by Girard, Dara
She heard Adriana take a deep breath. "All right. I won't shout. So please tell me where the hell you've been!"
Cassie winced, sure that she had busted an eardrum. "I'm at Drake's place."
"Since the party?" she asked, amazed.
"Yes."
She heard the phone being dropped, a great big "Yes!" shouted in the background, and then the phone was picked up again. "I'm proud of you, but next time call. I was about to send a search party."
Cassie laughed. "It's not as romantic as it sounds. I got sick. And not heroine 'falling in a faint' sick."
Her enthusiasm faltered. "Uh, yes, that would put a damper on a romantic interlude. Are you feeling better?"
"Much."
"Good. Now you can jump his bones."
"Adriana!" she scolded.
"I'm serious. I was so worried you had lost him."
Cassie glanced at Drake and lowered her voice. "He's a hard man to lose."
"Still you shouldn't string him along without satisfying some curiosity. I mean aren't you curious how he is in bed?"
"Not anymore."
Adriana let out a little squeal, then drowned her with questions. "Was it good? Was he good? When did it happen? Where did it happen? Were you safe?"
"I can't answer that."
"Why not?"
"Because," she said delicately, "it's not appropriate."
Adriana began to laugh, understanding her friend's caution. "He's right there, isn't he?"
Drake was sitting next to her pretending to read a magazine, but she knew he was listening to every word. "Yes."
"I want to speak to him."
"Adriana," she warned.
"I'll be good, I promise."
Cassie reluctantly handed the phone to Drake. "She wants to talk to you."
He took the phone and listened gravely. Soon a smile touched his mouth. "Of course," he said simply. He handed the phone back to Cassie.
"What did she say?" she demanded.
He shrugged and returned to his magazine.
"What did you say to him?" she asked Adriana.
"None of your business," she said lightly. "Now are you two free for dinner in two weeks?"
"Perhaps, why?"
"I was thinking of a double date. You and Drake, me and Mike."
Cassie grimaced. "You're not seriously interested in that guy, are you?"
"He's fascinating."
She switched the phone to her other ear and turned away so Drake couldn't hear. "Yes, and so are butterflies. Unfortunately they have the same IQ."
Adriana let her statement pass. "His band is playing at the Colossal. We could have dinner afterward."
The thought was not at all tempting, but Cassie did not want to hurt her friend's feelings. She chewed on her lower lip. "I'm not sure Drake will be free. I will—"
Drake grabbed the phone. "I'm free," he said, winking at Cassie's stunned expression. "Uh-huh. We'll be there. No problem. Bye." He hung up, flashed a victorious smile, and returned to his reading.
Cassie stared at him, outraged. "You don't know what you just did."
"Yes, I do. I made a date. Now since you had me bring half of your apartment here you better find something to do." He caressed her cheek. "You can't expect me to keep you busy all day. A man can only do so much."
She slapped his hand away and began unpacking her things.
* * *
Cassie tried to work on her book, but her mind was still blank. When she ended up doodling more than typing, she abandoned the project and read a mystery novel. Unfortunately, the villain was so obvious, she hoped the inspector would be killed for pure stupidity. She tossed the book aside and read one of Drake's many food magazines, getting lost in the gorgeous pictures and descriptions of culinary treats.
Drake proved to be a comfortable companion. Since he felt no need to entertain her, she felt more like a resident than a guest. Soon dangerous thoughts of a more permanent situation began to fill her mind. She dismissed them.
Lunch was an uneventful affair. Chicken broth with apple juice. They ate it on the balcony, watching the people down below and guessing what they were up to.
"She is going to meet a man," Drake said, spotting a striking woman in a tailored black suit. "They're going to the National Theater, but first they'll have an early meal where she'll order the ostrich in red sauce and a Chardonnay."
"Very good, but how can you tell she's meeting a man?"
"No woman would glance at her reflection that often for a woman."
"You lead a sheltered life," Cassie teased. "She could be meeting a lady companion."
"I say it's a man." His comment was confirmed when the lady in question threw her arms around a man standing by a taxi.
"Lucky guess."
"No, pure observation. I've taught myself to try to understand people."
Cassie rested her chin in her hand and studied him. "If you understand people so much, why are you so awkward in crowds?"
"Socializing and business are two different mediums. I know how people like to be pleased. Since in my business I have to please them, it is helpful to know who my clientele is."
"And no doubt your clientele is the wealthy elite who can afford to spend the equivalent of a designer dress on a meal."
"You sound disapproving."
She hadn't meant to, but she'd attended a number of those types of restaurants with Timothy. Instead of being an enjoyable evening it turned into a battle with his ego as he spent extravagantly because he didn't want to be seen as cheap yet chastised her for every bite she took. "I'm not, but dining has not always been fun for me."
Drake lifted his glass and narrowed his eyes. "Well, I'll have to change that."
He wouldn't be able to, but she wisely kept her opinion to herself.
After lunch, Cassie returned to the computer, muttering curses under her breath as she tried to break through the emptiness of her mind. Drake stopped her from her self-imposed torture when he announced dinner.
He had turned the dining room into an atmospheric affair with golden candles, hand-painted china plates, polished utensils, and champagne glasses. All the lights were off.
"It's lovely," she said. "It's a shame it must all be wasted on broth."
He pulled out her chair. "Good presentation is never wasted."
The broth wasn't too bad either. She didn't know what he did to it, but it had a full, rich taste. She watched him eat—drink, she thought spitefully, eating involved chewing—his broth and guilt crept up on her. He was doing all this for her in spite of the way she had treated him before.
She put her spoon down. "I can't take it."
He glanced up, startled, the candlelight highlighting the golden specks in his eyes. "What?"
"I can't stand watching you eat something that looks like dirty water because of me."
"Now wait—"
Cassie waved her hand, dismissing any explanation he had. The candlelight flickered. "Drake, you're too big to survive on broth." She glanced down at the watery dish in front of her. "I promise I won't drool if you eat solid food. I'll pout and whimper a bit, perhaps burst into tears on occasion, but I won't drool."
He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and laid it on the table. "No, we're in this together. Besides, I've survived on a lot less."
"You've survived on less than beef broth?" Cassie asked, appalled.
"Yes." He stood, becoming part of the darkness. "Would you like to listen to some music?"
"Sit down. I'm not letting you get away with ignoring the issue. When did you have to starve?"
He looked decidedly uncomfortable, but Cassie wouldn't relent. She wanted to know more about him. "I didn't starve," he quietly corrected. He pushed in his chair. "It's not important." He reached for her bowl. "Are you done?"
"You know I can do a brilliant silent treatment when I put my mind to it."
"That's good. We all have our special gifts." He went into the kitchen.
"You are ext
remely aggravating," she said, meeting him at the sink. "You said you wanted a relationship."
"And I suppose that includes baring our souls?" He turned on the faucet.
"I told you about Timothy."
"Only because it affects the present. The past is something that should stay in memory. All that matters is now."
"The past is what makes you who you are."
He cut the faucet off. "Who I am is what you see," he said roughly. "My past is off-limits."
Chapter 9
"If you're ashamed of your past, then you're a fraud in your present," Cassie argued. "It's like a tree looking at its root in disgust when that's what keeps it grounded and firm."
"Not all roots are so generous," he said in a low voice. "Some are weak."
"True, but they're still there or the tree would never have grown."
He rested his hands on the sink and studied her. "You really believe that?"
"Of course."
"Hmm, must be nice." He began to wash the dishes.
Cassie threw up her hands in surrender. It was clear he was not going to share anything. "You're right. It's not important." She returned to the dining room and cleared the table, then blew out the candles, encasing herself in blackness. The smoke danced for a while with the moonlight before it dissipated. She sat down and held her chin in her hands.
It didn't matter. Nothing about him mattered. He was a passing diversion like the smoke—something seen but intangible. He wanted a woman he could marry, someone to look good on his arm and in his restaurants. She did not want to be another man's wife again. Especially someone powerful and used to getting his way. Someone who was used to possessing things. He was doing her a favor by hiding his past. Knowing it would make him more real. A childhood and parents would make him whole with no room for fantastic thoughts—let him continue to be a sorcerer.
Tomorrow she would return home, Thursday she would go out with Glen, and then she would put her life back into perspective. She was vulnerable now and that's how Timothy had been able to catch her. She would not allow Drake to do the same.
She heard the chair in front of her scrape across the floor as it was pulled back, but she didn't look up to see its occupant.
Drake's voice cut into the black silence. "Do you like sitting in the dark?"
"Yes, on some level it makes everything clear." She let her hand fall to her lap.
"Hmm." He lit a cigarette. Cassie watched the end glow orange and burn its way to the center as he inhaled. "I became an orphan at sixteen," he said suddenly in a bored tone that gave no allowance for sympathy. Cassie opened her mouth to stop him, already feeling the tugs of understanding and sympathy wrap around her heart, but no words came out. "My parents came here for a better life and died instead. Mum worked in a factory and Dad on a boat. She got sick first; then he did. Our drafty apartment, filled with extra nightly companions, didn't help our hygiene situation." He tapped the ashes of the cigarette into the tray he'd brought with him. "When they were gone, I was left with a younger brother and sister to take care of. Eric was thirteen and Jackie seven. The courts wanted to split us up, but I wouldn't let them. I used someone as a bogus guardian, then disappeared out of the government's radar. I worked several jobs, making sure they were okay. I made sure they had sturdy clothes so that when they went to school, they didn't draw any attention. The housing wasn't the best and food was scarce, but I didn't want anyone to break us up."
"Of course. You didn't have a choice."
He nodded, glad that she could clarify what he had always felt. "Some called me a saint; others called me a fool."
"A fool?"
She heard the chair creak as he leaned back. "They thought that Eric and Jackie would be better in the care of the state where they would have a good home and meals."
Cassie sniffed, knowing that was luck of the draw. "So did they turn into juvenile delinquents?"
"No." She heard the pride in his voice. "Eric's a financial advisor and Jackie works at a not-for-profit organization, which I contribute to, and is also going to school."
"How did you come to own restaurants?"
Drake took a long drag of his cigarette. In the quiet she could hear the sibilant hiss of the flame eating the tobacco. "One night I was looking for leftovers behind a restaurant and a woman caught me. She was a small Swedish woman—Mrs. Larsen—with a loud voice and sharp green eyes. She asked me what I was doing and I said I was applying for a job. She asked me what I could do. I said anything. And that's what she hired me to do— anything. She and her husband owned the place and I was lucky because it was an upscale restaurant and I got to see how it was run from the inside out. I started in the back of the house and moved to the front. It was a new experience for me, the hustle of the kitchen, creating order out of chaos. I was able to taste new food. I'd never heard of lokdolmar or a breaker. Their son, Sveen, worked there and was perfect with the customers. I watched and imitated. They saw I had a knack for presentation, got on well with the customers, and had a head for business. I helped them run another restaurant and in turn they helped me get a degree in restaurant management. Finally Mr. Larsen helped me with the capital to open my own restaurant and here I am."
Yes. Here he was. The product of his own determination and tenacity, a man who had not asked for sympathy, but rather opportunity, and grasped whatever had come his way. His simple tale revealed more about him than many years of idle conversation could have. It wasn't what he said, but what he didn't say that exposed his character. He didn't talk about handling work and school, where he lived, or if there had been any family to turn to. He was a man who knew hunger, who spent his career feeding others; a man who knew poverty, who shared his wealth. They were alike in many ways. They had both overcome shyness to survive.
He was someone she could admire and love. And there again lay the danger that continued to lick at her heels. Her fists tightened, at the thought of loving him. She knew she could not bend to his will, he would be all-consuming if she showed a little weakness. A survivor like him knew nothing about love, only possession, and she didn't want to be another trophy on his journey to a complete conquest of a world that had been harsh. He had given her what she had asked for and now she didn't know what to say.
He stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet "I'm going to bed." It wasn't an invitation, just a statement.
Cassie sat still in the darkness until she heard the bedroom door close.
* * *
After a few moments of mindless typing, Cassie squeezed her eyes shut and resisted the urge to scream. She wondered if her publisher would let her out of the contract if she checked herself into an insane asylum. Her career hinged on this book and she couldn't even complete a solid first chapter. She stared at the notepad next to her, which was filled with doodles, then the paragraph on the screen and laughed at what she had typed. Why couldn't she focus?
She sighed fiercely, knowing the reason was sleeping in the other room. Drake was a definite problem. He was no longer a sorcerer she could relegate to her fantasies. He was a real man who had a past, who smoked when he was upset and made love when he wasn't. He had seen her at her worst and didn't care, but he wasn't safe. She knew that loving him would involve more than her heart; it would involve her soul, her mind, and before she could think, she would find herself married again. Feeling all the sensations a new marriage could offer before the novelty wore off and he discovered what marriage was about. That she wasn't always funny, that she could eat an entire pie without thinking. No, she didn't want to be present to see his illusion shattered as Timothy's had.
At first Timothy had been her perfect husband, her romantic ideal, but quickly all that charm had soured and she discovered the true man behind the extravagant gestures—impulsive trips to Europe, Asia, and the Caribbean. Gifts that made her head spin and events that were attended by notable personalities. In the beginning, he made her feel like a queen; by the end she felt like a servant. All that he had propose
d to love before soon revolted him: her choice in clothes, her hair, the way the house was decorated, but most important the way she ate. He said he couldn't stand to watch her eat no matter how small the portions. After discovering his affair with Debra—casually discarded gift receipts and hotel reservations, seeing them in bed together—she knew her marriage was over. He had pursued her, then rejected her, and now he suddenly wanted her back. Was his ego so large that he hadn't expected his chubby little wife to really leave him and make it on her own?
She turned off the computer, dismissing the idea. Knowing Timothy, it wouldn't be something that deep. He was probably just bored.
This isn't wise, she thought, staring at Drake's dark shape in the bed, but right now she didn't want to be wise. She wanted to be held and enjoyed and desired. She changed into her peach satin and lace nightgown (no doubt Drake had scrounged through her cotton pajamas to find this one), crawled under the covers, and stared up at the ceiling waiting for sleep to come. Drake gently tugged her toward him until her head rested on his chest. She lifted her head and kissed him.
She felt him smile. "What was that for?" he asked.
"Acknowledging your roots."
"What about you?"
She rested her head, melting into his warmth as he stroked her back. "What about me?"
"Tell me about yourself."
"I was born on the banks of the Mississippi to a Pentecostal preacher and his wife—"
"The real version."
She lifted her head. "But this one is much more interesting. I haven't even told you how many siblings I have."
"I don't care. I want the truth."
Cassie crossed her arms on his chest. "Okay, I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The middle child to Angela and Oscar Graham."
"How could you be the middle child when there were four of you?"
She paused, trying to understand who he was referring to. Then she remembered he'd seen her album. "Clarence, the eldest, was from another mother. He stayed to himself a lot." She didn't feel the need to mention how he used to walk them to school and help prepare their lunches or how much it hurt when he left at sixteen. "My father was a university professor, my mother a dress consultant. My older sister was homecoming queen three times in a row and graduated from Penn State with an attractive but useless degree in philosophy and is now married to a stockbroker. My younger brother made it into Texas AMU on a football scholarship and is now a sports commentator. He has yet to settle down. That's it."
