Since coming back to work after her second day off, however, Rowan’s behavior toward him had changed. Now he felt her watching him constantly, not to observe his cooking but to study him. Her easy, friendly manner had been replaced by a silent, edgy tension that seemed to hum in the air between them whenever she drew close. She had also begun to avoid even the slightest physical contact with him.
Dansant waited patiently for her to come to him with whatever was causing her discomfort, but after a week passed with no change in her demeanor he realized she had no intention of confiding in him. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the kitchen, or the presence of the other men, but whatever the cause he decided he would have to be the one to broach the subject.
The only time they were alone was when he called her into his office to pay her for the week, so when she came in he asked her to close the door and sit down.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked as she perched on the edge of the chair.
He had debated for days whether to bring her under his influence again to compel the truth from her, but after recalling the explosive moments they’d shared in the storeroom he had decided against it.
“Tomorrow is your night off,” he said. “Have you made any plans?”
“I’ve got to do some shopping, but that’s all.” She frowned. “Do you need me to work?”
“No, that is not why I asked.” He produced a pair of tickets a grateful patron had given him after he had hosted her thirtieth anniversary dinner. “I am going to the opera tomorrow night, and I need an escort. I was wondering if you would accompany me.”
She stared at him. “You want me to go to the opera with you?”
He smiled. “I would very much enjoy that, yes.”
“I’m, uh, flattered, but I can’t.” She rose to her feet. “Thanks for asking, though.”
“You said you had no plans,” he reminded her.
“That’s right.” She stuffed her wages in her pocket. “I don’t have opera clothes, either.”
“I see.” He had forgotten about the limitations of her wardrobe. “If you had them, would you go with me?”
“I don’t think so.” She looked bewildered. “I’m not what you’d call the opera type, and why are you asking me? Shouldn’t you take your, ah, current love interest?”
“I am sorry to say there is no one interested in my love at present.” He tried to look humble. “If you do not go with me, I must give these tickets to someone else.”
“I’m sure Lonzo and his wife would love to go the opera,” Rowan assured him. “He’s always singing that song from the Boeing opera.”
“La Bohème.”
“Yeah, that one.” She started for the door, but stopped when he said her name and turned around. “We can’t go on dates, Dansant. Me being an employee and all, it would get messy.”
He got up and came around the desk. “Do you want me to fire you?”
That startled a laugh out of her. “No.”
“It will not be messy.” He took her hands in his. “It will be you and me at the opera, and you will enjoy it, I promise.” Her fingers were so tense they felt like twigs. “Please, say you will come with me. I will see to the clothes you need—”
“Oh, no,” Rowan said. “You can’t buy me clothes to go to the opera, not on top of everything else.”
He was tired of her refusing him, especially such a small thing as a gown and a pair of shoes, but to snap at her would only stiffen her resolve. “I can leave the price tags attached and return them the next day, if you like.”
She grinned up at him. “You liar. You’d never do that.”
“Lonzo’s wife does,” he told her. “She even has a trick to keep from getting antiperspirant marks on the inside of the sleeves.”
She thought for a moment. “All right, here’s the deal: I’ll go with you, but I buy the opera outfit.”
“It is customary to wear an evening gown,” he warned her.
“Oh, I can do a gown, don’t worry.” She sighed. “Just don’t change your mind between now and tomorrow night, or you will be paying for the opera clothes.”
They agreed to meet at the front of the restaurant, and the next night Dansant arrived in a taxi to wait for her to appear. Normally he wore his tux to the opera, but in deference to her budget he instead opted to wear one of his more conservative suits.
“Your girl going to be much longer, Mr. Dansant?” the cabbie asked, eyeing in the rearview mirror the line of cars behind them waiting for the valet spot where he had parked.
“She should be out momentarily.” Dansant watched the front doors, and just as he began to worry that Rowan would not appear, a woman in a black gown walked out.
The dress was a beautiful column of brushed velvet with wide, V-shaped panels of sheer lace placed strategically at her throat, shoulders, and waist. As she stepped across the walk, he saw she wore black velvet platform shoes with black silk flowers blooming above her toes. Her hands and arms were covered by elbow- length black satin gloves. A pillbox hat and half veil covered dark, sultry eyes, while a full red mouth smiled at him as she approached the cab.
It was Rowan, her curls brushed back and tucked behind her ears, making her look as if she’d just stepped out of a film from the forties.
“Hi,” she said as she climbed in. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”
Dansant breathed in her scent as he took her gloved hand in his. “Not at all. You look . . . incredible.”
“It’s rented,” she whispered. “All of it. Even the shoes. Don’t scuff me or I have to pay a damage fee.”
He found her ingenuity charming. “Is it a costume?”
She nodded. “There’s a place down by the Met that rents out theatrical clothes for parties and auditions and things. Everyone will think I’ve gone retro.”
The taxi dropped them off at Lincoln Center, where Dansant offered Rowan his arm before they walked inside. He enjoyed the wide-eyed attention she gave everything, from the enormous, exquisite chandeliers to the extravagantly dressed men and women who had come to attend the performance.
“I forgot to ask you what opera we’re seeing,” she said a little breathlessly as he guided her through the crowd.
“Madame Butterfly,” he said. “Are you familiar with it?”
“No.” She glanced at the cover of her program. “It’s Japanese?”
“The story is set in Japan,” he said, “and the main character, Cio-Cio San, is a Japanese woman who falls in love with an American. The opera is performed in Italian.”
“Why?”
“It’s traditional,” he explained. “Puccini, the composer who wrote it, was Italian.”
“Okay.” She squared her shoulders. “Bring on the butterflies.”
Dansant suppressed a chuckle as he escorted her to their seats, and showed her the Met titles screen, where an English translation of the opera would be displayed in sync with the performance. The massive gold curtain covering the stage rose a few minutes later, and the first act began.
Having seen Puccini’s heart-render more times than he could count, Dansant waited until the lights dimmed before he turned his attention to Rowan. She watched the performance with full absorption, glancing now and then at the Met titles screen for a translation before returning her attention to the stage. During the intermission she asked him a dozen questions, which he found as delightful as her reactions to his explanations.
“So Pinkerton just goes off and leaves Butterfly with the baby?” Rowan frowned. “How could he do that when he knew she was pregnant?”
“He doesn’t know yet,” Dansant said.
“I don’t believe this.” She folded her arms. “She’s gorgeous, and in love with him, and she just gave up everything to be with him, and he leaves? Just like that? He’s a moron.”
Her anger amused him. “It is a tragedy, Rowan, not a romance novel.”
“Great.” She sighed. “I’m going to cry at the end, aren’t I?”
He took her hand in his. “I will be here to comfort you.”
She gave him a narrow, sideways look, but by then the lights were dimming and the performance continued.
Dansant sensed the change in her toward the very end of the opera, when the soprano playing Cio-Cio San made her fateful decision and took up her father’s sword. Rowan’s entire body went rigid as the soprano crossed the stage, carrying the sword toward her young son.
“Is she going to kill him?” she whispered furiously.
Dansant leaned close to make a joke, and then saw her eyes. “No, ma mûre. The boy survives.”
As soon as the opera drew to its unhappy conclusion, Rowan pulled her hand from his and got up.
“I have to get out of here.” She didn’t wait for his reply, but darted into the aisle and hurried off toward the lobby.
Dansant followed, but with the rest of the audience rising to go soon lost sight of her. He made his way impatiently through the throng to the lobby, where he looked at every woman in black, but didn’t see Rowan.
“Michael?”
Dansant turned to find his arms filled with a chestnut-haired, petite beauty dressed in a stunning sapphire gown. She had her arms around his neck and her smiling, lovely mouth an inch from his before she froze.
The soft scent of lavender filled his head, making him smile down at her wide, burnished brown eyes. “I regret to say that I am not your Michael, madam.” He put his hands on her forearms and felt the softness of her thin, pale caramel skin. “But I think he is a fortunate man.”
“Oh, my God.” She blinked twice before she laughed. “I don’t believe it.” She looked all over his face. “You could be his twin brother.” Her gaze went to his brow. “Except for the hair.” As if realizing for the first time what she was doing, she eased away and stepped back. “I’m so sorry, I really thought . . . what’s your name?”
