His Hidden Love

1. Chapter One - Wicked Game…

1

Chapter One - Wicked Game…

Venice, Italy

India Blue inhaled as much oxygen as she could through her nose, then let it out slowly through her mouth. The breath juddered from her in a shaky, almost gasp-like hiss. It was always this way: the nerves before the concert started, the heinous half-hour of self-doubt. Her stage fright was well documented and that gave her a measure of comfort. The people who paid to hear her sing knew she got panicky; if they were a decent crowd, they’d give her that bit extra to get her adrenaline flowing.

At least that’s what she hoped—that they’d be kind. Even after all this time, she had trouble believing in the screams and the joy she received when she waved to the thousands of fans that filled her concerts. She had felt like an awkward, bashful teenager when all of this started—when she was able to function once more after the incident.

God. Why are you thinking of this now?

India tasted bile and was about to dissolve into a full-blown panic attack. Not a good situation when she was due on stage in five minutes. She pulled her long dark hair back into a messy ponytail—no stylists or makeup for her—she preferred the intimacy of making herself up, of getting her hair just the way she wanted. She never was a fashionista despite the high-end designers scrambling to sign the beautiful, young Indian-American girl. India checked her reflection: huge dark-brown eyes, pink mouth, golden skin. People considered her beautiful but the haunted look in her eyes never went away, and that was all she could see in her reflection.

India grabbed her phone to check the time. Four minutes to curtain up. Being allowed to play at La Fenice, Venice’s premier opera house, was a testament to her talent. So far, she was one of a handful of non-classical artists to do so. Her signature mix of pop, country, and jazz was unique, certainly, but she never liked being confined by genres.

“Hey, Bubba.”

As soon as India heard her brother’s voice, all her tension drained. Technically, Lazlo Schuler was not a blood relative but he was the one she trusted the most—and there weren’t many.

“Hey bro. Just about to go on.”

Lazlo gave a deep chuckle. “I wish I could be there to see you, Bubba. This is a special night.”

India sighed. “It’s okay, Laz, I understand what you have to deal with over there.”

“How come you’re my only client who I never have trouble with?” Lazlo laughed. He was her manager, her publicist, her everything, but he also had other clients on his roster—clients who demanded his attention day and night. At forty-nine, Lazlo was resolutely single, married to his job and the best in the business. “You heard from Gabe, Bubba?” Lazlo’s brother worked in Los Angeles.

“A text message. He and Selena are really splitting up, huh?”

Lazlo sighed. “At this point, it’s probably the best for both. Flogging a dead horse and all that. Listen, I hate to be a nag but by my watch, you should have been on stage a minute ago.”

India glanced at the clock. “s**t. Look, thanks, Laz, I’ll call you later.”

“Love you, Bubba. Hey, say hello to Diana and Grey.”

India grinned. “Will do. Love you, bro.”

As she walked to the stage, less anxious now that she had spoken to Lazlo, she thought about her plans after the show. She was having a late dinner and drinks with her best friends, Diana Harper and Grey Lynch, a married couple, two English actors she had been close friends with for years now. Back in the day, India scored a film of Diana’s, when she herself was a music star, and they’d been friends ever since. Diana was flirty, feisty, and fun; twenty-two years senior to India’s twenty-eight, and India considered her a sister. Diana had counseled her through some hard times, and her husband Grey, a laidback sweetheart, had become a close friend as well.

Later this evening, she would meet with them and their friend, Massimo. India’s heart began to beat a little faster. Massimo Verdi was Italy’s biggest movie star: attractive, dark-brown curls, intense green eyes, a body to die for, and a rich, masculine voice that sent chills through her. She’d never met him; Diana was close friends with him and he asked to meet her, much to India’s surprise. Her first instinct was to say no; the crushing weight of her tragic history stifling her. Diana had seen her discomfort and firmly sat her down.

“Sweetheart…it’s just dinner. Massimo’s a sweetie…once you get past the machismo and that marvelous face of his. He’s a fan and wants to meet you. And for whatever it’s worth…I think you’ll like him.”

So, she agreed, much to Diana’s delight. A few evenings ago, she was in Rome, and Diana made them watch one of Massimo’s movies. Diana was right, he is divine. The role he played was a tortured artist, manipulated by the woman he loved. He was hypnotic in the role, and she could not stop thinking about him ever since.

“Hey, India, you ready? They’re foaming at the mouth for you.”

India smiled at the stagehand, pushed her thoughts of Massimo Verdi to the back of her mind, and stepped out on the stage.

Massimo hugged Diana and Grey hello, and they walked directly to their private box to watch the show. The lights were already down as they took their seats, and the first swirling notes of music commenced. Massimo smiled at Diana.

“I’ve been looking forward to this day.”

Diana grinned back. “Good! You know, right about now, India will be at the side of the stage trying not to vomit.”

Massimo laughed. “I understand that emotion.”

Diana rolled her eyes. “Sure you do.”

Massimo smirked and shrugged. His face, his body, his voice had power. His confidence was well-earned, and he often concealed how shy he really was.

The music got louder and the screams and applause of the fans went into overdrive as India Blue stepped into the spotlight. The roar of the audience along with the sight of her in the flesh for the first time, lit dramatically by concert lights, sent adrenaline shooting through his veins and he leaned eagerly forward.

The first note she sung made him shiver. So pure and clear, then as the song continued, her legendary rasp came in—so much emotion, so much honesty. Massimo was enraptured. She was petite but leggy with breakneck curves and a small waist, and the way her dark hair was escaping from the bun on the back of her neck made him crazy. He could feel his groin tighten as he watched her move. She was not a singer with highly stylized shows, backup dancers, or intricate, well-practiced dance moves. Instead, she swayed with the rhythm when she was at the mic or sitting at her piano, her whole body seeming to merge with the instrument. It was not s****l, nor her writhing meant to titillate. India Blue was an individual so connected with her music that everything she had went into the performance.

To Massimo, it was the singularly most erotic thing he’d seen and he knew, without doubt, that he wanted India Blue in his bed and in his life.

India high-fived every member of her band making sure they got equal applause. It was one of the reasons session musicians clamored to work with her: she paid well over-standard rates; she was inclusive; collaborative; and best of all, she loved. She treated them as family and never put herself above them, even though it was her name on the marquee bringing the audiences—and the money—rolling in.

As she began the encore, she glanced up to the box where she knew Diana, Grey, and Massimo Verdi were sitting. She smiled and waved at them who smiled back, and then she looked at Massimo. He was staring at her, his eyes intense, and she could not tear her own eyes away from him. At the first line of the song—a slow, sensual cover of Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game”—suddenly only the two of them were in the room.

The world was on fire and all that could save me was you…

India never sung a more honest line.