by Amii Lorin
At the boardwalk it was an altogether different story. There the atmosphere bubbled and sparkled like champagne, and was just as heady.
Buses, cabs, and private cars disgorged passengers everywhere. Female laughter rose above the babble of voices, punctuated regularly by the shrill whistles of hotel doormen.
Vichy located the hotel she was to perform in without difficulty and, following the instructions she'd received, made her way through the throng of people inside to the designated office.
Vichy found the small lounge she was to sing in just that—small and intimate. After a brief consultation with the manager of the lounge, Vichy went to her room. A hot shower dispensed with most of the tension tightening the muscles at the back of her neck and her shoulders, caused by a combination of nearly three hours of driving plus the apprehension of walking cold into a new job.
The first set on Sunday went smoothly. It was at the beginning of the second set, as Vichy's eyes scanned the sparsely populated room, that her glance collided with the piercing one of a dark-haired man sitting alone at a front table.
After ten years of performing in rooms very much like this one, Vichy was not unused to being stared at, but there was something about this man's riveting gaze that made her uneasy.
Time and again, while she went through her numbers, as if being compelled by a force too strong to deny, Vichy found her glance straying back to the man. And each time, for the length of a sigh, her glance was caught by his steady stare.
His face, rather harshly chiseled, even in composure, wore no expression. Did he hate the sound of her voice? Did he enjoy it? Vichy could not tell, for he didn't smile, he didn't frown. He just sat there, regarding her with that cool, unsettling, straight-on stare.
By the time Vichy had finished for the night and made her hasty retreat to her room, she had decided that if, for whatever reason, the man's goal had been to rattle her, he had achieved his purpose; she was thoroughly unnerved. If his desire had been to make her aware of him, in that he had also succeeded; she had hardly been aware of anyone else in the lounge.
Her dreams that night were peppered with an unsmiling countenance that stared numerous holes right through her.
When she began her last set on Monday night, she was almost afraid to scan the room. She had not seen even a hint of him during her earlier sets, but… Telling herself to grow up, Vichy launched herself into a popular, upbeat song, her eyes beginning a slow perusal of the scattered faces fanned before her. At the opposite side of the room from where she'd begun, her gaze came to a jolting stop. He was back!
Fighting a sudden, inexplicable urge to run for cover, Vichy, a hard-fought-for smile cracking her face, plodded through her repertoire, her glance dancing to encompass the room—except for one spot.
As the last note of her final number faded away, Vichy began a slow circuit of the room, pausing to greet the customers, bestow a smile, and murmur a soft "thank you" if complimented.
Studiously avoiding the section of the room where her tormenter sat, Vichy smilingly turned away from a young couple near the back of the lounge to find her way blocked by the very person she'd so carefully tried to steer clear of. His words were as direct as his staring eyes had been.
"You have a very sexy voice," he said softly. "But, of course, you know that."
Before Vichy could even begin to form a reply, he murmured an invitation that sounded more like a command.
"Come have a drink with me." His harshly cast features relaxed with a spine-tingling smile. "Let me flatter you into having a late supper with me."
Without waiting for an answer, in fact while he was still speaking, he curled long, slender fingers around her arm and began leading her in the direction of the table he'd occupied.
Bemused by the startling change his smile made to his visage, Vichy moved dazedly, allowing him to not only draw her with him, but seat her at the table as well! Her wits returned as he seated himself opposite her.
"Look, Mr.—" Vichy hesitated, eyebrows arched questioningly.
"Larkin," he supplied quietly. "Bennett Larkin."
"Look, Mr. Larkin," Vichy began again. "Thank you for your offer, but—" She got no further, for he cut in smoothly.
"Surely you eat?" The corners of his beautifully sculptured if somewhat thin lips twitched with the beginnings of another smile.
"Yes, of course, but—" she began again, only to have him cut in once more.
"Well, then, why not eat with me?" he queried, his tone mild.
"I don't even know you!" Vichy exclaimed softly.
"Not yet," he parried. "That's the point in having supper together."
"Mr. Larkin, I—" Vichy paused, her mind searching for polite words of refusal; after all, one did not antagonize the paying customers.
"Ben," he said softly.
"What?" The very softness of his tone had been lost to the muted murmurs of the other patrons. His tone rose half a notch.
"I said, my name is Ben."
"Yes, well"—Vichy swallowed against her strangely parched throat—"I'm sorry, but—"
"Have you a date for supper?" he rapped in a suddenly rough tone.
"No!" Vichy denied it at once, then chided herself for not ending the matter by giving an unqualified yes.
"There you are, then." His tone lifted with the corners of his mouth. "Why should we both eat alone, when we can keep each other company?"
CHAPTER THREE
Why indeed? Vichy wondered. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she was tired of constantly being alone.
It was strange, she mused, regarding Bennett Larkin from behind the barrier of self-imposed detachment, considering how many years she'd been, for the most part, alone. She had made friends, of course, but all of her relationships had been of the surface, casual type. Except for Brad, whom she refused to even count.
Why, now, had these past few days on her own seemed so barren? Very likely, she concluded, because of the fullness of her days during the two weeks she'd spent at home, with her family around her.
"Was the question too difficult?" Bennett Larkin's somewhat sardonic tone demanded she sit up and pay attention.
"What? Oh, I'm sorry, but where were you thinking of having supper?" Vichy hedged.
"Wherever," he shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"No, uh, I suppose not," Vichy finally answered.
"We could eat in one of the rooms right here," he waved his hand languidly to encompass the building. "Or," he paused, then asked, "are you hungry? I mean really hungry?"
"Well," Vichy hesitated, then answered honestly, "yes, as a matter of fact, I am." She had not rested well the night before, then had compounded the resultant edginess by pouring cup after cup of coffee into her tired body. At this moment she suffered from three afflictions—nervousness, hunger, and an unsettling sense of lonesomeness.
"There's a Japanese restaurant not far from here." He mentioned one of the casino hotels. "For a set price they serve a seven-course meal. There is no mulling, or indecision, over a menu. The majority of the food is prepared in front of you, on a grill set into the table, by a very dexterous chef. The meal is served in a courteous, leisurely manner. Does the idea appeal to you?" he finished quietly.
"Very much," Vichy admitted.
"Then why are we sitting here?" Rising abruptly, he came to help her out of her chair, not exactly rushing her, but giving her no time to change her mind either.
"I must get a coat," Vichy said as Ben started toward the steps that led out of the lounge.
"All right." He gave her a measuring glance, then added, "While you do that, I'll call ahead to make sure they can accommodate us." Again that measuring glance swept over her. "If you want to meet me at the lobby entrance, I'll have a cab waiting."
"Couldn't we walk?" Vichy asked, feeling the need of some exercise outdoors.
"Certainly, if you prefer," he concurred at once. "A stroll in the sea air might sharpen the appetite. I'll meet you at the
boardwalk exit."
When she went for her coat, Vichy caught a glance of herself in the mirror and decided she'd better remove her stage makeup if she didn't want to be stared at like some sideshow freak. Aware of the minutes slipping by, and of Bennett Larkin waiting, she worked swiftly, but carefully, creaming the heavier makeup off and applying a lighter coat more suitable for being seen in public. And all the time she worked, she tried to avoid thinking about the fact that she had just made a date to have dinner with a perfect stranger.
As she approached the appointed exit, Vichy spied Bennett Larkin before he saw her and used the short interval to study him.
In the dimly lighted lounge, his hair had simply appeared to be dark brown, much like her own. But in the well-lit area before the exit doors, Vichy could see his hair was actually a deep shade of auburn, the red highlights gleaming in the artificial illumination. He was taller than most of the men that passed him going in and out, and his shoulders were wide, his chest broad. His well-cut, perfectly fitted suit revealed a narrow waist, slim hips, and long legs. His arms hung limply at his sides, the fingers of one hand snapping impatiently, belying his relaxed stance.
In the darkened lounge his face had seemed somewhat harsh. Now, in the light, his features appeared chiseled, the cheekbones high, the nose almost hawkish, the jaw jutting out aggressively.
The well-shaped head turned, his eyes sweeping over the faces of the people in front of her before fastening onto her own. Suppressing a shiver, Vichy forced a small smile, asking herself: What am I doing? His expression was so fierce it actually frightened her.
"I was beginning to think you weren't going to show," he murmured as she walked up to him. "Did you have to fight second thoughts?" Vichy did not care for his tone or his fierce look. What was she getting into here? she asked herself nervously. His tone had had an underlying note of possession that sent a chill of warning down her spine. Should she try and beg off? she wondered. Would he give her an argument if she did? The answer came without hesitation. Yes, he would. Vichy didn't know quite how she knew, but she did.
"No," she answered simply. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. I had to remove my stage makeup." Vichy had never before seen eyes the color of the ones studying her now. His eyes were brown, yes, but they actually had deep red flecks in them. Were these what she had heard referred to as sherry-colored? Giving an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, she preceded him through the door he held open for her.
After the warmth of the smoky lounge, the sharp salt air had an invigorating effect. Sliding her hands into the slash pockets of her all-weather coat, Vichy walked beside Ben, only vaguely aware of the clacking sound her heels made on the almost-deserted boardwalk.
"Are you tired, or are you always this quiet?" Bennett Larkin angled his head, slanting her a questioning glance.
Vichy swallowed against the sudden odd something tightening her throat. "I am a little tired, but, yes, I'm usually this quiet." Comes from being alone so much, she could have added, but didn't.
"That's a relief," he drawled. "I was beginning to think my company had stifled your power of speech."
Glancing at him quickly, Vichy caught a flickering, sardonic curve that touched his lips.
"It's a rare quality in women, quietness," he went on softly. "Most of the females I know chatter incessantly, usually about nothing of any importance."
"Importance to whom?" Vichy couldn't resist the small dig. Why did men always think that the topics that concerned them were important?
"Ah, she's quiet, but she does have claws." A note of satisfaction underlined his smooth tone.
"Oh, yes," Vichy warned lightly. "She does have claws. Teeth too."
"Indeed?" His sherry eyes lit from within. "Very intriguing. I'll keep it in mind."
Something in his tone sent a tingle sliding down her spine and started a small fluttering in her midsection. Careful, Vichy, this one knows his way around the distaff side. At that moment they reached the hotel, relieving her of her fruitless search for an effective retort.
On their arrival at the restaurant they were seated at once by a pleasant, soft-spoken maitre d'. The table was rectangular and set for eight, the place settings arranged on three sides around a large grill.
A young couple, so obviously in love that Vichy wondered if they were on their honeymoon, were already seated at the table. They glanced up curiously, and Ben extended his hand to the young man.
"Bennett Larkin," he informed quietly. "And this is Victoria Parks." He recited the name that was on the lounge's advertisement board.
"Kevin and Donna Wheatley," the young man smiled before turning his attention back to his pretty wife.
"Honeymooners," Ben murmured, echoing her own thoughts.
Although their drink order was taken and quickly brought, the meal was not begun until the table had a full complement of eight, which consisted of an elderly couple and two women Vichy judged to be somewhere between forty and forty-five.
As Ben had informed Vichy, most of the meal was prepared on the grill before them by a charming young man. The rest of the meal—the sake and a clear, green tea—was served by a lovely, whispery-voiced young woman, who looked like a delicate Japanese doll in a colorful kimono.
During the course of the meal, and the ensuing conversation around the table, Vichy learned that the young couple were on their wedding trip, that the two women were on a one-day bus tour, that the elderly couple had stopped off in Atlantic City on their way from New Hampshire to Florida on a driving trip, and, most important to Vichy, that Bennett Larkin was in the city for one reason—to gamble.
Vichy had, of course, suspected as much, but having him so casually confirm her suspicions tightened nerves that the comfortable atmosphere had just begun to relax. But that didn't mean that gambling was his life, Vichy reminded herself. Oh, why was she trying to make excuses for this man, she wondered then, when he could very well be Brad all over again?
After bidding their table companions good night, Vichy and Ben left the restaurant.
"Do you want to take a cab or walk back?" Ben asked as they rode the escalator to the ground floor.
"After all that food, I think I'd better walk," Vichy smiled. "I can't remember ever eating so much in one sitting."
Holding her coat for her at the exit doors, Ben's eyes ran over her figure consideringly.
"It would appear to me that you have been eating hardly anything at all at any one sitting," he observed dryly.
"Is that a roundabout way of telling me I'm too skinny?" she demanded. Vichy was more than a little touchy on the subject of her weight, or lack of it, having been chided about it by every member of her family at least once over the two weeks she'd been at home.
"Not at all," he denied smoothly. "More a roundabout way of giving a compliment. Your figure is just about perfect, at least for my taste it is."
Vichy's pulses leaped erratically, startling her. After all these years performing in front of the public, she was used to compliments, honestly given or not. Why should this stranger's offhand remark have the power to fluster her? And there was no denying to herself that she was flustered. It was weird. She didn't care what this man thought of her figure or anything else. Did she?
Her shoulder being jostled made Vichy realize that they were still standing in front of the exit doors, hindering traffic. Bennett Larkin's amused expression made her uncomfortably aware of the fact that he knew of her confused state and was enjoying every minute of it.
With a stiltedly murmured "thank you," Vichy swept past him out onto the boardwalk. Without pausing to see if he was beside her, she started walking as fast as her heels would allow.
"What's the rush?"
His fingers curled around her arm, halting her headlong pace, before sliding slowly down to capture, and entwine with, hers.
Vichy opened her mouth, then closed it again, shocked speechless by the riot of sensations radiating from her imprisoned hand all the way up her arm to her shoulder
.
"It's very late," she began. His soft laughter stopped the rest of whatever she was going to say in her mouth. Good Lord! What was happening to her? Vichy could not remember feeling this way while in the company of a man since… No! She would not think about Brad. She tried to disentangle her hand, but Ben's fingers tightened around hers.
"Don't panic, beautiful," Ben advised softly, close to her ear. "I'm not going to make any sudden overt moves or shocking suggestions." He shook her hand slightly. "I'm not going to let go either. Enjoy our stroll," he urged, "and this perfect fall night." His tone went very low. "Relax and let nature take its course."
Vichy had a very good idea exactly which course he referred to. The very thing she'd been so carefully avoiding all these years. A shiver of—of apprehension or anticipation?—rippled through her body. Bennett Larkin felt it, of course.
"For God's sake, woman," he growled impatiently, "ease up." He came to a complete stop and turned to face her, his expression baffled. "You're as nervous and uptight as a teenager on her first date. But, as you are very obviously not a teenager, what's your problem, anyway?"
Vichy stiffened at his exasperated tone. Who did this guy think he was? And did he think that buying her supper gave him the right to question her? Or make remarks about her age and attitude? And she didn't like being called "woman" either! Once again she tried to pull her hand from his—and failed.
"Let go of my hand, please." Vichy was proud of the cool tone she'd managed.
"No." His tone held flat finality. "Answer me."
His implacability shattered most of her cool. "You're right," she snapped. "I'm far from being a teenager. I have been around, as the saying goes. If I have a problem, it is men, like you, who take entirely too much for granted. Now, let go of my hand—and don't call me 'woman.'"
"My, my, you're even more uptight than I thought," Ben marveled infuriatingly. "Some jerk rake you over the coals, did he?"
"That is none of your business," Vichy ground out through clenched teeth.
