by Sandra Ross
He continued, "But ever since I saw you at the coffee shop that one day a month ago... I can't get you out of my mind. That's why I've been coming here every day. I should have asked you for what I wanted from the first day but I was worried about scaring you away. You evidently don't scare easily, though. So..." He sighed. "Look how this turned out."
He hadn't let go of her hand and caressed her palm with his thumb. Chills coursed throughout her body. She couldn't pull away. There was a moment when she felt like she would die if she pulled her hand from his. It felt so good, so right, for it to be there.
"I just want to ask you to go out with me; that's all. A date, Iliana. I'll pick you up tonight?" He said this as though he knew where she lived. Perhaps he did. He didn't even bother asking where to pick her up.
"A-A date? That's what this is all about? You want to go out with me? But, but... why me? I mean..."
"Please, Iliana," he implored. "Give me a chance. Dinner, dancing, drinks... anything you want. I would be delighted to get to know you better and for you to get to know me better yourself."
She stepped backwards, finally pulling her hand from his. She almost winced at the abrupt emptiness she felt. It was really ridiculous but she couldn't explain it. She took a deep breath, regaining her self-control. Only then did she dare to look at him.
She found herself saying, "What time?"
Her eyes widened upon hearing herself. That was not what she had planned to say. He smiled widely, this time a true smile that reached his eyes. She felt breathless at seeing him so relieved at her acceptance. Okay, he really was weird, she decided. But he couldn't look perfect and be perfect, right? She could always say no later, couldn't she? Surely there had to be some aspect of him which, when later revealed, would make her able to resist him. She could certainly say no next time. Couldn't she?
Chapter Three
A MONTH PASSED. The world went about its business as the world always does. People got themselves born, got themselves into school, got themselves a job, got themselves a spouse, got themselves a vacation, got themselves a retirement home and, for a lucky few, got themselves enough money to live peacefully in their old age. Nickolas considered these matters as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Life, even the most tempestuous life, always passed by certain, unchanging way stations. At some point, even he, a man who liked to think of himself as the master of his own fate, would have to give in to life's demands, whether he wanted to or not. He frowned at the thought.
His long, thick hair reached the back of his neck, swept back and neatly controlled by a comb he set down in front of the mirror. He took meticulous care of his hair. He went to a men's salon famous in the area for having received a number of awards in a local magazine no one read and fewer people knew about. The magazine had provided the business with six reviews, in six consecutive issues, proclaiming that they had been chosen as the best salon in the area for either gender. He knew the first and last name of the man who did his hair. A man who, while taking on the demeanor of one who did his work well, always lived in fear of a single phone call from Nickolas that would mean an end to fashionable, well-to-do clients and a new start at seven every morning in a barber shop where small claims court cases played on the television at three in the afternoon. Even the generous tip Nickolas gave the hair stylist hadn't been enough to keep one or two droplets of sweat from falling down the man's temples whenever he picked up a pair of scissors.
Sometimes, a woman would try to say he should cut it short after a romp in bed. But she would not really mean it. He could tell that much. Nor would he do it, if she actually did. It was the one thing from the old days he insisted on keeping. Today he wore black jeans and a black casual shirt, both expensive brands, on a well worked-out body. Only the best for Nickolas Benson, he thought to himself.
His appearance was a striking departure from old devil, Nick DiAngelo, with his jeans, the filthy t-shirts, and the worn black leather jacket.
If he had chosen to wear his usual expensive suits with the matching ties, he knew he wouldn't have gotten past the first date with Iliana. She looked like a doe caught by the headlights the first time they went out, tugging at his hand like she wanted to run. It had to be the men and women in formal evening attire that made her feel the most out of place. Just one of the silk dresses with diamond laced ribbons other women wore could easily buy the entire restaurant she worked at and pay handsomely for its refurbishing.
He knew exactly what she was thinking as she threw glances his way when she thought he wasn't watching, looking over his jeans and his sports jacket, and glancing at his hair. He had deliberately worn casual clothes on their first date. He wanted to tell her to stop looking at her reflection in mirrors they passed, with her eyes critical and trying very hard to look proud. Even with her rags, she was the most beautiful of them all.
He knew she wouldn't believe him. Or if she did, she would feel awkward. She wasn't used to going to expensive places. Instead, he tried his best to distract her from her surroundings by talking to her, asking her questions, making her talk, and making her savor the delicious food above all. If there was anything that he wanted her to appreciate in the first restaurants he brought her to, it was the food. He wanted her to have something she would enjoy if she chose to go out with him again. First of all would be irresistibly delicious food. He wanted to fill her thin frame up. He could just imagine what she fed herself on her meager salary. Nickolas remembered well enough what it had been like; going to sleep hungry, shivering in a place he could hardly call home while the cold wind howled outside. On days like that, he had been happy enough to eat a length of hard, stale bread the supermarket donated to a local food kitchen. Judging by her thin hips and stick figure arms, Nickolas imagined Iliana dined upon instant ramen noodles on more than occasion.
He wanted her, first of all, to be healthy. He knew, though, how precarious a conversation it would be if he brought her attention to what he felt was a desperate need for good clothes to bring out the color of her eyes and, most of all, not make her so uncomfortable around this charade of wealth. She was so proud, his stray cat. So defensive. She sought to always protect herself. He knew if he wasn't careful now, she would be on the verge of making an escape.
He worked on making her comfortable with him first by being friendly and donning casual clothes. He worked on making her laugh. If she only knew how many times men around them would look their way when she laughed in her carefree, melodic pitch. Even while looking like she had come out of a discount clothing store, she radiated. He loved looking at her when she flushed with laughter.
It was as if she wasn't afraid of loss, the very fear that so many in this ballroom had nightmares about. And now she was a pleasure to be around. After a month of dating, she was more comfortable around him. At least she had stopped looking for an obscure spot above his head every time she talked to him.
For a month now, he had been taking her to the hottest spots in the city: the theater, ballet, dancing clubs, restaurants. She was fed not just by food but by beautiful music and artistic sights. Almost every night, he would pick her up outside her apartment and be the escort of her dreams: kind, chivalrous, obliging. At the end of every night, he returned her home before midnight and saw her safely inside her apartment.
He hadn't kissed her once. That was not part of his plan. She had to feel completely safe before he entered phase two of his plans for the two of them. A strong, physical, highly sexual attraction persisted between them. He knew he couldn't kiss her and then just as easily stop. It would destroy his carefully laid out plans. He had to follow the scheme he had charted for them years ago.
He'd lived the better part of his life by planning well-brilliantly, meticulously-so he could arrive at this very point in his future. A future that was now his present. He wanted Iliana. He desired to have her. There was a time when he'd wanted to get her so he could save her and so save his soul from the torture it has suffered since he'd destroyed her life.
Since then, his view about his mission had changed. She had become an obsession. He could not allow the possibility of losing her.
Tonight was the night. He was bringing her to his fortress. A shiver of anticipation went up his spine. His shoulders straightened as he watched his image in the mirror. He could see the desire and excitement mingling on his polished face. In his mind, he could see Iliana's exquisite features. He closed his eyes. He could imagine how she would look in the throes of passion. He knew she was aware of him. He knew the signs. He anticipated them whenever they were together. He knew she wanted her hand held when they walked but lately he avoided that because he was afraid of losing control. That wouldn't be a problem tonight. He would certainly welcome the change with relief.
How could they be together in one place with no one around and not touch each other? It would be too tempting. He knew it would be, at least, for him. The wait was over this night. He just hoped that Iliana was ready.
Chapter Four
ILIANA MURMURED TO herself, "Mediocre."
She stood naked in front of her closet mirror. She was trying to find the thing that made Nickolas notice her a month ago. Of course, she had been wearing clothes then, clothes which Nickolas often observed as though they embarrassed him in a way she couldn't quite identify. Had he been attracted by her worn-out blouse or her pantyhose with a run along the calf? She didn't think this to be the case. Something had attracted him, sure enough. Something had made him sit there and stare at her for an hour every day. He'd even come in on the days when she had off, sitting there all the while as though the aroma of the coffee he never drank brought him back every time. Since he asked her out and kept seeing her, she could only draw one conclusion: she attracted him; if not with her clothes, then her body.
As a result, she considered herself fully, without ornamentation. She had a very common pale face that always seemed to be redder than any other face when she was blushing, with a pert nose and red, puffed lips that looked about ready to burst. She had long, red hair she always kept controlled in heavy plaits or tight ponytails because it was wild and curly. When her hair fell loose, it made her look like a person engulfed in flames when her face blushed.
She had very light blue eyes that she always thought made her look like a blind person. So she always looked like a blind person on fire, she thought, smirking at her reflection a little. What could Nickolas possibly like about that?
She had a body that was thin but fit since she was always working. She supposed men found that sexy. She had a chest she could do without because she had breasts men liked to stare at. Men definitely found that sexy. She could tell.
As a consequence, she hid them in smaller and tighter bra cups and unshapely shirts. She supposed she wasn't really ugly. Anthony always said that she was quite attractive to the opposite sex. She'd grown up trying to fend off male attention, too. On the other hand, some men were so horny they'd hump a post with a skirt, in her experience. She would have to leave the observations to the men. Like Nickolas.
Sometimes he would just stare at her and she would burn. Those times, she could guess what he was thinking. She could tell he wanted her. But he hadn't kissed her yet. While every time they touched, even accidentally, she wanted to rip his clothes off and kiss him all over. She felt it in the core of her being, this irrational desire to do things to him she never would have imagined doing to anyone. He didn't seem to have the same urges. He seemed always in control. He wasn't even touching her lately, even just to hold her hand. For a man, he was certainly giving her very mixed signals, Iliana thought.
If he didn't feel what she felt, why was he taking her on these big, expensive dates? Shoving food at her plate because he couldn't very well spoon-feed her, but not for lack of trying. He sometimes acted like an older brother taking care of his sister. During these times, they only had to touch, even accidentally, for the sparks to come back. The wonderful, glorious sparks that sent shivers through her body. The hackles on the back of her neck rose. She had to force herself to keep under control, not to show that his touch affected her in the way that it did. For, she observed, her touch seemed to affect him not at all. It was very perplexing.
Iliana had never felt like this, nor had she ever experienced anything like this before. Although her sexual experience had been limited to just one lover a long time ago, she was not too ignorant to realize this was no ordinary fling.
But... then... she sighed deeply, heavily.
When he invited her out tonight, she felt something different. Like this night would be a milestone for them. She didn't know why she knew or how it would happen. She just knew. She had grown up listening to her instincts. She had no formal education. There had been no money to pay for that. She had been able to go to school for a while and the teachers had said she was intelligent. Even knowing this, they had to let her go when she couldn't pay her way through.
She had to do whatever she could just to put food on the table and buy medicine for her grandmother, who had lived with her when she was still alive. She couldn't scrape together anything anymore with which she could continue her education-not working at a coffee shop.
Over the years, she somehow managed to get a little ahead of perdition. Other people called their situation hell on earth. They said she couldn't possibly survive, just as others had not. She didn't budge. She still managed to hope.
Her parents had died hoping. When they were alive, there always had been laughter in the house. They were poor but she would always hear laughter. Even when her grandmother fell sick, the old woman always smiled. She would always say, even when she retained little life in her body, hope remained. That she would die hoping for her granddaughter to make a better life for herself. So Iliana promised her grandmother, on the deathbed of a woman she cared for deeply, that she would.
In the end, she fulfilled her promise, though her grandmother could no longer bear witness to it. She used everything she had. Most of all, she used her instincts. She wouldn't have survived that neighborhood without her instincts. Her gut feelings, her woman's intuition, whatever people called it, had never let her down.
In that moment, standing in front of her mirror, they told her that something was up. Her heart could not stop its heavy thudding. He was coming to get her, sooner rather than later. This would be another date, he had said. But the place where they would go would be a surprise. He would arrive in half an hour and she hadn't decided what to wear. In fact, she hadn't yet decided to wear anything at all.
Her options weren't many. She owned nothing controversial or extraordinary. Her wardrobe totaled six articles of clothing. She couldn't realistically afford controversial or extraordinary. If she were Nickolas, she would be embarrassed to take her out to anywhere. And if I were a little less proud, I would be very embarrassed indeed to walk inside all these luxurious places, dressed in my ugly clothes, with him, she thought.
She smiled to herself. Because she was who she was, she walked inside those places anyway. Iliana passed women in expensive dresses trying to appear as if she was the Queen of England, secretly wishing the floor would suck her in yet outwardly showing nothing of the sort as Nickolas held her hand. He didn't seem to mind. If he noticed how others looked at her, an amused expression played across his face for a second. Then he would go back to looking at her as if she was one of those expensive women, with intelligent things inside her head.
So how could she be embarrassed, when a man like Nickolas Benson looked at her like that, while he barely glanced at other women dressed in fashionable, expensive threads? He was one of a few men who could talk with her without ogling her breasts. He steadily held her gaze while she spoke her mind, which grew more frequent as she got to know him. She spoke her mind because he listened. His focus always remained on her. He would ask questions to pick her mind and pretty soon she would be talking. He would answer in ways that told her he understood what she was saying. She wondered how he could so easily understand her. She supposed it was because
he was intelligent as a result of handling a lot of people in his business. He was a good businessman. He was successful. He must understand a lot of things, she thought to herself as she strapped a bra on.
She supposed she should be glad that his entire attention was on her despite being in the presence of an actress who had just won her latest Oscar and a state senator with fawning celebrities in tow. None of this seemed to deter him anyway, since he saw elites like that-who always made themselves known whenever possible-fairly often. His eyes never strayed far from her face. Even so, it drove her to distraction. She wanted him to look down for a moment so she could see what he truly thought about her body, if indeed this mattered to him at all.
He never looked down, however. He always had to stay in control. That was Nickolas Benson. She found him irritating. She found him intriguing. However, if she remained honest with herself, she knew that she found it endearing.
She picked a long-sleeved grey dress that ended at her knees and had a tall neck. It had belonged to her mother. She sighed. She had worn it twice with Nickolas already. It would have to do.
Perhaps, she thought to herself, my instincts are wrong. At the rate they had been going, he probably only needed an employee who could serve him good coffee, she thought while she got dressed. Maybe he wasn't really mysterious, but was just weird that way. At least by then she could afford better clothes.
NICKOLAS' CAR sped along the road. Iliana, in the passenger seat, tried her best to stifle comments regarding his driving. He drove with his right hand in the two o'clock, never using his left hand for anything, not even to activate his turn signal. Sometimes, he steered with his knees. Iliana had caught him yawning behind the wheel. She wondered whether he found the privilege of driving-a privilege in which she herself could not afford to indulge-boring. The word stuck in her mind: boring. Even at the best of times, in months where she had a small amount of discretionary income, she had never been able to afford to use her car for anything other than groceries and her work commute. During those times, she had resented stopped at the gas station. Nickolas treated his vehicle with such casual disinterest. Iliana wondered if he'd ever been too poor to drive. She thought not.
