Milo ...Golden Angel

     By Pattie Lawler

 

            When word reached Albany that a golden angel card had been taped to her dressing room door, her first thought was to get it off before Milo arrived. She knew he would have no idea what the card meant. Once she explained its importance, she was just as convinced that his annoyance would leave him speechless for half a minute.

            However...

            The temptation of discovery and the chance to bask in even thirty seconds of his possessive nature tugged at her heart.

            It was gratifying and unique to have a jealous lover. Her past was riddled with paramours more interested in themselves than anything she had to offer. Their inattention led to her crafting the perfect, fantasy spouse who would not only want to spend every second with her, but would move mountains to make it work.

Milo exceeded expectations.

            But no. She had to get to the card first.

            The director was unsympathetic. She was forced to make up an excuse to leave dress rehearsal. He frowned, growled, and relented. Gathering up her skirts, she ran.

            And arrived too late.

            Milo lounged at her dressing table, card in hand. “This was on your door,” he said as she kissed him. “I assume you know what it is?”

            She nodded and spent a second fussing with her costume, mentally regrouping. “A donor is willing to pay for a production provided I’m cast in the role they want.”

            His smile grew. “How flattering.”

            She tilted her head, not meeting his eyes. “It can be.” And immediately regretted her words.

            Milo turned the card to face him, his smile gone as he read the title aloud. “Das Wunder der Heliane.”

            Mentally, Albany rolled her eyes. Of course it was Heliane; being one of the few operas where the lead got naked. Her pause lingered enough for Milo to do the math. His eyes were locked on the card as he turned it over, displaying the blank back.

            “Some men,” he tapped the card against the table, “only want a thing when they can’t have it.” He watched her in the mirror, his black eyes like flint. “Do you know the donor?”

            She shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to David yet. Not that it matters. I’m not doing it. And Heliane is way out of my range and—”

            “Surely the donor knows that.”

            What had felt like mild tension a second ago now hammered at the space between her shoulder blades. This wasn’t going the way she envisioned. He was more angry than annoyed.

            He sat forward. “How much does a production cost? I imagine they’re not cheap.”

            She stepped toward him, her hand out for the card. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”

            “What if I’m the donor?”

            “You can’t be. You wouldn’t have asked for Heliane.”

            He smiled as she plucked the card free. “I see that if I hadn’t gotten to it first, you wouldn’t have told me about it…so, there’s something about the opera that you’re hiding.” He reached in his pocket, fished out his BlackBerry and set it on the table, his fingers poised to start typing. She saw there was no escape.

            “Heliane appears naked in act one.” The words came out in a tumble, and Albany wondered where years of acting classes had fled to.

            A knock forestalled his reply.

            “Albany?”

            She spun, jerking the door open. “Halley! Come in. I want you to meet Milo.”

            Milo rose as a plump young brunette entered; her hand extended and a dazzling smile on her lips. He smiled in reply, shaking her hand.

            “Milo, this is Halley Ford, my one and only friend in the world.”

            Halley snorted and flashed a scolding look at Albany. “If I am, it’s your own fault.” Her smile warmed, turning back to Milo. “I’ve been on tour with the troupe which is why we haven’t met before, Mr. Scarlet, but I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

            “It’s always gratifying to hear my PR machine is working, Ms. Ford. And it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Milo.”

            “As long as you call me Halley.” She released his hand and twisted to address Albany. “Your flight caused several copy-cat potty breaks so we’re free for fifteen minutes. I thought you’d like to know.” She leaned closer. “I assume you were coming to collect the card.”

            Albany sagged a little, nodding. “It’s for Heliane.”

            Halley snorted again as she straightened. “Someone’s after your skinny ass, Al! Better be careful! Have you heard from David? Do you know who it’s from? Can I see it? I’ve never seen one—”

            Again they were interrupted by a knock as the director stuck his head in the room. He scanned those gathered and settled on Albany. “You’re wanted in the lobby.”

            “The summons,” Halley murmured in an impressive bass.

            Albany forced a smile. “Wish me luck.”

            Milo caught her hand, stopping her. “Allow me, please.”

            Halley’s eyes grew wide, and she turned to Albany. Her smile bore cat-like satisfaction. “Your hero.”

            Milo grinned at her as he reclaimed the card and slipped out. Halley pressed the door closed with her bottom, smiling at Albany all the while. “He’s perfectly adorable. I can almost forgive you for getting engaged while I was away. I would’ve snatched him up, too. Does he have a brother?”

            “Nope. He’s the one and only, and he’s all mine.”

            Halley shook her head. “I’m so jealous.”

            “I’ll tell Scott you said so.”

            “Please! Maybe it’ll light a fire under his behind!”

<0> 

            Milo nodded to Simon as his bodyguard fell in beside him. “Welcome back, Mr. MIA.”

            “Nice to be missed.”

            “Yes, well, I’ve made another operatic discovery, and you weren’t there to share.”

            “Oh?”

            Milo handed him the card and explained what he knew, including Albany’s proposed role.

            “I can’t imagine what an opera costs,” Simon said.

            “Something like Heliane,” the director said over his shoulder, “could easily cost you a million plus.”

            “That limits the field,” Simon murmured, handing the card back with a significant look.

            Milo leaned forward and tapped the director’s arm. “If you’re busy, we know where the lobby is.”

            The man flashed a grateful smile as he hastily switched direction and excused himself. They watched him go before facing each other.

            “You were following up on Elliot’s former girlfriend, the police woman?”

            Simon grunted as they resumed walking. “She was part of the investigating team.”

            “Was?”

            “Yeah. I’m not the only one who knows she can’t keep her mouth shut.”

            “Is she in danger of losing her job?”

            Simon pushed open the door to the theater, and they climbed the slope toward the foyer. “Let’s just say, writing parking tickets beats unemployment.”

            “You assume,” Milo chuckled, pulling open the door for the lobby.

            In the dazzling afternoon light, Milo reached for his sunglasses while his eyes adjusted. He heard Simon likewise employed and took the time to search for the Met’s director. Several people, most of whom he registered as the press, loitered in small groups. Moving clear of the base of the concealing staircase to the mezzanine, Milo saw more people, but not the director. Coming up behind him, Simon nodded toward the door to the offices.

            “Mr. Scarlet!”

            The hail came from across the lobby. Turning, Milo saw a man of about his own age with golden-brown hair. The man advanced, smiling as he removed his gloves.

            Milo recognized Peter Reynolds instantly, knew the golden angle card was a ruse and was just as convinced that Simon’s gun was in his hand. He paused, collecting himself, while Reynolds came to stand before him.

            “Do you have a minute?”

            His mask in place, Milo gestured to the nearest door. “Outside.”

            Reynolds hesitated, his mouth open to protest but then shrugged. The trio exited the theater. “My car is over there,” he pointed to a white stretch limo engulfed in a plume of exhaust. “It’ll be warmer than standing here.”

            Milo began walking toward the covered colonnade of shops that bordered the large plaza. Reynolds said nothing as he followed.

            “You were expecting someone else,” Milo said as the cool of the shade wrapped around him.

            Reynolds chuckled. “More space in the lobby than that tiny dressing room.”

            Milo quickened his pace.

            They came abreast a closed coffee shop when Milo whirled, grabbing Reynolds by the lapels and shoving him against a column.

            Reynolds grunted with the impact. “What the—!”

            Milo leaned toward him. “I got your last email.”

            “Get your hands—”

            “Here’s my reply.” One hand pinning Reynolds’ shoulder, Milo stepped back enough to punch his stomach. The uppercut doubled him over Milo’s fist. Milo bent to the wheezing man’s ear. “Hurt? Maybe you’ll need a trip to the hospital.” He withdrew his hand and Reynolds’ support.

            Reynolds dropped to his knees, coughing and gasping. Milo crouched down, put a hand under his chin and jerked his head up. His free hand reached into his coat and Reynolds’ eyes grew wide. Milo withdrew his hand, his fingers mimicking a gun. He pressed his pointer to Reynolds’ temple. “The next time I see you will be your last day on Earth. Nod that you understand.”

            Reynolds’ head dropped forward.

            Milo rose, turned for the theater and strode away.

 <0>

            And went right to David Rosenbaum’s office where he came straight to the point.

            “Security is deplorably lax. Peter Reynolds was not only able to get a golden angel to Albany’s dressing room door but sent someone to get her while he waited for her in the lobby. Why is that? The man has a history of violence, NYPD has a restraining order and yet he was allowed access. I want to know why.”

            “Because, Mr. Scarlet, this building is a theater, not a jail. I understand and share your anger. Reynolds is known to us, it’s true, but accidents happen. We do what we can.”

            “Starting tomorrow I want security doubled. Send me the bill. As for the golden angel, I want you to send Albany one from me.”

            Rosenbaum sat forward. “For?”

            Milo drew the fake card from his pocket and picked up a pen from David’s desk.

  <0>         

            When word reached Albany that a golden angel had been taped to her dressing room door, she blushed, hiding a smile.

<0> 

            Milo met Simon and Jason in Albany’s dressing room. “Tell me,” he said, glaring at Jason, “what you would have done when Albany went to the lobby.”

            Jason met his gaze and didn’t hesitate. “I would have gone with her.”

            “Right answer.” Milo nodded. “I’ve told Rosenbaum to increase security. Enough is enough. But it’s clear that the only place Albany’s safe is with me...us.” He looked back at Jason. “Shadow her, at all times. I don’t care what she says. I’ll deal with that. You keep on her!”

            Jason nodded.

            “Reynolds made it back to his car,” Simon rumbled. “With a little help from his driver.”

            “I should have hit him a few more times.”

            “Your hand okay?”

            Milo waved this away. “Better than his diaphragm, I hope.”

            Simon chuckled. “We’ll be in the theater.”

            “I’m coming, too.”

 

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