Dance of the Crystal (11 page)

After a long pause, during which time Crystal bit down on her tongue to keep from jumping into the silence, Magnus said, “All right. I’ll wait for you outside.”

Determined not to be a clinging vine, Crystal ignored the man who came to stand next to her. She began stacking the dirty plates and cups.

“Look, I’m not good at this man-woman thing,” he said.

She picked up the stack and brought them to the kitchen sink. He followed her. Rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. Cleared his throat.

She would
not
make it easy for him. She would
not
.

“I, uh, I’ll call you, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever.” She changed her mantra.
I will not cry
.

It seemed he stood behind her for a long time, but it was probably no more than a minute. Finally she heard his footsteps stomp across the now-swept kitchen floor and down the hall. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Crystal comforted herself by remembering that her grandmother had only said the crystal would tell her when she
met
The One. She didn’t say bringing him around to the same point of view would be simple.

* * * * *

“You’re an ass, you know that?”

Soren sunk down deeper into the truck seat. “You’re probably right.”

“She’s a beautiful woman. Had kind of a rosy glow, a satisfied look, so I guess you slept with her, which was why you were still there at two-thirty when the rock came sailing in.” Magnus took his right hand off the steering wheel and raised it, palm up, to forestall a denial. “Look, I’m not fishing for juicy details. I’m happy that you finally found a woman you wanted to snuggle up to. It’s just, Jesus, Soren, you have the sensitivity of a backhoe. I hope you at least kissed her goodnight. The whole time I was there, you hardly looked at her. Don’t tell me you were so embarrassed to be caught in the act, so to speak, that you didn’t even want to talk to her in my presence.”

“Hell, it was just supposed to be Buy the Bachelor a Dinner. No fuss, no entanglements. Put in my time for charity and be done with it. I sure as hell didn’t expect to end up in her bed.”

“And now you’re afraid she’s going to get her claws into you.”

Soren gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Well, yeah.”

“And you don’t want to get hurt. Like Dad did.”

“You didn’t hear them.”

Pulling into the Thor’s Hammer parking lot, Magnus cut him a glance. “Hear who?”

“Dad yelling. Mom crying.”

Magnus cut the engine. “When was this?”

“Couple of weeks after my ninth birthday. I think you were at the studio with Grandpa Knut. Mom was in the kitchen crying. I heard her from upstairs, but before I got to her, Dad walked in. Then they started fighting.”

“About what?”

It was a long time before Soren answered. “I don’t know.”

He did know. He just couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. Because if he did, it would change everything.

* * * * *

A refined woman like her, being carted out of the auction room like a sack of potatoes was bad enough.

But now, she goes and sleeps with him? He couldn’t believe she brought that pre-civilized bully home with her and then actually invited him upstairs.

Torturing himself with images of his precious Madonna stripped naked on a bed, he imagined her spread-eagled in sacrifice to the baser instincts of that hooligan. He should have interrupted them earlier.

Should have blasted through the window right after the rock, should have come prepared with a weapon.

He’d give her one more chance. If she repented, if she came to him willingly, he might forgive her. If not…he’d have to punish her. Soon.

Chapter Seven

“Wait a minute, Mags. Where the hell are you going?” Relegated to the back seat of the BMW, Soren grabbed for the door handle. “No way we’re having your bachelor party in that house. Stop the car and let me out.”

Magnus flicked a glance over his shoulder at his brother as he drove down an impressive Belgian-block driveway on the most exclusive street in Devon. About a dozen high-end cars lined both sides. “This is the right address.”

Sitting in the shotgun seat, Rolf chimed in. “Kat gave us directions, so we’re sure.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Soren fiddled with the lock as the car glided to a smooth stop. “Damn door won’t open.”

“Childproof locks,” Magnus said mildly. “You won’t be able to get out until someone opens the door from the outside.”

Soren glared at Rolf. “You’re in on it too.”

The youngest brother shrugged. “I’m just along for the booze and the broads.”

“Ah, the welcoming committee awaits.” Ignoring Soren’s blue-streak cussing, Magnus stopped the car at the well-lit portico, pocketed the keys and headed toward the steps.

“I’ll get your door in just a minute,” said Rolf as he opened his own door.

“I’m not getting out. What kind of stupid stunt are you trying to pull?”

“Relax. It’s only a birthday party. And you’re
very
cozy with the guest of honor, so what’s your problem?” Rolf turned his back to the car and started speaking to— Soren groaned. To Kat. And coming up alongside her was—

Rowena D’Angelo. Crystal’s grandmother. It had to be Crystal’s birthday.

“It’s a setup, dammit.” His glance bounced around the car. He felt iron bars close around him. Damn, he’d look like an idiot climbing over the seat to escape through the driver’s door. And then do what?

Run back down the driveway in the dark? He’d look all the more like an idiot.

Magnus and Kat were getting married in less than two weeks, and Soren had truly believed they were going to a bachelor party for Mags tonight—he even had a gag gift secreted in his jeans pocket. Instead, he’d been snookered. Hell, they couldn’t let him proceed at his own pace to date or not to date Crystal.

Just because he’d already slept with her made it certain, in his brothers’ eyes, that they’d follow Mags and Kat down the aisle.

Oh, he’d get back at them. Both of them. Next time Rolf posed nude for Kat’s art class, he’d splat his brother’s brass balls with toxic paint. And Mags, well, there was always some mischief he could do in his woodworker’s studio. Or put sawdust in the honeymooners’ bed.

Kat opened his door, smiling serenely as though she wasn’t in on the joke. “Come on out, Soren. No moping in the back seat.”

Giving Kat a surly glare as an answer, he climbed out, only to face Rowena.

“So nice to see you again,” the older woman said. “I’m always happy to have three handsome young men at a party.” She held out her arm as though expecting him to escort her.

Gracelessly Soren took her elbow, resigned to another evening of dancing to someone else’s tune. Then Kat took his other arm. Mags and Rolf fell into place behind them. He felt as though he was being herded into a prison. Or to a firing squad.

A butler-type man with snooty demeanor and a black suit opened the massive front door as they approached. Soren handed Rowena over the threshold, felt the firm palms of both brothers on his back as they nudged him inside as well.

The tight-knit group swept Soren down the spacious center hall, past the study where he’d first met Rowena, and into some kind of garden room, a huge, airy space with bushy trees in oversize pots reaching toward an atrium-type ceiling fifteen feet or so high. Fat cushions on wicker sofas and peacock chairs splashed primary colors around the room.

A quick glance told Soren the room held twenty or so adults of all ages. No birthday cake was visible, nor ostentatious display of wrapped gifts, he noted with a frisson of relief. There’d be hell to pay if he had to explain the glow-in-the-dark French tickler condoms he’d wrapped in a brown paper bag for Magnus’ bachelor party.

Rowena had been introducing him to a pair of guests when he spotted her. Crystal. With an older man not much taller than she, their heads close together as though they were cooing sweet nothings to each other. Crystal looked into the man’s eyes, smiling, and something in Soren’s gut twisted.

Hell. What was it to him? It was her birthday, after all. The man had probably just given her a present.

He looked prosperous, muscular and fit in dark slacks and light polo shirt. His dark hair was thick, with touches of gray at the temples. Soren pointedly turned back to the vacuous woman he’d just been introduced to, whose name he’d already forgotten, and feigned an interest in her comments about ficus trees, whatever they were.

He felt a delicate hand on his forearm. “Hi, you must be one of the Thorvalds,” said a melodious voice.

“I’m Deirdra. I’ve known the guest of honor since fourth grade.”

Soren turned to see a knockout brunette about five-foot-eight, wearing snug jeans and a well filled-out yellow sweater with tiny sleeves. Her amber eyes scrutinized him so thoroughly, he wondered if a tick had landed on his forehead.

“You’re Soren, right?”

He nodded curtly. He was out of his element with small talk, unless he was at Thor’s Hammer, where the long mahogany bar would shield him from such close contact with females.

“I thought so. Kat and Magnus are making goo-goo eyes at each other, and Rolf has the dark hair. So you must be The One.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s me, I guess.” The one, what? Left over? Left out? Pick your pick, he thought morosely.

“I’m surprised to see a bartender without something to drink in his hand.”

“How do you know what—” Well, of course Crystal would probably have told her friend what he did for a living.

“Come on, let’s fix that.” She grabbed his biceps and tugged him to a corner where Soren hadn’t noticed a bar had been set up. “Nice muscles, by the way. What’s your poison? I’ll have another gin and tonic, tall glass, please.”

Soren watched the gray-haired bartender’s well-practiced movements as he rubbed a lime wedge over a glass rim, squeezed its juice over ice, then poured gin and mixer simultaneously, with a flourish. Soren fished out his wallet and a business card. “Any time you want a job, give me a call.”

The man’s face crinkled into deep lines as he smiled. “Thanks, but I’m retired. Just do this as a favor to Rowena. What can I get you?”

“Dark beer, if you have it.”

As the man rattled off several choices cooling on ice, Soren decided he’d stay right there, talking shop, until it was time to go home. He gave his back to Deirdra.

But she was apparently tenacious. Or on the prowl. “You look like an athlete. What sports do you play?”

From his peripheral vision Soren noted she’d plunked her elbows on the stand-up bar, just like he’d done. “I don’t. No time. I work long hours.”

“So those muscles are from tossing beer kegs around?”

“Excuse me.” Soren took his beer and, brushing past the young woman, went in search of Magnus, ready to tear his head off. For this he took a night off from work? To be exposed to trite pickup lines?

Shit.

A shrill, two-fingered whistle stifled the murmur of conversation. “Gather around, everyone,” Rowena called.

Guests sauntered to the long interior wall, where Rowena stood near a folding screen with four or five louvered panels.

Soren hovered at the periphery of the group, nursing his beer. Then frowned when he noticed that the older man he’d seen Crystal with earlier was still with her, creating a path for her to reach her grandmother’s side. As she approached, Soren noted that she wore a swingy skirt and matching sleeveless blouse printed with red flowers on a dark background, her curly hair pinned haphazardly on top of her head. She gave the man a hard embrace, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed. From kissing him?

So what? Soren told himself yet again as he took a backward step into the shadows.

Rowena grandly surveyed her audience. “We’re all here to celebrate a milestone in Crystal’s life.” She turned to the honoree. “Your outrageous grandmother has an outrageous gift for you.”

A man in front of Soren nudged his neighbor and, in a loud aside, said, “Yeah, outrageous is right.

Rowena is Auntie Mame with a cunt.” They both laughed.

Soren stifled the urge to defend Rowena’s name. What was she to him, anyway?

Raising her voice for all to hear, Rowena continued, “A gift to open your eyes—indeed, all your senses.

For the past thirty years you’ve lived a rather sheltered life, of your own volition. It’s time you kicked up your heels—and your skirts—and sampled what’s out there. You’ve heard me make reference to the Platinum Society.”

Soren shifted uneasily. He knew all about the Platinum Society, thanks to Kat being on their board and Magnus having weathered some difficult moments at the Society before they’d pledged themselves to each other.

“You’ve always been skeptical that there was a club that catered to the sybaritic among us, even though I’ve described it many times.” Rowena spread her arms to encompass the guests. “Most of the people here are members. I’m happy to say that the board has authorized me to present you with your own membership.”

She pulled a platinum bracelet out of a pocket of her long skirt and held it up to a smattering of applause, then opened the clasp and affixed it to Crystal’s wrist.

“So.” She clapped her hands twice, like a magician. “Let the fun begin!”

Loud, pulsating music—stripper music—blasted out of hidden speakers. Spotlights flared at the opposite corner from the bar, illuminating a stage that was revealed as two men removed the folding screens. Three well-built young men in tight black pants boogied their way onto the stage to a hard-driving beat, unbuttoning white dress shirts as they played to an audience that started cheering and clapping.

Soren swore. Rolf was one of the strippers.

Damn, it wasn’t enough that he’d heard endless stories of how Rolf dazzled Kat’s art classes with his nude poses over the past six months, his pecker swollen and pointing directly at one or another of the eager students. Now he would be subjected to seeing it too? He began to back away from the group.

And bumped into the sour-faced butler.

“Madam has instructed me to be sure every guest stays for the entertainment,” he said.

“Yeah, well, watching male strippers isn’t my style.”