Emma Darcy - The Bedroom Surrender

What kind of woman didn’t notice such things?

Most of the women he knew were like butterflies, instinctively seeking the sweet nectar of money. Like Tahlia, a top-line model herself, happy to be along for the ride for as long as it lasted. He wasn’t particularly cynical about his wealth being a powerful drawcard, regarding it as the natural order of things. He enjoyed having the best-looking women in the world in his company, just as they enjoyed the high life he could provide.

It was something he took so much for granted that one more beautiful woman shouldn’t have mattered one way or another. Except…being ignored had got under his skin, especially being ignored when he’d wanted to impress as strongly as he’d been impressed. A passing vexation, he told himself. Rosalie James lived on a different planet to the one he occupied. Pursuing her would be absurd. Non-productive. Clearly in her world, do-gooding had priority over…sinful pleasures.

He tried to block her out of his mind, chatting to his executives about the viability of establishing a Saturn Airline service to Cambodia. But when they moved from the bar to go to the dining room, he heard the singing begin. Her voice—it had to be hers—was delivering the verse of a very melodic song in a clear pure tone, perfect pitch…angelic.

None of the recording artists he’d signed for Saturn Records in years gone by had ever come close to having a voice like that. It sent a shiver down his spine. Rosalie James could have been a star in the music world. Still could. With her looks, her talent…

Then the children came in on the chorus, singing with more gusto than musicality, belting out their words at the top of their voices, almost drowning hers out.

Forget her, Adam savagely told himself.

He’d sold off the record company to fund the airline.

There was absolutely no profit in forcing an acquaintance with Rosalie James, either on a personal or business level.

Six months later Adam Cazell saw her again.

And was once more transfixed by her beauty.

He was at the Met in New York. It was the opening night of Puccini’s Turandot. Adam was not a big fan of opera but he’d been hooked into attending this premiere—the proceeds to go to charity—by his latest lady, Sacha Rivken, who loved glittery theatrical events that promised lots of celebrities in the limelight. Their affair was new enough for it still to be a pleasure to indulge her.

Along with a festive party of jet-setting friends, they were seated in a corner box of the Grand Tier level of the famous Metropolitan Opera House, enjoying the buzzing atmosphere of a big night out. Sacha had positioned herself and Adam on the curve of the corner so she could more easily spot the most watchable people entering the two central boxes which directly faced the stage.

The far box was filled first. Sacha was speculating over who might occupy the adjoining box when the awaited party arrived and a jolt of recognition hit him.

Rosalie James…leading her companions into the front row of seats.

The liquid black hair was coiled around the top of her head, baring a long, pale, swanlike neck, around which hung a fabulous necklace of rubies and diamonds.

No sexless white tunic and black pants tonight. She wore a figure-hugging gown of dark red velvet—breasts, waist, hips, every feminine curve lovingly delineated to breathtaking effect. Little shoulder-cap sleeves swept into a low, heart-shaped neckline that revealed a tantalising hint of cleavage. Her carriage was regal. She looked regal. If she’d worn a tiara, she would have had people wondering what royal family had spawned her.

As she took the end seat, she smiled up at the man about to settle beside her—a big man, his physique every bit a match for Adam’s, tall, powerfully built, his face showing a similar mature age, silver strands sprinkled through his chestnut hair, and he was smiling back at her as though they were sharing some very warm, intimate moment.

Never in his life had Adam experienced jealousy, yet a violent black wave of it instantly crashed through him. If her escort could have been mentally zapped into irretrievable atoms, it would have been done in those few out of control seconds. She had given him space in her life—a man of the same physical mould as himself—and Adam felt cheated, wronged, every muscle in his body clenching in aggressive anger at this trick of Fate.

‘Oh! It’s Rosalie James!’ Sacha hissed exuberantly, delighted to have recognised the enigmatic top-line model. ‘And she’s wearing the show-stopper from this season’s Bellavanti collection. I bet it’s on loan for this premiere, getting more spotlight for the designer. And look at that necklace! On loan from Bergoff, for sure. Must be worth a fortune!’

Not money spent on herself then, Adam swiftly reasoned, nor gifts from a lover, which was a matter of some relief though he didn’t stop to examine the cause of this relief. ‘Who’s the guy with her?’ he grated out, wanting some firm identification, a name that could tell him more about her choice.

‘Don’t know. Quite a hunk, though. Very impressive.’

Which caused Adam’s jaw to tighten further.

‘James…is she related to the tenor who’s making his debut here tonight?’ the one opera buff in their party inquired.

Adam flicked open the glossy program he’d bought earlier. The starring tenor’s name was Zuang Chi James. ‘She’s not Chinese,’ he pointed out sardonically.

‘You haven’t read his bio, Adam,’ came the faintly mocking reply. ‘Zuang Chi was born in China but he was smuggled out to Australia by his family who wanted him to have the chance to develop his voice. He was officially adopted by a previous Australian ambassador to China and his wife, Edward and Hilary James. They found him teachers at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music where he won a scholarship to…’

‘Hey! Rosalie James is an Australian, too,’ Sacha chimed in excitedly. ‘You could be right about a connection.’

Australian? Was that her nationality? Richard stared at her, thinking there could be few more English names than Edward and Hilary, but Rosalie James didn’t look English-Australian. And the guy with the reddish hair next to her looked more like a huge marauding Scot. Her slim, elegant hand was swallowed up in his as the lights dimmed.

Adam suffered through the first act of the opera which was utterly meaningless to him. He couldn’t get his mind off Rosalie James and her escort, both of whom looked utterly enthralled by the action on the stage. She didn’t once glance in the direction of his box, his seat. Every time Zuang Chi James sang, she leaned forward, her body finely tensed, her focus entirely on the tenor as though she did have some extra personal interest in his performance. Was he her adopted brother? He certainly won the most applause from her.

But it was his debut at the Met, surely a milestone in any operatic singer’s career, and even Adam conceded he had a magnificent voice. Those facts alone could be eliciting her interest. After all, she sang like an angel herself, though without the resonant power of a trained classical singer. Finally, Adam remembered the proceeds from tonight’s premiere were to go to a charity.

That was why Rosalie James was here.

Do-gooding.

Probably most of the people in her box were connected to the charity, directors of the board or committed fund-raisers. Except she was altogether too cosy with the big man beside her for Adam to dismiss him as a charitable connection. The all too obvious rapport between them was like a thorn in his side, constantly irritating.

He was glad when the opera ended.

Supper at the Four Seasons was more his style.

Three months later their paths crossed again.