Crescendo

The
Master of the Opera
series by Jeffe Kennedy

 

 

Act 1: Passionate Overture
(January 2, 2014)

 

Act 2: Ghost Aria
(January 16, 2014)

 

Act 3: Phantom Serenade
(February 6, 2014)

 

Act 4: Dark Interlude
(February 20, 2014)

 

Act 5: A Haunting Duet
(March 6, 2014)

 

Act 6: Crescendo
(March 20, 2014)

Crescenda
M
ASTER OF THE
O
PERA

eKensington

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

T
he sound of banging on her front door woke Christine from a dead sleep.

Clad in her purple unicorn pajamas, she checked the time: 7 a.m., so she'd been asleep for four hours. She shoved Star's raggedy self out of sight under the covers and blearily made her way to the door.

That demanding knock undoubtedly belonged to her father. When she'd awakened him with her phone call, he'd answered with an immediate “What's wrong?” She rarely caught him off guard, so his uncalculated concern had been exactly the right way for him to respond.

So much so that she'd burst into tears, releasing all the pent-up fear and strain, to her utter shame and embarrassment. Never much for displays of emotion in general, much less on the phone, her father had simply told her to cry herself out and that he was getting on a plane, no matter what she wanted.

She hadn't even argued.

“No more running,” she muttered to herself, pasting a bright smile on her face and yanking open the door. “Good morning, gentlemen!”

Carlton Davis stood at the top of the narrow stairs, flanked by the two officers who'd been kind enough to pick her up out on the road the previous night and bring her home. They hadn't asked questions or commented on her tears—except to ask if she needed to go to the hospital, which she'd refused—for which she'd been grateful. They did tell her what time Detective Sanchez expected to meet with her. Fair enough.

All three men looked irritated, with her father taking first prize. “Christy, dammit—”

“Ms. Davis,” one of the officers cut in, “this man says he's your father and wants admittance to your apartment. Do you wish to let him in?”

A blood rage suffused her father's face. It might have made her a small person, but she enjoyed the moment.
The Santa Fe cops don't care who you are, Daddy
. She decided to play the protective-custody thing for all it was worth. If she was going to confront her father, she wanted him off balance and both of them on neutral ground. Just because he'd been nice when she'd called the previous night didn't erase all past history.

“Actually, I would be more comfortable meeting in public. How about the Starbucks on the Plaza in fifteen minutes? I imagine you guys wouldn't mind getting out of the patrol car and having some caffeine, either.”

“Not acceptable!” Her father tried to push in the door and was astonished when the officers stopped him. “You dare—!” he sputtered.

“We're doing our best to protect your daughter, sir, and to oversee her status. The department considers her a flight risk. We'd prefer to keep a public eye on her also.” The young Hispanic officer gave her a wink on the side away from her father. “It's your choice whether to meet with her, but that sounds like your best avenue.”

He didn't like it but finally agreed. To be sure, Christine bolted her door while she quickly dressed. Her father wasn't outside, but her ever-present guardians were, standing outside the patrol car, enjoying the warm morning sunshine.

“Thanks guys,” she called out. “Don't you ever go off shift? You've been up all night.”

“We'll switch off once we escort you to see Sanchez at eleven. Until then, we're to stick with you.”

She lingered a moment, fiddling with her car keys. They weren't exactly her friends, but they weren't the enemy, either. “I don't suppose you've seen any sign of the Sanclaros?”

They exchanged looks. “We couldn't speak to that, but certain suspicious vehicles did visit this area. They continued on after noting the presence of the patrol unit.” The report sounded formal, coming from the genial cop who'd winked at her—the general facts anyone might read in the public record.

“Thanks,” she repeated. “Coffee's on me.”

“Make it less than five dollars' worth and you're on.”

Her father waited at a table, a coffee and oatmeal in front of him, cellophane packets of fruit and nuts unopened. He glowered when she waved, then drummed his fingers impatiently when she took cups out to the cops.

“Okay, missy.” He folded his hands on the table when she sat. “You've played your games long enough. Why did you force me to come here?”

“Here meaning Starbucks, right? Because I didn't force you to come to Santa Fe—you offered.”

“You know exactly what I mean—treating me like a stranger who can't be allowed in your home.”

She shrugged and took a bite out of the pink Cake Pop she'd bought herself for breakfast, savoring the sweetness. “I didn't feel like being yelled at this morning, and even you won't make too much of a scene in public.”

He sat back, his jaw clenched, then took a deep drink of his coffee and used the cup to gesture at her. “What the hell are you eating? That's hardly a healthy breakfast.”

“It's nummy.” She grinned at him, hoping her teeth were covered in bright pink sprinkles. “How come we never had cookies?”

“Oh, I see.” Her father nodded knowingly, and then spoiled it by frowning at the ragged guy shuffling past selling sage bundles. “You're playing the poor little rich girl now. You had everything anyone could desire, but Daddy didn't love you. I call bullshit.”

“Do you?”

“What—love you? Of course I love you. You're my daughter, my only child, my heir. Why else would I have gone to such lengths to make sure you stayed by my side?”

She cocked her head, sucking off the last of the frosting from the stick. “I think there are lots of reasons to want to control people, and not many of them have anything to do with love.”

He shook his head, an old dog shooing away flies. “I don't have time for your shit, Christy.”

“Then make time.” She said it crisply, as he would have—and took satisfaction when he acknowledged the point.

“Well, look who's grown up.” He spoke without irony. With grudging respect, even. It was enough to make her realize she wasn't ready to hear what he knew about the Sanclaro connection. They had other business to get out of the way first.

“I hated you for a long time, for what you did to me.”

“Perfectly reasonable attitude.” He thumbed open the oatmeal, tried it, and made a face. “I'm supposed to be eating this for my heart. I tried to tell the doc I don't have one.”

She folded her arms and glared at him.

“What do you want here—an apology?” He stabbed the spoon at the table, breaking it. “I apologize! Does that change anything? It doesn't bring your mother back. It doesn't make me a better father or even a decent man. It doesn't change a damn thing.”

“It changes something for me.”

“Does it? Then have my apology—I don't expect your forgiveness. I did the rehab, the counseling. Everything I could do. I tried to make it up to you, but I did a shit job of that, too.”

“This is a good start.”

“Is it? Good. What's next on the agenda?” Back to business immediately. She felt a surge of affection for him, with all his flaws and difficult ways.

“Let's talk about the Sanclaros.”

He eyed her and sat back, wiping his mouth with the flimsy paper napkin. “Is this about your supposed engagement to Roman Sanclaro?”

She should have known he'd find out without her telling him. She held up her left hand, where the opal glittered. “This is the engagement ring. Anything to say about it?”

Davis shrugged, nonchalant, but she knew him better than that. Tension rode his shoulders. “Doesn't surprise me that he tried. Sanclaros always were snakes in their dealings. What does surprise me is that you agreed to marry the boy in the first place. Doesn't sound like you. Your mother, at least, taught you to be smarter than that.”

“I thought you counted Domingo as a friend.”

He made a rude noise. “Of course not.”

“They visited all the time.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” He sipped his coffee. “That, however, does not mean marry the bastards.”

“Are the Sanclaros your enemies?” She pressed the issue, needing to know where he stood in all of it.

He narrowed his eyes. “What did they tell you?”

“It's what I found out on my own. Was Angelia Sanclaro your mother—my grandmother?”

Her father blew out a long breath and scrubbed his hands through his thinning hair. “Your mother didn't want you to know.”

“She knows, then.”

He nodded, popped the top off his coffee, and added another sugar packet. “I'd say she'd hate me for telling you this, but she already does. You want the full truth?”

Part of her wanted to stand up and walk out. Her new self, Christine, wouldn't let her. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

“You got it right—though how you found out, I don't know. I didn't know about it until after you were born. You know how the family always acted like my mother's name couldn't be spoken? My father was never right. Heartbreak, they all said. Growing up, I learned not to ask.”

She hadn't expected to feel sympathy for him, her blustery father. But she'd never thought about the little boy he'd been. How cold his childhood must have been.

“Only after you were born and Sanclaro showed up with the documents did we both find out the truth about our pasts.”

“Both?” she echoed.

“You know that foundation that raised your mother? Sanclaro funded it. They gathered up all the Sanclaro by-blows and kept track of them. They practically threw us together. Your mother called it cross-breeding when she found out.” He grimaced, shaking his head. “She was mighty pissed.”

“Wow. I can just imagine.” The memories of their angry shouting matches reverberated in her memory.

“She made me promise not to tell you.” Carlton Davis held her gaze. “I wanted to, but she hated the Sanclaros. She felt you were better off not knowing. Especially when Domingo first proposed the engagement. I'm breaking that promise now.”

She nodded, a knot in her throat. “But we're not . . . engaged by the families, are we?”

“Don't be an idiot!” Her father reined himself in, wiping the words from the air. “This isn't a feudal society. You're not chattel, are you?”

She smiled weakly. “You always joked about it . . .”

He barked out a laugh. “That Sanclaro is a tenacious bastard. I wasn't above stringing him along. I figured if we teased you enough, you'd be contrary and go the other direction.”

“So you never wanted me to marry Roman?”

“You think I want to hand away legal rights to what I've built?”

Ah yes. Always back to the money.

Then he did surprise her. “Besides, he's not good enough for you.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know?” He laughed and pointed at her. “Because I know you. And you want more out of life than marriage to some punk-ass junior exec who'll expect you to stay in the kitchen and pop out babies. I might not have given you cookies, but I did raise you better than that.”

He had, she realized. Despite everything, he had at least given her that.

“You're right. I never wanted to marry him.”

“But you're wearing that ring around. I'm guessing it's not to impress your girlfriends.”

“Safest place to keep it. Didn't want to start an incident over a family heirloom.”

“Heh.” Her father wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. “You're playing him. He has something you want. Not stuff, because you never did care much about that. Information. Something to do with these attacks you're hip deep in.”

She gazed at him, scrambling to assemble her thoughts. How had she forgotten how quickly he, the master wheeler-dealer, saw through the ins and outs of a situation? But he couldn't have guessed it all. The truth was too strange.

He laughed. “Don't act so astonished. Your old man's no fool.”

“Why do you think the Sanclaros want me to marry Roman so badly?”

“Three things.” He held up beefy fingers and ticked them off. “The opera house and land is part of a trust. I checked into it after Domingo first darkened my doorstep. Maybe it was guilt or whatever, but my mother gave it to me via the trust, and it goes to my direct descendants and so on.

“Second, Domingo is superstitious as all hell. There's apparently some family tradition about having a woman of so much blood at the helm of the business or it's bad luck, business won't be good and so forth.”

“But does that make any sense?” She asked it carefully. Her father was a practical man. Would he believe . . . ?

“Hell no. It makes no sense at all! That's point number three: the Sanclaros are crazier than coots. All that inbreeding. Insanity runs thick in that family.” He didn't meet her gaze. “That's why I . . . might have overreacted some, when you had your
troubles
. I was afraid you'd inherited that crazy gene. It's a great relief to me that you've fully recovered.”

His hand covered hers in a rare gesture of affection and it was her turn to look away. Like Persephone, she felt like she had descended to the underworld, where she'd eaten magical food, drunk of the wine, and fornicated with a god. Her parents, no matter their grief, could never fully extract her now.

“So,” she fumbled for the right question, “why the long wait? Why did Roman leave me alone for so long, if they were dead set on this marriage?”

“Now that's an odd thing. When he turned up to take you to your prom—which was a surprise I wasn't happy about—I thought for sure he'd be courting you nonstop. But he dropped out of sight. Domingo quit coming around, too. I frankly thought they'd moved on. Then that apprentice got herself killed, Donovan was desperate for a replacement, and you wanted a job so badly, I thought, why not?”