"It's foolish, isn't it? To have so many rooms that you have no use for them and forget their existence," he said as they walked down yet another lengthy corridor. Jen was trying to catch her breath. His tone was self-mocking. "What good is so large a house except to impress a beautiful woman?" His grin was teasing, but his eyelids were lowered, masking their expression.
"Thank you, kind sir," she said. She pretended to curtsey. "I admit to being impressed. Does that make me shallow?"
"Not at all." He studied her for an unnerving moment before he reached to open a side door. "Shall we continue the tour?"
He led her down a perpendicular hallway. They passed an atrium, several guest rooms, a study, a library and two dining rooms. Some of the interiors were modern and contemporary, but the dominating motif so far was Queen Ann. Jen had never seen so much walnut and cherry furniture, all gleaming and stately.
They passed one room that contrasted with house's antique grace and beauty. It was appointed with the finest in high tech wizardry and looked out of place here in Jen's Thornhall. Glowing, humming computers and electronic equipment filled each wall.
Jen gave Dameon a questioning look as he shut the door to the room.
"It's my lab and study."
Curious, but she decided not to probe any further.
In a small, octagonal study designed to catch the rising sun's light, Jen stopped. This was a room that deserved a closer look. She was mesmerized by the art objects displayed inside a floor-to-ceiling glass case. The room was simple and spare, done in creams and ivory, perfect for reflecting light and for highlighting the treasures exhibited. Bronze sculpting of horses at least a hundred years old, George the II silver candlesticks, modern crystal and stone abstractions and a multitude of other antiques and objects tantalized behind the glass. A small statue of a horse caught her eye. She couldn't stop herself from crying out, "Is that what I think it is? A real Tang Dynasty?"
Dameon nodded. "Why don't you take it out of the case and hold it? You will get a much better feel for its beauty by touching it." He was already opening the glass door and withdrawing the horse.
Jen was stunned and shook in her head in sudden trepidation. "I don't know. It's so rare and..."
"Please, I want you to enjoy it. After all, what true value does an art object possess except for the pleasure it brings its admirers?" His husky voice tickled her ear, making her jump at his unexpected nearness.
Heart in her throat, she reached for the horse, and prayed her hands weren't too slippery. "I don't want to drop it..."
"I'm not worried, ma chérie, I trust you." His eyes were liquid night as they watched her.
Touching and holding this unique and exquisite marvel was an experience she would never forget. Reverently, she handed the horse back to him. "How very beautiful it is," she said in a hushed voice. "But you were taking an incredible chance. What if I'd dropped it?
"Things break and fall apart. Only memories last," he answered. He started to speak, but seemed to catch himself, and with a soft, inward sigh returned the horse to the case. He led her another fifteen feet.
They entered a circular living room and stood before a blazing fireplace. It was in marble and ebony. Above it hung a pair of black and white harlequin masks. The room was stark, yet beautiful. The black suede chairs were inviting. Jen chose one, sank deeply into the feather softness and crossed her ankles, her mother's rules on etiquette ringing in her ears. She felt his gaze on her. She raised her lashes. He was watching her again beneath lowered lids with that enigmatic expression. She squirmed uncomfortably.
"I hope this house lives up to your expectations—that it compares with your Thornhall. Of course, I understand that reality rarely measures up to the imaginary."
"Not true—it's even more beautiful than I imagined. Even Jane Eyre would be impressed. And, it's so huge, I can't even guess how many rooms there are." Jen was amazed that he would ask if she liked this incredible house.
"I promise that you will see the second and third floors for a more fair assessment. But, now, I thought you might be getting hungry after such an exhaustive tour." Dameon handed her a dainty plate of pâté on toast points and a goblet of pale gold champagne, which had been on the teakwood teacart.
Jen took a sip of champagne, which was smooth and airy, sliding easily down her throat. The pâté was rich and delicate, a first for her, and she was surprised that she liked it. She found herself enjoying the grape delicacy and decided that it tasted especially exquisite followed by a sip of champagne. She smiled at Dameon over the rim of her glass. He sat holding his glass, motionless and beautiful as a Michelangelo statue. She sipped her wine, determined to allow herself the luxury of enjoying the evening. No more intrusions of unpleasant realities, she told herself.
In less than fifteen minutes, she started to feel lightheaded and giddy. She leaned her head back against the inviting softness of the chair. Through half-closed eyes, she watched Dameon, who seemed content to watch the fire. His chiseled profile was etched against the firelight. She took in his flawlessly cut suit, which looked European in style. The charcoal contrasted with the snow white shirt, which outlined the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest. He was a man that overshadowed any clothes he might wear. She noticed in embarrassed surprise he had eaten and drank little and that she had made quite a dent in the appetizers.
"I've been a real glutton eating all of this great food. Aren't you hungry?" Jen set her plate and glass down, and self-consciously smoothed down the red velvet skirt of her dress. Her stomach, as if to accentuate the point, grumbled.
Dameon turned from the fire, his face carved in shadow. "I'm saving my appetite for dinner, chérie. But you are correct. I don't seem to be very hungry for food this evening."
That could be taken in more than one way, Jen thought tipsily. Maybe Dameon was a dangerous dragon, after all. Or maybe she was just hoping, her traitorous body hair-trigger ready to respond to the slightest invitation.
But he hadn't even touched her all night, unless she counted when he took her wrap. She did want him to be a perfect gentleman—didn't she? Her face flushed at her thoughts. Better go easy on the alcohol, Jen McNeily, she reminded herself.
She nearly jumped. Dameon was standing, and extending his hand toward her. He was making a friendly gesture. Respond, idiot, she told herself. Dazed, she put her hand over his and squeezed it warmly. He was talking and her senses were swimming at the feel of his skin touching hers.
"Shall we adjourn to the dining room? Calvin has prepared us quite a feast."
Standing up, Jen's cheeks burned and she released his hand quickly. Dameon must think her a silly fool, acting like an eager puppy dog when he had only been polite. Why had she squeezed his hand like that? He had only been trying to help her to her feet. Damn, why couldn't she keep her cool, and appear more sophisticated?
Jen trailed red-faced behind Dameon, who suddenly halted at the arched entranceway. His face was grave. She was so close she could almost count every long, thick eyelash.
"There is one thing you should know, chérie. In my eyes, " he said, somehow forcing her to meet his gaze, making her blush harder, "nothing you do is foolish or out-of-place. You need never fear that when you're with me. Never."
A soft warmth flowed through her veins. No one had ever made her feel so accepted, so valuable. He had read her discomfort so accurately that it frightened her, despite the delicious feelings embracing her. He was offering unconditional acceptance and more. Her mind could not handle that thought. Not right now.
"Thank you." Her words came out low, barely more than a whisper. She couldn't think of a single thing more to say. He broke the spell by turning away and walking into a room. Disoriented, she followed behind him.
The room was ornate, luminescent. Her eyes were dazzled by its overwhelming opulence. A multi-tiered crystal chandelier illuminated the elaborately set dining table, which was adorned with flowered bone china, crystal ware, heavy silver cutlery, linen
napkins and an ivory damask table cloth. The tall, ivory candles on the table gave off an enticing vanilla aroma.
He led her to the head of the table and smoothly pulled out her chair, Cinderella at the ball. A small, dapper man with a gray ponytail appeared like magic in the entrance. He was balancing a full tray with ease, and Jen noted he was wearing tails and snow white gloves. Not something she saw often.
"Perfect timing, Calvin. We are eager to see what you have prepared tonight."
Calvin stood over Jen's shoulder and waited briefly before setting a bowl of creamy rutabaga soup in front of her. Steam rose, and it smelled delicious. He was also pouring red wine into her soap-bubble crystal glass. She reminded herself to go easy on the wine. If she was anymore intoxicated, she would be floating, or worse.
Calvin gave a hint of a nod at her murmured thank you, his small, hooded eyes blank. Watching his pale, narrow face as he served Dameon, she wondered if he resented her presence. Shades of Mrs. Danvers. The small man disappeared as silently as he entered. He was a strange one. Jen reached for the red wine.
Her imagination sometimes kicked in at the wrong time. A result of too many gothic novels. His appearance was odd, curiously ageless. He could have been thirty or sixty years in age. Strangest of all was that he hadn't uttered a single syllable.
"Calvin does not speak. He has a damaged voice box, but we manage to communicate quite well," Dameon explained, answering her unvoiced question. He took a small sip of his wine and smiled at her over the rim, lines deepening in his cheeks. "Sometimes he uses an artificial device to communicate, but he hates it."
He was reading her mind again. Rattled, she took another sip of the wine, savoring the light, fruity taste. The soup was rich and delicious. Feeling obligated to make some polite comment about Calvin in light of her suspicious thoughts, she said. "Calvin is a wonderful cook. Surely, he doesn't take care of this entire house, as well?" She waved her hand to indicate the mansion's great size.
Dameon shook his head. "He hires daily help for that, usually while I'm out. He is remarkably efficient, and takes good of care of us, that is, me and Dumas. Calvin is invaluable."
"I'd never met a tame crow before, you know. Will I see Dumas tonight?"
"Unfortunately, he is sleeping in his cage now. It's just you and I tonight." He paused, and his eyes glittered like black diamonds in the candle light while a self-mocking smile tugged at his lips.
Jen tried to interpret his curious expression when his mood suddenly changed. He seemed to have thrown off whatever was bothering him. "Another time, and I'll make sure you get to visit with Dumas. He'll be thrilled with the attention. He gets lonely at times. Despite his absence, are you enjoying yourself?"
"Yes—everything is wonderful!" she assured him, trying to not sound like a gushing schoolgirl.
There were simply no words in the English language to describe the dining experience. Course after exquisite course was brought in by the silent Calvin: tender roast duckling with chestnut dressing, fresh asparagus in béarnaise sauce, wild rice, intervened by a sorbet to clear the palate, all topped with a luscious raspberry-chocolate mousse. Chocolate was Jen's secret vice, usually satisfied with M&Ms or Oreos. The mousse was pure heaven on her tongue. Her normally robust appetite was tempered, but she savored each bite.
She and Dameon talked easily about inconsequential subjects. She was relieved, unsure of what she had been expecting. It was fun and easy to discuss her crazy and disastrous cooking experiences. Jen relaxed, at ease and enjoying that she was being entertaining and witty. Yet every time he looked directly at her, her pulse would flutter and her lungs would feel short of air. As the dinner wore on, she was sounding more and more breathless even to her own ears.
The meal was slow and leisurely, unlike her usual hastily gulped dinners. She sighed as Calvin cleared the last of the Havilland dinner ware, feeling like the proverbial pampered princess. Dameon touched his napkin to his lips, though he had eaten little. He stood up, and the chandelier light caught the fire of his red stone ring, turning it into a sunburst of tiny, red flashes.
Chapter Seven
"Shall we go sit by the fire? It can be relaxing after a large meal." He courteously pulled her chair back, so very close, yet not touching her. She dragged her eyes from the glowing ring on his finger and rose.
With a slight bow, he led her back through the maze of rooms to where they had eaten hors d'oeuvres and sipped champagne. The black and white room, as she dubbed it. The tray was gone, but the fire was still blazing, warming her face. Alternately, she felt chilled or feverish, and wondered if the wine was to blame, or if she was getting the flu.
Staring into the blue-orange heart of the flames, she tried to estimate how many hours or minutes had passed since she'd first arrived. Time was irrelevant in this strange and beautiful place. The harlequin masks smirking down at her made her uneasy, as if they were laughing at her. There was something about the austere room, a sense of tension, of waiting. Jen searched for a harmless topic, having exhausted her repertoire of amusing cooking tales. Dameon added a log to the fire. She folded her hands on her lap and cleared her throat.
"Do you realize that we've never discussed your interests or your career? We've only talked about me." Jen laughed self-consciously.
He shrugged. "There is nothing much to say, I'm afraid. I have accumulated some capital through the years, but I can't take all of the credit. My ancestors contributed quite a bit to the seed money. Since there are few La Faims left, I have been the primary recipient to the family legacy." He grimaced. A bleak and dark look flashed across his face. It seemed as if he would not say more, but then softly he talked on. He told her about his interest in zoology, especially nocturnal animals. "I have a perverse fascination with the animal kingdom misfits," he said, his voice filled with self-mocking irony.
Jen experienced a peculiar tightening in the pit of her stomach. Her two favorite childhood pets had been an albino rat, a reject from a school lab, and a tiny toad that she had saved from her mother's garden shears. She had always had a weird affinity for odd, unlovable animals. She'd never dreamed she would meet another person who shared her unconventional tastes.
"But it's the unpopular animals who need love the most. I always ended up with strange pets. I guess I'm a sucker for the underdog," she said, shrugging with a half-embarrassed smile. "In the movies, I was the only one who felt sorry for the monster and secretly hoped that he would get away."
"How interesting," Dameon replied, raising an eye brow.
"After all, Dameon, the monster often doesn't know he's doing anything wrong. He's just trying to survive and not aware that he's hurting anyone."
"You are an exceptionally tender-hearted person." He turned to close the screen on the fireplace. He changed the subject and began talking about books he had had published.
"Please, can I see one?" Jen coaxed. She was excited, having never met a real author before. Besides, maybe Dameon's writing would reveal something important. Something that would give her a clue about him.
While handing her the book, their fingertips brushed and her pulse jolted from the physical contact. Her hands, suddenly damp, nearly dropped the book before she opened and studied it.
"It's in German," Jen said, surprised, raising her eyes to meet his. "You speak that, too?"
Dameon nodded, watching her, poised, without moving. Only the lights in his eyes flickered. "I had forgotten that edition is not in English. I'm sorry, but you might find the photographs interesting," he said. He sat down across from her.
"I wish I could learn other languages," she said wistfully.
"I would be happy to teach you," he answered softly.
Jen was feeling warm and flushed again., Her brain was in a delirious muddle. She bent closer to examine the pictures.
They were all good, but two caught her eye: the cluster of tiny, whitish, fuzzy bats hidden under a huge, green leaf and the shot of the two young jackals curled up together in a den, go
lden fur blending into one fluffy ball. The pictures were stunning, original and somehow endearing.
"These are incredible." She turned the pages back for another look. They were so good, so technically right. They were exactly what she was striving for with her photography. "They're yours, too, aren't they?"
"Most are mine, but I had instruction from a highly talented professional. And excellent equipment. It's amazing what you can do when you have a lot of time on your hands." He finished with a self-deprecating shrug, leaning back in his chair.
A shiver rippled down her back. She looked up Dameon, her eyes wide and dazed. "You won't believe this, but I have almost the exact same picture," she exclaimed, pointing to his photo of an owl silhouetted against the moon. "I'm not a pro, but I love shooting pictures at night. It's a real passion of mine." She lowered her gaze, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
Dameon reached across to take her hand. His touch so startled her that she dropped the book to the floor. "Your photographs must be extraordinary. You have such a sensitive eye. You see what exists beneath the surface. Would you ever show me“—he paused, his thumb lightly massaging her palm—"them?"
"I...I...yes, I guess, yes...I try to..." she stuttered, wits scattering. What were they talking about?
"It seems we have the same uncommon interests—and tastes."
She was drowning. His eyes were bottomless and swallowing her.
"Yes, we do..." She stopped, paralyzed. Her thoughts spun in a flying jumble. She felt dizzy. She grabbed the fallen book and clambered to her feet. A perfect excuse to do something normal.
Through a fog, she heard herself babbling something about returning the book to the bookshelf. She was inches from the bookcase when her high heel turned on the slick floor and caught in the carpet. With a thud, she fell. Stunned, she tried to stand. Pain radiated up her leg. Wincing and mortified, she sat back down and reached to rub her ankle. In an instant, Dameon was at her side.
Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 9
