Beguiled and Bedazzled

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘For the house,’ he said simply, adding a tiny bow to make the gift somehow even more official.

  Colleen invited him in after being assured that they had time for a brief drink and that they could, in fact, walk to dinner and then the theatre if she so wished; the evening was splendidly mild and certain to remain that way.

  She felt a momentary pang of alarm as she led him into her workroom — and looked it. Somehow it had simply not occurred to her that she would be forced to entertain this man or any other here, and the revelation was a surprise.

  But Devon appeared nonchalant; he strolled around, looking at her sketches, while she retreated to the tiny kitchen to mix their drinks. And when she returned he looked at her!

  ‘Call me a chauvinist if you like,’ he said with a slow grin, ‘but that outfit is quite simply stunning. Your work, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously?’

  ‘I would have thought so. It has everything I would have expected from you; let’s put it that way. Style, simplicity, tastefulness...’ And he shrugged to imply whatever else.

  ‘Thank you, I think,’ she replied. ‘It does make things slightly ... difficult when a girl is advised only to “wear legs”; you might tell Ignatius that for future reference.’

  Devon’s eyes roamed across her body like a horde of Mongol warriors before he replied.

  ‘He’s only a machine, after all, and they do have their limitations. Anyway...’ he lifted his drink in salute ‘...if we drink to your very good taste, it will surely prosper.’

  And he did so, thereby forcing Colleen to follow suit.

  A few minutes later they started off to walk to town — a decision Colleen almost regretted, as she said, when they passed what just had to be Burns’ car. It was one of the now rare Volvo sports models, but from the look of it in perfect condition.

  ‘It’s a classic,’ she enthused. ‘I am suitably envious.’

  It’s closer to being an antique, like me,’ was the surprising reply. ‘But you have my promise of a ride later, if you want it.’

  There was some satisfaction in the way passers-by looked at them, not least after Devon took her hand when a youth spinning around the block in his car almost collected Colleen in the process. He continued to hold her hand as they went along, and it added something ... interesting to the experience, she thought.

  When he subsequently guided her into one of the many entrances to Yorktown Square, Colleen began to wonder which of the wide choice of restaurants he had booked at; not because she particularly cared but purely out of curiosity about the man himself and his taste.

  So when it became obvious that they were headed for the extravagant hotel which backed onto the square, she felt just a pang of disappointment, having secretly expected a less conventional choice. But the feeling was short-lived, quickly replaced by a sense of total astonishment when she realised Devon Burns’ true dining intentions!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Colleen peered across the dome of a gigantic Ballarat Gold Digger ice-cream sundae, idly wondering at the mentality of a man who would demand that a girl get exquisitely dressed up for a dinner and the theatre, then, with a choice of half a dozen restaurants, including Italian and Japanese, take her to eat at an ice-cream parlour. And to look so damned smug about it! She honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw something at him.

  Devon Burns slouched indolently in a plastic chair across a plastic table from her, totally comfortable, it seemed, despite the incongruous paper bib which covered the front of his evening suit. Mustard clung like an errant smear of yellow lipstick at one corner of that incredibly mobile mouth, and even as she watched his tongue shot out to flick away the mustard and those amber eyes laughed as he caught her staring.

  ‘This is the only place I know where I can get better hot dogs than I can make myself,’ he’d said as he’d held open the door for her. He’d laughed, and she with him, because it had somehow just fit, somehow been just about what she might have expected, in a peculiar way.

  Colleen thought he should look ridiculous, so why didn’t he? She had even willed herself into half believing it, but only half. He was too totally in control and too obviously enjoying himself for that description to fit properly. For herself, she thought, ridiculous might actually be an understatement; she not only felt that way, but was certain that she must look it, since she too was wearing one of the huge paper bibs.

  And she was not impressed!

  They weren’t talking; talk had been virtually impossible since their arrival at The Australian Ice Cream Parlour, mostly because the upstairs floor was the scene of a children’s birthday party, attended, she was certain, by a zillion screaming, riotous rug-rats. It was little short of pandemonium, making it difficult enough even to think, much less carry on any sort of intelligent conversation. Not, she noticed, that it seemed in the least to bother Burns, or the staff, who seemed oblivious to the racket as they paraded back and forth with trays of hot dogs and impossibly exotic ice-cream treats for the screaming hordes above.

  The proprietress, a dumpling of a woman with a smile like a lighthouse beacon, had greeted Burns like an old friend and grinned hugely when he’d pointed to his own chest and then Colleen’s while mouthing the word ‘bib’. She had seemed quite used to taking instructions and orders via sign language at such times and her staff were equally up to the task.

  Devon and Colleen, seated beneath what she privately thought must be the epicentre of the chaos upstairs, had used similar sign language to determine their choices from the variety of hot dogs, tacos, nachos and multi-flavoured ice-cream products — more than thirty flavours, according to the menu, and Colleen hadn’t doubted it for an instant.

  But she hadn’t expected her companion, having already quite astonished her — quite deliberately — by his choice of venue, then to make a fair stab at working his way through the lengthy list of speciality hot dogs, grinning all the while like the child he must once have been. And, she thought, perhaps still was!

  She was still marvelling at that, along with the truly gigantic sundae that had arrived with her own and which he was eyeing hungrily when the party upstairs ended with a cheer and a roar and children, seemingly by the hundreds, began to stream down the staircase and out of the door, accompanied by a straggle of parents whose haggard expressions told a tale of their own.

  But it wasn’t this exodus which caught her attention — that would have gone relatively unnoticed — it was the last departing child, clearly the birthday boy. A slender, beautifully proportioned child, he descended the staircase almost as a conqueror, amber eyes sweeping the room below as if to say, Look at me! Look at me! I’m special.

  Amber eyes! They hardly registered in her mind, then she glanced from the boy to Devon Burns and back again, her mind suddenly aflutter, hardly able to credit what she was seeing. And as she looked back at the boy she could only marvel at his resemblance to Burns — surely, unquestionably, the man he would eventually grow to be, in appearance if nothing else.

  The lad made a faltering step at the bottom of the stairs, his entire demeanour altered, his attention visibly focused on Devon, his amber eyes alight, a curious expression forming on a mouth the exact miniature of Devon’s.

  It wasn’t, Colleen realised with some surprise, recognition. Not as such. The boy wasn’t looking at Devon as an individual, a person he knew. But she was certain beyond all logic that she was seeing something that was like recognition — a drawing of type to type, perhaps.

  Then Colleen heard — felt? — a single word as it snapped like a whiplash from somewhere above, drowning in an instant the look on the boy’s face, wiping the colour from his eyes to leave them blank, closed, shuttered.

  The sound which had so affected the boy had been meaningless to Colleen, but from the periphery of her attention she caught the impression that Devon Burns had suddenly become aware of the lad and that he recognised the sound, the voice, the word instantly!

  She slowly turned
her head to make sure and followed his gaze as it flowed like a laser beam between him and the boy. It was incredible to watch — a tangible, visible link between his eyes and the boy’s. Then Burns’ eyes lifted, and she followed that glance too, immediately aware of the coldness in it, the icy blankness as he focused on the figure that was descending the staircase, behind the boy.

  Burns’ eyes seemed to pale, and the amber highlights dimmed to a dull glow the colour of light ale, although colder than any ale could be without freezing. There was no visible emotion — neither surprise nor anger nor rage — only a pale, icy bleakness that was of itself even harder for Colleen to contemplate.

  The figure descended; first the long, long, shapely legs, followed by a feminine shape so lush, so almost overripe as to seem a parody. Then an unquestionably beautiful face framed by a wild mane of hair the colour of fire. Too vivid to be natural, yet somehow also too vivid to be anything but, Colleen found herself thinking.

  And the eyes! Enormous, vivid, like pools of darkest chocolate but — as they met those of Devon Burns — without a hint of chocolate sweetness. They were eyes alive with malignant emotion — crazy, savage eyes that focused on Burns with a strange, almost unreal intensity. Never had Colleen seen so much malevolence expressed that way.

  Burns seemed not to notice, or else, she thought, was totally inured to the sensation. He met the woman’s eyes steadily, bleakly for an instant, then turned his gaze again upon the boy as the woman’s hand reached down to clench at the child’s shoulder.

  Whether she was holding the boy back or holding herself upright was difficult to determine. Her slim fingers clenched so tightly that the boy squirmed with the pain, tried to twist from her grasp and finally managed to do so. But he didn’t then attempt to move towards their table, as Colleen had half expected he might; instead he managed only one fragile step before halting, his shoulders slumped in acceptance but his eyes still locked with Burns’, assessing him, memorising him, Colleen thought, as if Devon Burns was some rare thing he’d never seen before.

  Colleen returned her attention to the woman, who stood in unmoving silence, still trying to kill Devon Burns with those chocolate-coloured eyes.

  She was, Colleen decided, a truly striking creature by any definition, with a vibrant, wild beauty that could neither be denied nor diminished by the other immediate impression which she radiated, which was one of ... cheapness.

  Colleen felt an inner shudder as that word sprang to mind, but it was, she decided upon reflection, the one which most accurately described the distinctly feral aura that this woman exuded — an almost feline wildness. Everything about her was just that shade off centre, the dress a touch too tight, too short, just subtly the wrong colour to match that flaming hair.

  Feral, but so vibrant, so vividly alive. Small wonder, Colleen thought, that she might have drawn such an equally vivid man as Devon Burns into ... into what?

  She swung her eyes back to where man and boy remained in some silent communion, and realised that only a moment had passed, though it seemed like hours. In Burns’ eyes, as he regarded the boy, was a most strange expression. Something akin to the way he had looked at Colleen’s pieces of rare Huon pine. In the boy’s eyes was … something she couldn’t interpret, and for neither of them, it seemed, were there words for any other communication. Only this strange, strained silence that was almost unnerving to observe.

  The boy seemed about to reach out, then something in his eyes changed, as if he’d lost interest. He turned and moved through the door, not looking back. The woman — surely his mother? — shot one more acid glare at Devon Burns, widened it fractionally to include Colleen herself — or did she imagine that? she wondered immediately — then followed. Burns watched them go, the expression on his face unreadable but far from pleasant.

  Colleen also watched them go, unable to keep from wondering what lay behind the scenario she had just witnessed. The red-haired woman was, she decided, a truly impressive specimen. There was something about her though — something quite indescribable but also quite obvious, something ... not quite right.

  But the worst part for Colleen was that she suddenly found herself seeing mental pictures of Devon Burns with this woman: close to her, touching her, making ... love with her... She shook her head to try and drive away the unexpected, unwelcome visions, which touched her consciousness like a bad smell.

  But it was little use; with her eyes open the images persisted in her mind, and when she closed them again it was to remember that lean, muscular body leaning over her at the carving bench, the touch of those strong, uniquely talented hands, the flavour of his breath when he’d kissed her. Madness, she thought, but a madness that seemed unwilling to go away.

  She opened her eyes again, looked down to see her ice-cream sundae still a mountain, still awaiting her spoon, and found herself wondering why it hadn’t melted in the raw fire of the emotions around it.

  ‘We can be off to the theatre whenever you’re ready. But don’t rush; we’ve lots of time. I’m just going to slip over to the loo first.’

  Burns’ voice and demeanour now revealed nothing of the tensions and emotions that Colleen had just witnessed; it was as if the entire episode had been no more than a figment of her imagination. She looked at him, her eyes narrowing in speculation, almost in wonder. How, she thought, could he so quickly, so casually dismiss what had clearly been a traumatic and emotional situation for him? And now, with it over and done, was he not going to offer any explanation?

  ‘Well, I’m damned if I’m going to ask for one,’ she muttered to his departing back. ‘It’s none of my business in the first place, I’m not really interested, and I don’t really think I want to know anyway!’

  Which was more than half a lie and she knew it, even admitted it, if only to herself. The difficult part now would be keeping her tongue and her curiosity suitably separated; if she didn’t watch herself she’d be asking him anyway, without thinking and almost certainly bluntly, to explain something that she knew in her soul was best left not explained.

  He returned a few minutes later, sliding his lean frame into the chair across from her and resuming the assault upon his own ice-cream sundae with a studied, somehow sensual nonchalance, devouring the ice cream with his lips, tongue and teeth but all the time devouring Colleen with those damned amber eyes.

  She had seen something similar in a movie once, and for the briefest of instants was inclined to dismiss this performance for exactly that: a glib and carefully orchestrated performance. Except that it worked!

  Burns’ eyes touched at her left earlobe as his tongue caressed the vestige of ice cream in his spoon, and she could almost feel the warmth of his tongue against her ear. When he breathed against a fresh spoonful as if to further cool it — how insane! — she could hear his sigh, feel his breath against her throat.

  As his eyes moved around her face and body, caressing, touching, Colleen tried her best to resist the ploy, but even her boldest, fiercest glares had no effect except to draw an equally bold, almost challenging grin.

  ‘I do wish you’d give it a rest,’ she finally had to say, her own ice-cream sundae finally beginning to slump; she didn’t, couldn’t, eat it, didn’t care to put such a chilly substance against the fluttering of her tummy.

  ‘Give what a rest?’ he asked, eyes now radiating an innocence that she doubted he had ever possessed.

  ‘All the deep, meaningful, soulful looks,’ she replied sternly. ‘Goodness ... next you’ll be swooning at my feet or something.’

  ‘Men,’ he said round a deep-throated chuckle, ‘do not swoon. Not even under provocation.’

  ‘You’re being deliberately provocative yourself,’ Colleen retorted. ‘Although why I cannot imagine for the life of me.’

  ‘You’re quite amazing,’ was the equally amazing reply, followed by a silence that cried out for, demanded an answer.

  ‘I can’t see why,’ she finally replied, ‘unless you think it’s amazing that I can’t e
at ice cream in the quantities you seem to manage.’

  Not even the grace to look sheepish! He merely grinned more widely, openly laughing at her now.

  That isn’t what I mean and you know it,’ he finally said, ‘I was referring to your extremely unfeminine lack of curiosity.’

  ‘You’ve got your concepts mixed up,’ she replied, cautious now, keeping a tight curb on her tongue. ‘It’s cats that are famous for curiosity, and they don’t have to be feminine.’

  Again that wolfish grin, along with a barely perceptible narrowing of those amber eyes.

  ‘Cats find curiosity a terminal illness,’ he corrected her. ‘Women, in my experience, merely find it among the most satisfying of stimulations.’

  ‘Well then, I hardly envy you your experience,’ Colleen retorted.

  ‘Which means?’

  Colleen could only shrug. She didn’t dare let him lead her on this track; the dangers were all too obvious — at least to her.

  Burns sat there a moment, his eyes unreadable, his smile now distinctly predatory.

  ‘Which means you know exactly what I mean and choose to pretend you don’t,’ he finally said, the grin disappearing in the process. ‘Which, as I said, I find amazing.’

  Colleen almost sighed audibly in relief. Maybe now he would drop the whole thing, stop his probing.

  Fat chance!

  ‘So you’re not even going to ask what that wondrous performance was all about,’ he mused. ‘Hardly an unreasonable question, I would have thought. Perfectly logical one, actually...’

  ‘And absolutely none of my business,’ Colleen blurted out as he paused. Then she snapped her mouth shut and stared down at the remains of her sundae, willing her tongue to freeze solid and never, ever work again.

  One dark eyebrow shot up in what was almost certainly mock surprise; the amber eyes took on a curious fire.

  ‘If Lucinda hadn’t been in such a good mood it might have been your business,’ he said then, spitting out the name like a bad taste. ‘She has been known to produce some unholy scenes, with incredible embarrassment for all concerned — except herself, of course. I don’t think anything would serve to embarrass her.’