Temptation's Song. Janice Sims
in the fourteen hundreds and was a marvel of Gothic architecture. It was so huge it took up an entire side of the piazza. It consisted of several stories of sand-toned stone and its spires reached for the heavens. The day before they had toured the church and it had taken them some time to explore the entire structure.
“Isn’t it awe inspiring?” Elle asked no one in particular as she gazed up at it.
Both of her friends sighed impatiently. They didn’t want to hear another history lesson. Elle had been filling their heads with background information on every site they had visited since their trip had begun. It wasn’t as if they were going to remember any of it once they were back in New York City. Patrice and Belana were more interested in mingling with the natives, especially the male natives.
“You were going to tell us about the audition, not more about architecture,” Belana reminded Elle. “I already know more about Gothic buildings than I ever wanted to know.”
“I know that’s right!” Patrice agreed.
They sandwiched Elle between them as they headed in the direction of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, where they would find a café and have lunch.
Both girls carried shopping bags and were casually dressed, as Elle was: Belana in a red T-shirt and white city shorts with sandals, and Patrice in jeans, a short-sleeved white blouse and Crocs. Belana had golden-brown skin and naturally wavy auburn hair that she wore long so that when she was dancing in a ballet she could put it up in the customary French knot at the back of her neck. Patrice had rich medium-brown skin and jet-black hair that she wore relaxed, short and layered. She liked what she called wash-and-wear hair, because as an actress her looks were always being altered for a role. She spent enough time in the makeup chair on the set of the sitcom where she was lucky enough to be a regular. Of the three of them, she was the most successful. She had also recently played significant parts in two films that had received excellent reviews when they had debuted at theaters.
Elle was the only child of a single mother who had raised her in Harlem. Patrice was the second child in a four-sibling family. She was raised by both parents on a ranch in New Mexico. Belana was the spoiled daughter of one of the richest men in America. She had an older brother and her family owned homes in six locations around the world. Her parents had been divorced since she was a toddler and her father had won custody of her and her brother. She hadn’t seen her mother in years.
Since their meeting at Juilliard six years ago they had supported each other through broken hearts, botched auditions and anything else life threw at them.
They found a small café and sat down at a sidewalk table.
A waiter appeared and offered them menus. Elle waved them off. “We’d like today’s special,” she told him in Italian, “and a bottle of your house wine.”
When the waiter had gone, Belana complained, “You know I hate it when you do that, Patty, and I don’t know what you’re saying. You could be ordering us squid or something equally horrible.”
Elle laughed shortly. “If you hear the word calamari, head for the hills.”
“Calamari,” Belana repeated, as if trying to commit the word to memory.
“Stop stalling,” Patrice told Elle. “Tell us about Dominic Corelli. Do his photos do him justice?”
“Not even close,” Elle admitted, her gaze flitting from Patrice’s face to Belana’s. Both women leaned toward her so that they wouldn’t miss a word she was about to say. “First of all, he’s taller than I imagined he would be. How many tall men have you seen since we’ve been in Italy?”
“They’re not that short,” Belana said in defense of Italian men. “Several have been taller than I am.”
“You’re only five four,” said Patrice. “Anyway,” she added, turning her attention back to Elle, “he has an African-American mother, doesn’t he? He probably got his height from her side of the family. What happened after your audition?”
“He told me he thought I was talented, and then he laughed at me when I told him I didn’t have an agent. He treated me like a not-so-bright child. I felt like an amateur telling him I negotiated my own contracts.”
“I’ve been telling you for years that you need an agent,” Belana said. She went into her purse and withdrew her BlackBerry. “I’m sending Fred a message. He can represent you.”
Patrice sniffed derisively. “Fred? He’s a pussycat compared to my agent, Blanca. This is Elle’s big chance. She needs Blanca.”
“Blanca Mendes is a shark in designer shoes,” Belana accused.
“Yeah, she wears nice things because her clients always get good deals. Face it, Belana. If you weren’t already rich, you would want her to represent you, too. It just so happens that you’re a dancer because you love it, not because it’s your way of putting food on the table.”
“I’m a good dancer!” Belana cried, hurt.
“You’re the best dancer in your company,” Patrice readily admitted. “That’s why it pains me that you’re not earning what you’re worth!”
Patrice was always interested in the bottom line. She had seen her parents struggling to keep the ranch going over the years. As one of four siblings, she had known what it felt like to wear discount-store clothes to school and have some of the more obnoxious kids look down on her. That’s why she worked so hard and why she had hired an agent who was a shark.
Belana sighed loudly and regarded Elle with a smile. “She’s right. Hire the shark.”
“What if she won’t represent me?” Elle asked innocently.
Belana and Patrice looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Just mention Dominic Corelli’s name, stand back and watch the shark attack,” said Patrice.
The waiter brought their wine and served them.
Belana, who was more wine savvy than her friends, took a sip first and declared, “Not bad!”
The waiter smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
“You speak English!” Elle cried, grinning.
“Of course,” he said with a naughty wink in Elle’s direction. He placed the wine bottle on the table. “I will return shortly with your fresh trout served with risotto and vegetables. My name is Paolo.”
“Thank you, Paolo,” Elle said.
He smiled at her again and left.
Belana shook her head in admiration and said, “He’s not too short for me!”
“But he is too young,” Patrice said. “He can’t be more than eighteen.”
“Isn’t that considered an adult in Italy?” asked Belana.
Belana and Patrice looked to Elle for the answer.
Elle hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know!” To which Patrice and Belana laughed.
“Finally,” said Belana. “A subject Elle knows nothing about.”
“Honestly, can we stay on the subject here?” Patrice complained, turning to Elle. “You said he was taller than you thought he would be. What else? You can’t have been in the room with a man that talented and good-looking without forming an opinion of him.”
Elle was remembering the sensuality with which Dominic Corelli moved. How his body, underneath his suit, had seemed so powerful. Warmth suffused her. “He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met,” she emphatically stated. “I’m glad he’s going to be my boss because if he were just another unattached singer in the production, I would probably be tempted to date him.”
“Tempted to date him?” Patrice mimicked in a prim and proper tone. It was her opinion that Elle was too guarded with her emotions since she’d