Anne laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is right off the rack. Most of those women are going to be wearing designer gowns made just for them.”
“You could be wearing a potato sack and still be more charming than most of the jetsetters of the Manhattan scene, I assure you. But honestly, that color and style are stunning on you. You look like a queen. All that’s missing is a diamond tiara. The silver combs however, will stand in nicely.”
He produced a bouquet of red and creamy white roses from behind his back. Anne took them with a gasp of pleasure, burying her nose in the rich blossoms. She took them to the kitchen for a vase, feeling as excited as a high-school senior going to her prom.
Paul trailed behind her. “You know, I can’t get those self-portraits of you out of my head. I would love to take another look at them, if you don’t mind. We have some time. The limo will wait as long as we like.”
“The limo?” Anne called back, as she arranged her flowers.
“That’s the only way to arrive at one of these events.” Paul grinned. “It’ll be fun. We can have champagne on the way if we like.”
Anne came out of the kitchen with the vase of just-opening buds at the peak of perfection. She said, “Thank you for these lovely roses.”
Paul nodded with a gallant smile. “About those paintings?”
“Really, Paul, I can’t believe you’re interested in the half-completed work of a college student but if you want to, why not?”
She led the way to the study where the canvases were still piled against the walls as she and Paul had left them. Paul moved toward the stack containing her self-portraits. As he started to lift them his eye was caught by the small red book laying on the desk, its title embossed in gold serif.
Spells & Witchcraft for Mortals with a Magical Bent by Clara de Absinthe
As Paul read the words, he felt the blood draining from his face, Anne’s paintings forgotten. How in God’s name had Anne come across this particular book? Had she any idea what she had? Paul turned to Anne. Trying to control his emotion and surprise, he asked, “Where did you get this? It’s very rare. I think it’s the only one of its kind.”
“The only one?” she said, surprise in her voice. “So you’re familiar with it? I found it in an old antique store in Mystic. I’ve had it a few years. It’s just a trinket really. An oddity I found amusing.”
“It’s much more than that,” Paul said, before he could stop himself. Clara de Absinthe had been notorious in the witch community for her lack of discretion. She thought nothing of sharing her witchcraft with mortals, teaching them spells that usually ended up getting them in far worse trouble than they’d been in to begin with. There was no overt law forbidding the passing of witchcraft to mortals but it was at best a risky business and at worst a fatal one. Witch hunts had ebbed and flowed over the centuries, but anyone over a hundred and fifty years old remembered them well and shuddered at the prospect of history repeating itself.
Paul had met Clara once in France a few years before she’d died. She was an eccentric woman who presented in the guise of a redheaded vixen—voluptuous, sensuous, dangerous. She enjoyed ensnaring mortal men and had left a bevy of them longing for her, their hearts firmly in her grip for as long as she cared to hold them.
This spell book, so legend had it, had been written for a mortal woman with whom Clara had fallen hopelessly in love. Though she dabbled with men, it was women who enthralled her.
The woman in question was Eliza Asbury, a mortal with magical pretensions. Eliza coveted Clara’s secrets and longed to become a witch herself. While Clara could teach her charms and spells, she could not imbue her lover with the essence of magic—that was a gift bestowed by nature.
Yet Clara had been able to extend Eliza’s mortal life, using charms to keep her youthful form far past its natural age. In the end Eliza had died, her life extended by perhaps fifty years, but finally her heart simply gave out. When she died, Clara lay down next to her and drifted away to her own death, declaring she no longer wanted to be in the world without her Lizzy.
Paul glanced at the title page, seeing the unfamiliar name inscribed there. How many mortal hands had this book passed through? He turned to Anne, torn between a desire to share Clara’s story and a lifetime habit of discretion when it came to magic and witchcraft. Assuming a light tone he said, “I’m, uh, familiar with the author. She was quite an eccentric personality. She wrote this spell book for a dear friend of hers.”
“Was she a real witch?”
“Pardon me?” Was Anne teasing him? Or was there more to this mortal than he had thought?
“Well,” Anne said, flushing. “I’ve never actually tried the spells but I can’t help wondering if they really work. I mean, if you could ever find all those ingredients and figure out just how to mix them, who knows? Is it impossible? Do we really know everything there is to know of this world?”
Paul was thoughtful. He battled a momentary desire to confess all to Anne. If they were to be lovers—true lovers, not just play partners—didn’t he need to tell her all his secrets? Yet his very nature argued against this. Paul Windsor, while open and friendly on the surface, was really a very private warlock. He’d always guarded himself against the sticky, awkward dangers of love. Why, in just the little time he’d known Anne, he’d experienced more heartache and pain than in a century of dallying with wenches and ladies of every walk of life.
Yet by the same token, he’d never felt so alive. So joyous. He awoke to a little birdsong in his heart each morning before he was even fully conscious. Anne, Anne, Anne… He realized with an embarrassed jolt the girl of his dreams was watching him, her expression quizzical. It was a good thing she couldn’t read minds.
Looking at his watch, he said, “We should go down. Wouldn’t want to keep Harold Donner waiting.”
~*~
A tall heavyset man with a shaved bullet-shaped head looked over the invitation Paul had handed him and then down at his list. Slowly he nodded. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Windsor,” and toward Anne, “ma’am.” He nodded formally, the collar of his stiff white shirt too tight on his thick neck.
As they stepped into the large room at the top of the hotel Anne’s eyes widened. Donner had secured the entire Starlight Roof for his charity ball. This evening the ceiling was partially retracted, revealing what stars there were bright enough to compete with the city lights. A full orchestra was playing big band music from the forties and many couples were already swaying together on the dance floor.
“It was recently renovated,” Paul said, watching as Anne took in the Art Deco design with its marble floors in intricate patterns of black and white and the heavy damask silk curtains framing the floor-to-ceiling views of the New York City skyline. Crystal chandeliers sent cascades of sparkling light across the fanciful grilled ceiling, reflecting in the diamonds gleaming on the elegantly clothed women below.
There were already perhaps a hundred people there and at least a hundred more were expected and arriving in a steady stream. Paul could sense Anne felt a little overwhelmed as she leaned against him for both physical and moral support. “Just imagine them in their underwear,” he whispered, smiling down at her. “And remember, you are the most beautiful woman in this room. The air around you fairly shimmers with your beauty.”
“Paul, cut it out,” Anne said, laughing. “You do lay it on a bit thick at times.” She elbowed him playfully, but he could feel her tension ease. She noticed someone waving toward them and said, “Is that someone you know?”
“Why, that’s Harold Donner himself. Let’s go say hello, shall we?” They moved toward Donner, each accepting a flute of Champagne from a waiter along the way. Donner was a short dumpy man, remnants of dark hair draped thinly across the top of his head. His face was kind, his small blue eyes squinting into half moons as he smiled up at them from a throng of men in black and white and women in every color of the rainbow, their gowns shimmering in the soft light of the chandeliers.
“Windsor,” he bellowed when they were close enough to be heard over the music. “Welcome, welcome. I’m so glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence. Been flitting about Europe, eh? Gadding about Asia, what? Too busy for your old friend Harold, am I right?”
“Harold, you know I wouldn’t miss one of your parties.” Paul genuinely liked Harold. He was what Paul’s friends back in England would call “a good egg”. He’d contributed and raised millions for any number of worthy causes, having made his fortune by marrying a diamond mine heiress from South Africa who had died tragically, drowning at the beach while they were still on their honeymoon. Since that accident thirty years ago, Harold had never remarried, though he was not immune to the attentions of eager women, young and old, who found his money, if not his person, most alluring.
He’d multiplied his late wife’s fortune many times over, selling the mines and investing in a number of successful real estate ventures in and around New York City. Now he turned his gaze to Anne. “And who is this lovely creature? You mustn’t keep her a secret a moment longer.”
Paul smiled, turning to Anne, proud to be with her. “This is Anne Kaliner. Anne, may I present Harold Donner, our host.”
Anne offered her hand, which Harold kissed with some affectation, making her giggle. Harold began to introduce them to the circle of some of New York’s most elite when he was interrupted. “Now I know where I know you from.” A man of about thirty-five with a deep voice spoke up suddenly, leaning closer to Anne. “Granger Finch, isn’t it? The investment bankers. You work for Bob Bennett, am I right? I never forget a face and certainly not one as beautiful as yours. You were an assistant on the Samson and Son deal, correct? Bet you enjoyed tagging along with the big boys, eh?”
“Actually I was in charge of that particular venture,” Anne said coolly. She looked at him, trying to recall his name. He was quite tall with thick blond hair and an aristocratic face. Pale blue eyes bracketed a long, thin nose. His mouth was curled into a sneer that masqueraded as a smile. He was holding a large tumbler filled with amber liquid, probably whiskey. He took a long drink as he waited for Anne to recall his name. “Surely you know who I am?”
Robert Langley. Paul sent the name into Anne’s mind, annoyed with the man for putting her on the spot. He’d plucked the information from the man’s head, aware he was taking a perverse pleasure in embarrassing Anne. As the words settled in her consciousness, Anne smiled and said, “Robert Langley. Now I remember.”
Langley nodded, though his smile touched only his mouth. Clearly the man was affronted. Paul could tell he was drunk and hoped that was his excuse for behaving so rudely. “Harold,” Paul said smoothly. “Do forgive us but I’m afraid I’m being hopelessly drawn to the gorgeous buffet over there. Perhaps you’d care to join us for a bite of food?”
“I’ve already had two platefuls,” Harold laughed. “Forgive my lack of hospitality. I hate to think of anyone being hungry at one of these things with the food practically piled to the ceiling. Go on, go on. The beluga is heaven on earth. We’ll catch up later. It’s good to see you, Paul. And wonderful to meet you, Anne.” As they turned away he whispered, “She’s a keeper, Paul. Though I know you’re as hopeless as me when it comes to commitment.”
They sat at a small table, focused on the delicious food for the moment. Anne’s plate included the caviar Harold had suggested along with a goat cheese tartlet, a few stuffed mushrooms, a marinated chicken kabob in peanut sauce and some smoked salmon. She intended to go back for the praline éclairs, the chocolate dipped strawberries and the caramel cheesecake.
“You know,” she said between bites. “I didn’t remember that guy’s name for a minute. I realize now I’d blocked it out. He was a jerk. Doesn’t think women or I should say ladies have a place in investment banking. We’re to be eye candy or at home cooking.” She shook her head with disgust. “I always find it strange when young men hold such outdated beliefs, don’t you?”
“I do. But prejudice in its many forms is handed down and carefully cultivated. There are more men out there like him than we’d care to think, though most in his position are more subtle about it.” Paul snared two more glasses of Champagne and set one before Anne.
“He was never overt,” Anne said. “He talked about it when I wasn’t around. When the guys sit around drinking beer and spitting or whatever they do.” She laughed. “But Greg told me later. Langley didn’t realize we were married when he’d made the remarks. I imagine he was embarrassed when he found out.”
“One can only hope,” Paul answered. She looked at him as he sipped his Champagne, glancing around the room at the many guests now filling its space. He had seemed completely unaware of the lascivious stares he’d received from just about every woman in the place, old and young alike.
There were lots of good-looking men here, make no mistake. Anne recognized several famous television and movie personalities among the guests, though she herself wasn’t especially impressed by fame. But even those who made a living by their looks couldn’t hold a candle to Paul’s easy grace and charm.
She loved the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank. She wanted to lean over and kiss his throat. To run her fingers though his hair, dark as a raven’s wing, curling down the back of his neck. To loosen his perfectly tied bowtie and unbutton his shirt so she could kiss the smooth, hard chest just below.
She realized Paul was staring at her, his head tilted in that way he had when it seemed he was reading her mind. Feeling heat lick her cheeks, Anne focused again on her food, wondering if Paul were thinking about her in the same way.
The orchestra began to play a slow romantic tune and Paul said, “Would you care to dance?”
Anne looked over at the dance floor, the couples gliding over the marble floor, and hesitated. “I don’t really know how to dance,” she admitted. “My husband used to say I had two left feet,” she grinned. “An old boyfriend once told me I try too hard to lead.”
“You just haven’t had the right partner,” Paul said, standing and holding out his hand. Anne stood as well, somehow believing him. With Paul she felt she could do anything. The two glasses of Champagne probably added to this feeling but suddenly Anne felt a new confidence. She would dance with Paul Windsor, the handsomest, most elegant man in the room.
They moved to the dance floor and Paul took Anne in his arms, one hand on the small of her back, taking her hand in the other. He began to move across the floor, drawing her along in a natural rhythm, their hips swaying together. Gently he pulled her closer and bent to murmur, “You dance beautifully. And you smell wonderful.” He kissed the tip of her ear and somehow the gesture was more erotic than a full-fledged kiss on the lips. Anne shivered and moved closer. Paul pulled her in, still guiding her with a light but steady pressure on the small of her back, making it easy to follow.
They danced through three numbers until finally Paul said, “Would you like to rest a bit? We can dance again later, as much as you like.” Anne nodded and they moved back to their table.
Anne drank a third glass of Champagne, now feeling positively giddy. It was fun to just sit and watch all the glamorous people pass them. The party was in full swing, the liquor flowing freely, elegant couples laughing and dancing in a swirl around them.
A man was approaching the table. Paul said in a hushed voice, “Oh no. It’s Joshua Cummings. A nice guy but he’ll talk your ear off. Quick, before he gets over here, if you don’t mind, you go off to the ladies’ room or something for a moment. Then come back and rescue me. Say something like, ‘Paul, we have to go now. Say goodbye to the nice fellow.’”
Anne laughed, standing a little unsteadily. She knew she had had too much to drink, but hey, they had a limo to take them home. Taking her beaded evening bag, she walked toward the ladies’ room, suddenly keenly aware of her full bladder.
The ladies’ lounge as it was called, was located down a long hallway. It took Anne a few minutes to find it. As she was about to enter, Robert Langle
y suddenly appeared—tall, blond and drunk.
“It’s the stunning Anne Kaliner. We meet again,” he said thickly. Anne gave him a small smile and tried to sidle around him.
When he didn’t move she said, “Excuse me. I’m trying to get by.”
“Yeah,” he sneered, not budging. “I know all about your type. Just trying to get by on the coattails of your betters.”
“Excuse me?” Anne said coldly, again trying to push past him.
“Does your husband know you’re out at this gala affair with another man? I seem to recall another Kaliner at Granger Finch.”
“My husband’s dead,” Anne spat, now thoroughly upset.
“Oh,” Langley replied, still not moving. “My condolences. Glad to see it isn’t getting you down. Found another guy, eh? Too bad I didn’t know you were free. Beautiful babe like you.”
“Look, I didn’t like you when I worked for Granger Finch and I don’t like you now. If you don’t move aside I’m going to—”
“You’re going to what? Beat me up? Sure, why not? Women are as strong as men, right? All liberated, pumping iron at the gym, sweat pouring down between those gorgeous breasts.” He put a hand on either side of her as she shrank back against the wall. He was leaning over her so she could smell the liquor on his breath. Why was no one coming in or out of the bathrooms? She tried to see around him, to find someone to call for help.
“Get away from me. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
A smile curved his lips upward but there was derision in it rather than pleasure. “Don’t I? I’m going to kiss a beautiful woman. You know you want it. All women want it. I’m rich. I’m handsome. What has that limey got that I haven’t? Is his dick uncircumcised? Is that it? Does that turn you on?”
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