Night Lover

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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  Night Lover

  Copyright © 2015 by Rosanna Leo

  Digital Release: November 2015

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Night Lover by Rosanna Leo

  Canadian soprano Renata Bruno is tired of waiting for her big break. Unfortunately, her boss, the conductor of a chamber ensemble, sees her as little more than background material. When she learns of an opportunity to sing solo with a different troupe in England, she knows she must seize it. Especially when she hears the group is to perform Mozart's Requiem, her favorite work.

  As soon as Renata decides to make her move, a strange, sultry presence invades her life. She begins dreaming of a man, one who makes love to her, bewitching her. It isn't long before her night lover leaves startling proof of his nocturnal presence, making her doubt her senses.

  To compound her discomfort, she learns her new conductor is the college boyfriend who broke her heart years ago. As Renata grapples with old hurts and renewed passion, she must also fend off the increasingly fervent advances of her night-time visitor. She realizes she is under the influence of an incubus, a sexual demon.

  It becomes harder to resist the incubus when she learns he has a name and had a tragic history. The more she discovers about his past, the more she realizes they are linked in more ways than one. Renata begins to rediscover love and her sense of faith, but will it be enough to save her night lover from an evil curse? And will it destroy her in the process?

  Dedication

  To Aggie, my dearest friend and one of the best people I’ve ever known.

  Acknowledgements

  This book began its life over ten years ago. Along the way, character names and functions changed, and the plot ventured down different paths. However, I always knew I wanted it to be a love story. Many friends have read it and offered feedback, inquiring over the years, and I appreciate all the interest. Although the town of Shanley, England, is fictional, it has lived in my heart for some time now, with its accompanying characters. I hope it will live in yours. I would like to thank author Parker Kincade for reading the final manuscript and sharing her thoughts. Thanks, as well, to author Daisy Banks for providing me with valuable feedback on my Regency sections. Thank you to the fine team at Hartwood Publishing and to my editors Kellie Loscavio and Lisa Dugan. Thanks to my family, for all the tremendous support, and to my readers, for all the encouragement. Thank you to the members of my street team as well, for all the love and enthusiasm.

  Chapter One

  I was dreaming. I had to be dreaming. How else could I explain the faceless man in my bed?

  He was an ethereal creature, one whose features I could not quite discern in my haze. Something intangible and yet real. I thought I smelled tantalizing spice, but couldn’t figure out which one. Nutmeg, maybe? Cloves? I tasted the heat of a mouth, remembered the velvet caress of a tongue, but could not recall the owner’s face. Large hands smoothed over my curves, but I never saw them. And I remember waking up in a pool of sweat, frightened because I couldn’t quite form the next breath.

  I’d forgotten how to inhale.

  And yet, despite my unease, there was also a sense of exhilaration, of renewal. In my dream ecstasy, my old pains had somehow been erased, certainly lessened for a time. I had the sense my dream lover would make everything better, that he would leave me so numb with pleasure I’d forget about past hurts. I wanted to see his face, to trace his lines with my fingers, but even as he explored my body, he remained strangely out of reach.

  For the first time in a long time, I woke up feeling full and yet driven by a new longing. A yearning for something I couldn’t articulate. It teased me and pulled back a curtain on a world I just barely glimpsed in the darkness.

  It made me want. It dried up all the saliva in my mouth and made me thirst. I turned on the bedside table lamp, intent on pouring myself a glass of water.

  I moved my legs and something sticky moved with them. Damn. My period was way too early. Did I even have any spare maxi pads?

  Annoyed, I yanked back my covers and lifted the hem of my long T-shirt. My panties had somehow come off and now sat in a clump at the end of the bed. I spread my thighs but saw no blood.

  And yet I was wet, really wet. My inner thighs were coated in a slick layer of my own arousal.

  »»•««

  “I’d like to start tonight’s rehearsal by announcing the successful soloists for Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D minor. We had some great auditions. Unfortunately I can only choose four soloists.”

  Tense in my chair, I focused on a patch of peeling paint above Anthony Price’s head. Funny. I’d never noticed the patch before. Of course, I’d spent the last five years of rehearsal staring at the conductor of the Price Chamber Choir, rather than the curling bits of grey paint hanging from the wall.

  Little distractions often helped in these situations. Unwilling to look as if I hung on every word out of his mouth, I still knew his announcement would bear the greatest impact on my career and day-to-day life.

  I used to allow my hunger to show, used to bite my nails as he announced the soloists of each new concert. But after so much disappointment, it became easier to appear as if I were only half-listening and not overly concerned. As if huddling in the chorus, never realizing my full potential, was a dream come true.

  Faking an air of nonchalance wasn’t so easy this time around. I wanted this solo above all solos. As I kept my blurring gaze pinned to the peeling paint, my stomach lurched and I was convinced the same bleak shade of grey trailed across my face.

  Just once. Just this once.

  Anthony Price didn’t usually hold open auditions for his solo roles. He preferred to assign the parts. One might say he had his pets among the singers. No matter who spoke up, wanting to audition, many had given up striving for more than a background choral role. With ten women and ten men in the classical ensemble, a large pool from which to choose, Anthony rarely deviated from his usual soloists.

  And he always awarded the soprano solo to Clarissa.

  When I first started in the choir, I heard rumors Anthony and Clarissa had been doing the nasty, but attributed it to singer gossip. After a while, I noticed the signs as well. The furtive looks, the lingering touches at break time. Even now, she held his gaze, her eyes bright with anticipation, like a woman spotting her lover from a distance.

  If he’d just made it clear Clarissa would always be the soprano soloist, others would stop dreaming. However, he always left a small bubble of hope, floating in the air, a tempting word or an off-hand comment. Some days, I believed I had a chance. Most days, I knew he’d never pick me, not even if I channeled Sarah Brightman.

  But this was Mozart’s Requiem, the piece that meant more to me than any other work of music. To
me, it wasn’t just notes on a piece of paper. It tugged at my sense of spirituality. It delved deep into my psyche and elicited emotions both frightening and sublime. To say nothing of the fact I’d studied it for years. I knew the work as well as I knew the shadows haunting my own face.

  Probably better.

  For those reasons, I’d stepped outside my comfort zone and confronted Anthony for the first time. I’d gone to him a couple of weeks ago and demanded a chance to audition.

  “Anthony,” I’d said, swallowing my skittish nerves. “Let me sing it for you. I’m good, dammit. I will work my ass off to make sure you get the best solo you’ve ever heard.”

  He’d cocked a brow at me, looked me up and down, and put me on the spot then and there. No chance to prepare. No chance to warm up. The bastard.

  Just an absent-minded, “Fine. I have five minutes. Show me what you can do.”

  Filling my lungs with air, I imagined I was a happy balloon. I’d curled my toes inside my shoes, grounding myself on the tiled floor, as my teacher had taught me years ago. Without even the sheet music to guide me, I’d sung. No, I’d embodied the music. I don’t think I’d ever sung as clearly as I did for him that day and a part of me hoped he’d call my name now.

  If he didn’t, he’d likely fire me for my impertinence.

  “In the baritone role,” Anthony continued. “We’ll have Dean. In the tenor role, Jerry. Our alto soloist is Patricia. And in the soprano role…”

  If I still believed in God, I would have prayed to him. However, I just aimed my gaze, eyes burning like lasers at the patch on the wall. I clutched my hands into tight fists and tried to ignore the ball of anxiety in my stomach.

  He smiled. “Clarissa, whose audition was good enough to win her a place in the choirs of the angels.”

  Clarissa bobbed her head. “Oh, thank you, Anthony.” She smiled at the man and blew him a kiss.

  “Congratulations to all our soloists. Now turn to page one of your score and let’s begin.”

  Damn. I should have known. He wasn’t looking to step outside the box. He’d humored me. He’d never award a soprano solo to anyone other than his darling. I swallowed and suppressed a sigh.

  The soprano soloist ad infinitum gave me the side eye. “Better luck next time, Renata. I think Anthony is looking for someone less…strident.”

  Bite your tongue, Renata Bruno. Don’t you dare say a word.

  I’d learned years ago the moment someone got up the nerve to sass Clarissa back, she ran right to Anthony. I’d seen him fire singers for upsetting his lead soprano. As much as her diva drama tore into me on a regular basis, I couldn’t afford to jeopardize my job. Regular, paying singing jobs didn’t simply arrive on one’s doorstep. I had to claw my way into this one, and didn’t plan to lose it over soprano squabbles. “Right. I really should work on making my voice less strident.”

  She didn’t even notice my dig. Her brow creased, as if she actually gave a damn. “Anthony and I have discussed the part at length and we really feel Mozart wanted an ethereal feel to the soprano solo. Anthony has always said my voice is pure and very angelic.”

  Again with the angels. “Remind me again where you studied singing, Clarissa.”

  She paled. “I…considered applying to the University of Toronto…”

  “Right. Where I got my degree in fine arts.” I grinned. “Incredible, isn’t it? You haven’t had more than a few singing lessons, and you’re our star soprano. I have over ten years of classical vocal study as part of my formal education, and apparently I still have the voice of a fish wife.”

  “I never said…”

  “I must ask the university for my money back one of these days. I wonder if they offer some sort of stridency guarantee.”

  “Look, I’m sure, once you’ve put in some more practice hours, you’ll earn a small solo.” She turned her head and whispered, clearly unaware I still listened. “Over my dead body.”

  Just leave it. It’s not worth it.

  I smiled and sang through the whole rehearsal, ignoring the pounding in my head. Wearing a mask of positivity, I congratulated the soloists over coffee at break. On the drive home, however, I didn’t turn on the radio. I knew the sound of music, any music, would only make my heart break a little more. Rather, I gripped the steering wheel, peeled out of the parking lot, and stared at the darkening horizon.

  The whole drive home, Anthony’s words echoed in my head. He’d pulled me aside after the rehearsal and said, “In life, Renata, there are those who are born to play starring roles. There are those with walk-on parts. And then there are those who occupy the background. You are one of those background singers. Leave the showy stuff to those who understand it.”

  I almost hit him.

  He didn’t get it. I didn’t need to be the next Kiri Te Kanawa. I just wanted to use my talent to create music. Singing the soprano solo in Mozart’s masterpiece had become my quiet need, a desire so fervent it scalded my skin.

  On the lonely drive home, shrouded in the car’s silence, I vowed I would sing it one day, with or without his group.

  »»•««

  “How’d rehearsal go?” my best friend Lizzy asked, her voice so loud on the phone, I had to hold the handset away from my ear for a second.

  “Fine. The Requiem’s coming along well.”

  “He gave the solo to Clarissa again, didn’t he?”

  I loved talking to Lizzy but her knack of deciphering my moods made my head swim. We’d studied music together at the University of Toronto and had clicked from day one. Even after she’d moved from Canada to England, we stayed in constant touch, as our phone bills proved on an embarrassing basis.

  “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

  “Reasons.” She sniffed. “None of which have to do with singing ability. They all have to do with Clarissa’s cock-sucking ability.”

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh. “Lizzy Barclay, when did you become a mean girl?”

  “Come on. We’re not the mean girls. She is.” She let out a sigh. “You’re the best singer I know and I’d never bullshit you. If I thought Clarissa Donaldson deserved all those solos, I’d sing her praises. But I’ve heard the woman. She sounds as if she sings through a tin can. Anthony’s just blinded by lust. You deserve better.”

  I snuggled into my couch cushions, listening to the constant thrum of late-night Toronto traffic, and devoured another spoonful of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream. “I guess I’ll just have to cross it off my bucket list. No Requiem solo for me, even though I made Mozart the focus of my musical education.”

  “You’ll sing the solo a dozen times and for better conductors than Anthony Price.”

  Man, I loved her. She never failed to make me smile. If there was one thing I could count on in this life, it was my best friend being able to make me feel like the Celine Dion of classical music. “I miss you. I wish I could come see you in London.”

  “Do you really?” Her question, laced with a bubbling excitement, made me wonder.

  “Of course.”

  “Hmm.” She paused and our crackly line bristled with electricity. “So, are you at least getting out? Having drinks with the other singers? Shenanigans with the baritone section? Any long, slow fucks I should know about?”

  “Geez, you have such a potty mouth.”

  “You love it when I talk dirty. Seriously, though, I do worry about you. If you’re not slaving for Price, you’re at home, or practicing.”

  “I like to work hard.”

  “I know, but you need to live a little too. If I were there, you’d go out more.”

  “I date.”

  “Yes, my friend, you do. But you never let any man get past the first date, even if he looks like Ryan Gosling. After the first date, you shuffle him off to I’ll-Call-You-Land.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s so true you can take it to the bank.”

  “Lizzy, I’m not a social butterfly like you are. I’m happy doing my thing.
Besides, if I don’t take care of my voice, I’ll be replaced. You can buy a new violin if yours breaks. I can’t buy a new voice.”

  “I know you’re dedicated to your craft. No one works harder, but your voice won’t break just because you see a man more than once. I worry about you.”

  She had reason, although we never discussed it. Lizzy had seen me at my lowest. She’d been there during my darkest days, days when I’d wanted to die. I knew she didn’t want me to revisit that horrible corner of my mind.

  I suppose it was convenient pinning my lack of a love life on my singing career. If Lizzy had been around, she would have tempted me into a club or would have introduced me to one of the many men in her gravitational pull. She’d always been the instigator in our social scene. I was the quiet one, the shy one. The one who clung to corners. The early-nighter. And since Lizzy had taken a job playing for an ensemble named Sonata in England last year, I’d watched my social calendar turn into a page of blank spaces.

  I had friends. I dated here and there. However, non-musical friends didn’t grasp the importance of my career. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t just blow off a rehearsal to go shopping. As for my musical friends…well, they weren’t really friends. They were colleagues and I enjoyed leaving them behind after work. I had to deal with enough drama during rehearsal.

  Perhaps I dwelled too much inside my shell. Maybe I needed to put myself out there, just as I put myself on display when performing. I could assume a persona for the purposes of a gig, but I found it harder to show myself, the real Renata.

  I didn’t like to let the real Renata out too often. She scared people. They didn’t know what to do with her, how to ease her pain, her sense of abandonment. God only knew it took me a long time to rise above it.

  Did I want to feel the same way again? No. Had I become comfortable with my routine? Yeah, sort of.

  “I’m fine, Lizzy. To be honest, I’m too tired to even think about dating right now. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”