At least, she had real wine glasses to serve the wine he had brought. She watched as he lowered his incredible lashes and looked down to set his glass on the table. An unbidden image of his lips on hers, their bodies touching, a replay from Friday, surfaced. Her body tightened. She gulped the rest of her wine to calm herself. She choked as the wine went down the wrong way.
Dameon moved around the table and patted her on the back. "Chérie, are you all right? Perhaps the wine is too dry for your taste."
She shook her head, embarrassed. It must be magic—he so easily destroyed her self-control, she thought. Her heart responded to his nearness by leaping into overdrive. She wanted him to touch her, to hold her. To feel and taste him. Her emotions were skittering wildly.
Jen jumped to her feet and began clearing the leftovers and dishes. Dameon started to rise to help her, but she motioned him to stay. As she tossed everything into the sink, she lectured herself. Don't forget that you don't really know him. He has serious problems—whatever the cause. You don't know who really is...He could be—dangerous.
She returned and sat across from him, flushing as her eyes suddenly met his dark, unreadable ones. She cleared her throat and brushed back the waves of hair from her face.
"I'm making you nervous—I'm sorry," he said suddenly, accurately interpreting her mood. He changed the subject with ease. "Would you be willing me to show me your photographs?" He was reclining in his chair, catlike, relaxed, yet watchful. "I admit to being intrigued after our last conversation."
Flashing back to how that conversation had led to much more, she felt her face heat up again. "If you're really interested," she stammered.
His eyes lingered on her face. "I'm really interested," he echoed. The blackness of his eyes seemed to expand till they filled the entire room. Suddenly breathless, Jen stumbled to her feet and went to the bookcase to pull out her album of her favorite shots. Get a hold of yourself, she tried to tell herself. He's just being nice.
Dameon took the book from her nerveless fingers and took several agonizing seconds to study the pages. He looked up. "You're extraordinarily talented. You put my pitiful pictures to shame." His gaze held hers and she felt herself unable to move for a second.
"No, you're much better. You're a professional," she breathed.
Dameon laughed softly. "Perhaps we are both too modest," he said, handing her the album. Jen set it quickly on the coffee table and turned back to him. Breaking the tension, he rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "I would like to study your work further, but shouldn't we be leaving for the nightclub? You said you didn't want to get a late start."
Jen nodded, oddly relieved that the moment had lightened, but disappointed, too.
* * * *
She studied the fully packed Arcane, and wondered if it had been a mistake to bring Dameon here. This was his first taste of the Metro club scene. For all she knew, he had ventured into other American night spots, but she wanted him to like what Michigan had to offer. The Arcane was beginning to look like a bad choice. True, the crowd was older and better dressed, but there was still something of a hustling, frenzied atmosphere. She put her hand on his arm and spoke directly into his ear over the sound barrier breaking beat of the music.
"This place is something of a meat market."
"A meat market," Dameon said with a laugh. "I like that. America has such interesting colloquialisms." He laughed again, and Jen gave him a quizzical look.
"It's awfully crowded. I guess we'll have to wait awhile." She was wistful, longing to throw herself into the heat of the music.
"Come, let's dance. The music is waiting." Dameon slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and led her forward. She started to say something, but was halted by her sheer amazement as the crowd in the Arcane parted for them like the Red Sea did for Moses. Dameon glided through, apparently oblivious to the looks he was getting from women and men alike. Jen considered that her imagination was in overdrive, but he seemed to hold the crowd in his thrall. She heard a woman whisper to another, "I think he is an actor. I know I've seen him in the movies!"
Eyes studied him both covertly and openly with fascination. Women looked Jen over curiously, to find out what charms she possessed to be his chosen partner and on his arm. Jen was fascinated and puzzled by the crowd's response. True, Dameon was a good-looking man, and he dressed with distinguished good taste, but she had seen other men, even better looking and just as affluently attired, who didn't get the same reaction. She knew her own heart and mind were entranced by him, but tried to decipher how a gathering of strangers could respond the same way. They didn't know him.
Either she was crazy, or he was transmitting some kind of magical signal.; As always, her perceptions were somehow distorted when she was around Dameon. She tried to avoid breathing too deeply the mixture of smoke and perfume, which hung like a cloud beneath the glittering strobe lights.
They reached the dance floor just as the DJ started playing salsa music. Dameon took her in his arms and began to guide her expertly through the steps when Jen started to protest. She was not skilled in ballroom or modern dancing. To her surprise, she was able to follow him perfectly without stepping all over his shoes. My mother would be shocked to see me dancing like this, Jen thought irreverently. I was always the girl with two left feet.
The muscle-bound, spike-haired DJ was bouncing and throwing himself fully into the mood of it, playing song after song of salsa music, turning a whole set into one, continuous, hot, steamy beat from south of the border.
Adrenaline pumping and hair falling into her eyes, Jen laughed with excitement as they spun around yet again to another song. It was then she noticed that the other dancers on the floor were giving them a wide berth, despite the fact that Dameon courteously was keeping their movements contained to a small space.
Perplexed, she saw the eyes watching them, even though there were much more flamboyant Freds and Gingers on the floor. Yet, it was too subtle a phenomena to make mention of it. A circle of cool air seemed to enclose them in their own space and world, and the rest of the people seemed to be looking in from a distance.
She had never felt so graceful, so beautiful. Onlookers standing near the dance floor were watching them intently, but when they made eye contact with Dameon, they would quickly look away. How strange—but did it matter? Here she was, spinning and dipping like she was born with dancing shoes on. Jen was glad she had chosen her outfit, even if it was a touch flashy. The black mini was topped with a soft, black cotton bolo jacket. A maroon camisole peeked beneath the jacket, and she had gone all the way with maroon high heels and long, flashy, gold earrings.
Standing before the mirror at home, she had experienced the uneasy conviction that she looked like a call girl, but now, whirling effortlessly to the beat of the throbbing music beneath the flashing lights, she felt alive and desirable. The music slowed, and they melted without a word against one another, Jen boneless and drugged as Dameon held her close but without suffocating her.
He lightly caressed the small of her back, the sensation sending small, volcanic waves of pleasure through her. She felt as if he were touching her bare skin. Images of his body, beautiful and minus the clothes, unsettled her. Confused and embarrassed, she surrendered to the molten pleasure of dancing.
The DJ had dug up an old, obscure Pat Benatar song, Wuthering Heights. Its evocative lyrics trembled through the room. Couples held each other tighter, and eyes glistened as the song shamelessly played on the senses. The flashing lights and abundantly flowing liquor didn't hurt the mood, either. Jen felt she could easily fall into a trance in his arms.
She allowed herself to lean against the hardness of his arms, and enjoy his subtle minty scent. If only her erotic fantasies would remain chained and muzzled.
She noticed that he didn't appear to tire, nor did he perspire. Jen, in contrast, felt herself to be overheated, both physically and emotionally.
She watched a couple dance so tightly wrapped around each other that
they appeared in shadow to be a two-headed creature. The young woman wore a wild mass of black curls, which spilled down the back of her ultra-short, silver spandex dress. Her partner's hair was moussed straight up and he wore an Armani-rip-off. As they danced by, Jen was nearly overcome by their matching Obsession scents. She heard him whisper in the girl's ear, "So, what did you say your name was?" Jen grinned to herself. Typical club crawlers.
The music was sliding seductively to its finale, Benatar's voice an unearthly whisper. Over Dameon's shoulder, Jen noticed a tall, blonde woman standing near the rail, which circled the second level. The woman looked like a model, thin and porcelain-skinned in a tight, green sequin dress, sleek blonde hair falling perfectly over her shoulder. But what Jen noticed was the predatory stare the woman was fixing on Dameon. True, there were other women looking him over, as well. But this blonde was so blatantly obvious, licking her lips with a lascivious, pointed tongue, and she boldly caught Jen's eye and smiled smugly at her.
Jen gave an involuntary shiver. Dameon picked up on her reaction, and glanced to see what was causing it. Shock flashed across his face, but he recovered himself and stared at the woman with a cool, blank stare, which caused the smirking blonde to turn away. He looked down into Jen's eyes and gave her a reassuring smile.
"I knew her once. She is nobody of interest." He brushed his lips against Jen's forehead. She immediately felt better, but couldn't quell her curiosity. That woman looked at Dameon with such open intimacy, Jen could only surmise that they shared a past together. A close one. She felt awkward and plain next to the woman's powerful, erotic beauty. More than mere feminine insecurity, the woman made her uneasy, especially as she caught another glimpse of the blonde, and saw the look of rage and near hatred sparkling on her beautiful face. Jen felt a dart of real fear pierce her. This woman was so odd and gave off such a dangerous air.
Dameon was studying Jen with concern. The strobe light turned his tawny hair nearly white. A disco beat was thudding in the background. He frowned. "Have you had enough, chérie? Would you like to go home?"
Jen nodded, a strange, cold weariness seeping through her bones. She was uneasy, and wanted to leave.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like a soft drink or something before we leave?" Dameon had guided her off of the floor and miraculously had found a small, private corner apart from the seething mass of bodies. "You look a little overheated." He lay a cool hand to her feverish cheek. The red stone on his ring glowed in the dimmed lights.
"Let's have one at home." Jen's throat was tight and dry, and her voice came out a whisper.
Dameon leaned down closer to hear her. She repeated her request, he nodded and put his arm around her as he piloted them through the throngs of excited, perfumed, laughing people. Just as when they arrived, the crowd pulled back, giving them a clear path as they passed by. It was so inexplicable, yet her head was too heavy and dull to analyze it.
The Arcane was small and shaped like a T with the dance floor at the broad end. The club was short in length, but it felt like miles to Jen by the time they reached the doorway.
A silky voice came from behind them. "Leaving so soon? Why, the evening's just begun."
They turned and faced the sequined blonde, who was wearing the same catlike smile, her eyes nearly lambent in the dimmed lights. Up close, the woman's face possessed an unearthly beauty, slanted translucent green eyes balanced by a perfectly symmetrical, almost Egyptian-like face. She possessed a beauty unlike anything Jen had ever seen before, and radiated an almost palpable sense of menace. Jen tensed, and felt Dameon's arm grow rigid beneath her hand.
"Which is why we are leaving, so that we may enjoy it—in private." Dameon smiled a smile Jen had never seen before, smooth and predatory. His accent was even more pronounced. He pulled Jen closer to his side, and moved her slightly behind him. "Tatiana, what a surprise to find you here. Just passing through, I assume." His eyes were hooded as he fixed his gaze upon Tatiana's face. Her smile faltered, but she recovered.
"How clever you are, Dameon. You're always so quick to see the big picture." She licked her red lips, and Jen felt Tatiana would have liked to direct her razor-like attentions toward her, but something was restraining the blonde woman. "You are right, chérie, I am just visiting...for now." Her mocking smile was thrown out like a gauntlet. "Who knows, maybe I will develop an affection for this quaint little town"—she gestured vaguely toward what could only be assumed to be the general Metro area—"and will stay here indefinitely."
"I don't think you'll find this city at all to your liking." Dameon's gaze sharpened, and Jen felt if that look were aimed at her, she would run and hide. "Trust me, Tatiana, you'll do much better somewhere else. You won't find what you're looking for here." Their eyes locked, and Jen watched the blonde woman straighten her spine. She seemed poised and ready for attack when something made her step back in retreat. Fascinated, Jen couldn't stop staring at her, fully aware this woman could be one formidable rival.
Tatiana broke the moment with a tinkling laugh. "Oh, Dameon, or shall call you Dr. Freud, determining so quickly and perceptively that I would not be happy here." She slid a sly glance at Jen and smiled sweetly. "How well you know me and my tastes, chérie. But, it's true, I am a European at heart. Cannes would be lovely, or maybe the Riveria. Of course, there's so much excitement in the old Eastern Europe, so many men with their blood up. It could be fun. But, who knows where I'll end up," she concluded airily, tossing the sleek mane of hair over her other shoulder. Jen didn't miss the implication of the blonde's little dig. Obviously, she and Dameon did have intimate knowledge of each other.
Dameon was impaling Tatiana with an unwavering stare with a message unreadable to Jen. But something was being telegraphed between the two. Their every sentence was laden with dark innuendo. Dameon spoke in that soft, steely tone, and the hairs on Jen's neck stood up.
"You do that. You go to Europe, back where you belong. Your mother is no doubt eager for your return." Tatiana's face darkened at his last comment, her momentary vicious expression nearly wiping out the beauty of her face. Jen was astonished that the mention of her mother enraged the woman, and watched as the blonde struggled to recover her composure. Amazingly, in seconds, she was back to her sleek self.
"But, first, I must sample all of Michigan's delightful riches." She sighed deeply, theatrically, and dropped her lashes, affecting a forlorn look. "All by myself, I am sad to say. Some of us are not as lucky as you two lovebirds." She wagged a coy finger at them, and made sure that she broadcast her comments in a loud voice.
Sure enough, at least half a dozen male heads swiveled in Tatiana's direction, their interest open and predatory. They were like a ring of jackals ready to spring, except Tatiana was no helpless prey. Jen also noted that during this entire interlude, not one person had invaded or bumped into their space. A phenomena in a nightclub as packed as this one was. Deep in contemplation, and eager to shut out Tatiana from her view, Jen missed the first part of Dameon's sentence.
"...won't keep you from your sightseeing. Don't forget, winters here can be brutal." With that parting comment, Tatiana merely laughed merrily and melted into the crowd of male admirers.
Silently, Dameon and Jen put on their coats and made their way through the parking lot. It was unseasonably cold. Jen blew on her numb hands and crunched through the frost covered leaves without speaking. Dameon tucked her hand into the pocket of his charcoal cashmere coat, which hung long and graceful from the tall, strong length of his body.
He broke the silence while opening her door to the sleek Rolls. He had parked the antique car himself, having little faith in the red-capped teenage valet who had so openly showed his drooling admiration.
"Jen, I am sorry we ran into Tatiana. I do know her from when I lived in France, and our paths have crossed elsewhere. But, despite what she was striving to imply, we were not lovers." He grimaced. "Our mothers knew each other, and we are acquaintances at most. She had heard me call my mother ‘chérie�
�� and surmised it was a pet name for my loved ones." He leaned over her and fastened her seatbelt. His sensitive mouth was a hard line, and he was clenching and unclenching his hands.
Jen was overwhelmed by the implication that she, herself, might be his beloved. The fact that he spoke of his mother in past tense registered. One more bit of information that she had learned. Jen gathered knowledge on Dameon piece by piece.
He slid in beside her, and started the noiseless engine. "I did not introduce you to Tatiana for a reason. She is a depraved, cruel woman. She tends to leave a path of destruction in her wake. Her mother holds the purse strings and would like to keep a tight rein on her, and it would be better for all if she was able to do so."
Jen studied Dameon's profile, which looked forbidding. He frowned and turned to glance at her. A lock of hair fell into eyes. Impatiently, he pushed it away. He was waiting tautly for her response. Tension was coming from his every pore. She realized that he was actually worried that she might be angry.
"You owe me no explanations. I have no right to expect any. Anyway, Tatiana is a very beautiful woman," Jen conceded, trying to be fair.
"Her beauty fades when you know what the woman inside is like, but you are wrong, you know." He reached for her hand. "You have every right where I am concerned."
She smiled and squeezed Dameon's hand. They were making progress. Soon, nothing could keep them apart. As they rounded the corner to Jen's driveway, she was overcome with dread and surprised at how reluctant she was to return home. Apprehension coursed through her veins, tensing her muscles so that she could feel herself nearly physically pulling back like a recalcitrant puppy. She did not want to go home. The safe, warm feeling was gone, replaced by an unpleasant foreboding, no matter how much she tried to downplay her fears.
She stared at the moon drenched scene—houses clustered around the small, oval lake, trees thickly hovering over the street. It hadn't changed. At least, not on the surface. But there were dark and menacing things hidden and unseen, and she couldn't completely attribute it all to Tom Shlessinger, as much as she would have liked to. The sanctuary had been violated. As they pulled up, Jen heard Cobbs begin to bark excitedly. She allowed herself a small smile. Cobbs was one solid reality she could count on as a constant.
Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 12
