Their sautéed scampi appetizers were delivered quickly and Nick poured a glass of champagne for each of them. She described life in London and, over a second glass of champagne, asked about life in America—everything she’d heard about California made it out to be a paradise. She longed to see the gay districts of San Francisco where men were reputed to walk openly hand in hand. Where women kissed on street corners and gathered in bookstores filled with literature for gays and lesbians and staged “kiss-ins” for tourists so the whole world would get the idea that gay people were everywhere. Even in Paris she had seen nothing so blatant. Of course Carolyn mentioned nothing about gays.
The vision of such freedom and the champagne bubbles went to her head as she listened, and then she suddenly drifted away. She stepped outside her body, saw herself nodding in response to Carolyn. Except the Nick at the table was dressed in a white lace tuxedo, the front of which swelled in two key places. As Nick watched her fantasy play out, she saw herself reach out and take Carolyn’s hand.
Oh stop it, she told herself. Pay attention to what she’s saying. She had another sip of the cool champagne, but it was too late. She was obsessed with imagining the texture of Carolyn’s skin.
You are holding her hand. You feel it tremble in your grasp. She doesn’t resist as you draw her to her feet, encircle her waist, tip her head back and drink deeply from that gentle mouth.
Nick could hear white lace whispering against Carolyn’s skin as she imagined spreading Carolyn over the tablecloth. You are alone with her, in this crowded restaurant, alone with her as you possess her mouth. Her whispers are for you as your hand guides her, leads her, possesses her. You listen and kiss her again, leading her along the path to climax, to the final surge of violins.
You know she is helpless, you control her completely. She is hanging on your every caress, murmuring her pleasure as you bare her body, just for you, your lace against the soft white clouds of her breasts.
“Nick,” she will breathe. “Nick?”
“Hmm?—Oh, sorry,” Nick mumbled. Oh bother. What was she thinking, having a fantasy like that in a public place about a woman who thought she was dating a man? She had never had this problem before. “I was daydreaming. The champagne seems particularly potent.”
“I think our entrees are on their way. You must be tired,” Carolyn said.
“The adrenaline is wearing off.” Liar! Nick could feel her heart pounding. “I remember one time when I actually passed out after a performance, a long, long time ago.” She stopped, realizing she had been about to share a reminiscence from her conservatory days. The days when she’d been a woman. But she was still a woman. Signals from influential parts of her lower body were reminding her that she was most definitely a woman. Oh bother.
“It’s hard to picture you so vulnerable,” Carolyn said.
“I was, once.” She tried to dampen her smile but it wouldn’t turn off. “So what brings you to Europe? Oscar said you’re on holiday.”
“Well, it was time for an adventure,” Carolyn said.
“How fortunate that you can indulge yourself,” she observed.
“Yes, isn’t it!” A happy blow accompanied those words. “My books were picked up for foreign distribution and I’m traveling on an advance. Next is Amsterdam, then Madrid for sun, Salzburg for Mozart, and Rome for la dolce vita. When I get back to Sacramento it will be back to a much more ordinary life, and back to a budget again.”
“You said you were a writer, but you didn’t say successful. Musicians and writers are a lot alike,” Nick said. “Being able to live off our creations is the exception, not the rule.”
“I feel very, very lucky. I write romantic fiction and it seems to keep selling.”
Oh bloody hell, she’s an overwrought romantic. A heterosexual romantic. She’s too nice to use for press fodder, and it looks like she’s too impressionable. “Why do you think it sells?” As if that makes a difference to my fantasies, Nick thought. A fine mess I’ve got myself in.
“As a genre it gets no respect—but fortunately I don’t write for critics, I write for women. Carly Vincent likes to reinforce the principle that no woman should have to choose less than the best for herself.”
“And how does Carolyn Vincense feel about that?”
Carolyn’s intense expression shifted abruptly to chagrin. “Well, Carolyn Vincense must believe it too.” She cleared her throat and sipped at her champagne. “I was married for two whole weeks. It was a holiday romance. And when it was obvious it had been a mistake I…deleted it, like a chapter I decided was going the wrong direction for a book. Funny, I’ve never seen it that clearly before. I guess talking about it helps.”
Nick suddenly felt out of her depth. “I’m not exactly known for my prowess as a lonely-hearts advisor,” she said in a joking tone. “In fact, I’ve been called a cold fish on more than one occasion.”
“You come across that way, but I can’t help but think it’s deliberate.”
Nick was surprised at Carolyn’s sudden frankness. Her cheeks were brushed with delicate color—maybe the champagne was having an effect? “Why would it be deliberate?”
“The music betrays you.” Carolyn smiled, then looked up at Nick through her lashes. The look was not so much coy as shy. “I think I’ve got your number.”
Nick choked on a swallow. Carolyn couldn’t have guessed so easily what Nick spent so much energy concealing. The waiter suddenly appeared with their entrees and after the fuss of rearranging the dishes and commenting on the appearance of the food, Nick said as casually as she could manage, “What number is that?”
“You have a long road ahead of you and you can’t afford to slow down,” Carolyn said. “So you pour all your emotional qualities into the music. That Mozart in Paris, for instance. You found just the right emotional content to save it from sounding like a sewing machine, and restrained it before it got to Muzak level.”
“Thank you,” Nick said, genuinely gratified. “Words are your trade, obviously. That was very succinct, and, I must say, extremely accurate.” She smiled at her boast, and decided Carolyn was not hinting that she’d guessed Nick was a woman. It was just a false alarm.
“Thank you,” Carolyn said, with a mocking nod.
They concentrated on their meals for a while. Carolyn’s beef curry looked delectable but Nick was entirely satisfied with her coq au vin. A distracted expression crossed Carolyn’s face.
“Ha’penny for your thoughts,” Nick said.
“Oh. Well, I was just thinking that there’s something I really must tell you. It’s a confession—not the sort of thing a person admits to someone like you, at least not right away.”
Nick’s pulse was racing again. What on earth was Carolyn leading up to? “If you feel you must…” Nick said. She had no idea what to expect.
“I—I have to confess that—well,” Carolyn looked down at her plate and muttered quickly, “I really, really like Barry Manilow.” The words were followed with a grin of impish delight as Nick nearly choked again.
“Well…that’s the last thing I thought you would say,” Nick said after she’d swallowed some water to clear her throat. “I hardly expected it from a woman of your intelligence.”
“Don’t forget I’m a romance writer. I have extremely trashy impulses at times. He’s underrated as a musician.” They argued all the way through dinner about popular culture versus the higher arts. Nick ended up confessing that she liked American football and, like Bernstein, couldn’t resist Tina Turner.
When they had finished their lime sorbets, Nick found herself saying, “It’s very welcome to talk to someone who isn’t a part of serious music.”
“Or advances and sales figures and—the hundred tedious things that romance writers talk about at conventions. That’s work for me and I like it when I’m there, but—well, this is welcome, as you say.” Carolyn stared down at her empty sorbet glass.“Nick, I’m not flirting,” she said abruptly. She looked up, piercing Nick with the gaze f
rom her robin’s eggs-eyes. “I’m not.”
Nick realized her heartbeat was doing a tarantella. God, if this wasn’t flirting then heaven only knew how dangerous Carolyn could be when she did flirt. “I know. I take your honesty as a sincere compliment from—someone who doesn’t like me much.” What would she say to that? Nick held her breath.
“I’m getting over my first impression. After all, I’m not throwing up at the moment.” Carolyn laughed.
Nick hid her shudder. She felt as if she were on the French railway, racing headlong into the unknown. “Carolyn,” she said, stifling a hiccup, “can I ask a favor of you?” Carolyn didn’t answer but looked at her hesitantly. After a moment, Nick went on. “I’m in Brussels for almost a week, but right in the middle of my stay I have a lecture in The Hague. It takes just the morning, then I fly back to Brussels late in the evening. Would you—like to spend the day with me in The Hague? Could we be…friends? Friends who sightsee and have dinner together?”
Carolyn lowered her gaze, then said, “That sounds perfect to me. I had been planning to take the rail down the coast to The Hague and then zip over to Delft to buy some pottery for my sister-in-law. I hope that’s not too prosaic. It’s all I’m looking for.” They stared at each other for a few moments, then Nick raised her glass and they solemnly toasted friendship.
Nick couldn’t remember when she had felt so comfortable and so uncomfortable at the same time. How could she—court a woman who didn’t know she wasn’t a man? Nick couldn’t very well tell her outright especially after she’d said she just wanted to be friends. And what would Oscar say? Oh bother.
They walked the short distance back to the hotel and parted with a wave. Maybe it would be all right, Nick thought. Even if she never found out I’m a woman I could certainly use a few more pleasant dinners in Carolyn’s company.
Her blood pressure felt as if it had dropped fifty points—even though her heartbeat was still at tarantella tempo. But deep down, under her boxer shorts, Nick knew she was hoping for more than dinner. And that hope, if she wasn’t careful, would betray her secret.
***
“Get your bags, miss?” Carolyn jumped, startled by the British voice, not expecting it in a rail transfer station in downtown Amsterdam. She pushed her hair out of her eyes but the rain-laden wind whipped it back across her forehead again.
“Yes, please, and a cab.” The porter was no more than a boy, Carolyn thought, and she smiled at his antics while he hailed a cab and loaded her suitcases into it. As she tipped him, the watery sun suddenly cast an odd shadow across her helper’s face and Carolyn realized that He was a She. The girl winked and thanked her, and Carolyn thought, “More power to her.”
She directed the driver to her hotel and sat back, looking at the Dutch buildings and people around her. While she unpacked she tried not to miss the companionship she’d had with Oscar only that morning. Munich had been great fun and Oscar had been pleased by her eager absorption of his opinions. When she asked about Nick, however, he had adroitly changed the subject. She wondered why her innocent dinner with Nick had bothered Oscar, but supposed that he felt it might undercut Nick’s concentration. She had felt secretive for not mentioning her arrangement to see Nick in The Hague later in the week, but then again, telling Oscar was Nick’s business, not hers.
She examined a note from the tour company offering her a seat on a bus going to a country market, but Carolyn rejected the idea. She was doing quite well all by herself. The next morning she set out in her most comfortable walking shoes, warm wool slacks and, in British parlance, a stout anorak. Her first stop was a banketbakkerij where she bought some deliciously sinful honey buns. Happily sticky, she licked her fingers and began her tour of the Rijksmuseum.
Rembrandt and Vermeer masterpieces greeted her. She’d come to Amsterdam for the Flemish and Dutch masters, and she lost herself in the paintings, studying the black backgrounds that suggested capes and gloves and walls, masterful tricks of light. At lunch she devoured an uitsmijter with thick slices of cheese made in Gouda, a few kilometers away. In the afternoon she hunted down a diamond-cutting demonstration.
The next few days were similar. She spent nearly a day at the Van Gogh Museum. What a violent passion for life—she felt bludgeoned by the color and radiance of the paintings. She tried to express the beauty of them in another five postcards to Alison, but her senses were overloaded with all the sights and sounds. A lousy photographer, she bought a good many postcards for herself, too, to remind her of the sun-streaked gothic buildings and intricately carved bridges spanning the canals. There was no such thing as an ordinary bridge in the entire city.
The night before she was going to take the train to Den Haag, she made her way to the Concertgebouw for her Dutch orchestra treat. She studied her program, learning that the night’s performance of Mozart, Dvorak and Debussy was the finale of the Amsterdam concert season. The acoustics of the famed concert hall were everything the travel guide had promised—but she still felt a little let down by the music. It was certainly equal to any she might have expected. The conductor was very good, but not—brilliant.
That conclusion aggravated her. She was overly critical, having been spoiled by the talent of Nicolas Frost. She wished she’d never agreed to go to The Hague tomorrow—she’d be sorry, she just knew it. Where was her head?
But in the morning, ensconced in a warm cabin with six other passengers, she forgot her worries.
The train’s rhythm was soothing, and as they sped through the drizzle falling from high clouds, she watched the watery sunlight add picturesque shadows to flat fields of sprouting hay. She had a stilted conversation with another passenger after she exclaimed over the beauty of a tulip field in full bloom. Before she knew it, the man—wearing a wedding ring, no less—had offered to show her around The Hague and even alluded to a friend’s apartment where they could have a picnic lunch. Carolyn lapsed into uncomprehending English at that point, and wondered why men thought sex was for the asking. Linda had warned her a woman traveling alone was considered fair game in Europe, but it rankled nonetheless. Just because men thought it so didn’t make it fair.
She was glad to leave the train when it pulled into the station. It was just after ten and she had enough time to hurry through the Mauritshuis to see Rembrandt’s Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulip and then rush to the university. She waited almost half an hour on the corner Nick had specified and was beginning to doubt her location when she became aware of another umbrella over her own.
“My apologies,” Nick said. Carolyn couldn’t tell if the voice was husky from the weather or from speaking all morning. “Well, I’m sure you have a detailed agenda for the day, so where first?”
By dinner time, finally driven indoors by increasingly heavy rain, Carolyn couldn’t remember why she had thought Nick a boor. The restaurant was family-owned and filled with the aroma of fresh-baked bread. They shook water off their coats and surrendered them to be dried before a roaring fire. Carolyn found herself ordering hard cider and fondue for two without consulting Nick, and then was surprised by the indulgent smile Nick directed at her.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’ve been ordering me around all day. It’s a refreshing change. You’ve probably taken a hundred points off my blood pressure and added a year to my life.”
“Well, there’s something to be said for not being in control one hundred percent of the time. Besides, I’m starving. No time to dither over a menu.”
“If you were home what would you be having?” Nick leaned back in the chair, one hand sweeping back wet hair that threatened to curl and fall forward on her forehead.
“Probably two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun,” she said. At Nick’s look of incomprehension, Carolyn elaborated. “The Golden Arches, MacDonald’s, you know? My best friend, Alison, her favorite fast-food meal is a Big Mac with fries dipped in strawberry shake.”
Nick shuddered. “Sounds re
volting.”
“It is. But right now I’d kill for a Pop-Tart. All that walking.” She gratefully sipped the ice-cold hard cider their server delivered with a curtsy. The kick burned her throat and she coughed. “Whoa—this stuff is more than hard.”
Nick sipped and nodded. “Every once in a while during the summer the home-crushed cider at the orphanage would turn. Mother Superior kept that for her private stock.”
“You really are an orphan?”
“Really and truly,” Nick answered. Again, one hand smoothed the curling hair back, this time more insistently.
The firelight brought softness to Nick’s face. Carolyn found herself studying the features she knew could be cold and hard. The fondue was spicy with aged cheeses and Nick lost even more dignity when a cube of cheese-smothered bread snaked down her sober charcoal tie. Nick stared down at it with a frown and then, sighing, removed the tie.
“Ties are an incredible pain.”
“Oh complain, complain.” The hard cider was sending lovely warm sparkles through her toes and fingers. “A little strip of fabric less than two inches wide. You have no idea what pain is—try wearing pantyhose for a day and then we’ll talk about discomfort. The only good thing about pantyhose is the wonderful relief you feel when you take them off.” She smiled. “It’s a pleasure unique to the female of the species.” To her amazement, she saw a sudden flush of color rise in Nick’s cheeks. One of the candles on the table flared for a moment, and the slant of light illuminated Nick’s pale skin, stained by patches of red at the cheeks and forehead. Nick’s hair was drying to a soft, curly fuzz.
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