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

moon, the same amber-orange color as the discreet downward-facing lights, lowered herself in serene splendor toward the horizon. Christy toyed with the silver spiral pendant, sliding it back and forth on the chain, remembering the smile in the Master’s voice at seeing it, those chiseled lips curving beneath the inscrutable black mask.
    Of course she dreamed of him.
    Not of Roman, the handsome, genuinely caring guy who’d been her prince charming all her life. No—she dreamed of the Master. A swirl of dreams repeating themselves, a badly streaming movie that caught itself, restarted, and played again. Over and over, she waltzed with him, held at arm’s length while her nipples stood taut and her groin throbbed. Then she ran down the stairs, calling, shouting for someone. And her foot slipped off the metal step. She fell, dropping through black space, still calling that name.
    Then they waltzed again, in dizzying circles. She pleaded with him, but he stayed remote, holding her only by his gloved hands, his icy-blue gaze focused on the distance.
    She woke, disoriented, in utter darkness. Instead of the rough, over-bleached hotel sheets, expensive cotton flowed against her naked skin. Roman’s house.
    But why was it so dark?
    Finding her phone on the bedside, she saw it was past eleven in the morning. A remote control next to it let her open the blackout shades that had been lowered for her sometime during the night. Like blast shields on a spaceship, the blinds all rose simultaneously in majestic silence along the row of windows, letting in the bright morning sun.
    She found a pink-flowered sundress in the bathroom, along with a cardigan and ballet-slipper flats. Gloria had washed her undies and left them on the hamper. No sign of her jeans and sweatshirt, alas.
    Dressing in the clothes, which fit fine but seemed as if they belonged to some other girl, Christy wandered through the sprawling house, looking for Roman. Or food. Possibly both.
    If anything, the place was even more beautiful in the daylight. Exquisitely decorated in what she’d learned was northern hacienda style. Not the adobe and Saltillo tile, but patterned brick and wood floors graced by rugs with colorful designs. The house could have stepped out of Sunset magazine, and very likely had been featured in it at some point.
    It was the antithesis of the phantom’s abode, the opposite of the eccentric cave deep beneath the opera house. Roman Sanclaro lived like a king, presiding over a world the Master lurked beneath.
    She found Gloria in the kitchen, and the woman awarded her a bright “Buenos días,” along with a mug of coffee, then pointed outside.
    Roman sat at a table by the pool, shaded under an umbrella, working on a laptop. He waved and smiled at her but was absorbed in a phone call, so she wandered around the pool area.
    The day was shaping up to be warm, the tiles of the deck nearly hot under her feet. The infinity pool stretched right up to the edge, water spilling over the far edge to fall into a trough that caught it to recycle back in. Beneath, the high-desert scrub scattered across the sharp incline, a sere contrast to the crystal aquamarine water of the pool.
    “How’s my girl?” Roman’s arms slid around her waist and she leaned back against him. He kissed her cheek and mmm’d appreciatively. “I love your perfume. Sweet, like you.”
    She laughed. “It’s your perfume. Of course you like it.”
    “I do like what I like. And you—do you like my house? Pretty view?”
    “It’s breathtaking. The way this pool seems to fall off the cliff is truly spectacular.”
    “Yes. Though I’ve thought that when I have children, I’ll have to change it—wall it off. Too dangerous, don’t you think?”
    She shrugged. “I haven’t been around little kids much. Surely that’s a ways in your future, isn’t it?”
    He turned her in his arms and she faced him, the sun bright in her eyes so she squinted up at him. The disadvantage of