by Roh Morgon
His eyes are tinged with red, and I look back at him through a pink veil of my own. He takes a breath and his fists clench, as though he’s trying to regain control. I’m not sure I want him to, but the world as I know it has just tilted. I’m not ready for anything more.
“I must apologize. I did not intend to be so presumptuous. Please forgive me.” His eyes are slowly regaining their emerald color, but they still hold a fire that now burns in my soul.
“There’s nothing to forgive. I missed you as well,” I whisper.
He tilts his head and smiles.
“Well, then, shall we have a look at your present?” He gently takes my hand and leads me over to the bookcase.
“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I’m awed by both the bookcase and him.
“It is eighteenth century cherrywood.” He runs his fingers along a carved leaf, smiling down at me. “I am delighted it pleases you.
“But,” he continues, “it is missing something.”
Releasing my hand, he walks over to the box and brings it back, setting it on the floor in front of the bookcase. He kneels and, with a slice of his fingernail, cuts the tape and opens the flaps. The box is filled with books.
“These are from my personal library. I selected a variety of authors you might enjoy. You may have read some of them, but they are always worth reading again.”
He takes one out, stands, and hands it to me. It’s Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. I open it, and just as I expected, it’s a first edition and likely priceless. I carefully turn its delicate pages, then look up at Nicolas.
“It’s lovely,” I murmur, gently closing it.
“Come, come, it is just a book. I expect you to read it as well as the others. Here, look them over while I get something else from the car.” He indicates the box, then walks out the front door. I kneel and look at the books that are visible, hesitating to even touch them.
Nicolas returns with two more boxes and joins me on the floor. He opens one and pulls out a beautiful set of bookends made from black onyx, carved with great detail into the shape of ravens.
“These are a family symbol. I thought they would go well with the cherrywood.” He holds up one of the ravens, its polished ebony reflecting the ambient light in the room.
“And these remind me of someone I know.” Opening the second box, he takes out another set of bookends made of sparkling blue crystal. They appear to be women from ancient times, perhaps goddesses, and are exquisitely detailed as well.
He holds one up to the light and smiles at me, and I glance down in embarrassment, grateful yet again that I cannot blush.
Nicolas helps me take out all the books and together we set them on the shelves, nestling them between the stunning sets of bookends. We talk and laugh quietly as he tells me how he acquired each of the works.
“There. This will give you something to read while you work on filling the rest of the shelves with volumes of your choosing.” He looks down at me, his eyes bright, and continues.
“We cannot have you sitting here bored the next time you get snowed in. You might go for a mountain trek and never come back. And where will that leave me? Calling uselessly on an unanswered cell phone?” He grins and strokes my hair.
My mind goes blank, unable to put words together.
“Come, show me this spectacular mountain of which you speak. I am anxious to meet my competition.” He smiles again and takes my hand.
Bemused, I grab my hat and gloves, putting them on before I lead him out the back door. I’d cleared the snow away from the house earlier and created a pathway leading up the hill, and it’s at the edge of the pathway that he stops. He stands under the shade of a pine, looking up, his gaze sweeping the mountainside cloaked in trees and snow.
“It is magnificent. It seems to have a protective presence, as though it is watching over you. I appreciate that.” He cups my chin for a moment before shifting his attention back to the mountain, staring upward.
“If we hike a little ways up the trail, we can see Pikes Peak over the treetops.”
He looks down at his polished shoes and dress slacks, his expression regretful. “Ah . . . I do not believe I am properly dressed for hiking in the snow. And unfortunately, I have other business to which I must attend and need to get back. So it seems I am once again in the position of having to take a ‘snow check.’”
He gives me a sad-eyed look and I instantly burst out laughing. Nicolas has such constant control over himself and his surroundings, I can’t imagine him having to be sad-eyed over anything.
“All right. I’ll hold you to this one, too. But my patience is starting to wear a little thin, and Mr. Mountain is still a serious contender for my affections.” I stick my nose in the air, feigning indignity.
Lightning-quick, he turns, slides an arm around me and, lifting my chin, gives me a long and passionate kiss.
Everything condenses to the feel of his mouth upon mine, his body pressing against me.
He slowly stops, and his lips brush my jaw and move to my throat, lingering. And then he releases me. His eyes are crimson and full of fire.
“Can Mr. Mountain do that?” he murmurs, his voice deep with emotion.
My voice won’t work. Nothing works. All I can do is look at him wide-eyed.
He softly laughs.
“I think not.” He smiles and, raising my gloved hand to his lips, gently kisses it, his green eyes never leaving mine. “Shall we?” He gestures toward the house.
I’m numb as he walks beside me to the door. Once inside, he slowly lets go of my hand, then steps over to the bookcase and begins collecting the empty boxes. “Do you have a place to store these?”
Nodding, I manage to choke out, “We . . . we can put them in the garage.”
I grab a box and head out the back door, Nicolas following with the remaining boxes. We stack them in a corner of the garage, and when we come back out, he strolls to his car.
“Regretfully, I must cut my visit short. I need to get back to the city. And you need time to look at your books before you leave for work.”
I nod and look past him, trying to mask my disappointment. The sight of the plowed driveway jars my memory of a question I have for him.
“The snowplow. Did you . . . arrange that?”
The corners of his mouth quirk upward, and his eyes laugh at me.
“Oh. Well, thank you. It sure was a lot faster than using a shovel.” I shake my head.
Nicolas laughs aloud.
“Yes, I can just picture you out here shoveling the snow at whirlwind speed. You must have looked like your own miniature blizzard.” He reaches out and touches my hair.
I drop my gaze and bite back a smile, embarrassed, as he is probably right.
Looking back up into those emerald depths, my thoughts suddenly jumble again.
“I . . . I also want to thank you for the beautiful bookcase and the loan of all those incredible books. You really didn’t need to do that. I’ll take good care of them and will return them as soon as I can.”
“Nonsense, it is my pleasure. I enjoy seeing you smile, and do not wish to think of you bored and lonely. As for the books, keep them as long as you like. I suspect you may have more time to read them than I do as I am constantly being called away on business.” He smiles and reaches out, gently squeezing my arm.
“And now, I really must go. Thank you for such a pleasant afternoon. Enjoy your reading.”
His eyes bright, he gets into the Jag and starts it. I step back and watch him turn around and head down the drive. His engine roars as he accelerates onto the highway. I listen until it fades into the distance, then walk back to the house.
My mind is a bedlam of emotion as I enter the living room and look at the bookcase sheltering the rare and expensive volumes. I walk over to read the spines—Austen, D. H. Lawrence, T. S. Eliot, Hemingway, Byron, Whitman, Longfellow, Milton, Nietzsche. The list is as long as it is eclectic. I pull out Poe and open the cover, an
d the pages follow of their own accord, stopping on “The Raven.” I read the poem and think of Nicolas, and wonder why he favors this work, if it’s because of the family connection, or something deeper.
Closing the book, I glance at the clock and realize it’s time to get ready for work. I put it back on the shelf and take a deep breath, strangely reluctant now to re-enter the outer world.
CHAPTER 19
Work has been difficult tonight. I glance at the clock again, anxious for my shift to be over. Shauna gives me a sidelong look and shakes her head. She doesn’t seem too pleased with my mood, and I can’t blame her. I really don’t want to be here, and she knows it.
It’s not where that’s the problem. It’s with whom. And it certainly isn’t with these people.
This has been my first shift with Jackie, the other waitress, and I don’t like her. At all. Whereas Tina is just annoying, Jackie’s a downright bitch, and I find myself constantly struggling to keep from biting her head off—literally.
“Ya know, they never fail me. Isn’t that right, Shauna?” Jackie plunks her empty tray onto the counter. “I just got a twenty dollar tip from that table of G.I. jerkoffs over there. All for leaning over a bit so they could get a real good look at these babies.” She adjusts her blouse to better expose her generous cleavage.
I curl my lip in disgust and focus on washing the blender.
The door opens, and he is here. I look up as he walks in, and I smile, instantly forgetting my frustrations.
“Well, look who just came in the door,” Shauna says under her breath.
Jackie turns and her eyes widen as she watches him weave past the tables and chairs.
“Holy shit,” she says.
Nicolas continues up to the bar, his gaze fastened on mine and a slight smile tugging at his lips.
“You know him?” Shauna sets a glass into the sink next to me.
I ignore her and Nicolas stops across from me, a demanding fire filling his eyes. Jackie sidles up to him.
“Hey handsome, what can I getcha?” Her hand glides up to rest on his arm.
The growls that slip out of both our throats are barely audible. Nicolas turns his head and glares at Jackie with disdain. The hunter in me leaps up, snarling, ready to tear her apart.
Get your slimy hand off him, you skank.
She pales as she sees his face and jerks her hand away, then looks at my face and goes even paler. She slowly steps back.
“What the—?” Shauna moves away from me as well.
Still staring at Jackie through a pink haze, I take off my apron and set it on the counter. I glance at Shauna.
“I’m done. Tell Jerry I’ll be in tomorrow to get my paycheck.” I retrieve my bag from the office and join Nicolas at the door. With his hand on the small of my back, he escorts me outside. I catch a glimpse of their faces as we exit and feel a sense of satisfaction at their obvious fear.
“Well, that was interesting.” I take a deep breath once we’re on the sidewalk.
Nicolas looks at me. “They are nothing. I fail to see your attraction to spending time with such as them.”
“Well, to be honest, that wasn’t the best club I’ve ever tended bar for. I usually work with a better caliber of coworkers. And clientele.”
“Then my rescue was timely. It appears I have managed to save you from yet another evening of tedium and boredom, yes?” His dark green eyes glint with humor.
“I suppose. But now I’ll need to go out and find another job. Hopefully the next place will be a little classier.”
“If you do not mind me asking, why do you work in nightclubs in such close proximity to humans? Is there not something else you could do that is more . . . rewarding?” His hand strokes my back as we walk to the parking garage.
“Well, honestly? I don’t mind being around people. Most of the time.” But my loneliness is not something I want to discuss and I scramble for a better reason.
“Bartending also gives me something to do with my evenings, which would otherwise be ‘tedious and boring,’ as you put it. And of course, the money helps.”
“I see.”
But I can see that he really doesn’t.
We walk the rest of the way to the car in silence. His Jag is parked next to my BMW, and the two black cars make a handsome couple.
“The evening is still quite young. Would you like to come to my home for something warm to drink, some tea perhaps?” He looks down at me with an intensity that sends a thrill through my body, a thrill laced with alarm. I sense we’re reaching a point from which there may be no turning back.
Or maybe we’ve already passed it.
“Uh, sure. That would be . . . nice.”
“Ah. Not to fear. I will endeavor to behave like a proper gentleman.” His smile is slightly wicked.
I can’t respond, as part of me hopes he doesn’t.
“I think it will be best if you follow me in your car. Are you ready?”
I am . . . and I’m not.
CHAPTER 20
I follow the Jag through the exclusive streets of the Broadmoor area. At the end of a long, winding road, near the top of a hill, we finally pull up to a pair of black wrought-iron gates. They swing inward, and as we pass through, I notice in the middle of each gate is a crest embracing a pair of ravens.
The tree-lined drive winds a little farther up the hill, then curves to the right, and the house comes into view. It’s a large Tudor-style, just what I would expect someone like Nicolas to have. The sweeping front lawn, its several acres buried in snow, is dotted with strange shapes, some reaching nearly nine feet high. As we get closer, I realize that they are topiary in the shape of life-sized animals and mythical creatures. We pass a prancing unicorn, its horn thrusting skyward, and I wonder why they don’t have any snow on them.
The circular driveway curves back to the left as it nears the house and Nicolas stops at the stone steps that lead up to the front door. I park behind him. He gets out and a man appears from the side of the house. He bows to Nicolas, gets in the car, and takes it onto a side road that leads to a large multi-door garage set off a little distance from the house.
Nicolas appears at my door and, opening it, extends his hand to help me from the car.
“Thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.”
My gaze settles on the fantastic topiary across the driveway.
“Those are so beautiful! But why don’t they have any snow on them?”
He smiles. “They are covered with burlap prior to storms to protect them from the weight of the snow. When it stops snowing, the burlap is removed, leaving them snow-free.”
“I’d love to see them up close.”
“Perhaps we will come visit them later. They form quite a remarkable collection, and I enjoy showing them.” He turns toward the front door and takes my arm. “Shall we?”
I nod, and we walk up the dark steps to the intricately carved double doors, each emblazoned with the raven crest. One opens as we reach the top, and a slender young woman in a simple blue dress, her blond hair gathered in a bun, bows her head to us as we walk in.
“Good evening, sir,” she says in a heavy French accent.
She’s human, as was the man who parked the Jag, and I look sidelong at Nicolas in question. He smiles.
“We’ll be comfortable in the library. Marie, would you please bring us some hot tea? Darjeeling?” He looks at me, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes, that’s fine.”
He nods at Marie, who disappears down the hallway. I look around the huge foyer, and at the other end, elegant staircases on either wall curve upward to the next floor. There’s a large gold chandelier directly overhead, and the walls are adorned with pieces of magnificently framed art. Polished mahogany trim stands in stark contrast to the soft yellow walls, which are covered in a richly textured fabric.
Everything is so surreal—the topiary, the house, the servants. I feel like I’ve stepped into a movie, and I don’t know how to re
act.
“Shall we go into the library?” Nicolas’s eyes hold their familiar amusement.
“Sure.”
But I’m not. Not sure at all. I think of my mountain and wish for a little of the serenity it brings me.
We enter the first door on the right, and this room is overwhelming as well. It’s a classic library, straight out of a gothic novel, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the entire back wall to our left. A fire is gently burning at the far end of the room, and as we walk in, I notice a view of the topiary garden out a room-length window to the right. Two overstuffed chairs bracket the fireplace and it’s to these that Nicolas heads.
“Come, sit down and enjoy the fire. Marie will be here in a moment with our tea.” He stands next to one of the chairs and I uneasily take a seat in it, then he sits in the other.
I can feel Nicolas studying me as I stare into the fire. After several long moments, a knock sounds at the library door.
“Come in, Marie.” Nicolas continues to watch me and I resist squirming in my seat.
Marie walks in carrying a silver tray with an ornate porcelain teapot and two matching cups and saucers. She sets the tray on the small table next to Nicolas’s chair, pours the tea, and puts one of the cups on the table next to me.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” She folds her hands, her blue eyes downcast.
“No, that will be all for this evening. Thank you, Marie.”
“You are welcome, sir. Good night.” She bows her head first to Nicolas, then to me.
I feel like a character in a script or stage play or something. This is just too weird.
As she closes the door, I look at Nicolas questioningly. “She’s human. They both are.”
“Ah, yes, my staff is well-trained and well-paid, enough to not notice anything, shall we say, out of the ordinary. They also live here on the grounds and rarely go into town, so there is little opportunity for outside gossip.” He smiles, the master of his house, and takes a sip of tea.
I’m way out of my league here. I realized when we first spoke that Nicolas, with his sophistication and manner of dress, was likely wealthy. But I tend to forget due to his easygoing nature and underlying sense of humor. However, now that we are in his environment, his domain, I’m acutely aware of our differences and wonder what he sees in me. I think back to earlier in the day, with Nicolas in my small and austere home, and feel embarrassed again.
