In her absence the costume contest commenced, with a man who appeared to be the restaurant owner acting as master of ceremonies. He was dressed as Mephistopheles and certainly looked the part, right down to the spade beard and pointed eyebrows. Still, his costume was unimportant, and Erik had to admit he was somewhat amused by the eclectic group that paraded across the temporarily emptied dance floor.
Since the winner was chosen by audience appreciation, it was no surprise that the one chosen was a woman in a very scanty—if gorgeously beaded—devil costume. He shook his head, amused and disgusted at the same time. There were many more costumes in attendance that deserved the prize, but none of them had legs that went on forever and an amazing amount of gravity-defying cleavage—no doubt surgically enhanced.
Still, the costume contest was of very little interest to him, since he had decided not to participate and Christine, as an employee, was of course ineligible. He knew that his costume was correct in every detail, down to the ring on his little finger and the diamond-patterned $200-per-yard fabric that made his dress suit. He certainly had not come here to put himself on display, however, and would not have done so even if he had needed the prize money, which he certainly did not.
Christine arrived with his espresso and dessert just as the dance floor began to fill again. He allowed her to set both before him, but then he leaned forward impulsively and said, “Would you care to dance?”
She took a step backward, obviously shocked. “But—I’m working!”
“And have you taken a break yet this evening?”
From her hesitation, the answer seemed to be “no.” He wasn’t surprised, considering how busy the place was.
“Indulge me,” he said and stood, offering her his hand.
For one long, frightening moment he feared she was going to refuse. Then she laid her hand in his and said, lifting her chin valiantly, “I don’t think I’m breaking any labor laws.”
He smiled at the defiant sparkle in her eyes and the sheer loveliness of her. Hardly daring to believe this was really happening, he led her to the dance floor.
Luckily, the restaurant’s owner (and presumed arbiter of the evening’s playlist) was something of a traditionalist. Instead of some hard-pounding techno or completely undanceable rap, the song playing was Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman’s duet, “Time to Say Goodbye.” Of course, at the moment Erik hoped this was anything but goodbye, but at least the song gave him a chance to really hold her, to sweep her along with the melody.
Being a singer, of course she was attuned to the rhythm of the music, but she also did not seem to fear being held by him, to let him clasp her one hand and cradle her slender waist in the other. God, the sensation of her body against his, the intoxicating scent of roses that came from somewhere in the dark masses of her hair! Her fingers twined with his, and she moved gracefully despite the heavy skirts of her costume, which he could only assume was none too easy to dance in.
He had experienced a few moments like this in his life. The first time he had heard Beethoven’s Ninth. The first time a woman touched him. Of course the first time he saw “Music of the Night” performed on stage. But the difference here was that the embodiment of all those passions, all those dreams, he held now in his arms.
All too soon the song was over, and Christine pulled away almost immediately. Her cheeks were flushed, but she would not meet his eyes.
“I really need to get back to work—”
He had to let her go. As much as he wanted to hold her forever, he did not want to cause trouble or call too much attention to himself. He had probably done too much already.
“Of course. Thank you very much for the dance.”
She shot him a quick, uncertain smile but still would not look him directly in the face. Murmuring something about getting his bill, she disappeared among the crowd.
Was it unreasonable that he could still feel the touch of her hand in his, still smell the scent of her hair? His body ached for her even as he made his way back to his table, sipped at his now-lukewarm cup of espresso, and wished that the evening would never end.
But, as with all things, of course it did. Christine brought him his bill, but at least now she seemed to have recovered herself enough to meet his eyes and smile.
“Thank you for coming this evening—”
Of course he couldn’t tell her that he’d give up all his useless millions just to hold her again. “This has been a memorable Halloween,” he replied instead, and was amused to see the quick blush rise in her cheeks.
“Yes, it has,” she said, and looked as if she wanted to say more, but she was interrupted by a drunken hail from the next table over.
“Waitress—hey—another round over here!”
She turned, distracted, and he took the opportunity to drop five hundred-dollar bills on the table and sweep himself away outside before she could notice. The air outside was cold and smelled damp, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of wet asphalt. It had obviously rained hard during the hours he had spent inside the restaurant, but now the pavement was merely slick with rainwater, the sky mottled with hard-driven clouds that were charcoal-gray against black.
The valet brought his S-Class around promptly, obviously giving him preferential treatment even though several other people had been out there waiting for their cars before Erik had arrived. He tipped the young man—obviously another college student—with a twenty before taking the wheel and driving off into the night.
He had actually learned to drive at a fairly early age, although it had been Ennis, who had taught him, certainly not his own father. Erik enjoyed the isolation he could experience behind the tinted windows of his car, and although he never drove during the daytime, he liked to take the car out at night, when he could drive through the meandering roads that crossed the arroyo and feel as if he were somehow part of the world, if even for only a short time.
Tonight was no different. Tonight, if anything, he felt more kindly disposed toward the human race than he had in a long time. He had spoken with her, seen her face with his own eyes—even, incredible as it seemed, held her in his arms. And she had not recoiled—if anything, he could sense her attraction to him, even though she tried to hide it, even though he knew even now she was probably telling herself that it was just a silly response, that she was truly only interested in Randall.
Well, she could tell herself anything she wanted. He had held her, felt her breathing quicken as he touched her, and he knew that, deep down, she had wanted him.
That, of course, would make things much easier. Possibly she would be resistant at first, but he felt certain that once she understood everything he had to offer her, she would surrender to him completely. After all, her current life had so little to give her, and he was willing to lay the world at her feet, in exchange for so little. Such a small thing, really.
All he wanted was her heart.
Chapter 6
In the darkness I could feel the heat of his body next to mine, the strength of his hands as he cupped my face in his fingers and brought his mouth against my lips. His lips were warm and strong, and I felt myself open willingly to him to let his tongue explore my mouth. There was no strangeness, no hesitation as I lay back against the pillows, felt his strong yet sensitive fingers move over my body, cupping my breasts through the thin material of my nightgown. I moaned, arching my back to press myself more closely against him.
His voice was the merest whisper in the black night. “Christine....”
My only response was a soft moan. Then I could feel his hand moving lower, pushing my nightgown aside, touching me where I had never let a man touch before. But somehow this seemed right. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation. His fingers caressed my most intimate places and I moaned again, abandoning myself to the waves of pleasure that rolled over me, one after the other, until I could no longer distinguish where one stopped and the other began.
“Randall,” I sighed at last, reaching up to caress his face
. But instead of his firm cheek, my fingers brushed against a surface of smooth, cool plastic, and suddenly I could see the glimmer of the mask in the darkness.
“Not exactly,” he replied, and at that I felt myself sit bolt upright in bed, gasping as I looked around and realized that I was alone in my narrow daybed, no company save the soft tick-tock of my old wind-up alarm clock from across the room.
It took a few moments for my breathing to settle down, for me to overcome the last remnants of the dream. I had never before had a dream that explicit, that overtly sexual—and to be dreaming of that stranger from the restaurant, instead of the man I was supposed to be in love with! Though the night was cool, I could feel my cheeks burning with mortification. Was I so weak that only a few hours with that man could poison my subconscious desires?
With a sudden angry gesture I pushed the bedclothes aside and went to the bathroom, where I poured myself some cold water and splashed some on my face before I turned off the faucet. Then I stood for a long moment, regarding my face in the soft half-light cast by the nightlight in the corner of the room. How much of the residual flush in my cheeks was due to embarrassment, and how much by mental arousal caused by my dreams?
I would never know, of course. All I could do was vow to keep my thoughts under control from now on. My life was complicated enough without allowing myself to brood over a mysterious man I would probably never see again. As I climbed back into bed, I tried to ignore the small pang of regret that last thought had caused me. Why should I even care about someone I had only seen for one evening, whose name I didn’t even know? Why should the thought that I might never seen him again cause me that sudden flash of pain?
“Get a grip, Christine,” I whispered fiercely into the darkness. “You’ve got Randall. Anything else is just asking for trouble.”
Then I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep, to take myself back into a blackness without thought, without dreams.
Without desire.
Randall did not look happy.
We’d agreed to meet at a restaurant at the western end of Olvera Street at four-thirty, since he had class until four, but it wasn’t until almost five o’clock before he rounded a corner, looking grim. I was just glad he had shown up; all sorts of horrible possibilities had presented themselves, ranging from a simple standing-up to a multi-car wreck somewhere along the 110 Freeway. Aside from his expression, though, he looked none the worse for wear, so I thought maybe the traffic had just been especially bad—nothing unusual for Los Angeles at rush hour, even though campus was only about five miles or so from the historic pueblo near Union Station.
“Hi,” he said briefly. “Let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.”
Nice of him to notice, especially when I’d been sitting in the chill for the last forty-five minutes. Although the rain of Halloween night had gone, the cold air mass still hovered over the city, and it was unseasonably chilly.
“Bad traffic?” I asked, hoping that my tone was neutral.
“Sucked,” he replied. “They’re still tearing up part of Main for something—pipes, I guess.”
The hostess seated us in a dark booth toward the back of the restaurant. It was fairly crowded, no big surprise considering that the Day of the Dead festivities were still going on outside. At least I’d gotten to see a parade of folkloric dancers while I sat waiting for Randall, although I wished I had a proper coat instead of the thin denim jacket I had thrown on over my sweater.
“Do you drink beer?” he asked, after we’d been seated and were looking over the menus.
“Not usually, but I do kind of like it with Mexican food.”
“God, I’d kill for one right now.”
I raised my eyebrows, but luckily Randall wasn’t forced into homicide, as the waitress appeared at my elbow and asked what we’d like to drink.
“Two Dos Equis,” Randall said. “Stat.”
The waitress—her name badge announced that her name was Lupe—blinked, then smiled. Up until then she had been looking somewhat tired and even sour, but when she smiled she was an entirely different person. “That kind of day?”
“You have no idea.”
“In that case, I’ll make sure you get a double order of chips and salsa. And I’ll get those Dos Equis—stat,” she added with a grin as she left us.
Randall ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m being an ass.”
“Hey, if you’ve had a bad day—” Seeing him like this was harder than I had thought. After my evening with “the Phantom” and the dream that had followed, I’d been feeling more than a little guilty. I knew I was being silly—all I’d done was dance with the man for five minutes, after all, and I certainly couldn’t control my subconscious—but I didn’t think it was right for me to have felt the attraction I had experienced, not if I cared about Randall.
The problem was that I knew nothing about love and attraction, really. After our first date, I had thought I was falling in love with Randall, or at least seriously in infatuation if nothing else, but what was my basis for comparison? A few high school crushes that had amounted to nothing? I wanted to be with him, thought of him when he wasn’t around, felt my heart speed up a little when he sought me out with those gorgeous hazel eyes of his and gave me a quick smile during class, but was it really love, or just an extension of my not wanting to be alone any longer? Surely if I were truly in love I wouldn’t have felt the touch of that stranger’s hand on mine for hours afterward, or shivered at the look in his dark eyes as he spoke with me. As for that dream...I didn’t know what to think.
Randall’s voice brought me back to the present. “Even if I’ve had a bad day, I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. I just had some bad news this morning, that’s all.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He hesitated, and then we were interrupted by the arrival of Lupe with our drinks. She set them down, along with the promised chips and salsa.
“Ready to order?”
Randall and I looked at each other, guilty. We had barely even glanced at the menus.
“Give us a couple of minutes,” he said.
“No problem,” she replied, and left again.
He lifted the beer to his lips and drank deeply. I took a more cautious sip, then helped myself to a chip with some salsa. The beer tasted okay in combination with the chip, but it wasn’t something I would have sought out on my own.
“Guess we’d better figure out what we’re having before we get into anything else,” Randall said, and for the next couple of minutes we busied ourselves with perusing the menus, preparing ourselves for Lupe’s return.
Eventually we decided on carnitas for him and chicken molé for me, gave our orders to Lupe when she returned, then looked back at one other.
There was an uneasy pause.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay,” I said at length.
He waved a hand. “No, that’s all right. I’m just simultaneously pissed off, frustrated, and confused, none of which are fun, especially all together.”
“So what happened?”
“Stupid bureaucratic screw-ups is what.” Randall took a more reasonable swallow of beer before continuing. “The duplex is paid for, and it’s in my name, but of course I’m responsible for paying the property taxes. They’re kind of hefty, but I just put the money away each month like I’m paying rent until it’s time to pay the tax bill in the spring, and I send it all in in one big chunk.” He frowned. “So this morning I pick up my mail, and there’s a notice from the county assessor’s office that I’m delinquent in my taxes and that the property’s going to be put up for auction in ten days unless I pay all the back taxes plus some seriously major fines!”
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. No wonder he was in such a foul mood. “Did somebody screw up?”
“Of course somebody screwed up—they’ll just never admit it. I spent most of the morning on the phone with a series of dipshits—sorry—bureaucrats who all swor
e up and down that my taxes this spring hadn’t been paid and that I was seriously delinquent.”
“But don’t you have a canceled check or something to show that you paid?” I asked.
“Not exactly. I let my stupid bank talk me into doing the whole electronic check storage thing, so now I have to go in and request my records back six months, locate the check, and get a facsimile made. No problem—except that that process is going to take fourteen business days, which is four more than I have.”
Next to this, my recent problems seemed fairly insignificant. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’ll keep fighting it, but in the meantime I’m probably going to have to borrow the money from my parents.” He scowled, then took another pull at his beer. “That’s going to be a real fun conversation.”
“I am so sorry, Randall,” I said, and I meant it. Having spent the last five years of my life fighting with various financial-aid organizations, I knew that dealing with the random stupidity of government bureaucracies was about as much fun as having a root canal.
“Yeah, so am I.”
At that point the food arrived, and we were silent for several moments as we took a few bites.
Then he said, “I really didn’t mean to dump on you, Christine—”
“If you can’t dump on me, then who can you dump on?” I replied, and was gratified to see some of the warmth return to his eyes.
“Yes, but we were just supposed to have a fun evening together—”
“And we can,” I said firmly. “Don’t you feel better that you told someone what’s going on?”
“Actually, yeah, I do,” he replied, looking a little surprised at himself.
“Well, then,” I said, and was gratified to see him smile.
“Okay, next topic.” He helped himself to a bite of carnitas, then asked, “How was the Halloween gig?”
I forced myself to swallow, even though the food seemed to stick in my throat. “It was all right. Busy. I made some good tips.” That was the understatement of the century—upon my return to the Phantom’s table, I had discovered that he had dropped five hundred-dollar bills on top of the check, giving me a tip of approximately three hundred and fifty dollars. The relief I felt at what that extra cash could do to help me out the next month was almost overwhelmed by the guilt I experienced at how little I had really done to earn that money. Still, I couldn’t exactly give it back, and I just made sure I was very generous in the percentage I had shared with the busboys and kitchen staff that evening. “How was your gig?”
No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale Page 6
