It was a feeling, according to his mother, that was hard to explain. But she said she had felt closer to heaven during those times than she had ever felt while sitting in a church.
Dominic believed her because when he was creating music he also felt more connected with God, the universe or whatever a person thought of as a higher power.
Could Elle Jones be a believer?
He smiled the entire time she was singing, and then he used the remote to stop the DVD player. Yes, Elle Jones had been the right choice, but there was something about her that made him wary. She was so young, only twenty-five, and inexperienced. Plus, there was the fact that he was wildly attracted to her. That could pose a problem. He made it a rule to never get personally involved with colleagues or staff. It could get messy. Artists were notoriously emotional creatures. His own personality could get volatile at times, especially when he was trying to bring his work to life on the stage. Would he be able to work with Elle Jones every day without growing evermore attracted to her? Also, the fact that she was attracted to him hadn’t escaped his notice. She had trembled at his touch, after all. Was she worth the effort?
He watched her performance one more time.
Yes, she was.
A couple of nights later, an unsuspecting Dominic got another dose of Elle Jones.
It was Saturday night and he was out on the town with his cousin, Gianni Romano. Gianni was the only son of his tia Maria, his father’s youngest sister. Of his father’s three sisters, Tia Maria had been the only one who hadn’t turned a cold shoulder to his new African-American bride when he’d brought her home to meet the family. Subsequently Tia Maria and Dominic’s mother, Natalie, had become best friends. The other sisters had come around eventually, but by then Dominic and Gianni had already forged a strong bond, as he and his mother spent a lot of time visiting Tia Maria. The women had encouraged the first cousins’ friendship because they wanted them to be close. Later, Tia Maria would give birth to a daughter, Dona Maria, and Natalie would give birth to two daughters, Ana and Sophia.
He and Gianni, who worked in the fashion industry alongside Dominic’s father, Carlo, had dined and were talking about their family when Dominic’s cell phone rang.
Gianni had been in the middle of telling him about his toddler’s new skill at launching himself like a daredevil off furniture, the greater the height the better. Dominic gazed down at the number on his cell phone’s display, saw that it was the police and quickly answered.
An officer said that they had a young American woman in custody and she had given them his number as someone who could vouch for her.
“What is the young woman’s name?” Dominic asked.
“Elle Jones,” said the officer.
“Exactly what is she charged with?” Dominic asked, astonished.
“Striking a police officer,” was the answer.
Before hanging up, Dominic asked for the address of the police station, assured the officer he did know Elle Jones and that he would be there as soon as possible.
Regarding Gianni across the table, he frowned. “Elle Jones is in jail for hitting a cop.” Dominic had told him all about Elle over dinner
Gianni laughed. “I like her already.”
“I’d better get over there before she takes the entire police station hostage,” joked Dominic, shaking his head.
The cousins rose and Dominic placed enough money on the table to cover their bill plus a generous tip. “Tell Francesca hello for me and buy little Gianni a helmet. He’ll soon graduate to trying to jump off the roof.”
“God forbid,” said Gianni. “Let me know how Signorina Jones fares.”
In front of the restaurant Gianni went to his Jaguar and Dominic to his Range Rover, where he sat behind the wheel for a moment, wondering why Elle Jones had struck a cop.
He started the car. He would soon find out.
Elle sat in the communal room of the police station alongside muggers, prostitutes and she didn’t know how many more types of criminals. She, Belana and Patrice had gone to dinner earlier in the evening and then she had gone to the train station to see them off to Rome. She was remaining in Milan in order to find an apartment and finish her paperwork. Her new agent had told her she needed to fill out the forms before she would be allowed to live and work in Italy during the time it would take to rehearse and star in Dominic Corelli’s new opera.
As she had been walking back from the train station, which was not far from her hotel, she was accosted by a strange man. He had apparently found her irresistible in her evening attire, a modest, sleeveless white dress, its hem falling about two inches above her knees, and a pair of white, strappy sandals. Without saying a word, and for no conceivable reason, he had reached out and pinched her on the behind as she had passed him. Right after that, Elle had turned around and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.
It hadn’t ended there, though. He had obviously taken her slap as an invitation, because he’d grabbed her and pulled her roughly against his chest. Even though they were about the same height, he was very strong and Elle couldn’t push out of his embrace.
She’d struggled, desperately looking around for someone to come to her aid. But the people passing them on the street had looked away, not wanting to get involved.
“Let go of me!” she’d yelled at him.
“Isn’t this what you tourists want when you come to Italia?” he’d asked, leering at her.
His breath had reeked of stale wine. Elle had tried to push him away, jerking her head back from him as he tried to kiss her. She felt something hard on his left side under his jacket. He was carrying a gun.
Now she panicked. Was she going to be attacked and killed on a Milan street?
Well, if he was going to try to harm her, she’d just as well go for broke. She kneed him. She heard the breath escape his throat and smelled his vile exhalation. Then she ran for her life, right into the arms of a uniformed police officer.
She was never happier to see anyone in her life. “Officer!” she cried in Italian, pointing at the man, who was doubled over in pain. “That man grabbed me against my will. And he has a gun!”
To her horror the man she had kneed removed a policeman’s badge from his inside jacket pocket and wheezed, “She’s under arrest for attacking an officer.”
“Me?” Elle cried, indignant. “He attacked me! Smell his breath—he’s drunk—drunk and out accosting innocent tourists. He told me I was asking for it!”
The uniformed policeman calmly cuffed her. “Miss, I advise you not to say anything else until you call your lawyer.”
So that’s how she had come to be handcuffed to a chair, sitting beside a bottle blonde who was dressed in a black leather dominatrix outfit and matching thigh-high boots. The woman smiled at her. “New to this part of town?” she asked in Italian.
She obviously thought Elle was a working girl, too.
“Very new,” Elle replied.
