He chose to ignore that and looked at Calli instead. “What about dinner tonight?”
Calli nodded. “Yes, I’d love to,” she said, without pausing to consider it. She knew if she allowed herself to think about it, she would find a reason to say no.
“Good.” Joshua folded up the newspaper and plopped it onto the middle of the table, then stretched. “I should get going, anyway. There’s stuff to do at the Palace. I’ll talk to Peter at lunch and call you with details, okay?”
“Sure,” Calli said briefly, but she stared at the front page of the newspaper which now faced her. The picture was grainy, but unmistakable. A wide shot of the head table at last night’s dinner. The general sat front and center in the photo, but Nicolás Escobedo’s features were clear too. The headlines screamed something in huge type, exclamation marks either side, the first one upside-down.
Uncle Josh picked up his briefcase, jiggling his pocket for keys.
“I’ll walk you to the car,” Calli told him, getting to her feet.
“‘kay,” he said without hesitation.
When they were outside he raised his eyebrow. “Something in the paper spook you?” he asked.
“A little. What did that headline say?”
“Congratulations to Blanco for his excellent leadership and his birthday.”
“Oh.”
“It’s El Liberalé, which is a conservative newspaper despite the name. What were you hoping for? Disclosure of a conspiracy?”
She shook her head. “It was the man a couple of seats to the right of Blanco.”
“Nicolás Escobedo?” Joshua said, a little sharply. “What of him?”
“He’s the man who helped me at the jail.”
Joshua rested his briefcase on the bonnet of the silver Chevy Cavalier and leaned on it, as if thinking hard. “You’re sure?” he asked quietly.
“Positive.”
Another thoughtful silence. “Jesus Maria....” Joshua breathed. “He really does have feelers out everywhere.”
“He’s the man the army calls el leopardo rojo.”
“Yes, I just made the connection,” Joshua said, frowning. “Although I wouldn’t go around blurting that out to just anyone, Calli.” His brow smoothed. “Well, it’s good to know we have friends in high places,” he said. “This really does confirm they’re working to support us here. With the problems I get handed every day I sometimes wondered.” He patted her shoulder. “Thanks for telling me,” he said and got into the car and drove away.
Calli stood on the narrow cobbled street, watching the Chevy twist around the hairpin bend twenty yards down the hill and disappear.
The conversation had cheered Josh immensely, but Calli, perversely, felt more uneasy than ever.
I want to live in your mind, at least. His voice curled through her thoughts.
Had he honestly thought she would be able to dismiss him with his face plastered on the front page of the daily national newspaper? But...gut instinct told her his intention had been to linger in her memories at a far more personal level.
The image from her dream, her thigh over his hip, his hand on her skin, hot and demanding, slipped into her thoughts. That was what he had meant.
Why her? Why? When no other man had raised so much as an eyebrow in her direction for five years? More? She was a dusty, ill-used thirty-something woman well on her way to becoming a rusty, disused old spinster set in her ways, entrenched in academia and teaching dry economic theory until she retired.
Why me? And why him?
It was beyond comprehension.
It was all theory, anyway. He had made that clear last night. Nothing would ever come of it. He was as untouchable as she had suspected.
She went back inside, blinking in the dimness of the apartment after the brilliant sunshine outside, and asked Minnie to take her shopping again. She would need something sexy to wear tonight if she was going to get herself laid.
* * * * *
“You know, you really are a knockout,” Peter said. “Joshua said you scrubbed up well, but I think he was being conservative.”
Calli smiled mechanically and swallowed another mouthful of the dry, overcooked steak. Peter had told her three times already what a knockout she was, and it didn’t sound any better on the third repetition. But his need to please her added points in his favor.
She had surreptitiously checked off other criteria throughout the evening. His breath smelled sweet; he had no discernable body odor. Clean hands, a nice white smile and a small bonus: tight buttocks beneath the dark business suit. He stood perhaps half an inch shorter than her, which she could overlook for now. In bed, the height difference would be no difference at all.
The absolute lack of any appeal he had for her was a drawback, however. He had light brown hair, light brown eyes, nicely tanned skin to go with the white smile, and he obviously worked to maintain his body. Nothing wrong with him at all. But nothing sparked her interest.
He had picked her up at the apartment right on time. She had walked out the door knowing she looked as beddable as it was possible to look. Minnie had worked all afternoon to ensure Peter got the right impression.
Minnie had somehow intuited Calli’s intentions for she had rapidly discarded various options, settling on a look that she pronounced with her arms crossed, “totally fuckable, honey.”
Calli wore a dress made of stretch lace. The halter top had a vee-neck that ended low between her breasts. Virtually backless, the dress dipped down to the point where the indentation of Calli’s spine flattened out over the back of her hips. It had no lining—her skin showed clearly through the mesh of the lace, except for a virtually invisible flesh-colored panel of elastic that covered her breasts and supported them. The skirt hugged her hips—the elastic fabric gave her flexibility, but the dress clung to her. The hem stopped several inches short of her knees.
Minnie had insisted she wear the tallest shoes they could find, a black pair with ankle straps. All her hair had been piled on top of her head and held down with dozens of hair clips. Wisps fell around her face. Minnie also directed the application of her makeup. Red lips, red toenails, and gold hoop earrings. But Minnie could do nothing about Calli’s work-worn fingernails other than file them neatly and paint them.
Calli had looked in the mirror and frowned. “Don’t you think it’s a bit subtle?” she asked Minnie. “I should be wearing a mini skirt and thigh high leather boots or something. This looks...”
“Sensual,” Minnie declared.
“I want to say ‘sex’ not ‘sensual’.”
“Do you want good sex or ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’?” Minnie asked.
Calli pursed her lips. Minnie did know more about this than her, after all. Yet Calli didn’t want to play a slow game of subtle seduction. She wanted to be fucked, and then she could move on with her life.
“Believe me, sensual will get you good sex,” Minnie added. “If a man understands the difference between the two then he knows how to please a woman in bed. If Peter doesn’t understand it, he doesn’t deserve you. Besides, if you did walk into Ashcroft’s wearing a mini skirt and leather boots you’d be arrested for prostitution. They’re very conservative here.”
“Not from what I saw the first night of La Fiesta.”
“That’s the festival for you. People let off steam during the fiesta. It’s condoned. But only then.”
Calli studied her. “You have been taking notice, haven’t you?”
“Told you I had,” Minnie returned. The phone rang and she almost jumped across the room to pick it up. “Duardo!” she said happily, turning away, leaving Calli to wait for Peter to arrive.
Ashcroft’s, one of the best restaurants in the city, served what they optimistically titled “international cuisine.” Peter had been proud to show her the menu that featured Texas beef and insisted she indulge herself. Calli had been curious to try some of the local dishes, but in order to keep Peter happy, had ordered the beef. It had been a mistake.
She put her knife and fork down and sat back, looking around. The cavernous restaurant had a high ceiling and dark wood paneling on the walls. It felt very Victorian, with large potted palms and ferns in collections throughout the room, which managed to provide each table a small measure of privacy.
“It feels like one of those men’s clubs they used to have in London,” Calli said.
“Very observant,” Peter said with a grin. “It used to be exactly that, way back when. The British had a small colonial trade outpost here just before the first world war. Where there’s a group of Englishmen, there’s always a club.”
“I see.” She cast about for something else to say, starting to feel a little desperate. Her dilemma grew stronger with each passing minute—she had finished her meal and he had nearly emptied his plate. What then? Coffee and dessert—well, not for her. But how did she work this now? It had been too many years since she’d dated and now she had no idea what to do. Besides, she was no longer certain she even wanted to take Peter to bed. Had she ever wanted to?
“Shall we dance?” Peter asked after a moment.
“Yes,” she said thankfully. That would delay the moment of decision a bit longer, anyway.
A pocket-sized dance floor occupied the middle of the room and a three man band on the bandstand, playing western lounge music. One other couple moved about the floor, a middle-aged pair that looked like they had been plucked off a dancehall floor out of the States—conservatively-dressed, overweight, polite, proper Americans.
Peter led her out onto the floor and took her in his arms for a slow two step. His hand on her back was sweaty. He seemed to be aware of it, for he barely touched her, as if contact with her bare skin would give him a shock. He concentrated very hard on the dance, not speaking at all.
Well, it had been a long time since she’d danced too. So Calli tried to relax and enjoy the moment.
Halfway around the floor, she ended up facing the other way and saw the rest of the room that had been hidden by a giant palm next to their table. A group of businessmen had their heads together, over by the massive fireplace. Cigar smoke hung thick around their heads and they laughed loudly over a joke, settling back in their chairs.
One of them was Nicolás Escobedo.
Calli tripped a little and clutched at Peter’s shoulder to save herself. His hand clamped against her back, drawing her against him to hold her up.
“Whoa!” he said. “You all right?”
“Yes,” she said a little shakily. Her heart hammered and she began to tremble.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Yes...no, it’s okay. I’m enjoying this,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him.
He shrugged a little. “Okay, then.”
They began dancing again. When Peter turned her next, she glanced back at the table of businessmen.
Nicolás Escobedo sat back in his chair, one arm draped over the arm. He watched her, while his three companions continued to talk. Calli covertly studied him before Peter swung her around again. A dark suit, but not quite black. Perhaps charcoal gray, or a gray green. The shirt was dark, too, and the tie matched it. He wouldn’t look out of place on Wall Street.
With the next turn she looked again. He watched still and one long finger rested against his lips. He’d narrowed his eyes, as though her presence here disturbed him.
She felt a resurgence of the same anger that had gripped her last night when Nicolás had revealed his attraction to her and instantly pulled it out of her reach just because he wanted to. There had been no consideration for her in his decision, just some perverse desire to play with her, like dangling yarn in front of a kitten.
Why was he here? To play with her again?
Then her view vanished, for Peter had turned her again. The music stopped, and the musicians stood and nodded to them.
Break time.
Peter led her back to the table and they sat down. Their meals had been cleared, but as Calli no longer dithered about how the evening would finish, the acceleration of the end of the meal held little consequence. She would, somehow, let Peter know that if he pressed his luck, he’d find a willing mate, and she would cooperate with full enthusiasm. If she let herself sink into the experience, she could wipe out any lingering needs Nicolás Escobedo had stirred in her and the slate would then be clean.
After that, she would stay in bed with Peter and thank him the only appropriate way possible.
So all that remained now was to get to the end of the evening as quickly as possible.
Peter looked around for a waiter. “Would you like another drink?” he asked. “They have excellent tea here.”
Tea. Calli shook her head. “I’d prefer coffee if I must, but—”
“Coffee. No problem.” He waved his hand.
“No, really, I could live without it,” she said quickly.
“It’s no problem,” he assured her.
She sighed, and sat back.
“It’s Kaestner, isn’t it?” said a new voice from behind her.
Calli didn’t have to turn to look to know Nicolás stood behind her. The voice could belong to no one else. The American accent with the deliberate pronunciation, as if he concentrated on every word. Which he might well be. Even without the hint, no man she knew had that gravelly, low timbre that caressed her spine and made her gut turn with a slow roll that left every nerve in her body awake and tingling.
Peter stood up again, grasping the napkin in his lap and trying to shake hands at the same time. He did it awkwardly, caught by surprise. “Yes, Peter Kaestner, Señor Escobedo. I didn’t realize you dined here—I wouldn’t have ignored you.”
“No, it’s all right,” Nicolás said, waving him down. “I am here on private family business—Ashcroft’s is good for not being noticed, I’ve found. You too, I see.”
“Yeah, you can really get away from people here,” Peter agreed. “Please...sit down.”
Nicolás sat in the chair to Calli’s left and looked at her. “Miss Munro, yes? You were at the general’s birthday party last night.”
“That’s right,” Calli said. Her voice emerged husky.
Peter looked shocked. “You got an invite to that?”
“Callida has managed to make quite an impression on Vistarians in her short time here,” Nicolás said.
“I guess,” Peter said with a half laugh, half exhalation. He seemed genuinely bemused.
“We met at Las Piedras Grandes, didn’t we?” Nicolás asked him. “At the opening ceremony for the mine?”
Peter nodded enthusiastically. Quickly Nicolás drew him out, opening up the conversation, getting Peter to talk about his work, his worries. Calli tuned the conversation out, watching the two men instead. While Peter spoke and Nicolás listened, Nicolás played with the stem of the empty water glass in front of him, absently sliding his fingers up and down the length of it. Calli watched the motion, almost hypnotized by it. His fingers slid up the stem, then up further still, around the bottom of the glass itself, to cup the curve there.
She released the breath she’d been holding. Was he doing it deliberately? But he never once even glanced at her.
Abruptly, she stood up. “Will you excuse me?” she murmured before either of them could react and hurried towards the door into the wide hallway that led to the front door. A waitress with a starched apron spoke to her, and Calli heard ‘help’ amidst the blur of Spanish.
“Sí,” she said. “Washrooms? Um...” She frowned, recalling the phrases she had been studying, groping for an appropriate word. “La conveniencia?”
“Sí,” the woman said, and pointed toward the wide carpeted stairs running up along the opposite wall of the hallway. The heavy paneling repeated there, and a thick railing of heavily carved wood glowed with age and good care.
“Up?” Calli questioned, also pointing.
“Sí, up.” The waitress agreed with a wide smile.
Th
e stairway broke into a square landing very close to the bottom of the case, and the wall along the side of the landing had a huge picture window, framed with lavish green velvet swags and curtains. At ninety degrees to the rest of the stairs, three more steps reached down to the hallway floor. Calli climbed the steps slowly and saw the reason why the window had been placed there: The lights of la colina spread out before her, undulating down the hillside and off to the north and south for miles.
She didn’t pause to admire the view, for she wanted to reach a place where no one could find her easily, but she moved slowly. The longer she took to reach that place, the longer she stayed away from the table, the higher the probability that Nicolás would be gone when she returned to the table.
Why had he come over? There had been no reason that she could see. His talk with Peter had been virtually mindless, yet someone like Nicolás Escobedo did not engage in superficial conversation for no reason.
She found the washrooms, with the universal symbol for women, and stood at the basin staring in the mirror but not seeing herself, tasting the roiling anger and frustration. Last night and again tonight. He simply toyed with her.
But no, that wasn’t accurate. Her mind, trained for critical thinking, nagged her into acknowledging the inconsistencies.
Calli spread her hands and leaned on the counter, letting her head hang as she pushed aside all the hurt feelings and her bruised ego and separated out the facts. He had said...what?
“I saw the light go out of your eyes when you heard my name, tonight. I saw you recall what you said at the police station. That is why I stand here now. I did not like watching that spirit in you die as you put it all together.”
The caress of his voice in her mind: “I dreamed of you, Calli.”
Abruptly, she shivered.
He hadn’t been playing with her at all. He had revealed himself to make her feel better, then very carefully explained why he could not give in to the desire.
Calli rubbed her temple. God and she had been at the point of dragging Peter to bed to get even with him. How stupid! How could she not have seen this before? “I’m out of practice,” she whispered to the mirror.
Red Leopard (The Vistaria Affair Series) Page 7
