Given it’s Sunday morning, I’m surprised when he answers immediately.
“Oh, Carlos,” I say. “It’s me—Bix.”
“Good morning. You’re up early.”
“Well, I suppose. I’ve already had an interview withLuxury Lifestyletoday.”
“Very impressive, Ms. Bismark.”
“Turns out I’ll be leaving later today, so I was hoping you’d have time to hear me sing this morning. I know it’s short notice.”
“I’ll always make time for you,” he says smoothly. “Would you like to come to the studio in my villa?”
“Sure. Is it far? Can I walk, or will a taxi be able to find it?”
“No need for either. I’ll send my driver. Will you be ready in fifteen minutes?”
“I’m ready now.”
“Good. Then just wait for him outside.”
We hang up, and before I can change my mind, I pull on my pearls and leave the hotel room.
As I head for the elevator, a young couple comes down the hallway after a morning run. The man has a bakery sack in his hand.
I smile, thinking of the croissants Toto, Slayer, and I shared. At least I have that memory.Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Is that how the saying goes? Is that really true? Time will tell.
CHAPTER 47
BIX
Asleek, white limousine glides smoothly to a stop in the driveway of the Hotel Majestic. The chauffeur, clad in a black suit, hops out to swing open the rear door.
“Ms. Bismark?”
I nod and enter the opulent interior, lined with plush leather seats.
“Would you like some water?” he asks as he returns to the driver’s seat.
“Sure,” I say, accepting it with gratitude. My throat’s already dry. It needs all the hydration it can get.
As the limousine winds its way up the remote hills, I’m glad Carlos sent the car. A taxi might have struggled to find a villa this secluded. And I certainly couldn’t have walked.
The limousine turns up a final winding stretch, and I spot a modern-looking mansion with floor-to-ceiling windows standing out against the lush green landscape.
Carlos is waiting outside. With his expensive-looking white shirt over pressed jeans, he exudes confidence and wealth.
“Welcome, Bix.” He looks at my conservative suit and raises aneyebrow. “That must feel like a straitjacket in the Saint-Tropez heat.”
“It does,” I say. “I hope your house is air conditioned.”
“You bet.”
He guides me to the front door, his fingers lightly touching my back as we climb the stairs. When we reach the top, his touch lingers. Subtle, but enough that I register it.
As I step inside, an unsettling silence envelops me. Where I would expect the distant chatter of household staff or the clink of espresso cups, there’s nothing.
