Chapter 4

Anthony

H ow the role of Ferrando from Mozart's Cosí fan tutte became one of Anthony's signatures, he'd never know. The character was not a great guy. Neither of the dudes in Cosi were.

Anthony hated the whole thing: making a bet on his fiancé's loyalty, wearing a disguise to trick said fiancé, all of it. But he was known for the part, and audiences loved the thing, so he was back in San Francisco.

Sometimes a new production would find a way to be more feminist, or at least more realistic, but not this one. Market Street Opera had been doing this production for the last twenty years. The costumes were dated and awful. The fake mustache for Anthony's disguise as an "Albanian" really pissed him off.

At least his big aria was pretty.

He tried to keep his spirits up as he unpacked his bags in the hotel room. The company had taken good care of him. The room was beautiful, with an eclectic mix of modern and antique touches, and the bathroom floor was heated, one of Anthony's favorite perks. And the bed…so cozy. If he had to do the creaky old opera at least he'd sleep comfortably.

He hung up the last of his shirts in the closet and fixed his hair in the mirror. He had magnificent hair, thick and brown from his Italian heritage, and although it was silly, he wouldn't leave without looking perfect. People expected it from him. He spritzed on Acqua di Gío and headed downstairs.

He walked into the restaurant. Hotel restaurants always had a decor that said "we're fancy, as long as you don't look too close." The fabric on the upholstered chairs might be suede, if you squinted, and the crown molding was barely holding on. One glance and Anthony saw that his date had not yet arrived.

His first instinct was annoyance. Don't schedule a nine a.m. appointment and no-show! Honestly, don't schedule a nine a.m. appointment at all. No matter. He took a deep breath and found the host. He just needed to have a cup of coffee.

Anthony sat down at the impeccably set table, careful not to bump into the man sitting nearby. He was a thin, ostentatiously dressed gentleman wearing a colorful, voluminous ascot around his neck.

The man squinted as Anthony squeezed by. He looked in his thirties and was reasonably attractive with smooth olive skin, but his style and demeanor were that of an elderly gay. He gave off a vibe much like the fussy men that attended Anthony's operas.

Anthony was stirring cream into his coffee when he spoke.

"Tea is better for the voice. Less dehydrating."

The words came out in a soft rasp. Anthony guessed it was the result of some sort of vocal injury. Anthony looked over his shoulder wearily. It was too early for a disgruntled opera lover.

"Are you a fan?"

"I wouldn't go that far, no. Just an admirer of…culture." The fancy man's eyes flashed, and for a moment, Anthony wondered if he'd offended him somehow.

"Well, that's lovely for you." Anthony turned back to his coffee.

"It is. I like to think I have refined taste. You should try it some time."

God, what a dick. Anthony was about to fling out some snarky retort when the general manager of the Market Street Opera entered the restaurant.

Rosemary Spooner was a tall, thin, formidable woman, the opera world's Miranda Priestly. When Anthony had worked here as a young artist, he'd been terrified of her, but he quickly learned that she ran the company like a tight ship, and if he did his job well, she'd keep giving him opportunities.

Anthony stood to shake her hand, smiling. "I love your Chanel suit, Rosemary. It's a classic."

"You're looking well, Anthony." Her face was still and calm. She sat, unfolding a napkin and laying it across her lap methodically. "You have quite the schedule this season."

"Strike while the iron is hot. Plus, I like traveling."

Rosemary squinted at him. "Where's your assistant? What's her name…Jennifer?"

Anthony sighed. "She's on vacation. For an entire month." It was a sore subject. He dreaded being without her.

"When you're about to open an opera?"

"I couldn't say no." Anthony kneaded his forehead with his fingers. "She hasn't taken time off in two years."

Rosemary cocked her head and looked him up and down, assessing him. "Alright, out with it. Why are we here?"

"Breakfast with an old friend?" Anthony projected a flirtatious warmth. They'd always done this dance: he'd play coy, and she'd pull the truth out of him.

"Please, Anthony. I know you better than that. You don't socialize without an agenda."

"Call me Antonio ."

Rosemary took a sip of her coffee. "I'm sorry?"

"In case anyone overhears."

"Everyone knows that you're from New Jersey."

"Not the European press."

"Good Lord." Rosemary rolled her eyes behind her thick but fashionable glasses.

"I could have been born in Italy, rather than being third generation." Anthony winked at her. "Just trying to stay mysterious."

"What do you need from me, Antonio ?"

Anthony steeled himself. This would test how far his newfound influence might take him. Rosemary was a shrewd negotiator.

"I hate the production."

"Of Cosí fan tutte ? Of course you do. Everyone hates it, except for the elderly subscribers who have been watching it for the last four decades."

"I'm contracted to do it again in three years."

Rosemary pressed her lips together. "You are."

"I want a new production."

Rosemary raised an eyebrow. "Or…?"

"Or I bail. I'm trying to phase out the role, anyway. Cenerentola is earlier that season. I don't need to come back twice."

Rosemary barked out a laugh. "Nobody comes to Cosí for the Ferrando, no matter how many times the reviewers call it an ensemble piece. The ladies are the stars."

"Then it won't be a big deal for me to skip it."

A tense silence settled between them. Anthony was suddenly very aware of the man behind him with the ascot. He was clinking his spoon against a ceramic mug as he stirred what Anthony assumed was tea.

Finally, Rosemary shrugged. "Fine. It was time for a new production."

"Excellent!"

"But." She raised her finger imperiously. "The season after, you'll do Don Giovanni ."

"Ugh. Don Ottavio is such a simp."

"If you didn't want to play lightweights, you should have been born with a heftier instrument."

Anthony sighed dramatically, his hand going to his forehead. "My curse." He'd gotten what he wanted. Mostly. He could afford to joke.

"I'll have Melissa send over the—"

"Oh my god, Antonio Bianchi! I love you!" The high-pitched call echoed off the tiled ceiling of the hotel restaurant. Rosemary and Anthony both turned their heads toward the shrill voice.

A young blonde woman rushed over to their table, trailed by a bald, tattooed man in his mid-thirties. Her long hair had a crispy, over-processed quality, and she wore a deep plum lipstick. He had a goatee that made him look like a comic book villain.

"Hello." It might be inconvenient sometimes, but Anthony didn't really mind his more rabid fans, especially when they were younger than seventy. It was a sign his career was doing well. He plastered on a big smile.

"Could I get an autograph?" Her eyes were bright with excitement. The bald man behind her wore a deep scowl.

"Anything for a fan." Anthony looked around. Without a word, Rosemary reached in her bag and handed him a notepad and a very expensive-looking brown and gold pen.

"What's your name?"

"Hannah," the woman answered. She kept playing with the curls of her long blonde hair. "Oh my god, my mother is going to die. She loves you so much , she's been an opera fanatic forever. She says you're the next Pavarotti."

"That's very kind of her." Anthony scrawled Keep music in your heart, cara Hannah on the paper and signed it, handing it over.

"Wait. I'm having breakfast with her in fifteen minutes. It's only four blocks away. You have to come with."

"She seems very sweet, but I'm already having—"

"She'd be so mad at me if I didn't bring you. Come on." Hannah tugged on Anthony's arm. Her wild look ignited a shock of anxiety in him.

"Please don't pull on me. I can't—"

"I told you, you have to!" Hanna was pulling hard, and Anthony wrenched his arm away with a jerk.

"You can't—"

"If my girlfriend says you're coming, you're coming." The gruff voice startled Anthony. It was Goatee.

He stepped closer, looming over Anthony. His loose t-shirt revealed a hint of a muscular frame underneath. Anthony glanced back at Rosemary. She was texting furiously, her face blank. He hoped she was telling her assistant to call the police.

Anthony suddenly felt very small. He had never been a fighter. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Now." The man lifted him off the chair in a rough grip. He squeezed hard , his fingers digging into Anthony's skin. Anthony struggled to maintain his balance as he came to standing.

"Thanks baby, you always take care of me." Hannah stroked the man's arm, but he didn't take his eyes off Anthony.

"Move, unless you want me to break something." He pushed, and Anthony stumbled forward. Shit, this guy was strong. This was worse than any creepy fan he'd encountered so far. He was actually starting to get scared.

"Please, I just—"

With a crash, Goatee's body hit the adjacent table, the wood splintering under his weight. The gentleman in the ascot managed to rescue his tea without missing a beat, holding it above his head with an annoyed expression on his face.

Anthony spun around and was confronted by the sight of a tall, muscular man in a black suit. He had short red hair and striking, angular cheekbones, with a hint of the feral in his eyes. He stood in a defensive stance, presumably in case the bald boyfriend got up off the floor.

Anthony couldn't get his mouth to make words. That was new.

The redheaded man nodded at him, not breaking his position. The blonde fan launched herself at baldie, who was still conscious but was looking fairly dazed.

"Baby, are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

The boyfriend murmured something to her, his gaze darting to Anthony's ginger savior. Without saying another word, he hobbled off, leaning on his girlfriend for support. Anthony barely noticed them leaving. He was staring at the besuited man's broad shoulders and deep blue eyes.

"And who might you be?" Rosemary asked, casually spreading butter onto a scone.

Anthony still couldn't speak.

"Bodyguard, ma'am." His voice was low, rumbling around in his chest as he spoke, and he pronounced the word ‘ma'am' as ‘mum.' Dammit, he was British. That just wasn't fair.

"Thank goodness. Fans can be aggressive, even for a so-called ‘dead' art form. At a certain level, getting security is wise. Very smart, Anthony."

Anthony looked back and forth between them. What the hell was happening?

"Anthony's looking a bit pale, Mr….?"

"Freddie."

"Indeed. Why don't you take him upstairs to his room, Freddie? He could probably use a rest after all the excitement."

Anthony nodded.

"Beautiful. I'll stay and finish my scone. See you at rehearsal tomorrow."

Freddie gestured for Anthony to walk in front of him. Anthony moved forward on shaky legs, wondering if he was now going to his room with a serial killer. Some flaws, even a gorgeous face and a perfect body couldn't overcome.

As the elevator ascended, Anthony breathed deeply and regained the power of speech. "Listen, I don't know—"

The elevator door opened and Freddie held up his hand to quiet him. Anthony rolled his eyes. All this spy stuff was a pile of baked bullshit. He stepped out and took a right.

Freddie cleared his throat. "Wrong way."

Anthony had arrived a few hours ago. He couldn't be expected to remember where his room was. He trailed behind Freddie in the other direction. How had he known? When they reached Anthony's room, Freddie waved a card and the door unlocked. He opened it.

"What the hell?" Anthony was unable to control the trepidation in his voice. How had Freddie gotten a key?

Freddie shrugged. Shooting him the look of death, Anthony stepped into the door frame, and was immediately stopped by Freddie's arm across his chest. It was a nice arm. Anthony felt the solid muscle against his torso, even through the suit jacket.

"Let me."

Freddie gestured for him to wait and went in. Anthony stood awkwardly, staring helplessly as Freddie checked the closet and disappeared into the bathroom.

Every second he spent waiting in the hall, he got angrier and angrier. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Even if his accent was fucking perfect, he had no right to order Anthony around.

Freddie stuck his head out.

"Okay."

Anthony stormed through the entryway, facing off with Freddie as the door slammed shut behind him.

"I didn't hire you."

"Your uncle did." Freddie's tone was even, and his face betrayed no emotion.

"Uncle Danny hired you? I don't believe you. He wouldn't know how to find someone like you."

"Master Hughes has many connections."

"Master Hughes? You mean Oliver?"

"Yes. I go where he sends me."

"I don't believe you," Anthony repeated. He pulled out his cell phone and hit Daniel's name. Freddie crossed to the window and pushed the curtain to the side, surveying the streets below.

"Hi sweetie!" His uncle's voice was cheerful, but Anthony pegged it as fake. It was the tone Daniel took when he had done something he shouldn't have, like the time he'd called the high school to complain when Anthony hadn't gotten the lead in Anything Goes .

"Uncle Danny, did you get me a bodyguard?"

"Aww, you only call me Uncle Danny when you're angry."

"Well, I am! Did you or did you not hire someone to be my bodyguard?" His uncle wasn't going to wriggle out of this one.

"Oliver and I were worried about you, honey. We knew Freddie would be right for the job."

"I can't have a bodyguard!"

"Just until this whole stalking thing dies down." Danny's voice had a hint of genuine fear in it. Anthony could be compassionate about that later.

"It was only a few letters," Anthony said. "I'll call the cops or something, get a restraining order. I won't be saddled with some creepy meathead."

"You can't get a restraining order when you don't know who the stalker is. And Oliver says Freddie saved you from an aggressive fan, so they aren't the only problem."

"How the hell does Oliver know that?" Anthony glared at Freddie, who was still staring out the window, his face blank. "It just happened a couple of minutes ago."

"Freddie checks in regularly."

"So not only is he intruding on my space, he's reporting back to you two on my life?"

"He's there to keep you safe."

"I don't need that!"

"Please, Tony, for me?"

"Don't call me that. I'm not a teenager anymore. You can't saddle me with some muscle-bound shadow."

Anthony hung up and threw his phone on the bed. This was ridiculous. His uncle had always been overprotective, but this was too far.

"Creepy meathead?"

Anthony startled. Freddie's deep baritone sent a shiver down his spine. His body's unconscious response infuriated him.

Sure, Freddie's voice was rumbly and sexy, and sure, he was tall, and his skin was porcelain with the perfect scattering of freckles. And sure, his hair was a truly rare shade of red. It didn't matter. He would not be charmed by this British lunk.

"I stand by it."

Freddie shrugged and sat down in the office chair aside the tinker toy table the hotel considered a desk.

"What are you doing?" Anthony asked, his voice rising higher in pitch than he would have liked. "You're not staying."

Freddie said nothing.

"You are not my bodyguard. I didn't hire you. Get out of my room!"

Freddie still said nothing.

"I said, get out!" Anthony grabbed the phone from the nightstand. "I'm calling hotel security."

"Why?"

"Because you're a stranger and you're in my room and you won't leave!"

"What will you tell them?"

"That my uncle hired a bodyguard for me against my will and he won't get out and he attacked a fan of mine in the restaurant…" As the words left his lips and hit the cold air of the hotel room, Anthony trailed off. It did seem ridiculous.

Freddie's face was a still mask as he positioned himself to keep tabs on the outside of the hotel and have a conversation at the same time.

Anthony was losing the steam of his righteous indignation. "I don't want you here."

"I know."

"So leave."

"No."

Anthony sank down onto the soft mattress of the bed. This was absolutely ludicrous. He didn't need a bodyguard, and he certainly didn't need this near-mute monstrosity hanging around him all the time. He hated tall people. They made everyone else feel inadequate.

He would have to convince his uncle to call Freddie off. He'd find a way to show Daniel that everything was fine. God. How was he able to screw up Anthony's life from over five thousand miles away? He was sweating just thinking about it.

He shook it off and stood up.

"Where are you going?"

Anthony shot him the coldest stare he could muster. "I'm going to use the toilet. Then, I'm taking a shower. This whole thing has got me feeling gross."

Anthony slammed the bathroom door closed behind him. He leaned against the thick wood. At least he had something solid between himself and this frustrating intrusion in his life. What a nightmare.