Love's Golden Spell

by William Maltese

  The present was real.

  “Do you know what this mine sits on?” Christopher asked. He made no move to walk her to the car. “It sits on land once destined for an animal preserve. Think of that. Here was to be a sanctuary for all those little furry, cuddly beasts you so love; the Van Hoons marched in and claimed the land in the name of corporate profits. Won’t that make good editorial material for your television program, thrown in to emphasize the trophies on the walls and the ivory in the basement?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, hurt by the challenging mockery of his voice. “What’s the point? You think so little of the threat I offer that you feel safe in what you’re doing—but why bother? The great Christopher Van Hoon spending so much time and effort on a minor irritant doesn’t jell.”

  “I go after what I want,” Christopher said. “You don’t bait a lioness with a piece of sugar. You give her the prey she wants.” He smiled at her confusion. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, either. It was a Vincent Van Hoon smile. “Where would you have been if I hadn’t offered you a look at the Ivory Room?” he asked. “Huh? I’ll tell you where. In a van, with your camera crew, heading back to Johannesburg. Where would you be if I hadn’t revealed to you what this might have been? You would be hurrying back to the city. I tell you what I tell you, I offer what I offer, because it keeps you where I want you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘where you want’ me?” she asked, finally getting the question out. Some equipment started in an adjacent building, and she shouted over the noise.

  “Is it necessary for me to spell it out in graphic four-letter words?” he asked. There was something about his voice that made it easier for him to be heard above the racket.

  “You want another Janet,” she argued, her throat dry. “Not me.”

  “I assure you, my needs aren’t those of one child for another,” he contradicted. The noise stopped, his words hanging in the uneasy silence.

  “Take me back to my hotel. Please,” she said, saddened more than ever. He was hinting at a liaison, at a way to bridge the ideal past with the real present. She couldn’t risk the passage. Fantasies were perfection; reality flawed. Succumbing to temptation only cheapened the preciousness of moments gilded by time. There were too few remembered good times to surrender them for something that couldn’t possibly be comparable.

  “Tell me you really want to go back to Johannesburg, and I’ll take you,” he said confidently.

  “I want to go back,” she said. She didn’t recognize her own voice.

  “Now, tell me with your eyes,” he insisted, stepping in closer. “Tell me with your eyes that you don’t feel something between us that goes beyond our differences about wildlife preservation and corporate profits—something that goes beyond any possible differences that could ever arise.”

  “You’re mistaken,” she said, hardly managing the words. Because he wasn’t mistaken. There was something between them: a segment of shared childhood. That’s what it was. He misinterpreted in ignorance, believing it was something as mundane as lust. That was the way he thought. He was more animal than any beast that had once roamed this valley.

  “Deny it all you please,” he said. He didn’t touch her. She wanted him to touch her. His touch would be the magic to convince, and she wanted to be convinced despite the danger. “Deny it to yourself,” he said. “Deny it to me. Deny it to the world. You’ll be lying!”

  He still didn’t touch her. He left her the will to protest. She didn’t thank him for that. “If I stay, it won’t be because of anything felt for you in the disgusting way you’re suggesting,” she said. “It will be because I’m willing to accept any scrap of incriminating evidence you’re prepared to throw my way in your smug belief that your position is invulnerable.”

  “Then, let’s get on with the feeding, shall we, my beautiful lioness?” he said, stepping back. He extended his hand, but she didn’t dare take it.

  “Afraid?” he asked, his smile cynical and mocking.

  “No,” she said, “I’m not afraid.” It was a lie.

  “Then, you’re very lucky,” he said, pulling his hand back without insisting. “Because I’m afraid, Janet Westover—and not of your design to crush the Van Hoon Empire in a deluge of public recrimination, either.” He didn’t explain. Janet didn’t press for him to do so. It was enough that he was afraid and she was responsible. It gave her power—but an uncomfortable power that sent shivers cascading her spine.

  He didn’t look afraid. He looked anything but. He wanted her to assume an advantage that wasn’t there. He wanted her to think he was vulnerable. Vulnerable men were more lovable, he must know. He must have used that ruse on many women before her.

  He was right about one thing. She was interested in the scraps he tossed her—not only because they were ammunition but because they were reason enough to follow him deeper into the building. The machine, wherever it was, started again. The sound of Janet’s footsteps was absorbed by the greater rumbling. He led her into a large locker room. The place smelled disturbingly of sweat, of dripping shower faucets that washed male bodies free of a grime that was later filtered from the drains for precious gold. He gave her a pair of rubber boots, a rubber coat, a miner’s hat. He strapped a power pack on her back, paying scant attention to her protests that she could manage on her own. A cable connected a light to the power pack. He showed her how to turn on the light by twisting a knob on its back.

  “If you look good in this getup—which you do—you’ll look good in anything,” he muttered. She didn’t look good. She looked ridiculous. She wasn’t spared seeing herself, either. A full-length mirror on one wall reflected her figure in all-too-vivid detail.

  Christopher belonged. Like a chameleon, he traded the guise of businessman for that of miner. The change was more complete than Janet had imagined possible, but he was nonetheless handsome. If anything, the costume emphasized his good looks. He would look good in any clothes… or without any.

  In their youth, they had swum in the pools above Lisbon Falls: he, already boasting the physical trappings of manhood; she, grown-up enough to be thrilled by the sight. He had since disrobed more completely for other women, of course, all shyness shed with his boyhood.

  They exited into sunlight. The yellow rubber of their coats was more lemony in the brightness. There were several cages giving access to the mine. They were raised and lowered on a counterbalance, one cage always traveling in the opposite direction to the other. The electric pulley, around which the control cable wound, was a massive affair. Whatever else might be turned over to computers in a mine, the winder was always operated by a man. A miner, below ground, wanted the security of knowing there was a thinking, caring human being on the other end of his lifeline.

  Three bells were echoed by three more. The gate of one cage opened with a clatter. A casual wave of Christopher’s arm motioned her forward. She wasn’t looking at his arm. She was looking at the expression on his handsome face.

  She didn’t accept the invitation. She turned from the cage and all it symbolized and went back to the locker room. She couldn’t trust herself alone in an elevator with Christopher, nor could she allow herself to be isolated with him below ground.

  She took off the power pack and the miner’s helmet.

  “Janet?” He had followed her. She answered by taking off the rubber coat. She sat down to remove the boots.

  “I’m afraid the thought of going down makes me claustrophobic,” she said. “You go down if you must. I’ll wait here.”

  “And miss the surprises I’ve planned?” he asked, smiling his little-boy grin. Janet wasn’t up to his surprises.

  “Yes, and miss the surprises you’ve planned,” she said wearily, trying not to be sarcastic.

  She stood, and he automatically reached for her. His rubber boots squeaked. His large hands wrapped around her wrists. “What if I told you there is a VIP room down below?” he cajoled, “with rugs on the floor, tapestries on the walls, tables, chairs
, a basket of pâté de fois gras, chicken in aspic, asparagus and caviar waiting to be eaten—and a bottle of vintage champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket.”

  “I’ll bet there’s a bed, too, right?” Janet said intuitively. Now, there was no hiding her sarcasm. He took women there, surprising them with a cubicle of civilization in primitive uncivilized surroundings. “Really, I’m tired,” she said. “I want to go back to my hotel.”

  He seemed genuinely disappointed. “What about your souvenirs?” he asked; his voice and eyes pleaded for her to be amenable. His eyes were such a beautiful gold. His hands were hot brands around her wrists. Her souvenirs from this place were of the mind: visions of what might have been compared to what was. “Your souvenirs are down below,” he said, contradicting her thoughts. If she could resist the temptation to be alone with him, she certainly wasn’t going to be enticed by trinkets that would end up displayed on knickknack shelves back home. “Gold,” he said, surprising her. “Krugerrands. Five of them.”

  “Krugerrands?” she said, her interest piqued. Each Krugerrand coin contained a troy ounce of gold. At the going rate of gold, the famous South African coins were hardly distributed as gratis souvenirs.

  “What better way to remember a gold mine than with gold?” he coaxed. He gave her a gentle tug, starting her on her way.

  She knew, though, what he was suggesting. Humiliation burned through her body. “You’re trying to buy me!” she accused, her voice calm. She wasn’t calm.

  “My God, Janet, how could you suggest that?” he said, all wide-eyed innocence. Despite his act, he looked like a young boy caught and embarrassed by being caught.

  “There isn’t enough gold in this mine, nor enough in what’s already come out of it, to pay me to do what you want—above ground, on ground, or underground,” she said, fighting for control. She felt dirty. Once again he had made her feel cheap. He didn’t respect her as a professional in her field—or as a woman. That hurt. It made no difference that he offered a payment for sexual services that was generous—but then he was a generous man.

  “You could donate the money to a worthy charity,” he said with a smile, as though a woman in her right mind couldn’t resist going to bed with Christopher Van Hoon and getting paid in the bargain. “Maybe to some foundation out to save your furry friends,” he suggested, mocking her compassion.

  He was despicable! She jerked both her arms, loosening his grip but not dislodging it. “Let me go,” she hissed, “or I’ll scream so loudly that this damned gold mine of yours will cave in beneath our feet!”

  “Maybe the lady doth protest too much?” he suggested. He didn’t believe she was saying no. He was used to getting his way. This time he had another think coming.

  “This lady hasn’t even begun to protest, which you’ll find out if you try anything funny,” she promised through teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached “Now, turn me loose!” She gave another tug, no more successful than the first.

  “Don’t be a tease, Janet,” he said, releasing her wrists. His arms went securely around her before she could prevent them.

  “You’re mad!” she said. Her face was close to his. She marveled, even in that moment, at his unflawed handsomeness.

  “Mad because I want you?” he asked incredulously. “I’d be madder if I didn’t want you.”

  She had dreamed of his saying that. She had come awake feeling guilty with Bob beside her, or with Bob off reporting some jungle war. Christopher wanting her—in every sense—had been her ultimate fantasy, her dream of him the wonder she had tried to preserve. But Christopher seemed about to destroy it. In dreams, he spoke to her in love. In reality, he spoke to her in lust. There was a world of difference. She wasn’t even sure it was genuine lust. Maybe he was out to master a woman who had come into his home under false pretenses to trick him. In that case, she could have weighed three hundred pounds, had missing front teeth, been bald, and it wouldn’t have mattered. If he wouldn’t win her with distorted logic, he could master her in the bedroom. It was caveman mentality.

  “I wouldn’t go to bed with you if you were the last man on earth!” she cried. Her statement was trite, but it fit the occasion. It was never said in her dreams. In her fantasies, she never protested but waited breathlessly for his every whispered invitation. Such anticipation had been centered on a boy who no longer existed.

  “You’re lying, Janet!” he accused. His audacity! “You broadcast your desires, and I pick up every last signal!”

  His grip tightened, pulling her closer. There seemed nothing between them. His chest and stomach muscles were chiseled contours pressing into her flesh. She felt more, and she no longer questioned his desire. She did question the reason behind it.

  He wouldn’t let her go.

  This wasn’t the way she had always imagined it, yet the physical image of the real man wasn’t so different from her fantasy. The reality was more in focus: eyes more golden, dimples deeper, jaw squarer, hair blonder, body harder, kisses —

  She turned her face to avoid his kiss. His lips followed the movement and claimed her mouth anyway. She mumbled a protest. Her words were lost as he muffled her complaint with his tongue. He teased her lips with his mouth, and though it seemed as if his lips would at any moment relinquish hers, for endless minutes, they did not.

  Her struggles ground her against him, making him more excited. She began to be affected by his unyielding hardness, too. “Scoundrel!” she gasped, finally given air to breathe.

  Yet her mouth enjoyed the taste of him. Her ears eagerly accepted his low whispers, while he breathed warm caresses against her cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “So very beautiful.”

  He was a master of seduction. He had practiced on Qwenella Fairchild, on that Vogue model, on Lady Bellona Morrel, on countless women in and out of the bedrooms of Lionspride, in and out of the VIP room in the mine. He had cut his teeth on jaded women, and Janet was a defenseless innocent by comparison. It made no difference that she had once been married. Bob had come to her with less expertise than Christopher mustered with one kiss. Bob had loved his work more than he’d loved his wife. It seemed to her that he only made love to her because that was one need his job couldn’t satisfy.

  “Please, let me go!” she begged. She was rationalizing what was happening by blaming Bob and his inadequacies. She had known his inadequacies before she married him. She had known he was dedicated to his job, that he would be out of the country for long periods, that he walked a constant tightrope between life and death in his coverage of countries at war. It was because she knew and understood that he proposed to her in the first place. She had married him though he was less than perfect, as all men were less than perfect.

  “I never plan to let you go!” Christopher said. His lips settled for the sweeping curve of her neck when she denied him a return to her lips. His mouth was hot, burning her flesh, his licking tongue fanning the fire.

  He backed her against one of the lockers. She heard metal sing as it gave beneath the pressure of their combined weight. She freed an arm. He tried to reclaim it, but she wouldn’t let him. She anchored her fingers in the sensuous silkiness of his hair and took hold.

  “Let me go!” she insisted. She no longer said please. This wasn’t a moment for politeness. He was decimating her fantasies, and she refused to let him continue. If he was an uncaring brute, she didn’t want ultimate proof. She wanted to retain at least a piece of her illusion.

  She tugged on his hair, jerking his head back, not to hurt him, merely to make him stop. The curve of his throat as he followed the motion of her hand was a sensuous arc. Powerful muscles and tendons stretched into high relief with the esthetic beauty of an anatomical drawing. He shook his tousled hair from the grip of her trembling fingers, and she let the golden strands slip away. Then, he merely returned his lips to hers.

  His kiss sucked her strength away. In any case, there was no denying the power of his body, while Janet’s reserves were nearly exhausted. He
r struggles were hopeless. She conserved what little strength she had left by no longer resisting. His hold immediately relaxed, but not so she could pull free. His lips became more insistent, but gentle as they caressed with a pressure that kept her lips parted for the maddening dart of his tongue.

  There was the clatter of metal against metal, echoed by the same noise elsewhere in the room. She recognized the sound. So did Christopher. Locker doors were being opened. Men were arriving to change and go down into the mine. They also changed and showered when they came to the surface. Some were there now; more would come. It was almost time for the noon shift.

  Christopher broke the kiss, listening.

  “I’ll scream,” she told him. She should scream. She didn’t—she hadn’t, and that bothered her. Had she thought no one would hear over the noise of the machinery? Hardly, since she clearly heard the opening of lockers. “There may not be anyone working for Van Hoon Minerals who will risk interfering when his boss is involved,” she continued, “but I’ll guarantee a performance that’ll be the talk around here for weeks to come.” He released her. She missed his strong encircling arms. She missed the burning heat of his kisses. “If you’ll excuse me, then,” she said. Her studied calm belied the rapid thumping of her heart. “I’ll see about getting other transportation to my hotel. I’ve seen more than enough of this place and you, thank you.”

  She expected him to protest, but there was only the answering clatter of more opening lockers. Someone laughed. She had laughed at Christopher’s joke about a black cat, an Englishman in a bowler hat, and an American tourist in Cairo. That seemed years ago. A few seconds of laughter was all she had salvaged from the whole morning.

  There was a phone in the office. No one was surprised to see her. No one questioned her right to be there. Word had already filtered down of Christopher’s bringing her through the gates. They only wondered why he was letting her get away so quickly. A basket of food was down in the VIP room. Champagne was chilling.

  “Something came up, and Mr. Van Hoon has decided to stay on,” she told the man who pointed out the phone. She needn’t have lied to protect Christopher’s good name. It was ironic how she came to blacken the Van Hoon reputation and ended up protecting it.