Dare to Love (23 page)

He sank back down into his chair, still looking upset. A large platter sat on the table. It was white, rimmed with gold. I picked it up. Anthony grinned a foolish grin and shook his head, silently begging me not to do what he knew I was going to do, and I slammed the platter down on top of his skull. The fine porcelain shattered into a dozen pieces that clattered noisily as they fell. Anthony cried out. People gasped. A waiter rushed over, horrified. Anthony staggered to his feet, stunned, but not really hurt.

“Temperament's always colorful!” I snapped.

I turned and moved briskly toward the steps. George Dorrance, catching up with me, took my arm, but I pulled free and shoved him away. I moved up the steps and through the door, until I was standing outside on the edge of the street, signalling for a hansom. I gave the driver the name of my hotel and climbed inside, still seething with anger, fervently wishing I'd broken Anthony's skull instead of the platter.

XVIII

I paced up and down the sitting room, trying to calm myself, horrified at what I had done to Anthony in the restaurant but, at the same time, wishing I had hit him harder. Half an hour had passed since I returned to the hotel, and I was still filled with conflicting emotions, though anger dominated. I wanted to scream and beat my fists against the wall, and I wanted to sob uncontrollably to let loose the flood of tears dammed up inside. It wasn't just tonight that had put me in such a state. I had been building toward it for weeks and weeks.

Someone knocked on the door, a loud, insistent knock. Who could it be? Millie always tapped lightly. I was in no mood to see anyone. I ignored the knock, and after a moment it sounded again, louder, even more insistent. I flung open the door. Anthony stood there with his top hat in his hand and a grin on his lips, looking inordinately pleased with himself. I tried to slam the door in his face but he shoved me roughly out of the way and stepped inside.

Tossing his top hat onto the sofa, he looked at me with sparkling blue eyes.

“Bravo!” he said, as he unfastened his cape.

A slender blue and white vase sat on the table beside me. I seized it. Anthony dropped his cape and, moving quickly toward me, grabbed my wrist, giving it a brutal twist. The vase fell to the floor, rolling unbroken across the carpet.

“Christ!” he exclaimed, “I've created a monster!”

There was merriment in his voice, in his eyes. I kicked his shin viciously. Swearing, he let go of my wrist. As I drew my hand back to slap him, he caught me and whirled me around and held me in a tight bear hug. I lifted my foot and ground the heel of my shoe into his left instep. He swore again and released me, and I dashed over to the mantel, my fingers closing around a figurine.

“No!” he cried. “That's Dresden! It costs a fortune!”

I hurled the figurine. He ducked. As the figurine crashed against the wall, I grabbed its companion piece and hurled it, too. My aim was better this time. The figurine smashed across his knee, breaking into a thousand pieces. Anthony ducked again as I threw a silver box at him. Sailing over his head, it crashed into a mirror and the glass exploded. As he dodged the small golden clock I threw next, I suddenly realized that he was enjoying himself, and I wanted to kill him.

When I reached for the heavy silver candelabrum he gave a cry of genuine alarm and leaped across the room to restrain me. We fought and my anger knew no bounds now; I hardly knew what I was doing. He had a difficult time controlling me, but he was finally able to lock his arms around me, crushing me against him. Then the rage inside me seemed to boil over, all the fight went out of me, and I stopped struggling. Anthony hesitated for a moment and then, cautiously, released me and stepped back.

He shoved a lock of hair from his brow. “Christ,” he said, “I need a drink.”

“Get out,” I told him.

Stepping over to the liquor cabinet, he took out a crystal decanter of whisky and a glass. I watched him pour the drink, and although the violent rage had dissipated I was still angry enough to hope he'd choke on the liquor. His neckcloth was rumpled, his hair unruly. He looked marvelously, wickedly appealing, and that made me feel even less charitable toward him. Surveying the debris, he shook his head, and then he smiled and raised his glass.

“To Elena,” he said.

“Go to hell.”

“That's what I intend to call you from now on. Elena. Mary Ellen is gone. It's finally happened. That transformation I was praying for has taken place. That fire, that fury, those magnificent gestures—they were all genuine. You weren't acting!”

“Will you please leave?” I snapped.

“I drove you, taunted you, kept you in a state of nervous tension, all with a definite purpose in mind. I watched you grow testier, watched Mary Ellen Lawrence change from a sad and desperate little ballet girl into a fiery, tempestuous woman.”

“I hate you!”

“No, you don't, luv. Tonight, in the restaurant, you were superb. I told a couple of my old mates from Fleet Street you'd be there, told 'em there might be fireworks, and both of them were there. What a story it's going to make.”

“How could you possibly—”

“Dorrance always takes his women there. I knew you'd be nervous and restless and unable to spend another night pacing around in this suite. I knew you'd see red when I walked in with Elizabeth. I hoped you'd do something, but I never dreamed it would be quite so spectacular!”

“You—you set it up!”

“Indeed I did. It was all carefully staged. Dorrance didn't know anything about it, of course, but he played his part to perfection just the same. That diamond bracelet was just the right touch. You should have accepted it. We could've hocked it.”

“You're despicable.”

“Shrewd, merely shrewd. The story'll be in all the papers in the morning, and it'll be sensational. Shame we didn't have an audience just now. You were even better hurling things.”

I could feel the rage stirring inside again. Deliberately, with great effort, I suppressed it. I wasn't going to let him provoke me again. Moving over to the unbroken mirror, I toyed with my hair. It had come all undone, spilling down about my shoulders in tumbling blue-black waves. I pushed at it but, finally, let it go, realizing it would be futile to try to restore order. Smoothing the red silk over my waist and adjusting the bodice that had slipped dangerously low during our tussle, I examined my reflection as though I were alone in the room. Despite the disheveled hair, I managed to look cool and composed, my eyes a dark, serene blue.

I turned to face him. “I think you'd better go now,” I said calmly.

Anthony ignored my remark. Taking a final sip of whisky, he put the empty glass down. He was looking at me with a peculiar intensity, his eyes half veiled. I felt a tiny alarm spring to life. I knew that look and what it signified. He had never looked at me that way before, had never allowed himself to look at me that way before. The air that only moments before had been filled with an aura of crackling anger was suddenly tinged with a new aura, even more palpable, its message undeniable.

“You look gorgeous,” he said.

There was a husky catch in his voice. My guard went up immediately.

“Red is definitely your color.”

“I'm very tired, Anthony. I want you to go.”

“That isn't what you want, luv.”

His eyes were filled now with desire. I looked at him, trembling inside, because I knew all at once just how much I wanted him, and I knew it would be a disastrous mistake to let him make love to me. I had no illusions about him, none at all, and he already had far too strong a hold on me. Summoning all my strength, I gazed at him coldly, and when I spoke my voice was crisp.

“I suggest you go back to Miss Clark,” I said.

“Elizabeth? She means nothing to me, never has. She was available. I wanted you and didn't dare risk endangering our project by taking you.”

“Oh?”

“Surely you realized that?”

I said nothing. I felt cold inside, and hard, and I clung to that cold, hard core, knowing it was my salvation, knowing I mustn't give way to the emotions that were stirring, demanding release. How attractive he was in his elegant formal attire, tall and lean and rakish with the slightly twisted nose and that curious half smile that played at the corners of his mouth. But he was unscrupulous, a rogue through and through, the facile, boyish charm never quite concealing his ruthless drive, his determination to get ahead through fair means or foul. I knew all this, just as I knew I was not immune to that charm, must fight it with all my strength.

“I've wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you,” he said. “But I knew all my energy, and all yours, had to be concentrated on turning you into Elena Lopez.”

He folded his arms across his chest, propped his shoulders against the wall behind him, and looked at me with those dark, gleaming eyes. His face was all sharp planes and angles, hard, the skin stretched tautly across broad cheekbones. The lamplight burnished his hair, making it a darker, richer brown, and those errant locks spilled down over his brow once again.

I wanted to brush them back. I wanted to rest my palm against his cheek, stroke those full lips with the tips of my fingers. I wanted those strong arms to draw me to him, to hold me tightly, and I wanted to release-the feelings that grew more and more demanding, captive inside, denied for such a long time. Brence Stephens had awakened them, giving them shape and texture, tight buds that blossomed into fullness at his touch, and I had shut them away, disowning them, refusing to acknowledge their urgent demand because I was afraid. I was afraid now, for I had loved once, loved fully, without reservation, and anguish and loss had been my reward.

“It's time, Elena.”

“Don't call me that.”

“You are Elena. You've become the creature I envisioned. The little ballet girl is gone forever.”

“No.”

“You're a woman, a gorgeous woman, far more passionate than you realize. I was aware of it from the first. All that passion seething beneath the cool, refined surface. It shows in your dancing, in your angry outbursts.”

“If I've had angry outbursts, it's because you've driven me to them.”

“Quite true. I did it deliberately. It was all part of the awakening process. I saw your potentials, saw what I could do with them.”

“And now you want to make love to me,” I said in an icy voice. “I suppose you think that would be the crowning touch, complete the process.”

“That isn't the reason.”

The room was in semi-darkness, only one lamp burning, the bedroom beyond in darkness. I stood near the sofa, refusing to recognize those emotions surging inside as I watched him saunter over to extinguish the lamp. There was a moment of pitch darkness, and then silver began to seep in through the windows, soft, misty silver that spread slowly. Anthony came toward me. I stiffened. I willed myself to remain cold, distant, because I wanted him but I knew he would use me and, when the time came, abandon me without a moment's hesitation, blithely moving on to new adventures.

“No,” I said sharply.

“You want me, too, Elena. Don't try to deny it.”

“Get out.”

“This was inevitable. We've both been waiting.”

Drawing me to him, he put one arm around my waist and the other around the back of my neck. I struggled, but his lips found mine and he kissed me for a long time, gently at first, those firm, warm lips caressing my own, pressing and probing tenderly. Gradually the tenderness gave way to urgent demand. As his arms tightened and he made a moaning noise deep in his throat, sensations sprang to life inside me, driving away will and resolution, and my arms went around his back, palms stroking the silky texture of his jacket, touching the nape of his neck as he forced my lips apart and his tongue lashed mine aside.

My head seemed to spin, and as the dizziness grew I seemed to be on a rack, sweet torment pulling me apart, his arms holding me tighter until I was molded against him, melting into him, overpowered by his strength. He drew his head back, peering down at me, and in the moonlight I could see his eyes dark, determined. I was trembling. I shook my head. He planted his lips on the curve of my shoulder and they burned my flesh as they moved toward my throat and breasts.

I tried to push him away, my palms pressing against his chest, but he fastened one hand around my wrist and moved toward the bedroom door, pulling me after him. I fought him desperately, but Anthony didn't even seem to notice. Catching hold of the doorframe, I tried to hold on to it. He gave my arm a savage tug, propelling me into the bedroom. Moonlight poured through the windows, gilding the furniture, gleaming on the satin counterpane that covered the bed.

His hand still held my wrist, his fingers like iron bands crushing skin and bone. I was filled with panic, afraid because reason had fled and my whole body was taut. Anthony ignored my efforts to break free. I might have been a troublesome child, he a severe adult. I kicked him. He let go of my wrist and slapped me across the face, a blow that sent me spinning into darkness, reality dissolving as the pain shot through me and I fell into his waiting arms. Several minutes may have passed, or it may have been merely seconds, for when I opened my eyes they were wet with tears and my cheek still burned where he had slapped me, but the panic was gone. He was holding me tenderly and saying sweet words in an incredibly tender voice.

He kissed me again, his lips caressing mine. I touched his cheek, and ran my fingers through his thick, luxuriant hair that was like heavy silk. He drew his lips away and looked at me with tender desire, with longing, his arms cradling me loosely, and I lifted my hand to touch his mouth, running my index finger along the soft, firm curve of his lower lip. Both of us were possessed now with the same need, but the urgency seemed to have vanished, turning into a delicious languor that stole through our limbs with painful slowness, warm, honey-sweet. Anthony smiled, and I tried to smile, too, but there was too much sadness in my heart. For even as I gave way to the languor, I knew it was folly, but I was past the point of caring.