugh. “I was going to say focused.”
Focused. Yes, Fitz was definitely that, more so in recent years since he and his cousin had taken over their family’s investment firm. The gossips claimed the “power duo” would stop at nothing to close a deal. There was even talk that they had pushed Fitz’s father out of the company for their own greedy purpose.
A shiver navigated up Gigi’s spine. She knew all about men who sought their fortune by violating another’s trust.
“He’s turned quite a few of the girls’ heads. There’s a wager as to which one will gain his attention first.”
Despite having every reason not to care, Gigi felt something move through her chest, something she couldn’t quite define. If Fitz were another man, and she another woman, she would call the sensation jealousy.
Ridiculous. Fitz was the last man Gigi wanted for herself.
From what she’d gleaned in the society pages, he’d remained unattached since her departure from Boston. Not that she’d been looking for information about him.
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Llewellyn straightened, her hand reaching up to smooth her hair. “I believe he’s coming our way.”
Gigi chanced a glance over her shoulder. Her heart dipped to her toes. Fitz was, indeed, striding toward them. And he was looking straight at her.
Their gazes met, locked. Held.
Gigi nearly choked on her own breath.
Floodgates of emotion burst open, giving her no time to brace for the impact. Sensation after sensation rolled over her. Dread, fear, guilt. There was something else in the storm of feelings running through her, something truly terrible, a scorching pain in her heart. Fitz knows what I’ve done. He knows the source of my shame.
Did he also know she’d taken the pearls? Surely her father hadn’t brought Fitz into his confidence.
Run. The word echoed in her head.
As if sensing her desire to flee, he picked up his pace, determination in every strike of his heels to hard wood. Gigi pivoted toward the exit.
He moved directly in her path, his face devoid of emotion. She knew that look, had seen it once before. Unwavering purpose emanated off him, securing Gigi in place as if she were a small woodland creature caught in a cobra’s trance. Air tightened in her lungs.
Seconds ticked by, pounding in perfect rhythm with her accelerated heartbeats. Her hand flew to her throat. She took several hard swallows.
It’s over.
All the evasion, all the half-truths and attempts at subterfuge had been for naught.
The question remained. Had Fitz come to fetch her home? Or was he here to prevent Gigi from returning?