by Anthology
It had been such a long time since he’d been intimate with any woman, and this one had set a craving in place the second he’d laid eyes on her. He wondered for a moment how Kiara felt about one-night stands, and as he inhaled her scent, he hoped sincerely that she was all for them.
But no. That was a cruel thought; she was better than that. A woman like this was to be respected, admired, courted properly by someone she deserved. Someone who could devote his time and energy to her, to let her know how important she was.
And Micah Drake didn’t have the luxury of time. Time seemed, in fact, to set out at every turn to destroy any chance at a normal life. Time was his greatest enemy and a gift all at once, and he’d managed to live a long life in this young body.
He’d seen a good many things in his life. And at the moment he was seeing one that appealed to him more than anything, or anyone, that he’d beheld in many years. But perhaps it was best simply to talk, to enjoy her as much as he could, and to imagine what it might be like to spend a night with such a creature in bed, his body and hers blending their heat and scents as one.
“Mr. Drake,” the young woman said, leaning towards him, her voice pulling him out of his moment of reverie. “I asked you about war.”
“I live a complicated life, as I said,” replied Drake after taking a moment to recover and to mull over her question. At last his eyes left hers, moving about the room. “And I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about certain aspects of it with you just yet.”
Kiara looked remorseful. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I didn’t mean to pry into your personal affairs. I’m really only here to talk about the house and your art.”
“No, no. That’s fine; it was my fault. It’s just that I need a little break from it all, you see—from the mayhem that is my world. And I’ll admit that I brought you back here to take my mind off of the things that cause me stress.”
“Fair enough. But you realize, Mr. Drake, that if I don’t learn at least a little about your collection, I’ll probably get fired…am I actually going to see it?”
“Of course. Yes. I will take you inside the house, as you wish,” he replied, standing up. “But would you do something for me?”
“Sure,” said Kiara.
“Call me Ethan while we’re in there.”
“Ethan?”
“I don’t want the guests to know who I am. I’d rather they simply think that I’m one of them; another curious bystander.”
“Ethan it is, then. You can be my temporary boyfriend, taking a break from his studies at Yale.”
“That sounds excellent. I do so hope that you’ll tell inquiring minds that I study the mating habits of chimpanzees.”
“Whatever you like,” she laughed. This evening was turning out to be so much more pleasant than she’d expected.
Drake extended his hand to help her up. “Come then, I’ll show you the house.”
Kiara chugged the last of her champagne and obliged, her fingers mingling with his as he helped her to her feet. She enjoyed the sensation of his touch more than she cared to admit to herself. What was it about the fingers of a confident, successful man that seemed coated in magic? Perhaps she was only imagining the tingling sensation that shot up her arm towards her chest.
He led her through the yard after she’d put on her boots and coat, telling her about the lit-up objects on display throughout the outdoor space.
“That stone lion is from Egypt,” he said. “Fifth century.” The creature, whose features had been worn nearly off, sat on guard by a corner of the pool. “And that is one of the original copies of Michelangelo’s David, made by one of his pupils.”
“Wait, seriously?” asked Kiara, looking to her right at a statue that looked remarkably like the original. It was protected from the weather by a thick glass case. “How did you…”
“I have always been well-connected. And fortunate in my way.”
“I can see that. And your tastes are widely variable, I see.”
“Let’s just say that I like all time periods equally. Though at the moment, I’m quite enjoying this one.”
“I think you mean that you like the artwork of all time periods,” corrected the young journalist. “It’s not like you’ve lived in the other ones.”
“No, of course not,” said Drake, guiding her through a back door into the house’s enormous kitchen. “Leave your boots and coat. Someone will bring them to the front of the house for later.”
As Kiara removed her coat and laid it across a tall stool that sat tucked next to a large kitchen island, she gazed around at the impressive space. The room was modern, though an enormous set of ancient-looking twin doors seemed to lead to the rest of the house. Carved, worn wood that looked as though it had seen many centuries.
“These were taken from a French chateau that was torn down some years ago,” Drake said, his hand caressing the rough surface of one of the doors. “I brought them over myself.”
“In your private jet?”
“Something like that.” He smiled once again, that deep, enticing smile, as he looked fondly at the ornate wood. It was another vague reply.
“You’re not giving me a lot to go on here,” said Kiara. “Readers will be interested in how you’ve acquired all of this. I mean, I could tell them that it’s simple wealth, but somehow I don’t think that’s enough to make my article sizzle.”
“Then tell them that I have a time machine and that I’ve pilfered my goods by jumping through the centuries,” said Drake. “That’ll get their jaws flapping and reinforce the notion that I’m a nutjob.”
“It’ll get me fired for being insane, more like,” laughed Kiara. “I’ll just say the private jet thing, shall I?”
“Fair enough.”
Drake guided her out into the living room, where it seemed that at least two hundred people were chattering over champagne and hors d’oeuvres, their eyes moving here and there as they speculated about which art pieces were real and were cheap copies.
“Is that an actual Ming vase?”
“Is that a real Rembrandt?”
“Well, are they?” Kiara asked, turning to her host and whispering as she overheard the speculating guests.
“But of course they’re real. Not to mention magnificent.” Drake winked at her.
“I must say that I’m impressed. I’d heard that you were a collector, but I think your goods are worth more than most internationally-renowned museums, building and all.”
“They keep me company on lonely nights,” he replied.
A woman in a tight red dress came over and, staring at Drake, asked, “Excuse me, are you…?”
“Evan, honey, I think there’s more champagne this way,” said Kiara abruptly, grabbing his arm and leading him towards a waiter who was strolling among the guests, a tray in hand.
“Thanks,” Drake said, wiping his brow in mock relief after he’d grabbed two glasses. “Drink away, and then I’ll show you upstairs. We can pretend that we’re only going up there to have a snog.”
“A snog. That sounds like some sort of festive holiday drink,” said Kiara, a tingling sensation running down her back.
“By a ‘snog,’ of course I meant that I should like very much to make out with you.”
“To pretend, you mean.”
“But of course. Anything else would be wildly inappropriate.”
This time she felt her face redden under a surge in blood flow. The thought of kissing him—even in a mere fantasy—made her body want to press itself to his, to test her growing theory that being so close to the man would be like setting off powerful fireworks inside her torso. She seemed all of a sudden fashioned of metal, and his magnetic pull was intense, too powerful to resist.
But she wasn’t there for a one-night stand, and besides, Drake didn’t strike her as one-night stand material. He seemed like the sort who would rather be lonely than mislead a woman; he was a gentleman, as much as he liked to flirt. So she resisted the attraction, trying to cur
b her fingertips’ desire to reach for him.
He escorted Kiara through the throngs of gossips to a broad, spiralling staircase that reminded her of a helix-shaped DNA strand. There, he turned to her once again.
“Ready to go upstairs?” he asked, his tone mischievous.
“I am. And I must say, this is also impressive,” she said, looking about her at the space. “As if anything you’ve shown me has been anything but.”
The stairway rose to an overhead window, a dome of glass framed in carved wood. The stars shone in the night sky, Kiara staring up at them rather than at the house’s interior, for a moment forgetting her assignment.
“If I were you,” she said, “I’d spend all my time here, in this place.”
“A large house isn’t so appealing when you live in it alone, believe me,” he said, turning to her as he headed up the staircase. “Now, come with me and I won’t feel so alone, at least for a little.”
Once again he offered her a hand, which she took happily as he smiled and turned to guide her upwards. And again she felt it: that delicate spark, the shot of energy flowing into her from his fingers. Could he feel it as well?
“These are the guest rooms,” he said when they’d reached the top, pointing to a long hallway flanked by many doors.
“If you have this many guests, you can’t be alone much.”
“My guests are normally very temporary and most are eager to leave, to say the least.”
“Another mysterious statement. Are you ever going to give me any genuine information whatsoever?”
“Probably not. But here’s something that you might find interesting,” he said, stopping before a portrait that hung on the wall in a gilded frame. “This is a Rembrandt.”
Kiara studied the work for a moment. It was a painting of a young man with thick hair and bright eyes.
“It’s funny,” she said. “I’ve never seen this one. He looks like…you.”
Drake turned away again, and was now processing down the hall. No, it couldn’t be, she thought. Had one of his ancestors known the great master painter? Maybe strong genes meant that the resemblance had been handed down among the men of his family.
“Each room was designed by a different architect,” he said, “so you’ll see that each has different windows, different ceilings. I gave them free rein on their ideas, only asking that they design the rooms to fit into specific historical periods.”
Kiara poked her head into one, which had enough beds that it could have slept eight people.
“I’ve never seen quite so many beds in one place before,” she said. “Other than in a hospital, I suppose.”
“Now you have,” he replied, laughing. “I suspect that I could show you a good many things that you’ve never seen.”
“Now I feel like you’re definitely teasing me.”
Drake leaned against the wall, his arms crossing against his chest. “I’ve been teasing you all night. And I rather enjoy it, truth be told.”
Kiara imitated his stance, leaning back, her arms crossed. “So stop teasing, and tell me something interesting about Micah Drake. Something I can really sink my teeth into.”
“Your teeth, you say? But they’re so small and dainty. I’d sooner sink mine into you.”
“Why do I feel like I’m in a slightly dirty Little Red Riding Hood story?”
“You’re not so far off as you think,” he said. “I’ve known a few big bad wolves in my time.” He spoke the words with the usual mystery, a distant meaning hidden within their syllables. “Now,” he continued, his tone jovial, “how about if I show you something that very few people have seen in the past few centuries?”
“All right. Sounds like a start.” And it might just take my mind off the image of you sinking any part of that body into any part of mine.
Drake guided her further down the hall, extracting a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking a closed door. He pushed it open.
“Go on in,” he said.
“This isn’t some adult playroom, is it? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“Nothing like that. Only a playroom for the mind,” he said.
He turned a light on when she was inside, revealing a large collection of oddities: paintings of animals having conversations. Clothing on mannequins—only they weren’t made for humans; most of the mannequins had four legs. Books, lined up in tidy rows, with titles in old English and Gaelic.
“This is quite something,” Kiara said as she wandered. Drake closed the door behind them, locking it.
“I’m only locking others out,” he said. “Not locking you in.”
“It’s all right,” said Kiara, eyeing a particularly ornate cape that lay draped across one of the odd dress forms. “I don’t particularly want to leave.”
“You are a strange woman.” Drake was standing over her shoulder now, looking at the same piece. Kiara could feel his heat through her clothing, causing her own skin to burn with something mortifying and delightful at once.
“And you’re a strange man,” she said. “The strangest one I think I’ve met. What is all this stuff?”
“It’s from the days of the Dragons,” he said. “The days when legends were born. The time of my ancestors.”
“Was this all built for theatre or something? As costumes?”
“Something like that,” he said for the tenth time that evening, his vagueness overwhelming in its consistency. “As you can see, they weren’t meant to be worn by human bodies.”
“No. But the amount of work that went into them is astounding. Why would anyone go to this trouble for a fantasy?”
Just then three knocks sounded at the door in rapid succession.
“Sir,” called a voice from the hallway.
Drake went over and unlocked the door, sighing.
“What is it?” he said to a man standing in a waiter’s uniform.
“One of them has come. He’s in your drawing room. He says it’s of the utmost importance.”
Drake stiffened. Suddenly he was all business, the pleasantness of the evening washed away with those few words.
He turned to Kiara.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I need to leave you. Please, feel free to look around any part of the house that you’d like. I’m afraid I’m required elsewhere for a little.”
“Any part of the house except for your drawing room, I take it?” said Kiara, smiling.
“Yes, any part but that. Listen, Kiara…I must see you again. Either later tonight or another time. Tell me that I may.”
“Of course,” she said, her heart pounding in her chest. Did he want to complete the interview, or was it something else that he desired?
But for now, she would have no answer. A moment later, he was gone.
5
Kiara entered each of the guest bedrooms in turn, her professional side at last kicking in as she replaced the image of the man himself with the physicality of his beautiful house. She jotted down notes about each space as she went, taking stock of the layout, the colours and the overall design.
The work that had gone into each room astounded her. The first that she entered was decorated as though it had come out of Japan, with walls of paper, framed by light-coloured wood. A low table sat on the floor opposite the bed, every detail apparently authentic. Another room looked as though it had been imported from medieval England, another from the Middle East, its walls coated in hand-painted tiles of various shades of blue, gold, turquoise and white.
Each of them was beautiful, and she supposed that if a person had enough money he could afford to spend it on such extravagances. A lonely man walking through these rooms could pretend to be traveling the world, escaping a difficult life.
Was that what this was all about?
She found herself pulling out her cell phone and snapping photos of the various settings, more to study as she wrote her article than for any other purpose; there would be a professional photographer sent to take pictures over the next few days.
In one room she came across a leather-bound book contained in a glass case. A brass plaque explained that its title was “The Dragon Wars.” The pages looked as though they were made from parchment that might crumble beneath the weight of air, age having already begun to ravage its edges. The book must have been worth a fortune, Kiara thought. But what was the story behind it?
As she examined it she could only make out a small taste of the contents: a painting depicted dragons taking out towns, residents fleeing under massive lines of fire shot from the mouths of the beasts.
“I guess he’s into his fairy tales,” she said softly as she took a photograph of it. Something about such a wealthy, well-traveled man enjoying fantasy tales as she did made her smile.
At last she’d made her way through every room that she could, deeming the information that she’d gathered sufficient. She walked back towards the staircase, dropping her phone into her purse, which she hooked over her shoulder.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, the guests were still chatting, still animated, no doubt still curious as to who their host was. But she saw no sign of Micah Drake among them. She stepped towards the front door, supposing that it was time to call a real taxi, and not one driven by her host.
To her left and away from the large living room where the guests were gathered was a set of two large wooden doors, one of which was slightly ajar. As she passed she heard voices.
“I cannot bring them all through,” Micah’s distinctive voice was saying. “It’s too dangerous. This is not a refugee camp, for God’s sake. We must fight the others back.”
“We’ll need you, my Lord,” the other man replied. “We’ve tried on our own. You’re the most powerful among us. The others are spent by now.”
My Lord? That was an interesting alternative to Sir. What on earth were they talking about?
Now it was Drake who spoke. “Fine. I’ll come. But not tonight. I’ll make my way there tomorrow. Tell them to be ready for me.”
