Free DIVA by Susan Fleet

“Barry Silverman. I’ve been a huge fan for years. Your performance was marvelous.”
    She smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
    His erection, stoked by the silken feel of her hand against his palm, pulsed with desire. It almost made him forget his lines. Almost.
    “Nonsense. You deserved both of those standing ovations.”
    To his great relief, the young couple turned and left.
    “Thank you so much.” She withdrew her hand and looked over his shoulder as though she was seeking others who might be more important. Didn’t she understand that he was the most important person in her life?
    Maintaining his smile, he said, “How do you like London? Have you been here before?”
    Her eyes met his. “Yes. Guy St. Cyr lives here. I studied with him.”
    He locked eyes with her so she couldn’t look away. “Marvelous city. I’ve been here two years working a security detail for a British industrialist. A nice chap, but he doesn’t care for music.”
    “That’s too bad. Some people don’t know what they’re missing.”
    “Quite right. I gave notice last week so I can get back to New Orleans.”
    “New Orleans is lovely,” she said, glancing around the room as though she was looking for someone. “I played a concert there recently.”
    Yes you did, three weeks ago. I watched you from my seat in the fourth row.
    “I operate a security agency there. If you ever need a security expert, I’ve got extensive experience. That’s why the Brit hired me to drive him around.” His fingers curled around the fake business card.
    She gave him a polite smile. “Thanks, but I love driving.”
    Loved driving? He could change that. He pressed the business card into her hand. “Take my card, Ms. Scully. You never know when you might need a driver to keep you safe. My rates are quite reasonable.”
    Her smile disappeared and her sapphire-blue eyes grew distant. “I’m sure they are, Mr. . . . ?”
    His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She couldn’t even remember his name. He mustered a smile. “Barry Silverman.”
    She turned and smiled at an older man who was approaching them, one of the white-haired bigwigs.
    Anger boiled into his gut. How could she ignore him this way?
    “I’m flying home tomorrow,” he said. “What about you?”
    “I’m not leaving till Sunday. We’re going to Ronny Scott’s tomorrow night. The jazz club.”
    We’re going. Belinda and loverboy Ziegler.
    “I loved your encore. Were those your own variations?”
    “Yes.” She gazed at him, unsmiling.
    The bigwig was almost upon them. His heart plinked his ribs, a xylophone clang of anxiety. “Would you like me to drive you home from the airport? Cabs are in short supply sometimes.”
    “No, thank you, Mr. Silverman. Now if you’d excuse me—”
    “You know,” he blurted, “this has been the most exciting night of my life. Meeting you, I mean. I’ve been a fan of yours for years. I own every one of your CDs.”
    “My pleasure, Mr. Silverman,” she said, and walked away.
    A tsunami of rage erupted inside him. Another kiss-off.
    After all his planning and preparation, not to mention his financial sacrifice, The Diva had dismissed him as if he were a flea. This he could not allow. No more friendly persuasions.
    This called for action.

CHAPTER 8
    Monday, 23 October
     
    Stifling a yawn, she veered off the I-10 onto the long City Park exit road that ran alongside Metairie Cemetery. She couldn’t wait to get home and fall into bed. The concert had exceeded her wildest expectations. Rave reviews in London’s three biggest newspapers and a fabulous recording contract from the orchestra. But the trip home had been exhausting.
    Their seven-hour flight from London had landed at JFK at four. After a mediocre meal in the food court, she and Jake boarded their flight to New Orleans. She’d tried to sleep, but a cranky infant two rows behind them had cried non-stop until they had landed at eleven-fifteen.
    She stopped at