Breathless for Him (Davison & Allegra) Read online

  Breathless for Him

  Sofia Tate

  New York Boston

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  A Preview of Devoted to Him

  Newsletters

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  For my mother

  My opera 411 & 911

  I love you, Mama

  “Non, je ne regrette rien.”

  —Edith Piaf

  Acknowledgments

  As a writer (and now published author!), I have had one of my greatest dreams come true—an acknowledgments page of my very own. The person I must thank first and foremost for making that a reality is my rock-star editor extraordinaire, Megha Parekh. Your e-mail to me from that life-changing day in September is still up on my bedroom wall, where it will remain for a very long time. You take such good care of Davison and Allegra, for which I am so grateful to you! They are in the best hands with you. I’m so excited to continue Davison and Allegra’s journey with you!

  A huge thank-you also to the entire team at Forever Romance / Grand Central Publishing! I am in awe of everything you do for your authors, and I am so lucky and proud to be a part of the family!

  Linda Judge, my BFF from Buckinghamshire: we’ve been through it all, and I wouldn’t change a thing. You are my rock! Love you!

  Aliza Mann, my critique partner: thank you for always knowing exactly what to do when I don’t. Love you! And special thanks to our mutual friend, Richard Sorensen, for introducing us! Merci mille fois!

  Victoria McKillip, my kick-ass beta reader: You just get it. You always do. For that and so much more—thank you! Mushes! Xoxoxo.

  Holly Wright: you provide the sustenance for my soul. No words are ever necessary. Love you, sweetie!

  My support system, near and far: Maria Royce, Melissa Siket-Ouari, Soraya Shalforoosh, Amy Almond, Orna Silverstein, Rebecca Post, Lisanne Kyle, Lora Mehrer, Cindy Chang, and Kathy Robinson. I may not see you on a daily basis, but knowing you have my back means the world to me. Love you all!

  Victoria Routledge: thank you for your friendship, support, advice, and encouragement over the years. You’re a star! Xoxo.

  Kennedy Ryan, my Forever Romance pub buddy: what can I say? Because of one tweet from you, I have someone in my life who can make me laugh until it hurts. No smoke. No BS. Love you!

  To my RWA/NYC fellow chapter members: thank you so much for your friendship and support! Special thanks to Lise Horton, Kwana Jackson, and Jeanine McAdam for your advice and letting me vent and making me laugh when I need it most, and for introducing me to Strike Back (Jeanine) and Scandal (Kwana)! Extra-special thanks to Katana Collins for my amazing author photos!

  Logan Belle: I’ll always be grateful for business cards with book covers on them! Meeting you that Saturday last May was an unexpected surprise and a beautiful gift in my life. Thank you for our leisurely lunches and always being there for me! Xoxo.

  Paola Savoia: thank you so much for your invaluable help! Any errors are entirely my own. Grazie mille! Baci e abbracci!

  My MFA family: I miss seeing your lovely faces and laughing with you in the MFA lounge every week. You are such treasures in my life!

  My Twitter and Facebook families: you know who you are. You mean the world to me. (((HUGSTIGHT)))

  My wonderful family: thank you for the nonstop laughter and hugs! To my grandmother, Nancy Bushnell—I can’t imagine what my life would’ve been like if you hadn’t become a member of our family thanks to Grandpa—what a wise man! I’m so proud to be your grandchild number one (in age only, not importance). Thank you for everything you do for our family! I love you so much! Thank you also to my aunts, Natasha Suter and Jeannie Salfen, for their love, support, and encouragement.

  Dad, Wendy, Tor, and Daa-Daa: I wish you weren’t so far away. I’m always thinking of you, sending you much love.

  My sister, Taissa, and my brother, David: I know I can always count on you. I love you very much. And to my niece, Kvitka—are you sure you’re only five? You are the coolest person I know. You’re going places, kid. Your aunt/godmother loves you so much!

  My husband, Victor: thank you for your love, patience, and understanding during this entire process. Love you!

  And to my mother, Kvitoslava: I dedicated this book to you not just to thank you for your superior knowledge of opera, but also for everything you have done and sacrificed for Taissa, David, and me. Your courage and strength humble me, always inspiring me to do better because nothing is impossible. I love you so much, Mama!

  Chapter One

  Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  I watch as the last of the patrons don their camel-hair coats and calf-length sable furs. Before they leave, the owner makes sure to shake each of their hands. As they exit, the black velvet curtain that covers the front door swishes like a whisper against the marble floor, shielding the interior of the restaurant from the chilly November air. They shuffle their way out to begin the search for their town cars, a fleet of which stand outside on Broadway, engines idling, waiting to be claimed.

  I’m standing inside my work space, which happens to be the coat-check room of Le Bistro, a restaurant that is an institution on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Like Sardi’s in the Theater District, Le Bistro is its equivalent, except it serves the opera buffs, cineastes, and ballet lovers of Lincoln Center. Its owner is Elias Crawford, one of New York City’s most well-known restaurateurs, known for his charm, sophistication, and meticulous attention to detail.

  Dressed in my standard uniform of a white long-sleeved blouse with French cuffs, black trousers, and black ballet flats, my dark brown hair done up in its usual chignon, I turn and take in my surroundings. Technically, my work space is a closet, lined with clothing rods for coats and jackets and shelves for handbags and briefcases. Since I began working there, I have checked an eclectic collection of items, from a famous rock star’s red leather jacket pockmarked with cigarette burns to a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk that took up most of the traffic pattern.

  Lola, the statuesque hostess, pokes her head in the door. “We’re done, Allegra. You can start closing up.”

  I nod. I begin to wrap the plastic check numbers in an elastic band, stowing them into the shoe box that I use as a Lost and Found. I count my tips and tuck them into my purse.

  As I take one last survey of the room, I spot two objects on the floor. One is a black-and-white silk scarf, the name “Hermès” imprinted in the lower right-hand corner.

  The other is a man’s driving glove, brown lambskin, cashmere-lined, with initials stitched on the inseam—DCB.

  I stow both items in my Lost and Found shoe box. Perhaps the owners will collect them in the next few days.

  * * *

  “Did you hear about Davison’s latest venture? He’s flying to China to check out some new company that’s doing amazing stuff with voice technology.”

  “Ha! ‘Voice technology,’ my ass! The only voice he’s concerned about getting away from belongs to that shrew girlfriend of his, Ashton. She’s got a hot body, but she’s a total bitch—at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  That’s what gossip is to me. Hearsay. It’s common for someone to approach me while I’m working, offering me monetary
compensation for any kernel of gossip that involves a celebrity. Because of its trendy status and location, Le Bistro attracts everyone from politicians to film stars to opera divas, basically anyone who’s ever appeared in Vanity Fair. I knew since I began working here six months ago that if someone really wanted the truth about a scandal, the people to eavesdrop on were the doctors and lawyers who came into the restaurant. But I treat my place of work as a confessional; whatever I overhear will never be passed on to a third party.

  The two men retrieving their coats are discussing the couple whose names and faces were featured almost every day on Page Six—Davison Cabot Berkeley, the Manhattan billionaire and heir to the Berkeley Holdings fortune, and Ashton Lane Canterbury, the heiress of the Canterbury family. Since they’re the “it couple” of Manhattan, their histories are well known thanks to the tabloids and business pages. They’re childhood friends. He has the proper pedigree: age thirty-one, prepped at Exeter, undergrad and MBA from Harvard, while she went to Miss Porter’s and Wellesley.

  A match made in WASP heaven.

  It’s funny, though, because every time I see their photo in the paper, she always looks much happier than he does, as if he would rather be anyplace else than with her. My life is far removed from the circles they travel in, but seeing such a handsome man so miserable with the woman he supposedly loves, I wonder if he is truly in love with her. I’m twenty-four, a butcher’s daughter, but I don’t envy their social or financial status in society.

  I’m putting away the men’s tips in my purse when a sharp knock on the flat ledge of the coat-check room’s half door brings me back to the present moment.

  “Excuse me? Are you working or not?”

  At the door stands a tall woman with platinum-blonde hair that cascades down the back of her fur coat, a black crocodile Birkin hanging in the crook of her elbow.

  “I said, did you happen to find a black-and-white Hermès scarf two nights ago?” her voice shrills above the cacophony of the restaurant. Her thin, oval-shaped face holds an exasperated look, while her blue eyes burn my face like a set of lasers.

  “I did. Just a moment, I’ll retrieve it for you.”

  As I pull out the Lost and Found box, I hear the woman speaking to her female entourage. “Oh my God, Davis is the biggest nerd. He never wants to go out. All he wants to do is stay home and read books or watch movies. He’s so boring.” She sighs. “But at least we’re going away for the holidays to his family’s chalet in Gstaad. I can’t wait to see his new jet. We have invitations to so many parties when we’re there.”

  Suddenly, I know whose scarf I’m holding. It belongs to the shrew herself, Ashton Canterbury.

  Ashton’s friends giggle in enchantment over the gilded life she is supposedly leading.

  I walk back to Ashton with scarf in hand. I observe her, concluding that the tabloid photos actually make her look better than she does in person.

  “Took you long enough,” she huffs. “I hope nothing’s happened to it.”

  “It’s in pristine condition, madam. I kept it safe,” I reassure her.

  “Yes, well, it looks fine. Let’s go, girls.”

  The lack of a gratuity from her does not come as a surprise to me.

  * * *

  “O mio babbino caro?”

  Two days later during the lunch service, I’m bent over picking some dust off the floor humming the aria to myself when a deep male voice interrupts me.

  I’m still distracted when I reply to the man. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “My family has a private box at the Met.”

  When I stand up and turn to the door, I see in front of me what no photo could ever do any justice, now that Davison Cabot Berkeley is standing in front of me. He has to be over six feet tall, with dark brown wavy hair that borders on black. His eyes are deep green with flecks of amber in them. On any other man, his lips would look odd because of their lush shape, but on his chiseled face, they are perfectly suited.

  He’s dressed in a navy-blue wool coat, open to reveal underneath it a dark gray pin-striped suit and tie, accentuated by a button-down shirt in a lighter palette. A cashmere scarf the same shade as his coat is tied around his neck.

  His eyes meet my dark brown ones, and in a flash, my throat goes dry. Shivers run up and down my arms. My pulse increases because of the way he stares at me. His head rears back slightly, and he takes in a deep breath through his aquiline nose. But it’s the intensity of his eyes that paralyzes me. They sear me, as if they have the ability to read my inner thoughts without having to speak a word.

  After a few seconds that seemed more like a full minute, I clear my throat. “You’re very fortunate. May I be of service, sir?”

  A small grin appears on his face. “Yes. I seem to have misplaced a glove. By any chance, would you happen to have found it?”

  “I believe so. Could you describe it?”

  “Brown driving glove, cashmere lined. My initials are on it. DCB. Davison Cabot Berkeley.”

  The sound of his voice warms my body, as if it were a cashmere blanket that tightly wraps around me. When he speaks, he speaks deeply, but it’s more like a rumble, as if something is inside him on the verge of erupting. Even though he’s only spoken a few words to me, I have a vision of him commanding others with that voice, and how intimidated I would feel, which is actually beginning to happen to me at that precise moment.

  All I can do is nod my head. “Yes. I have it. I’ll be right back.”

  As I turn to retrieve the Lost and Found shoe box, he says, “You have a lovely voice.”

  Thankfully, I’m looking away from him when he says that because as soon as he does, my face turns hot. “Thank you, but I was just humming, sir.”

  “I can still tell, though. Are you a singer?”

  My face now cooling down, I finally turn around. “Yes, I am actually. I’m a graduate student of voice at the Gotham Conservatory.”

  “Opera?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I suppose the fact that you work across from one of the most famous opera houses in the world is not a coincidence?” His lips lift in a sly grin.

  I laugh slightly from my nerves. “No, it is not.”

  He smiles at me. “Umm, may I…” he asks, gesturing to the glove in my hand.

  I shake my head in embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.”

  He takes the glove from me, running his fingers over the stitched initials. “Hmm. I wonder…”

  “About what, sir?”

  “I wonder when my parents named me if their goal was to see how many surnames they could slap on their newborn child.”

  I smile, laughing slightly. “I can imagine.”

  His head tilts at me curiously as he leans in closer to me. “What’s your name?”

  I swallow in my throat as his warm breath caresses my face. “Allegra.”

  “Allegra what?”

  “Allegra Orsini.”

  He pauses for a moment. “That’s a lovely name. Italian?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I look into his eyes, which are still boring into mine. I can’t move. Something is…there. Something…powerful. It takes my breath away. We both seem to be stunned into silence.

  He pushes back the tail of his coat to retrieve something from his pocket. He pulls out his wallet and shuffles through the bills.

  A fifty-dollar bill appears on the flat ledge of the door.

  I push the money back to him. “No, that’s not necessary.”

  “Please take it. It’s not just for the glove. It’s been a long time since…I just want you to have it.”

  “Truly, I can’t accept it. For the same reason.”

  He nods in understanding. He puts his hand over mine, the hand that’s trying to return the money to him. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.

  Without warning, he begins rubbing his thumb over my hand, slowly. So slowly. My breaths begin to increase. His emerald eyes turn darker, hooded with a look that both scare
s me and arouses me. The warmth from his touch permeates my skin, setting the rest of me aflame. I can feel myself turning wet at the apex of my thighs. I press my lips together, determined not to break this moment. He is powerful and commanding. I can’t look away. And I don’t want to.

  Then he moves in closer to me. His lush mouth opens to say something, his thumb still moving again and again over my hand.

  “Do you think I could make you come just by doing this?”

  “What?” I manage barely above a whisper.

  “Answer the question,” he commands huskily.

  Before I can answer him, a cell phone begins to ring inside his coat, which effectively breaks the moment. I step back as he shuts his eyes, emitting a low growl, then pulls out the phone, grimacing when he checks the caller ID. He lets it continue to ring as he shoves it back into his coat.

  He pauses a moment, then takes the fifty and returns it to his wallet. Like a magician, he then reveals the glove’s mate from his coat, and I watch him put on both of them.

  His hands now fully gloved, he looks at me again, both of his green eyes fixed onto my own. They seem darker, ominous almost.

  I swallow. “Have a good evening, sir.”

  He leans into my space, mere inches from me. His scent, something laundered with a hint of spice permeates my nose, his hot breath caressing my face once more. “Good night, Allegra.”

  Once Davison Cabot Berkeley leaves, shaking Mr. Crawford’s hand on the way out, I step into a corner of the coat-check room, leaning against it in the darkness. I press my head against the wall as I try to catch my breath.

  No man has ever affected me like that before, mostly because I would never allow it. I know it was just a moment. That’s what I tell myself. We will never see each other again. And it’s just as well, because I never let in a man far enough to know my deepest secrets.

  Chapter Two