He glanced over at her, still amazed at her ability to fall asleep so effortlessly. He watched her burrow under the covers and curl up on her side of the bed.
Letting out a long breath, he lay back. The damn nightmares were getting worse. At first, he’d tried to write them off as nothing more than subconscious manifestations of his inner turmoil. But the frequency and power of them foretold something much more sinister. He’d studied the occult far too long to overlook the significance. Portents and harbingers of death were part of his stock and trade. But objective, intellectual discovery and personal experience were far different things. And it wasn’t as if this were the first time either. His grandfather had died days after his first night terror. He’d been too young and traumatized to see the correlation. And now, he felt like that frightened boy he had been thirty years ago. He simply couldn’t bear that sort of loss again. Elizabeth was alive, but the nightmares still came. Try as he might to rationalize and deny, there was a truth in the dreams he couldn’t escape.
He fought against sleep and the horrors it brought. Eventually, he lost the struggle and fell once again into the world of nightmares.
* * *
The late afternoon sun warmed Simon’s back as he faced the heavy door. He held up his hand to knock, paused, and then rapped his knuckles against the metal. It had been a long enough day already. Elizabeth took bloody forever to find her perfect shoes for work. Thankfully, she seemed too tired to tag along when he mentioned he might have a lead on a job. She offered to go with him, but he would have none of it, and insisted she rest. The last thing he needed was her standing over his shoulder. If this incredibly asinine idea fell apart at the seams, at least without her there, she’d never be the wiser. He’d left her at the apartment and headed out on his errand. Before he could finish his thought, the small rectangular peep hole door slid open and Charlie’s bright eyes peered out.
“Oh, you,” he said, the light dimming noticeably. “Lizzy’s not here.”
“I came to see you.”
Charlie paused for a moment, then undid the locks and opened the door. “Come on in.”
Simon stepped inside. The club was empty and quiet, a stage waiting for the curtain to rise.
“Something wrong with Lizzy?” Charlie asked.
“No, she’s fine. I... I came... I understand you’re in need of a new piano player.”
Charlie laughed in surprise. “I am. You know somebody?”
“I’d like to apply,” Simon said, trying to sound as though he weren’t mortified at the very thought.
“You? Lizzy said you were a professor or something back in England.”
“I am. I was, but I also play. The two are not mutually exclusive, you know.”
Charlie laughed again. “Well, ya sound like a professor. I’ll give ya that. Let’s see what ya got, Maestro.” He gestured to the small upright in the corner.
Simon nodded and walked over to the piano. He sat down on the small bench and rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs. He didn’t play very often, but perhaps all those lessons his mother had forced him to endure as a child might actually serve a purpose. He wasn’t familiar enough with the music of the day to play any by memory and paled when he didn’t see any sheet music.
“Do you have any songs, any sheet music?”
“Ya read music?”
“Of course I do.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “You’re touchy enough to be a player. In the bench.”
Simon stood and lifted the seat. He chose a Cole Porter standard, “Let’s Misbehave”, and said a silent prayer as he started. Luckily, the few times he’d sat down to aborted attempts at seeking solace in playing had been enough, and his fingers limbered as he played. In spite of his earlier misgivings, Simon found himself enjoying the music. There was something so alive in it. The allegro defied even the most morose mood. As his fingers danced over the keys, he felt himself growing lighter by the moment, getting lost in the playful, knowing wink of the melody. In the twenties, the glass was always half-full and touched with a splash of Vermouth.
“Not bad, Professor,” Charlie said when he finished.
“Thank you. And the job?”
Charlie leaned onto the piano and watched Simon carefully. “You’re good enough. But...”
“But?”
“Why do you want it?”
Simon closed the music and kept his eyes away from Charlie. He’d never been in this position before and it was decidedly uncomfortable. “We need the money.”
“And?”
Simon frowned. He thought about an elaborate explanation, but Elizabeth had been right about Charlie. He was a shrewd judge of character. “We do need the money, but more than that. Elizabeth needs... looking after.”
“You’re right on that score,” Charlie admitted. “But she’s got a job to do and—”
“I won’t interfere,” Simon promised.
Charlie looked skeptical. “You sure you can do it?”
“Wasn’t my playing adequate?”
“Not that. You can play all right. I mean, can ya look me in the eye and say you won’t do nothin’ when a man catches an eyeful of your wife or offers to take her to the boat races? I run a clean joint, mind ya. But this ain’t exactly church on Sunday either.”
Simon knew he had to make the promise, even if he wasn’t sure he could keep it. “She’ll do her job, and I’ll do mine.”
Charlie sighed heavily and shook his head. “All right. I get the feeling I’m gonna regret this, but ya got the job.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, relieved. “Now, about my salary...”
“I think I regret it already.”
* * *
Elizabeth waited impatiently for Lester to open the door to Charlie’s. It was after six, and Simon hadn’t come home. Lester slid the peep hole open, and she saw his eyes crinkle in a smile. “Hiya, Lizzy,” he said, as he opened the door for her.
“Thanks, Lester,” she mumbled and made a beeline for Charlie, who was standing behind the bar.
“You’re late,” he said, as he counted inventory for the night.
“I’m sorry. I know, but Simon didn’t come home, and I don’t know where he is.”
Charlie’s big face split into a grin and he looked over her shoulder. “Turn around, doll.”
“What?” She followed his gaze and turned around. Simon stood on the other side of the room. He leaned casually against the piano, enjoying his moment of triumph.
He was wearing a black tuxedo and a smug grin. Elizabeth blinked a few times. She hadn’t expected to see him here, and certainly not looking absolutely devastating. The tux was simple and classic. The long straight lines made his shoulders look broader. His legs were long and set apart in a casually confident stance. The vee of his crisp, white shirt drew her eyes up to his face. She’d always thought him a handsome man, but a handsome man in a tuxedo was something else entirely. Elegance and power combined.
She realized she was staring, that her jaw was probably scraping the floor. She pushed away the fluttering feeling in her belly and walked towards him. “What are you doing here?”
Simon nodded toward the piano. “Working.”
“You mean, you... You can do that?”
Simon laughed and brushed a piece of invisible lint from his lapel. “I can do a great many things.”
She remembered the piano in his living room. “I had no idea you had a love of music.”
“A man should have more than one love, don’t you think?”
Elizabeth smiled. Life affords few opportunities and this one was too good to pass up. “Well, that depends,” she said, and stepped closer. “On the man.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously in his throat. “Indeed.”
“You could have told me.”
Simon’s expression remained amused and in control. “And miss this? Hardly.”
“The mysterious secret life of Simon Cross?”
“Hey, Lizzy!” Charlie called
out from across the bar, interrupting them. “You better get changed.”
“Will do,” she said, and then turned back to Simon. She smiled slyly and eyed him up and down. “Well, I do love a good mystery.”
Simon swallowed hard and seemed at a loss as to how to respond to that salvo. She enjoyed his discomfiture for a long moment before giving him a saucy wink and heading toward the back room. Point, Elizabeth.
This was how Saturday night was meant to be. The club was packed to the rafters with people ready to revel. Simon’s piano playing was just the touch the club needed. Keeping the selections lively, he realized that, much to his chagrin, he actually enjoyed himself.
He kept a not so surreptitious eye on Elizabeth. A few men were overly solicitous, but she handled them smoothly. Her ability to appease people without losing ground was a skill she’d had years to hone as his assistant. Even if she didn’t know it, she was masterful. He found himself simply watching her. The easy way she engaged people was alluring. He was sure more than one man ordered well past his limit just to talk to her again.
The bar wasn’t quite what he’d expected. His imagination coupled with his brief glimpse last night had given him the impression of a tawdry bacchanal. Crowded, loud and dirty. But the people were amiable, even generous. Charlie ran the place well. He stayed on top of countless drink orders and kept things running smoothly. Not to mention Simon had seen him have a few harsh words with one of the men who’d given Elizabeth a hard time. All in all the evening went well. And, thankfully, King Kashian was nowhere to be seen. Although, judging from what Elizabeth had told him about her encounter with the man, they would certainly be seeing him again. His hand went unconsciously to his pocket and he felt the outline of the watch. It was their only chance of getting home and suddenly he needed the reassurance that it was there.
The bulk of the night passed in a blur. Just when it seemed they’d barely begun, their shift was over and Charlie gave last call. Only Simon’s aching wrists and Elizabeth’s sore back let them know how hard they’d really worked. They changed into their street clothes and were ready to head home when Charlie offered them a nightcap.
“None of that rotgut,” he said. “The good stuff. Glenlivet do ya?”
Simon arched an eyebrow. The other bottles were of indeterminate origin, homemade labels sloppily pasted on. Brand name drinks were a rarity during prohibition.
Charlie understood the unasked question and set the bottle down. “Fella I know brought a few bottles back from the war. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
A drink sounded wonderful, but it was outrageously late. “Some other time perhaps.”
“Just one?” Elizabeth said and cast a quick glance at Charlie. “Besides, it’s tradition. Your first night working in the club. Gotta have a drink.”
“Right,” Charlie said too quickly. “Uhm, it’s tradition.”
“Tradition?” Simon said, easily seeing through her ruse.
“Well, traditions have to start somewhere,” she said and settled herself on a stool. “Just one drink and then we’ll go.”
His inability to deny her would surely be the death of him. “All right,” he said taking the stool next to hers. “But just one.”
Charlie set up the cups. “Dix, you want a snort?”
She set down her dishtowel and came to join them. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Charlie raised his cup. “Here’s mud in yer eye.”
They toasted and drank. The scotch was warm and soothing and reminded Simon of home. He wasn’t a social drinker, preferring his own company to most other’s. He’d never given much thought to the notion that he drank alone. The idea of sitting at a bar making idle chitchat was vaguely nauseating, and yet, here he sat. And it wasn’t so bad after all. Elizabeth made conversation, while Simon merely listened, content as usual, to simply watch.
She was animated and engaging as she regaled them with stories of her father and their misadventures at the race track. Dixie and Charlie chimed in with stories of their own, but Simon’s attention was swallowed whole by Elizabeth. The way the soft light brought out the golden highlights in her hair. The gentle timbre of her voice as she laughed. Her small fingers delicately tracing the rim of her empty cup.
“What about you, Professor?” Charlie asked, breaking him away from his reverie.
“I’m sorry?”
“He asked where you learned to play?” Elizabeth said.
“Play? Oh, piano. My mother insisted,” he said, hoping that would satisfy them. He should have known better.
“Insisted?” Elizabeth asked. “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“It wasn’t,” he said, but something pricked at his memory, something warm and long-forgotten.
Elizabeth must have noticed a change in his expression. She was too astute by half. “Except,” she prompted gently.
“There was one Christmas,” Simon started, not sure why he felt compelled to tell the story. The words simply came of their own volition. “I was eight or nine, I can’t remember. I’d been taking lessons for only a few months, and my father decided I should give a recital. My mother took the task of molding me for the occasion.”
He could still see their living room. Victorian furnishings, Chippendale chairs he was forbidden to sit in except on special occasions. The grand piano looming in the corner.
He looked down into his empty tea cup, almost as though the scene were playing out at its bottom. “I was petrified,” he said and cast a quick glance at Elizabeth. Her smile was perfect. Not patronizing nor overly sweet, just perfect.
He looked away and continued, sliding down the slope of memory. “The entire family, great aunts, uncles had come home from India, every possible relation there to witness my inauspicious debut.”
He pushed the empty cup away and shook his head. “Greensleeves,” he continued with a soft laugh. “Of all the songs. I think my mother was more nervous than I was. I can see her face. She used to wear her hair up in a loose sort of bun,” he said, his voice temporarily trailing off at the sharpness of a memory nearly forgotten. “When my father announced the time had come, I felt like I’d suddenly sprouted ten thumbs. But there was no turning back. I started playing. Terribly. I wanted to run away, and then... I’d nearly forgotten this. Mother started to sing. She just smiled at me and stepped forward. She was doing it to cover for me, to drown out the shambles I was making of the song. Slowly, others joined in. Even my father.”
He’d completely blocked out that memory, more than willing to put darker ones in its place. Odd that he’d remember it now.
“That’s so sweet,” Dix said, pulling him abruptly back to the present.
Simon cleared his throat uncomfortably. What had possessed him to tell that story? He didn’t know, until he felt Elizabeth’s hand slip on top of his. She squeezed it reassuringly and smiled. And for once, he didn’t pull away.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday, Elizabeth thought lazily as she started to wake. Her eyelids were heavy with sleep, and she forced them half-way open. The late morning sun filtered through the thin curtains as they fluttered in a warm breeze. Even with the city outside bustling with weekend foot traffic, the room was quiet and peaceful. Reluctantly, she began to push herself upright, but the bed beneath her hand didn’t feel right. Too firm, too warm, too Simon.
Instantly awake now, she dared to open her eyes. Well, this is embarrassing, she thought. Sometime during the night, she’d practically crawled on top of him. One arm lay across his chest, one leg draped over his thigh. And a nice thigh it was. She felt the long, taut muscles beneath her. She could almost picture the sculpted strength of them. The way they might tighten and relax if he were... She quickly glanced up to see if he’d heard her thinking and sighed softly. He was still asleep.
She started to pull her hand away from his chest, but the broad planes of muscle felt solid and comforting under her fingers. She felt his heart beating. Quickly. Too quickly for sleep.
She loo
ked at his face again and noticed things she’d missed before. His jaw wasn’t slack, but slightly clenched. His lips weren’t as full as usual, and lay in a flat line. The corners of his eyes crinkled with the effort to keep them tightly shut. The big faker. The big, adorable faker. She nearly laughed out loud. It wouldn’t do to embarrass him and, after all, she was the one who’d climbed on top of him. Not that he’d resisted apparently. His arm curled under her shoulder, the long fingers of his hand barely brushing against her.
Maybe she could pretend with him, for just a few more minutes? She laid her head back down on his shoulder and closed her eyes, letting herself drift into a fantasy. This was how Sundays always were. Waking up early in his arms—safe and content. Maybe they had breakfast in bed? Or made love?
As her mind floated along in the pleasant current of her daydream, his hand slid down her arm and tightened ever so slightly. Was he caught in the same current? With a contented smile, she sighed and fell back asleep.
When she woke up again, Simon was out of bed and fully dressed. “What time is it?” she asked with a yawn.
“Nearly one in the afternoon,” he said and turned the page of the paper with a snap. “Did you sleep well?”
Elizabeth felt the blush steal over her face. “Very.”
Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she could see him smile behind the paper. She grabbed her dress and slipped into the bathroom. A few minutes later, she emerged washed, dressed and ready to meet the day. After last night, who knew what it might bring.
“So,” she said and took the chair opposite Simon by the window. “What should we do today? We’ve got all day. Or what’s left of it anyway.”
“I’m not sure,” he said, putting down the paper and picking up the watch from the table. “It seems our time is our own. For six weeks at least.”
“At least?” She didn’t like the way he said that.
“My research has generated absolutely nothing in the way of leads. We have little choice but to trust the watch will do what we think it will,” he said as he slipped it inside his jacket pocket. “If not, we’re on our own, I’m afraid.”
Out of Time Series Omnibus (Out of Time: A Paranormal Romance & When the Walls Fell) Page 11
