Milo... In Demand

            By Pattie Lawler

 

            Milo knocked before entering Albany’s dressing room. Over the backstage din it was impossible to know if she said, “Come in,” or not, but the house guard said she was last seen heading there, and that was good enough for Milo.

            The room was empty, but littered with messages.

            Surprised, Milo closed the door and began collecting the crumpled wads of pink paper, following their path across the room to her vanity. On the tabletop the scattered messages were less creased than those in his hand and he sank into the seat, reading with mounting incredulity.

            Smoothing the papers, he deposited those he had gathered from the floor, not in the waste basket, but on the vanity. Once they were all relatively flat, he arranged them in chronological order—the oldest from three days ago—and began reading.

            And knew that Albany wasn’t confiding in him.

            They had, in the past, spoken of her position within the house and how she was no longer required to audition for parts, she was simply offered them. She had explained that her sense of what opera was drove her placement within the house and that if a production of The Magic Flute was being costumed by a creator with Cirque de Sole sensibilities, she would respectfully decline the part. This was common knowledge and as such she was not called upon to reject parts often.

            The first five messages were from her manager, reporting offers in various productions across America. Interspersed within the first dozen were requests for interviews from Opera Today, Classical Voice, New York Times and the Post.

            Reaching into his pocket, Milo pulled out his BlackBerry and placed it on the counter. After commanding it to call Joe, he moved the several messages aside and proceeded to an unfolded letter from the Met’s director, David Rosenbaum.

            “Hi Joe,” he said in response to her greeting. “What’s the status on Albany’s secretary?”

            “We’re moving Lacey over until someone can be found on a permanent basis. I thought we’d use Caldwell as press agent until we locate a better fit.”

            “Has Lacey been in touch with,” he slipped the letter aside to locate the manager’s name, “Peter Germann?”

            “As far as I know. Why? What’s up?”

            Milo read aloud what he felt were the more urgent messages.

            “I see. I’ll touch base with Lacey and get back to you.”

            “Call me. And let Lacey know I want regular updates.”

            “Will do. Did you sign those contracts?”

            “Simon sent them out this morning. When they arrive, let Lawrence know you’ll be coordinating the sale when the lab reports are finalized.”

            “The Roman Ruse arrived today, and the collection is safely in storage. It looks like everything is good to go.”

            “Excellent. Call me after you speak to Lacey.”

            Disconnecting, Milo returned his attention to David’s letter, reading that, in recognition of Albany’s years of unflagging devotion to the Met they were offering her ‘lady’s choice’ for her farewell performance. Impressed and pleased, he noted the dates and scrolled the BlackBerry to his calendar to block them off.

            In the mirror, his attention was captured by the door opening and Albany, her head down, slipping into the room. She said nothing as she snibbed the lock, placed a large bottle of water on the vanity and nudged him to back up. Even with her head down, he could see she had been crying. He twisted on the backless bench to face into the room, and when she felt she had space enough, she raised her skirt to straddle his lap, facing him, her knees hugging his thighs.

            “Please, don’t talk,” she murmured, squirming close. “I see you’ve been doing some reading, and that’s fine, but before you reprimand me—and I know you want to—just listen.” She placed her forehead against his and began to remove his gloves. “You know the phrase ‘be careful what you wish for’? Well, making a name for myself was the carrot I chased since that fateful day in the library. It was all I had. Until you.”

            His bare hands fell to his sides as she pulled her sweater off and began unbuttoning her shirt.

            “Now I find myself with an embarrassment of riches.” Dropping the shirt, she draped herself across his chest, her chin on his shoulder. “Would you unhook me?”

            He didn’t do her bidding at once, but drew his hands up her back, enjoying her cool skin. More of her weight settled on his chest, and he took this as approval.

            “I believe,” she whispered, “your plan for our evening at the Met wasn’t to look at pictures so much as to show me your etchings.”

            He chuckled, but maintained her injunction against speaking.

           “And I heartily approve, though I’m sorry if, owing to circumstances, the location wasn’t were you had envisioned. We can always reschedule. For myself, I’ve had a similar desire in the present location, and if you’re not busy for the next hour, I would appreciate your input.”

            He smiled, kissing her shoulder as he unclasped her bra. Drawing it off, she added it to the pile before taking his hands and covering her breasts.

            “You see before you an adult whose entire childhood was spent collecting pennies off the sidewalk, Milo. I knew no shame, knowing that every cent brought me closer to my dream. But now I also find that the man of my dreams is not only real, but really in love with me.”

            Wrapping her arms around his neck, she rose onto her knees, silently pleading. Milo caught one nipple between his fingers as his mouth closed on the other. Albany’s back arched and he felt her clawing at his coat. Without releasing her from teeth and tongue, he sent the coat and jacket to join her clothing. Recovering her hardened nipple, he rolled it in his fingers, reveling in her cries of pleasure.

            “More, Milo. Harder.” She covered his hand, pinching. His sight failed with the sensation, and he moaned aloud.

The heat between them scorched his lap, and when she pressed down, he caught her bottom with both hands, pulling her closer yet.

<0> 

            “I made a mess of your pants. I’m sorry.”

            “I’m not. I’ll close my coat.”

            “Thank you.”

            “I love you, Albany,” he whispered, crushing her to his throat. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

            “I don’t want anything but you…” She broke off with a strangled sob. Suddenly she was trembling, forcing the words out between tears. “Oh, Milo! I thought…I thought…singing was everything. All I wanted...”

            Milo relaxed his grip, rocking, petting. “Shh…” he breathed. “I understand, my love.”

            “I can’t,” she clipped the words, “make myself believe I can have both. I can’t! It’s too much!”

            “Then let me teach you to believe. I’m right here, Albany. I won’t leave you, I swear.”

            His eyes closed as he held her. Mentally, he swept all images of her past disappointments and reasons to doubt from his mind, wiping her slate clean. He would help her orchestrate the future she envisioned.

            “It’s rare for me to fully appreciate my wealth,” he whispered, as much for himself as Albany before succumbing to mirth. “But knowing I can remove any obstacle from your path is going to my head already.”

            Sobs became laughter as she sat back. “There’s that delicate male ego again.”

            “Yeah, and it’s all yours.”

<0>

            Twelve hours after the performance, Albany, Milo and Fanny were strolling through Owswell Magnum. He was giving Albany a tour, it was true, but they were also offering Fanny the company she craved. So, while Milo pointed out architectural and collection highlights, Fanny betrayed secret passages. Albany said very little through it all, her mind struggling with the thought that she would soon be up and down the stairs, and in and out of rooms worthy of museum stature and calling it home. Humble beginnings were being forced into lavish surroundings, and she mutely waited for fear to retreat.

            The tour ended in the paneled dinning room where dinner was waiting for them. Albany stood in the doorway, her gaze drawn from the prodigious table, up to the exposed beams and white plastering of the ceiling. At either end of the room were fireplaces she could have stood in and tapestries covered any expanses of wall not interrupted by leaded windows.

            “Isn’t it so Robin Hood?” Milo laughed, holding a chair for her. “Can’t ya just see Errol Flynn with a deer over his shoulders coming through the door?”

            Weakly, she dropped into the high-backed chair. “Is this one of the original rooms?”

            “No. This side of the manor is eighteenth century. The side with the chapel and kitchens are original. Poor ole Owswell has been through a lot.”

            “You’re going to be married in the chapel,” Fanny said knowingly.

            “On this continent,” Milo agreed with a nod. “A wedding in New York and one here sounds like fun.” He beamed at Albany, “Twice the cake,” then cocked his head at her pale complexion. “Overcome?”

            Her lips curled as she dipped her head. “A bit.”

            He bent, his gaze following her. “Gonna swoon?”

            A true smile blossomed on her lips, and she looked up at him. “I might. You gonna catch me?”

            “I might.”

<0>

             Milo shooed Fanny away after dinner and directed the cook to bring coffee to his study.

            Part library, part office, Milo’s study encompassed the length of the manor and was three stories tall. Stepping into the room, her foot sank in the deep carpet and drew her gaze down before looking up into the cathedral ceiling. The dark, wood paneling glowed richly in the hidden lighting and ranks upon ranks of books filled the second floor.

            “Oh, Milo. This is magnificent.”

            “Most of it was my idea. Owswell had to sacrifice nine rooms for my vision. This was originally three rooms per floor.” He pointed to the divisions in the existing walls. “I started this room the week I moved in; long before Fanny arrived. Originally the third floor was to display the armor, but it freaked Fanny out, so they’re in my wing.”

            “It’s just incredible.”

            He nodded, surveying the room as well. “Thank you. I’m flattered you like it.”

            “I love it. It’s grand, but comfortable.” She squeezed his hand. “You do nice work.”

            He kissed her hand in and drew her toward the sofa before the fireplace. As they walked, he outlined the household staff, offered her a choice of rooms for her office and when she again grew quiet, he hugged her.

            “I think I’m scaring you.”

            She nodded.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be.” She forced a smile. “You’re excited, and honestly, Milo, I will be too when Raul and the whole thing is behind us.”

            He sobered with a curt nod but said nothing as the chef arrived. Milo introduced her to Michael, who placed the coffee service on the table before the sofa and lingered only long enough to learn how she took her coffee. With a parting smile, he promised a packed meal for her return to New York.

            Milo followed Michael to the door, locking it in his wake. He touched a switch and a soft light running the length of the room began to glow over the windows, illuminating a long case and the fulgerite within.

            Albany rose with a gasp.

            “The Legionaries’ Line,” Milo murmured.

            Her head twisted as she looked along its length before turning to face him. “I’m trying to not hate it, Milo.”

            He nodded, turning off the light. “I understand. But you said you trust me.” He moved to stand before her and took her hand. “If you feel the need to worry about something, then worry about Simon. I have every confidence in his ability to keep me safe, and I want you to do the same.”

            She managed a single nod.

            Still holding her hand, he drew her to the sofa. “I’d like to tell you a story.” He saw her settled before sitting beside her. “Do you know anything about the crusades?”

            She shook her head.

            “Well, it’s the end of the Third Crusade that we’re interested in. You see, during the war, Richard the I, a.k.a. Richard the Lionheart and the Muslim leader Salah al-Din, better known as Saladin, came to have a profound, and we assume professional, respect for one another. There are countless stories of Saladin sending gifts to Richard. Like, when Richard was wounded, Saladin offered him his personal physician. When Richard’s horse was killed in battle, Saladin sent him two replacements. The Medieval poets had a field day with the two of them, and Saladin was hailed as a paragon of chivalry.”

            He met her eyes, to make sure she was with him. She smiled and nodded for him to continue.

            “Did you ever watch the Errol Flynn Robin Hood? Do you remember at the end where the Merry Men capture Richard the Lionheart returning from the crusade? Well, that actually happened. Richard and his entourage were captured in Sherwood Forest and relieved of their treasure. Robin, of course, released and offered him help when Richard revealed his identity.

            “One of the tasks Richard asked was ultimately assigned to Will Scarlet. I understand they chose him because he had the greatest resources, but regardless, Richard entrusted him with Saladin’s last, and greatest, gift.”

            “And Raul wants it.”

            Milo held up his hand. “Before that, you have to know several things.” Lowering his hand again, he reclaimed hers. “The people who know what this gift is number in the single digits. Plenty of the higher-ups, like you, know I have something, they just don’t know what. It’s like the American image of Area 51. Everyone knows about it, but knows nothing about it.”

            “You said your business is driven by rumor.”

            He nodded. “Yes. It’s long been believed that I have the last gift from Saladin, and Her Majesty, Parliament and MI5 agree that Raul, or more likely whoever he’s working for, wants it.”

            “And it’s a...?”

            “Before that, I have to tell you I took an oath to protect, defend and shelter this gift. The oath is magical and supersedes relations, worldly possessions, monetary reward...everything.”

            “Including me and Fanny.”

            “Which is why I asked for your understanding, not your pardon. My uncle swore this oath before me and so on backward to Will Scarlet. My son or daughter will likewise swear—”

            Albany jerked her hand from his, leapt to her feet and strode for the door only to stop, visibly trembling with rage. “And you’re okay with this?” she demanded, rounding on him.

            “I swore before you, before Fanny...before taking control of Owswell.”

            She stalked away, pacing the length of the room. He watched and said nothing. Finally, she slowed and faced out the window. “And you think I’ll understand when I see whatever it is?”

            “I know you will.”

            “You’re risking our future on this, Milo. You know that, right?”

            “Yes.”

            Her struggle last another two minutes. Finally her shoulders dropped and she leaned on the windowsill.

            “Show me.”

 

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