The orchestra pit of l’Opéra Severne was deeper and wider than most. It dipped between the auditorium seating and the stage like a moat, which would swell with rivers of dynamic sound rather than stagnate with water.
When the pit was full of musicians, it flowed with rivulets of body movement to create the mood and emotional sense of shows that were often in a language the audience didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t the printed translations that truly conveyed the meaning of opera. It was the music itself.
Opera, more than most other forms of theater, was about feeling. The size of the orchestra at l’Opéra Severne showed the intention of its master to encompass the hall with emotion.
Funny that.
A being as hard as stone ruling over a theater and an art form that was in its essence the very opposite of the face he showed the world.
Kat was alone in the orchestra pit.
Rehearsals were over for the day, and the conductor had retreated to his chair in the passage between the pit and the halls, where he nodded with the heavy breathing of deep sleep. The lights were low, mimicking the gloaming of twilight that occurred in the outside world.
Tess had tried to get her to go out for dinner with some of the other performers and musicians, but she’d stayed behind. She hoped the house would empty enough in the night that she would be able to spend some uninterrupted time with the key she’d found in Victoria’s room.
For now, she played alone.
She’d managed to avoid John Severne for several days, but she couldn’t keep him from her thoughts.
She didn’t play any of the pieces from Gounod’s Faust. Instead, she played “The Swan” from The Carnival of the Animals because the piece was elegant and fun and very French. The beauty of the music reflected the beauty of the opera house while holding back its shadows. Though she sat in darkness, “The Swan” surrounded her with light.
She didn’t play to call Severne.
She intended no siren’s song.
Yet, as her bracelet pressed against her skin beneath the long-sleeved shirt she wore to keep it from interfering with her bow, she couldn’t help remembering the way he’d held her chain. He’d pulled her closer with the reminder of her service to the Order of Samuel. The irony of that was seductive. As if he’d made a direct challenge to the Order itself. The crook of a sexy daemon’s finger tugging at her chain was hard to forget.
She didn’t consciously shift to a darker piece, but emotions drove her when she played, especially when she played alone, and this time her feelings led her into Elgar, a yearning, melancholy concerto that reflected her thoughts of Severne more than it should. She played it through, then stopped, too overcome to go on.
“It’s as if you knew when I’d arrive,” Severne said.
Katherine relaxed back from her playing position. She dropped her bow hand and breathed out in a long sigh to release the air she’d been controlling while she played.
Severne stepped from the tunnel into the orchestra pit. His dark suit was pinstriped charcoal gray, but even with its modern sheen, it hadn’t revealed his presence in the shadows. Had she felt him approach and subconsciously changed her song? Probably. Would she admit it? Never.
“The light has diminished. Night is falling outside,” she said. It was perfectly true, just not the true reason her song had changed.
“It’s always night in the theater,” Severne noted.
He’d paused at the doorway when her playing halted, but now he placed his hands in his pockets and approached. His suit jacket was unbuttoned. The white shirt beneath looked lavender in the dimmed hall’s lights. His tie, though probably black, seemed a darker purple.
She was reminded of the calla lilies in his office. Which, in turn, reminded her of the taste of his lips.
“The hush of an empty pit appeals to me. I love the size and depth of l’Opéra Severne’s pit. I like to fill it. To play in the silence,” Kat said.
She stood to put her cello away, but he was already close enough to get in her way. He stood between her and her open case with exaggerated ease.
As usual, his casual posture was a lie. His true emotion was in the tightness of his jaw and the rigidity of his shoulders. He had come to her, but he didn’t like that he had.
“The Théâtre de l’Opéra Severne was built in the seventeen hundreds. It was one of the first major buildings in Baton Rouge. The city rose around us. Severne Row has always been kept sacrosanct. The other neo-Gothic buildings in this district were all built to my grandfather’s specifications. Some say he even influenced the architecture of the capitol,” Severne said.
The impromptu history lesson became seductive in his smoky accent. Her cello was no barrier between them. His body leaned toward hers as if he imparted a confession or was about to.
“I share this because even though it was built long before you were born, I would like to go back and personally construct it, stone by stone, with my bare hands, to give you the perfect place to play. L’Opéra Severne wasn’t built for you. But I wish it had been. You fill the silence well,” Severne said.
As confessions went, it was a killer. His hands were still in his pockets. Hers trembled. Her lips had gone numb from all the things she couldn’t say.
“It pleases me that you like this orchestra pit. It shouldn’t. I should wish you away from this place,” Severne said. “You should go.”
His hands came from his pockets, and she held her breath. She needed him to be dark and dangerous. This gentle appreciation, though reluctantly given, was dangerous in a far more enticing way.
This time, he didn’t search out her bracelet. He simply took her hand. Only when she felt the warmth of his palm did she know hers had been cold.
He cupped her hand, palm up, in his and lifted it to the soft light nearer his searching eyes. With his other hand, he traced calloused fingers over her calloused fingertips. He lightly touched each permanent crease caused by her cello’s strings.
She forced herself to breathe. It was a triumph to appear calm. To take in air, lightly and normally, while her entire universe narrowed to his touch on her hand.
She should have pulled her hand away. When he touched her fingers, he plumbed the depths of her soul. Her greatest strength and weakness was written in the indentions on her hand.
“Art is pain, but you wear it well. You have a soft, feminine body, but when I hold you, I discover hidden strength. You have to be strong to play as well as you do. Physically and emotionally. You have to be able to climb and plummet and coax the depths and heights from the strings,” Severne said.
She was hypnotized by his perception. She couldn’t pull away. When he leaned closer to her hand, but looked up to make contact with her eyes, she held her breath again. Weak in the knees though he perceived her as strong.
“But it’s the marks from the strings that show the true sacrifices you’ve made. You’ve given flesh and blood to song,” he said.
She couldn’t help it. When he pressed his lips to her callouses, one by one, brushing each digit with a kiss, she released her pent-up breath in a long, shaky sigh.
He watched her.
Yet she couldn’t pretend to be aloof and untouched. Her eyes closed with each press of his lips and opened in fear and expectation of the next.
“Don’t tremble, Katherine. I’m not here to seduce you. I shouldn’t be here at all. I know that,” he said.
The hot coil in her stomach tightened as he paused over the last finger before gifting it with a brush of his lips, as well.
Then he lowered her hand and lifted his head, and she took possession of what he had temporarily claimed.
He was not a modern man. In spite of the contemporary cut of his suits and his painfully sculpted physique, Severne was a daemon that had lived through past times. He had made love to her by those old-fashioned standards. Her body might stand in the twenty-first century, but every inch of her throbbed nearly replete from the touch of his lips on her hand.
And the wicked, worldly creature knew it. He had the experience of decades with which to read her response.
He smiled.
“I’ve had a long day, and I need to retreat to my gym before we both regret my...lingering,” he said. He punctuated the words with a very Gallic shrug.
“Good night,” Kat managed to reply.
But she didn’t try to put away her cello until he had stepped aside and walked away.