Divine Fire

by Melanie Jackson

  “I don’t like candles at the table,” Damien explained. “One sees the naked fire and never the light in a guest’s eyes.”

  He probably didn’t mean his words to be romantic, but they were.

  Brice’s senses continued exploring. Her fingers told her that the upholstery on the chairs was real velvet and the menus were bound in real leather. The scents told her the food would be truly exquisite, and it was probably a more effective way to lift the spirits than any antidepressant on the market. Sighing with delight, she smiled at Damien and opened the menu that Antonio put in her hands. Maybe she was supping with the devil, but she didn’t care. She’d just ask for a long spoon.

  “And let the games begin,” Brice said softly, taking in the many pages of appetizers and entrees. “What? No Jell-O salad? No meatloaf? No French fries? I bet they don’t even serve parsley garnish. Oh—flan aux poire! And les champignons violets. I didn’t think you could get these any time but April in Paris.”

  Damien laughed softly. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but for a moment it seemed that his eyes blazed with gold fire. “A fellow gastronome. We are so rare in this day of carb-counting. Let’s celebrate our meeting of appetites, shall we? How do you feel about pâté? Would it fit the mood?”

  “Like spandex shorts,” Brice said before thinking.

  Damien laughed again. In that moment she could see some wickedness in his gaze, and a lot of sex. It was as though something had switched on in his brain when they sat down at the table. Food took some men that way.

  The name of the restaurant was Italian but the cuisine crossed many borders. Brice hardly knew where to start. Damien seemed inclined to order one of everything so that they could sample at will. Brice vetoed the idea, saying that she would feel like a cochon, a pig, and feared ending up on the menu herself.

  Damien acquiesced. They didn’t stint too much, though. They began with pâté, artichokes in hollandaise and les champignons violets. Neither being fearful of strong flavors, they rounded out the appetizers with some baked goat cheese. The edge knocked off their appetites, they readied themselves for the subtler flavors of the main course by cleansing the palate with lemon-fennel sorbet.

  Damien had squab with roasted shallots and lingonberries as his entree and Brice the salumon a la Griggia with roasted asparagus. Throwing caution to the wind, they ordered both the Puligny Montrachet Latour and a Chateauneuf du Pape Beaucastel. As expected, the wines and food were all excellent.

  For dessert, they shared berry ice cream cake and a praline bombe with rich espresso and brandy. It was decadent, a pleasure to cause guilt—hell, with the sorts of calories she was consuming, Brice decided that it might even be a mortal sin in the world of cellulite. She wasn’t treating her body like the temple she was exhorted to worship in; she was using it as a combination wine cellar and candy kitchen.

  She looked up once while savoring a last spoonful of creamed sin and caught a glimpse of someone in a tarnished mirror that hung on the wall, mostly masked by a spray of white tuberoses. The person in the glass looked vaguely familiar, and stared quite pointedly as Brice studied her. Puzzled, she stared harder at the woman, trying to place the face. It was her own reflection, of course. Yet not. There were differences. This woman’s eyes were focused, her cheeks flushed with something other than cold. And she was half smiling, as though fighting to contain some excitement that she wasn’t quite ready to share with the world. It was, she realized, the face of a younger Brice Ashton, one who hadn’t lost faith in miracles.

  Oh, no! she thought. But the face just kept smiling.

  Brice looked away, feeling a little terrified as well as thrilled.

  “Ready for a walk?” Damien asked as he signed the bill. There was nothing so vulgar as an exchange of money or plastic. “Or shall I call for the car? A meal like that can be as effective as a dose of Nembutal.”

  Normally, Brice would agree, but not that night. She, like the girl in the mirror, felt energized and wanted to walk off some of her dietary excess. “A walk would be lovely, but I’m afraid the best I can manage is a waddle. Do you still want to be seen with me now that I’ve gained twenty pounds?”

  “Of course. Put on a coat and no one will suspect there is a petit cochon underneath.”

  “I hope not. There are probably laws about pigs roaming the street at will.” She smiled and said sincerely: “That was delicious—thank you.”

  Antonio appeared before Damien could answer, bearing their coats and many best wishes for their evening and for their swift return to his restaurant. Damien allowed him the good wishes, but opted to help Brice into her coat himself. His hands lingered a moment at her shoulders, stroking the cashmere of her dress. She would guess that he was a sensualist as well as a gourmet.

  “Where shall we go?” Brice asked as they stepped out into the snow, which wasn’t yet deep enough to be a hindrance. But once outside, she was again bothered by the idea that the weather was laughing at her.

  “We are quite close to Macy’s in Herald Square. Have you ever seen the windows at Christmas?” Damien asked.

  Feeling like a kid offered the world’s biggest lollipop, Brice answered: “No. I’ve never been to the city at Christmas before. Though, of course I’ve seen Miracle on 34th Street many times.”

  As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she wondered if the wine was making her silly. But Damien merely seemed pleased by her answer. Perhaps he was feeling a bit tipsy too. Certainly he looked younger and happier than he had only a few hours before.

  “The windows are worth a look. And if you are interested in architecture, the old wooden escalators are still operational down in the basement. The original marble floors are still there too. The sound is fascinating—like nothing else you’ve ever heard in a department store.”

  They strolled only half a block and encountered a dazzled crowd gathered outside of Macy’s in spite of the falling snow. Brice thought Damien had rather understated things. The windows at Macy’s were absolute wonderlands of color and whimsy that made her lust for things she wouldn’t need on January second, but wanted just the same.

  Seeing her delight in the bright displays, he obligingly peered in every one and even offered to take her up to Santaland so she could speak with the head elf himself about her newly discovered wants and needs.

  Brice actually considered it for one moment, but then she decided she had behaved enough like a tourist for one night—which she said to Damien. She also figured that the sorts of wants and needs currently on her mind would shock the dear old elf—which she didn’t say to her host. Damien shook his head at her refusal and laughed in his peculiar, quiet way. He said she should be a tourist for just a while longer and they would go see the iceskating rink and Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.

  “And you must see Prometheus. It’s my favorite statue in the city. We go back a long way.”

  Suddenly the hair of her nape lifted. Brice caught a glimpse of something—someone—of odd posture and proportions reflected in the dazzling window. The shape seemed to be stalking toward them. She spun about hurriedly, but nothing was there and no one unusual was nearby.

  “What is it?” Damien asked, stepping protectively in front of her and scanning the crowds around them.

  “Nothing. I think I was anticipating a pickpocket. Or maybe the ghost of Christmas past sneaking up on me. I have to admit I’ve been a bit of a humbug the last few years.”

  “Isn’t it the ghost of Christmas future who is so frightening?” he asked, turning toward her.

  “Not for me,” Brice answered flatly. Then she changed the subject before unhappy memories could crowd in and ruin her evening.

  As they strolled, Damien acquainted Brice with the city and some of its Christmas traditions, beginning with the literary world but expanding into tales of invention and commerce. She laughed when he told her about the first Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parades and how they used to release the balloons at the end of it.

  “But
then there was a near collision with an airplane and a few hysterical reports from ships at sea about flying monsters attacking New York. That put an end to the practice.”

  “Cost would probably have ended it eventually,” Brice commented. “Those balloons are expensive.”

  Damien nodded, but she knew he was thinking that the expense was worth it, and that he would choose to give the balloons their freedom if he ran the parade. She wasn’t certain that she could be so frivolous, but wished to be. Life would probably be a whole lot more fun if she could sometimes do things and not count the cost.

  Brice was surprised to learn that her favorite children’s author and illustrator, Maurice Sendak, had gotten his start decorating the wonderful windows at F.A.O. Schwarz.

  “And would you believe that I actually played Father Christmas at a party once?” Damien asked. “It was at a fund-raiser for the Met,” He shook his head as though still stunned with disbelief.

  “Er…is this a trick question?” Brice responded, feeling a smile tug at her lips.

  “Not at all. A rhetorical one, maybe. I tried to live up to the part—I swear I did—but my ‘Ho ho ho’ was a bit inadequate and the adhesive on the beard gave me an ear-to-ear rash that had me scratching in an embarrassing way that made a woman ask me about head lice. There is nothing like a persistent itch to make one grouchy. I’m afraid I spent the night scowling.”

  Brice nodded gravely. “Holidays! I obviously never played Santa, but I dressed up as an elf at a book-signing once—and to this day I strongly suspect the costume I was given was inauthentic.”

  “How so?”

  “Any elf who wandered around in a skirt that short at the North Pole would end up with frostbite on her—southern regions.”

  “I see.” Damien smiled. “But was the signing fun otherwise?”

  “Hardly! I got pinched black and blue. There are a lot of perverts in this world. And apparently, some of them read.”

  “Indeed.”

  They strolled along, arms almost touching, not feeling the cold or noticing the people, so wrapped up were they in conversation. A small part of Brice held back from the fun, observing herself and Damien. She found it fascinating that he didn’t appeal to her nurturing instincts, such as they were. There was no shy little boy in him. He was, in fact, the most adult man she had ever met. Self-contained, self-sufficient, and yet not selfabsorbed.

  He also didn’t seem the type of male who flirted automatically because it was an easy way to have his ego stroked. They passed many pretty women who smiled at him, but he was never more than polite.

  In spite of this, she remained alert. He said nothing, did nothing that wasn’t completely polite with her, but Brice had a sense that this man had made up his mind—somewhere between the pâté and the lemon-fennel sorbet—to seduce her. If not tonight, then soon.

  It wasn’t until they reached the trumpeting angels that lined the plaza leading up to Rockefeller Center that either of them became aware of the drastic increase in snow and a peculiar smell of ozone floating in the air. The wind abruptly changed directions and thrust its icy blades through the crowd, penetrating clothing and flesh and burying the cold in the marrow of their bones.

  The crowd shuddered and began muttering. The festive mood was shattered.

  “Enough,” Damien said, his eyes again scanning the crowd. He did so with what seemed unusual attention.

  “I’d never much believed that old saying that freezing to death was a peaceful and pleasant way to go,” Brice gasped in agreement. The sudden arctic blast had all but taken her breath away. “Now, all questionable testimonials aside—I’m sure it’s untrue.”

  To both her delight and trepidation, Damien put his arm around her and pulled her into the shelter of his body. It slowed their progress, but it kept the worst of the wind off of her. It also brought them close enough that she could feel the warmth of his spent breath as it hurried by her ear.

  “We’ll be out of this in a moment,” he assured her in a calm voice.

  “Have you seen a weather report? Will the storm get much worse?” Brice asked, shuddering at the feeling of cold—a million invisible ants boiling over her skin. She hated, hated, hated being cold.

  “Yes, and quickly, but we won’t see the lightning for another forty-eight hours,” Damien said. He looked excited and suddenly energized. Pulling a strange device swathed in rubber from his coat pocket, he pressed a button and called for his car, telling the driver where to meet them. Seeing her curious look, he told her: “I can’t use a cell phone. Something about the magnetic field of my body scrambles the signal. It’s worse in lightning storms. So I use a walkie-talkie when I must be out.”

  “Oh…are you sure about the lightning?” Brice asked, wanting to talk about his magnetic field, but deciding it was a bit personal.

  “Yes. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get just the right combination of atmospheric conditions for a light show. The roof of Ruthven Tower is mainly made of iron, and it attracts the electricity.”

  “And this is a good thing?” Brice asked. She allowed him to guide her through the crowds, keeping between her and the street and making sure that no one touched her.

  “Yes, oddly enough. You can’t imagine what those gargoyles look like with Saint Elmo’s fire dancing over them. In a really big storm, a sort of aurora-borealis effect happens as well. Such storms are rare—but I think we may get one for Christmas.”

  “You can tell?”

  “I have a sort of inner barometer when it comes to the weather,” Damien answered. He paused at the curb, and his black sedan rolled to an all but silent stop in front of them. He quickly ushered Brice into the quiet warmth of the car. “Miss Ashton?”

  “Brice,” she corrected, relieved to have hot air washing over her chilled skin. He seemed to forget that she preferred to be called by her first name every time he got lost in a moment of reflection or inner debate. The habit made him seem very English—and charmingly old-fashioned.

  “Brice.” Damien turned to her. His expression was pensive. “I have a suggestion to make. I fully realize that it is very forward of me, and will understand completely if you would prefer not to accept.”

  She nodded encouragingly when he paused, but her heart had began a heavy beating. It seemed that she’d been right about the effects of pâté.

  “Would you consider being my guest tonight? I mean, staying with me rather than going to your hotel?” He waited, head tilted to one side. “For that matter, please stay as long as you like. If the weathermen are correct, travel during this storm will be all but impossible.”

  Brice blinked, willing the delightful fog of wine to retreat just a bit so she could give the matter some thought. Before she could answer, he went on: “I have a large library filled with rare and unusual reference material which I would be reluctant to let out of my possession, and it might be that you would find working there more comfortable than being at the hotel and having to commute through this weather…which is getting worse,” he added, looking out the car window and frowning at the thickening snow.

  Oh—he was offering his library!

  Brice swallowed, feeling foolish. Then she was staring into his heated gaze and reconsidering what he was saying.

  His library! That was cheating! It was the perfect lure—way better than the clichéd, Come up and see my etchings. He knew her too well.

  Brice made herself stop the words of acceptance from hurrying off her tongue and to think carefully. Her impulse was to say yes—yes!—yes! She felt very at home with Damien Ruthven now, and absolutely lusted after the contents of his library that he dangled as a lure.

  But she also seemed to be lusting after the man, and quite possibly he after her. There was an attraction between them that didn’t appear to end with the respect of one intellect for another of close kin. She realized, with a small shock of revelation, that her physical desire over the last few hours had actually become a low-grade fire that burned the nerves just benea
th the skin. And it intensified every time they touched. Did he feel it too? Looking into his eyes, she had to believe that he did.

  Perhaps it was mostly the result of her hormonal cycle and a long period of abstentious behavior, but there was also something about Damien Ruthven that fueled these flames and made her feel recklessly impulsive.

  Maybe she was incinerating brain cells to fuel her libido, and that was why she wasn’t receiving any inner warnings that she should be cautious even when she gave herself time for reflection.

  As though truly able to read her mind, he said: “You hesitate—but ask yourself how often will you have this chance. You don’t want to spend Christmas alone in a hotel anyway. How dreary that would be.”

  No, Brice admitted, she didn’t want to stay at the hotel. She wanted to spend the holidays in front of a roaring fire in Damien’s library, drinking hot mulled wine and talking about Byron with this handsome man who seemed to truly understand him, and who didn’t think her peculiar for being fascinated by the dead poet.

  And supposing—just considering the improbable—that something did happen between her and Damien, would that be so terrible?

  No, her body answered emphatically.

  “Can it be that you doubt me? Do I need to reassure you that my intentions are honorable?” His dark eyes were suddenly dancing.

  Brice thought unexpectedly about what Caroline Lamb had written in her diary after Lady Westmoreland’s ball where she had first encountered Byron. Mad, bad, dangerous to know. That beautiful face is my fate. Brice had always had little sympathy for the spoiled, neurotic creature who had chased Byron shamelessly, but she finally understood what the woman meant. Though Brice had always doubted tales of love—or even of overwhelming lust—at first sight, she had to admit that if she were younger and less wounded—or simply more romantic—she might similarly be thinking of Damien as her doom.