Master of the Opera, Act 3: Phantom Serenade by Jeffe Kennedy Page A

is waiting for you. She has a robe you can put on, too.”
    “Am I, um, staying the night?”
    “I think that’s best—what your father would want me to do. You’re safe here with me, Christy, I want you to know that. I respect you as a woman. Don’t worry that I’ll take advantage. I want to do this right. In fact, we’re having a family party this weekend. I’d like you to come out to the Compound, see my father again and finally meet my mother and sister. They’ve been asking to see you. I told them we’ve been going out as more than friends.”
    Whoa. Really too much to process all at once. Guilt, guilt, guilt . The little guilt fairies pranced around in her head.
    “Roman?”
    “What is it, sweet girl?”
    “Do you consider us to be . . . exclusive?”
    He smiled at her over the rim of his much more generous glass of wine. “Don’t give a moment’s worry to that. I would never cheat on you. It goes against everything I believe in, our families’ honor, my church. You can trust in me, Christy. Always.”
    He was such a great guy.
    She didn’t know what Sanchez’s beef with him was, but she, at least, could show she believed in him. So, while she really would have rather holed up in her hotel room to think about all that had happened, instead she obediently trotted down to the guest wing level, to make Roman happy and to let poor Gloria go to bed.
    Roman’s housekeeper turned out to be a matronly Hispanic woman who clucked sympathetically over Christy’s frightening adventure in the half English/half Spanish patois many New Mexicans seemed to use. Which meant she didn’t understand most of what the woman said to her. But that was okay.
    Besides, the tub was fabulous.
    Big enough for five people, sunken into the floor, and set into a niche of bay windows that hung over the valley, it more than made up for time served with only a small shower stall.
    She sank into the steaming water, scented with something reminiscent of orange blossoms. Too sweet, but well intentioned. Gloria bustled off with Christy’s clothes, presumably to wash them, leaving her with a fluffy white robe.
    “Captive again,” she muttered to herself. But then decided she didn’t mean it. Roman was only being kind. And the protective thing was because he cared for her. After all, he’d been the one to call the cops when he’d come looking for her and found her car still there, Carla gone, and the place locked up.
    Christy swished her shoulders in the water, scooting down to get the heat up around the tight base of her neck. Apparently Carla thought Christy had taken off, and the woman had left without noticing her car was still there.
    Gloria came bustling back in to see if she needed anything. When Christy asked for more wine, Gloria nodded with a Buddha smile—and brought her herbal tea and a burrito wrapped in a napkin, so she could hold it.
    Suddenly ravenous, having totally forgotten that she’d never eaten dinner, she devoured the burrito, which turned out to be perfectly complemented by the soothing tea. Ferociously sleepy, she forced herself to climb out of the luxurious tub and pulled on the robe. The connecting guest room sported more windows and a California king bed that had been turned down for her.
    Her bag sat on the dresser and she checked her phone. Nothing from her father, thankfully. Charlie had left her a voice mail telling her to take a sick day to rest up. He sounded carefully neutral. Hopefully he wasn’t angry at her causing so much trouble. She didn’t mind the reprieve from getting up early, however.
    The phone was down to the last 20 percent of battery, but her charger was back at the hotel. Nothing to be done. Weary, she sat on the edge of the bed. Roman had left a note on her pillow, wishing her good night and sweet dreams. He’d see her in the morning.
    Sliding naked between the million thread count sheets, she killed the bedside lamp and gazed at the warm lights of the city in the valley. The