Unable to keep her eyes away from him any longer, she looked back at Damien. He was smiling, but it wasn’t an entirely reassuring expression; she sensed that it was prompted by amusement at her reaction to him and his surroundings rather than by good manners.
“Did you know that I’m a mind reader?” he asked, proving her suspicions.
“No.” She cleared her throat and glanced at the large mirror behind the desk, wondering if her expression was giving her away. But she looked normal, even if she felt odd. She went on the offensive. “Wouldn’t that be discomforting at times?”
“At times. For some people,” he answered, deliberately misunderstanding her. “But to answer your unspoken question—yes, that is the painting that Byron commissioned. An ancestor of mine bought it many moons ago. He thought it was the perfect whimsical touch for an otherwise serious office.”
“He seems to have bought a lot of things for the place,” Brice retorted, and then blushed again. This time there could be no doubt that he saw the stains on her cheeks.
“You are correct. The Ruthvens were here at the birth of the industrial era and enthusiastic participants in the legal pillage of this nation’s natural resources. The name Ruthven is not as well known today as Rockefeller or Dupont, but we went to many of the same parties. I hope you won’t hold that against me, though. Truly, my taste in art and sense of civic responsibility are much improved over that era.”
The door opened, and Karen entered, carrying a tray loaded down with a teapot, cups and saucers, creamer, sugar bowl, scones, clotted cream, lemon curd and jam. One whiff of the pastry and Brice’s stomach began to grumble in loud, rude tones.
“You’ve apparently arrived in the very nick of time. Our guest requires immediate sustenance,” Damien joked.
Karen smiled at Brice; then her eyes darted toward Damien where they widened. “The food was as bad as the tea?” she asked Brice sympathetically, though her eyes remained on her employer.
Brice was a student of human nature. Having seen Damien Ruthven and felt the effects of his charm, she could well imagine that Karen Andersen was smitten with her employer and not happy to see him appearing so invigorated by the presence of another woman. Brice half expected Karen to look at her as if she wished her in a bed of banana leaves with a roast apple stuffed in her mouth and cloves studding her hide. But there was nothing but surprise and—damn—more curiosity in the woman’s gaze when she turned back. Clearly the fungus of envy had not set its spores in her. Either she was not romantically interested in her employer or she did not perceive Brice as a threat. Karen was curious, though. Very curious.
“Worse by far. And I couldn’t even use it for compresses,” Brice said finally, returning Karen’s smile. Her stomach rumbled again. She might have blushed more, but that didn’t seem possible.
“Just don’t spoil your appetite. You’re in for a treat tonight.” The secretary poured a cup of tea and handed it over.
“I am?” Brice accepted the cup, looking from Karen to Damien. Karen’s eyes were twinkling in an alarming manner. Damien looked vaguely annoyed at the pronouncement, but also resigned. He was apparently used to his secretary being well acquainted with his affairs.
Was it another hint of long-term intimacy?
And why should she care? Really, she shouldn’t.
Still…Brice found that she did care. Damien Ruthven was
her
find. She didn’t meet many intriguing people, she told herself, and she wanted the opportunity to get to know this one without interference.
“We have reservations for dinner at seven—if you are not too tired,” Damien added as an afterthought. “I hope you like Italian and French cooking. There is a small place near hear that does some wonderful fusion cuisine.”
“I adore them both—singularly and collectively,” Brice said, but inside she was thinking hard. Was dinner with this man a good idea? For that matter, was being in his home at all wise? It had seemed a good idea when she’d thought it up, but it was looking less sensible by the moment. The line between home and office was only a doorway wide.
“Good. I couldn’t let you come all this way—and in such bad weather—and not take you out for a proper meal.” He was still smiling, still looking vaguely amused.
“The car will be here at six-thirty,” Karen reminded them as she departed.
“And speaking of the reasons for me coming all this way…” Brice set her cup aside once Karen left the room.
“Certainly, let’s speak of that. But have a scone first. They’re wonderful. Do you like clotted cream?”
“Yes, actually, I do,” Brice admitted. “But perhaps we should—”
“Excellent. And try the lemon curd. It’s made fresh and is absolutely ambrosial.”
Brice’s stomach squawked again, and she gave up trying to resist the pastry’s lure. Nothing had gone as planned today and she hadn’t much dignity left anyway. Damien might as well see her eat like a starved wolverine. It would make an interesting sidebar in his column if he decided to write about her visit.
Their hands touched as he offered her the dish of lemon curd and she felt the now familiar electricity and then a small moment of vertigo. Brice pulled back. She blinked twice and the room stilled.
Hunger—that had to be it. And travel lag. And weariness. She hadn’t slept well the last couple of days, being plagued with dreams of terrible storms and screams in the cold darkness.
Probably, once fortified with some stick-to-the-ribs food, she would be more up to the task of being sly and subtle when she asked about Byron’s memoirs. Just now she didn’t have the weight to step into the ring with her opponent, and she was just barely awake enough to know it.
Shall I tell you what renders love dangerous? It is the sublime idea which we often appear to have of it.
—Letter from Ninon de Lenclos to Marquis Sévigné
Man’s love is of a man’s life a thing apart. ’Tis a woman’s whole existence.
—Byron,
Don Juan,
canto I
Critics are like children who can whip horses but not drive them.
—Molière
It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims. I was once very fond of both, but now I never swim unless I tumble into water. I don’t make love until almost obliged.
—Byron (letter, September 10, 1812)
The snow that greeted them when they stepped out of the limousine still felt like laughter, but Brice thought it had taken on the quality of something closer to sly and sinister hilarity now that the day was dying and the sun burying itself on the western horizon far beyond the city. There was hardly any time to worry about this strange feeling, though, because Damien whisked her indoors before more than a handful of seconds passed.
The ceiling of Di Serrano’s was high and beamed, lending the room a warm feeling in spite of its size. Torchères of stained glass shed softly colored light on the linen-clad tables and rough plaster walls where vases of elegant calla lilies were mounted in ornate brass sconces. In the background a pianist played softly. Brice couldn’t place the tune, but it wasn’t “That’s Amore.”
There wasn’t a wax-covered Chianti bottle or red-and-white-checked napkin in sight either.
“It’s ‘Viens, Mallika’ from
Lakme
,” Damien murmured, inclining his head, answering her unspoken question and proving that he was, in some circumstances, very much the mind reader he claimed to be.
His warm breath made Brice shiver.
They were shown to a table near a large window that looked out on the street filling steadily with snow. She knew it would change quickly, but for now the world looked pristine and untouched even with the street ablaze with Christmas fanfare. And it was dazzling. The city’s already formidable collection of lights had been augmented with lavish seasonal displays, and the cold air made the light sharper than diamonds.
Damien took over the task of seating her, but he allowed the man he called Antonio to whip out the brocade napkin with a practiced flick of the wrist and send it fluttering into her lap with the lightness of a butterfly alighting on a flower. Brice smiled at the swarm of men who appeared carrying all sorts of salvers and bottles which they left, and candelabras which they removed.
“I don’t like candles at the table,” Damien explained. “One sees the naked fire and never the light in a guest’s eyes.”
He probably didn’t mean his words to be romantic, but they were.
Brice’s senses continued exploring. Her fingers told her that the upholstery on the chairs was real velvet and the menus were bound in real leather. The scents told her the food would be truly exquisite, and it was probably a more effective way to lift the spirits than any antidepressant on the market. Sighing with delight, she smiled at Damien and opened the menu that Antonio put in her hands. Maybe she was supping with the devil, but she didn’t care. She’d just ask for a long spoon.
“And let the games begin,” Brice said softly, taking in the many pages of appetizers and entrees. “What? No Jell-O salad? No meatloaf? No French fries? I bet they don’t even serve parsley garnish. Oh—
flan aux poire!
And
les champignons violets.
I didn’t think you could get these any time but April in Paris.”
Damien laughed softly. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but for a moment it seemed that his eyes blazed with gold fire. “A fellow gastronome. We are so rare in this day of carb-counting. Let’s celebrate our meeting of appetites, shall we? How do you feel about pâté? Would it fit the mood?”
“Like spandex shorts,” Brice said before thinking.
Damien laughed again. In that moment she could see some wickedness in his gaze, and a lot of sex. It was as though something had switched on in his brain when they sat down at the table. Food took some men that way.
The name of the restaurant was Italian but the cuisine crossed many borders. Brice hardly knew where to start. Damien seemed inclined to order one of everything so that they could sample at will. Brice vetoed the idea, saying that she would feel like a
cochon
, a pig, and feared ending up on the menu herself.
Damien acquiesced. They didn’t stint too much, though. They began with pâté, artichokes in hollandaise and
les champignons violets.
Neither being fearful of strong flavors, they rounded out the appetizers with some baked goat cheese. The edge knocked off their appetites, they readied themselves for the subtler flavors of the main course by cleansing the palate with lemon-fennel sorbet.
Damien had squab with roasted shallots and lingonberries as his entree and Brice the
salumon a la Griggia
with roasted asparagus. Throwing caution to the wind, they ordered both the Puligny Montrachet Latour and a Chateauneuf du Pape Beaucastel. As expected, the wines and food were all excellent.
For dessert, they shared berry ice cream cake and a praline bombe with rich espresso and brandy. It was decadent, a pleasure to cause guilt—hell, with the sorts of calories she was consuming, Brice decided that it might even be a mortal sin in the world of cellulite. She wasn’t treating her body like the temple she was exhorted to worship in; she was using it as a combination wine cellar and candy kitchen.
She looked up once while savoring a last spoonful of creamed sin and caught a glimpse of someone in a tarnished mirror that hung on the wall, mostly masked by a spray of white tuberoses. The person in the glass looked vaguely familiar, and stared quite pointedly as Brice studied her. Puzzled, she stared harder at the woman, trying to place the face. It was her own reflection, of course. Yet not. There were differences. This woman’s eyes were focused, her cheeks flushed with something other than cold. And she was half smiling, as though fighting to contain some excitement that she wasn’t quite ready to share with the world. It was, she realized, the face of a younger Brice Ashton, one who hadn’t lost faith in miracles.
Oh, no!
she thought. But the face just kept smiling.
Brice looked away, feeling a little terrified as well as thrilled.
“Ready for a walk?” Damien asked as he signed the bill. There was nothing so vulgar as an exchange of money or plastic. “Or shall I call for the car? A meal like that can be as effective as a dose of Nembutal.”
Normally, Brice would agree, but not that night. She, like the girl in the mirror, felt energized and wanted to walk off some of her dietary excess. “A walk would be lovely, but I’m afraid the best I can manage is a waddle. Do you still want to be seen with me now that I’ve gained twenty pounds?”
“Of course. Put on a coat and no one will suspect there is a
petit cochon
underneath.”
“I hope not. There are probably laws about pigs roaming the street at will.” She smiled and said sincerely: “That was delicious—thank you.”
Antonio appeared before Damien could answer, bearing their coats and many best wishes for their evening and for their swift return to his restaurant. Damien allowed him the good wishes, but opted to help Brice into her coat himself. His hands lingered a moment at her shoulders, stroking the cashmere of her dress. She would guess that he was a sensualist as well as a gourmet.
“Where shall we go?” Brice asked as they stepped out into the snow, which wasn’t yet deep enough to be a hindrance. But once outside, she was again bothered by the idea that the weather was laughing at her.
“We are quite close to Macy’s in Herald Square. Have you ever seen the windows at Christmas?” Damien asked.
Feeling like a kid offered the world’s biggest lollipop, Brice answered: “No. I’ve never been to the city at Christmas before. Though, of course I’ve seen
Miracle on 34th Street
many times.”
As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she wondered if the wine was making her silly. But Damien merely seemed pleased by her answer. Perhaps he was feeling a bit tipsy too. Certainly he looked younger and happier than he had only a few hours before.
“The windows are worth a look. And if you are interested in architecture, the old wooden escalators are still operational down in the basement. The original marble floors are still there too. The sound is fascinating—like nothing else you’ve ever heard in a department store.”
They strolled only half a block and encountered a dazzled crowd gathered outside of Macy’s in spite of the falling snow. Brice thought Damien had rather understated things. The windows at Macy’s were absolute wonderlands of color and whimsy that made her lust for things she wouldn’t need on January second, but wanted just the same.
Seeing her delight in the bright displays, he obligingly peered in every one and even offered to take her up to Santaland so she could speak with the head elf himself about her newly discovered wants and needs.
Brice actually considered it for one moment, but then she decided she had behaved enough like a tourist for one night—which she said to Damien. She also figured that the sorts of wants and needs currently on her mind would shock the dear old elf—which she
didn’t
say to her host. Damien shook his head at her refusal and laughed in his peculiar, quiet way. He said she should be a tourist for just a while longer and they would go see the iceskating rink and Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.
“And you must see
Prometheus
. It’s my favorite statue in the city. We go back a long way.”
Suddenly the hair of her nape lifted. Brice caught a glimpse of something—someone—of odd posture and proportions reflected in the dazzling window. The shape seemed to be stalking toward them. She spun about hurriedly, but nothing was there and no one unusual was nearby.
“What is it?” Damien asked, stepping protectively in front of her and scanning the crowds around them.
“Nothing. I think I was anticipating a pickpocket. Or maybe the ghost of Christmas past sneaking up on me. I have to admit I’ve been a bit of a humbug the last few years.”
“Isn’t it the ghost of Christmas future who is so frightening?” he asked, turning toward her.
“Not for me,” Brice answered flatly. Then she changed the subject before unhappy memories could crowd in and ruin her evening.
As they strolled, Damien acquainted Brice with the city and some of its Christmas traditions, beginning with the literary world but expanding into tales of invention and commerce. She laughed when he told her about the first Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parades and how they used to release the balloons at the end of it.
“But then there was a near collision with an airplane and a few hysterical reports from ships at sea about flying monsters attacking New York. That put an end to the practice.”
“Cost would probably have ended it eventually,” Brice commented. “Those balloons are expensive.”
Damien nodded, but she knew he was thinking that the expense was worth it, and that he would choose to give the balloons their freedom if he ran the parade. She wasn’t certain that she could be so frivolous, but wished to be. Life would probably be a whole lot more fun if she could sometimes do things and not count the cost.
Brice was surprised to learn that her favorite children’s author and illustrator, Maurice Sendak, had gotten his start decorating the wonderful windows at F.A.O. Schwarz.
“And would you believe that I actually played Father Christmas at a party once?” Damien asked. “It was at a fund-raiser for the Met,” He shook his head as though still stunned with disbelief.
“Er…is this a trick question?” Brice responded, feeling a smile tug at her lips.
“Not at all. A rhetorical one, maybe. I tried to live up to the part—I swear I did—but my ‘Ho ho ho’ was a bit inadequate and the adhesive on the beard gave me an ear-to-ear rash that had me scratching in an embarrassing way that made a woman ask me about head lice. There is nothing like a persistent itch to make one grouchy. I’m afraid I spent the night scowling.”
Brice nodded gravely. “Holidays! I obviously never played Santa, but I dressed up as an elf at a book-signing once—and to this day I strongly suspect the costume I was given was inauthentic.”
“How so?”
“Any elf who wandered around in a skirt that short at the North Pole would end up with frostbite on her—southern regions.”
“I see.” Damien smiled. “But was the signing fun otherwise?”
“Hardly! I got pinched black and blue. There are a lot of perverts in this world. And apparently, some of them read.”
“Indeed.”
They strolled along, arms almost touching, not feeling the cold or noticing the people, so wrapped up were they in conversation. A small part of Brice held back from the fun, observing herself and Damien. She found it fascinating that he didn’t appeal to her nurturing instincts, such as they were. There was no shy little boy in him. He was, in fact, the most adult man she had ever met. Self-contained, self-sufficient, and yet not selfabsorbed.
He also didn’t seem the type of male who flirted automatically because it was an easy way to have his ego stroked. They passed many pretty women who smiled at him, but he was never more than polite.
In spite of this, she remained alert. He said nothing, did nothing that wasn’t completely polite with her, but Brice had a sense that this man had made up his mind—somewhere between the pâté and the lemon-fennel sorbet—to seduce her. If not tonight, then soon.
It wasn’t until they reached the trumpeting angels that lined the plaza leading up to Rockefeller Center that either of them became aware of the drastic increase in snow and a peculiar smell of ozone floating in the air. The wind abruptly changed directions and thrust its icy blades through the crowd, penetrating clothing and flesh and burying the cold in the marrow of their bones.