Authors: Elaine Lowe
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Walk where exactly? And right now I’m sorely in need of a nap.”
He snorted in irritation. What was the damn
Gadje
word for it, some kind of fruit… “A date. Can we meet for a date?”
She smiled. “Sure, sugar. Be happy to. Just tell me the time and place and I’ll check my calendar.”
He ground his teeth in frustration, trying to think. He was interrupted by a loud honking and remembered Alan waiting with the car to take her home. He’d thought to go with her but knew it would end in trouble, he doubted either of them could control themselves. He took her arm gently to lead her down the stairs to the waiting car and contemplated where to take Sophia Hunter on a “date”. As they emerged into the sunlight, inspiration struck him and he muttered a soft prayer of thanks.
Chapter Eight
It had been a good long while since she had stood in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art at ten o’clock on a Monday night. Last time had been a couple of months after she’d arrived in New York, with not much money and not much hope. She’d been kicked out of the Museum after closing time and had sat in front of the place wondering how she was going to make ends meet, or if she should just throw herself in the East River and be done with it.
The Met had been her introduction to the city. It had whispered of all the wonders of the world, its cool marble halls and beautiful objects from across thousands of miles and thousands of years were more than impressive to a simple country girl. People were calm in the museum and she’d learned to accustom herself dealing with hundreds of people at a time by practicing in the echoing grandeur. Practicing shutting down her senses until she could perceive only the faintest echoes of energy. It wasn’t hard, given her state of mind. The paintings and sculptures seemed friendlier than any human in the city and she was so low that the sheer beauty of the place was the only thing keeping her afloat.
Once she’d found a job, found the magic of jazz and learned to embrace the frenetic energy of the city, she hadn’t come back as often as she should have. Now, they’d changed it somewhat, the front the building remodeled into fancy columns and arching windows. It was beautiful, lit up at night with electric lights, the fountains running even in the cold of early April.
It’s still too damn cold for this skirt
. She’d worn the little green dress because it was the same color as his eyes. When she saw it in the back of her wardrobe this evening it demanded to be worn, despite the chill in the air and the fact that it didn’t quite reach her knees. She pulled her coat tighter around her and looked around to see if there were any suspicious characters hanging about. Or any coppers. Wouldn’t want to be picked up for streetwalking at this hour, although this seemed to be a bizarre place to be plying the trade.
Damn him. What kind of idiot does he take me for?
Tapping her toe, causing her shoes to make a clipping noise on the marble stairs, she waited in silence for Daron West to show his face and watched the traffic flow by on Fifth Avenue. Blowing out a puff of air, she wondered if she should give up and head back toward home.
There was a clatter in the distance and the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the pavement. Sophia barely noticed the sound, just knowing that it was late for any teamsters to be making cart delivers at this hour in Uptown. She looked at the pathways to the left and right, emptying on to the front portico of the museum. But no sign of another living soul, except the museum guard who’d been giving her a nasty look from time to time from inside the front door.
The horse she’d heard earlier passed the spring-dressed trees on the left, trotting into view with the slightest jangle of bells. The horse was old but not bent and still a lovely white. It wasn’t a cart horse at all but one of the hansom cabs that trundle around and through the park, carrying tourists and lovers through the Big Apple’s little bit of overgrown paradise. She watched the older man driving come into view, his eyes finding hers in the dark, a smile on his comfortable face. And the cab was not filled with a group of tourists, or a pair of lovers or drunken college kids. There was a single passenger, Mr. Daron West.
The carriage stopped and Daron leapt out with a grace that seemed second nature. Her heart jumped a bit at the sight and she remembered the last time she’d seen him, handing her into Ol’ Nellie like a real gentleman. Well, a gentleman except for the long dark hair streaming over his shoulders, reflecting glints of red from the rare patch of sunlight. Hair she’d run her fingers through when he’d kissed her, kissed her so hard and so well as to chase the memory of other men clear out of her head. She’d had no true dreams since then, only the vague disturbances that her powers gave her when there were so many people close by.
Alan had dropped her off at her apartment and she’d fallen into a deep sleep, not quite believing that she’d actually managed to help someone with her Gift, after so many years of wishing it could be so. The next Saturday, she’d hiked up to June’s building to check on little Hester, half-hoping she’d catch sight of Daron and half-hoping she’d do something ditzy like go looking for him on purpose, just to finish what they’d been getting up to in the hallway. She’d not seen him, only a happy, healthy Hester and June with a touch of happiness about her. But she’d seen enough to know that what she’d done—what they’d done, had been no permanent solution. The girl would have another attack, if she stayed here. June had looked just a bit scared and bit resigned and a bit determined when she’d heard that. Sophia reminded herself to give Alan another kick in the ass to get up and bring June some flowers or something, before he lost his chance entirely.
Daron wasn’t carrying any flowers. Didn’t need to really, not when he arrived with a white horse decorated with silver bells. She wasn’t looking at the carriage much though, there were more captivating things to drink in. He still wore the same rough trousers, a simple white shirt, leather gloves and a long tan canvas coat that looked like it belonged on a cowboy. She thought she saw the edges of an embroidered vest under the coat but frankly she was more interested in the play of muscles under the shirt than the mystery of interesting accessories. She forgot walking toward him, only knowing that she had wanted to be closer and then she was.
His smile was honest, a rare thing, in the City or anywhere else. Eyes still that blistering green that made her forget about the cold and just want to shed every bit of clothing separating her from him. It was a pity he’d tamed that hair again, pulled it into submission at the base of his neck. She wanted to grip it in her fists while his hips met hers while she felt his teeth nip at her neck and his hands coast up and down her sides. He was close enough for her to feel his breath brush against the shell of her ear as he took her hand in his and helped her into the carriage, his other gloved hand caressing the side of her waist, an echo of her vivid imagination.
She wasn’t cold anymore.
* * * * *
They’d talked more than a little. About the City and what they’d seen here and hadn’t seen here. About Ohio, where she was from and about the bit of not-quite-civilized Europe that he came from. She figured out quickly that he was a gypsy of some kind, probably the kind her Momma warned her about.
Never did like to listen to Momma
. They even talked about the war, something she’d never talked to anyone about. She’d seen pain in those green eyes, old pain to rival her own.
Safer subjects were discussed, the talk spaced with comfortable silences. They sat close together, he tucked an arm around her and she shivered like some young thing fresh out of the gate and trying to run the tricky course of courtship. She let her hands wander up from his knee over a hard thigh, until he looked distinctly uncomfortable and shifted a bit in his seat. She chuckled and he looked at her in that particular way again, like he couldn’t wait to consume her.
They talked about Carlos, the driver, who was very good at being inconspicuous and yet Sophia was as sure as hell that he’d take every little detail home to Ixchel once they’d completed their tour of Central Park. They talked about Alan and the Lowbridges, Irene and Michael, June and Hester, Mary and Tommy. He brought out a box and there were some little cakes that Mr. Giuseppe had baked for her for helping Hester, something with a heavenly bit of cream and the taste of illegal liquor and coffee all rolled into one. She didn’t care if the things went straight to her hips, not when they tasted so damn good. Especially when she leaned in and playfully licked some of that cream off his chin. The man tasted too good to be legal.
Sophia turned to face the scenery for a moment, not too certain about her ability not to jump the man right here in the damn carriage. There wasn’t enough alcohol in those little cakes to be excusing such behavior. The carriage was almost all alone in the park, the occasional car trundling past on the pitted West Drive. They’d passed the new playground in the south of the park and circled back around until they’d just passed The Lake and crossed Seventy-Ninth. She didn’t even remember much of the trip, only the sweet sighs of the wind through the trees, the clomping of the horse’s hooves and the company.
She’d never done this. When she was here and a wide-eyed tourist, she didn’t have enough money. When she was a hard-bitten resident, there was the call of the clubs, jazz and booze and men. There wasn’t time to go exploring the little bit of nature trapped in the heart of the biggest city in the world. It was a pity she hadn’t tried. As the trees swept by she glimpsed the great reservoir out in the dark, the moon shining like a pearl on its surface.
The road got just a bit darker from now on—the trees were a bit denser, the lights a little dimmer on this side of town and the glow of downtown was at their backs. The silence eased from comfortable to a delicious tension. She let go of the lock she had on herself, the walls she’d rebuilt after what had happened in that apartment to heal little Hester. She felt the edges of the world turn darker and the man with her turn brighter. He was holding himself back. She could see the struggle beneath his skin, the ebb and flow of power reaching out toward her, almost caressing her before retreating in restraint.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling the thrum of his unique rhythm underneath her cheek. He pulled her closer and his energy, his power, warmed her more than the most expensive fur coat money could buy. She turned her face into his neck, inhaled his scent, rubbing her nose against the skin of his neck, brushing that skin ever so softly with her lips. The arm wrapped around her shoulders pulled her tighter against him and his other arm skimmed under her coat, against the thin fabric of her dress, giving her goose bumps that were definitely not from the cold. His face turned, his cheek brushing hers, the slight stubble chafing her skin and setting her nerves aflame. Finally, just before she reached up to drag his face to her, he leaned in, kissing her with sweet care.
The kiss was more than just passion. She’d known hot flaring passion, often laced with alcohol and the raw need to prove she wasn’t completely alone. With Daron, their other kisses had been scorching, searing away the thought that any other man could scratch the itch she’d felt since the moment she’d seen him on the Great Hill. The same Great Hill they were trotting past, lost in each other. This kiss spoke not of bodies writhing toward a temporary completion but something so rare she’d not thought to find it twice in a lifetime.
It scared her. More than the awesome power she’d felt flow through her when his hand held hers and they’d wrought what many would consider some kind of miracle, or else witchcraft—these tender kisses cracked open the thickest walls she’d built around her soul. She wasn’t ready for it.
She bottled up her power, pushed it away until she couldn’t see anything but black behind her closed eyes. She felt the warmth of his lips as he pressed kisses across her cheeks, over her eyelids and she struggled not to cry. Her arms slid around him, pulling him closer, trying to awaken the frantic want that she’d felt within him. But he wouldn’t obey her whims.
His hands didn’t wander to squeeze her breast or cup her mound through the thin fabric of her dress. Those leather-covered hands drew small circles over the skin of her neck, the fabric over her waist, making the need simmer within her and grow in intensity. She ground herself against him, throwing one leg over his hard thigh, not caring how shameless she must have looked. She needed to drown in their need, not float in sentiment. Love was not something she ever wanted to have to face again.
He knew something was wrong. His kisses moved to her temple, his arms embraced her, holding her with comfort she didn’t want. Holding all her frustration inside her, a wall against feeling she had no desire to face, she buried her face against him, praying he would ask no questions.
He didn’t. But he did strip off one glove and take her hand in his. She felt a slow warmth creep into her, as the angry tension seeped away. She knew it was him, taking her anger and draining it away. By the time she wondered if she wanted him to do that, to take away the last of her defenses, she was crying. Still wrapped around him, she cried tears she had suppressed for far too long into the canvas of his coat, taking comfort from his warmth and still not sure whether she was resentful or grateful for his unsettling presence in her life.