It was that moment that it hit home that he had been pretty indiscreet himself. He'd flirted with the waitress, stared at the bartender, and now the most beautiful woman likely to walk through the club's doors that night was headed for his table. Great.
For one quick, crazy instant he contemplated calling it off. He knew it would be foolish to be seen with her, and then kill her. He knew he was taking a chance that Gates would shoot him for it personally if he knew, although the man had helped set the whole thing up, and yet he couldn't help himself. The closer she came, the lovelier she became. If this were his last day on earth, Christian would have this vision, this image, captured. It would not join the myriad others, languishing in the museum-like halls of his mind.
Christian rose on shaky legs, fighting with every bit of his will not to just gape at her, and extended one hand to take hers as she arrived.
"Veronica?" he asked, somehow keeping the tremble out of his voice for the length of the single word.
"You must be Mr. McLean," she said, and the spell of her entrance was shattered. Her voice, high and nasal, wholly out of character with the subliminal quality of her beauty, gave Christian the foothold he needed to regain his balance, his own voice.
"I am. Please, have a seat. Would you like a drink?"
"I'll have some wine, if you don't mind," she said, seating herself gracefully. The contrast between her voice and her face was jarring and unnerving. Why hadn't Gates warned him? He knew the answer to that, or guessed it. It was a sort of payback, a quick dig in the side to say, "You don't know everything yet, pal."
She looked excited, as though she could barely contain herself, and she started talking almost immediately. "Mr. Gates," she said, "he says you're a photographer, like for magazines? He says this could be my big break. He's a smart man; he helped me get into modeling in the first place. I mean, I always knew I had the looks, but . . .”
She went on, barely pausing while Christian ordered her wine from a very amused waitress, and Christian slowly phased her out. His mind was working, removing her tight fitting gown and sliding over her flesh, prodding and twisting. He nodded occasionally to show his interest, but he did not let on what that interest actually was.
It was like reaching into the freezer and deciding what you wanted to thaw out, or into a book of designs where you had to choose which variation suited you best. He could picture any number of makeup combinations, ones that would set off her eyes, others that would play to her hair and emphasize her breasts, letting the eyes fade to a background, smoky aloofness.
"Are you even listening to me?" she asked, smiling almost playfully. "I mean, you were staring, and I feel like I've been babbling for a long time. I do that, sometimes, you know? I just talk and talk, go on and on..."
"To be truthful," Christian answered, still not really paying attention, "I was watching the muscles of your throat as you spoke. You have a very delicate throat, Veronica; it sets off your hair perfectly. I'm sorry if I seemed inattentive . . . I was entranced."
She beamed at him, preening slightly, and he knew he'd found yet another weakness – her vanity. He didn't know where those words he'd spoken had come from, probably from his mother and her endless romance novels.
"I work with light," he said, feeling a sudden urge to let her in on some of the secret, just enough that he'd have someone to share with. "I work with light and color. Your hair, for instance, catches light very well. It reflects a lot and the light that I use to photograph you will have to take that into account.
"Your skin is a very pretty shade of gold," he went on. "And the symmetry of the tan is perfect. It will blend well with the hair if set off by the proper makeup combinations, the proper use of shadows and background."
"You are an artist," she breathed, clearly impressed. "I mean, Mr. Gates, he told me you wouldn't be like the other photographers I've worked with, that you were special, but, I don't know, I guess I just didn't get it, you know? I thought a camera was a camera, and all that really mattered was, like, who the man behind it knew."
"Oh, I think I know the right people, as well," Christian smiled, downing the last of his scotch and feeling the comforting fire burn through his throat, "I really think I do. Shall we go? We have work to do, and I am anxious to get to it."
She nodded quickly, gulped her wine and rose in one motion, another reminder that the grace and beauty were a veneer, a very thin coating that shielded her inner self from the world. Without someone like Gates to do her business for her, Christian realized, even the beauty might not have been enough. She might have ended up on the street, or as a high-priced call girl, but not as a model. It was so convenient, so perfectly suited to his unique talents and needs. Personality, it had seemed so far, was more a hindrance than help in his models.
They moved through the bar quickly, Christian using every obstacle between them and the door to shield them from probing eyes, knowing at the same time how useless it was. The other men in the bar had not heard her speak. They were watching her tight legs ripple beneath her dress, watching her arm casually lower itself into his, watching her ass as it swayed back and forth invitingly.
They were watching him, as well. The good-looking men were wondering what he had that they lacked, wondering what it would be like to have money. The ugly rich men were leering and wishing they'd found her first. All of them watched, though, and the weight of their eyes was immense.
It was tempting to play up the moment, but his senses screamed for him to get out and to do it quickly. He reached the coat-check girl and she was waiting with his jacket. Someone must have signaled her when he rose from his seat.
A swarthy, dark-eyed man in a chauffeur's uniform stood just inside the door, staring at him with emotionless eyes. Ralph, he knew instantly, and he nodded to the man as he held the door open for Veronica.
Ralph was out the door on their heels and somehow materialized at the curb, opening the door of a long, silver limousine and holding it for them, still no expression on his face. The man made Christian nervous, but he ignored this. He might look like a hit man, but Gates knew what he was doing. Whoever the man was, Gates trusted him with his own future – that was good enough for Christian.
He slid in behind Veronica, watching her carefully as she leaned down to relax into the leather seat. Her eyes were wide, and it was obvious that she was falling for the entire act, not missing a beat. She was convinced, and the evening was likely to progress rapidly. That was good.
"Wow," she was saying as he seated himself beside her, appreciating the comfort himself but not letting his emotions show. There would be plenty of time to get used to a better life if he managed to keep his concentration stable.
"This is something. I never even got a cab ride to a shoot before, you know? I mean, I did that poster for that beer, what is it, Surf? It's just a local brewery, but they sell it all over.
"Anyway, I had to get my own ride, they pushed me around, and all I got was a lousy five hundred dollars for the whole thing."
She turned toward him expectantly, and he picked up on her cue. "Well," he said with a smile, "no fear of that kind of treatment here, my dear. Only the best for the best. I'll take such pictures of you that the world won't be ready for the beauty, and the evening is on me. It's the way I work, the only way to work."
Looking carefully about the limousine, seeing the solid, unchanging posture of the driver through the smoky window, watching the people on the sidewalks turn to stare after him, he could believe his own words. It was the way he intended to work from then on. First class.
The ride was too short for Christian, and he could tell that Veronica felt the same. Even her steady stream of banter was subdued. They pulled down into the parking garage of a very ritzy hotel, and Ralph looped through the tunnels until they halted at the entrance to the elevators.
Some signal must have passed from the driver to the bellhops, but Christian missed it. They were at the side of the car, grabbing his two small bags from him
and ushering both Christian and his "escort" toward the elevators solicitously. The treatment was strange - like the scotch, a new taste to be acquired.
The elevator was lushly carpeted and cool, but not chilly. Perfect. There was an art-deco pattern on the walls and a uniformed attendant to run the thing, like something out of the movies. The man must have been well paid, because he managed to get them from the garage to their floor without a single glance at Veronica's breasts, which were only inches away from his shoulder. Gates had really gone all out. It was pure class.
They arrived on their floor, not a single room, or a suite, but an entire floor, and entered the foyer. He used the key he’d been given to unlock the door that separated the elevators and service stairs from their rooms inside.
Christian walked in as if he knew exactly where he was and what he was doing, taking in the room and familiarizing himself with it as he went. It was an image, one he memorized quickly and efficiently.
He laid his jacket across the back of the low slung leather couch in the room's center and turned back to offer a ten-dollar bill to the boy who dropped his bags just inside the door. He didn't know if the tip were too big or too small, but neither, apparently, did Veronica, so it didn't matter. He had a lot to learn.
She had removed her wrap, a soft, knit sweater that clung to her shoulders and hips, and laid it beside his, turning back to him with a girlish grin. Her gown, he now saw, was very, very low cut, showing off more flesh than some bathing suits he'd seen. With her mouth shut and silent, she was stunning, and he caught his breath.
She seemed not to notice his stare, or not to care. Probably the stares of men were so common to her that she took them for granted. She moved slowly about the room, touching things and pushing buttons and watching the lights, moving to the stereo and selecting a CD, which she promptly spun back and questioned him about with her eyes.
He nodded to her, not caring what she did as long as it occupied her while he watched and regained his composure. He couldn't let her get to him. He had to get the wine open, and he had to get some scotch for his own nerves. If he let her infect him too soon, if she were still controlling his eyes and his crotch when her flesh overcame his will power, it would be another failure. Memorable, but a failure still.
Christian moved to the little kitchenette and pulled open the refrigerator. On the first shelf, just as Gates had promised, was a bottle of wine, already open and chilled. He pulled it free, grabbed a glass from above the bar that separated kitchen and living room, and poured for her.
Before she could suggest that he have some too, he poured a shot from the bottle of scotch on the counter, another nice surprise. He wondered if Gates himself used this place, at times. He couldn't imagine the man buying him drinks after the day’s exchange, not unless they were poisoned, and something had to account for the Scotch.
The thought stopped him for a moment, and he stared long and hard at the bottle, but then he shrugged. Gates was not that stupid. He wanted the money, and he wanted the pictures. He wouldn't stoop to something so extravagant if he wanted Christian out of the picture.
Besides, if he'd wanted to get to Christian, all he'd have had to do was to send the limo to Christian's apartment first, pick him up and take him off to be shot. No, Gates wanted the photos. His mind must have been working over Veronica's form as well and making its own improvements.
He rounded the bar and handed Veronica her glass, raising his own in a quick toast. "To beauty," he said, "and to its capture."
She, of course, took this incorrectly, but that was fine. Gates had said that the drugs in the wine would work quickly, all he had to do was keep his hands off her, and hers off him, for a couple of drinks and it would be over. She would be his. It had seemed simple at the time, but now the task appeared formidable indeed.
She seemed to have read his mind. Either she was a heavy drinker, or the evening's elegance was just beginning to get to her, but she downed the glass in two quick gulps, after which he reached for the bottle and poured her a second, smiling.
"We should get to work, soon, shouldn't we?" she asked. There was just the hint of suspicion in her eyes, but it was fading fast, fading to a dull, empty shade of blue. It was very likely that no photographer had ever worked with her that had not come on to her first. Perhaps she was expecting that, too. She didn't seem opposed to it.
Christian poured her a third glass and set the bottle on the sink. He moved toward the door to the next room. She watched him through dull eyes, fascinated by everything.
He took his satchel and camera bag with him, pulled out tripods and cameras, loaded the latter with film slowly and carefully, taking his time. He heard her pour a fourth glass, and then heard her uneven steps follow him into the room. She swayed against the doorway, keeping herself upright by a combination of wall-support and dumb luck, and watched him as he worked.
"I . . . I don't feel so great," she said at last. The glass tipped and spilled its contents onto the deep shag of the carpet. Then she dropped the goblet, as well. It made no sound when it hit.
Christian moved quickly to her side, supported her by one shoulder and led her to the bed. It was huge, round, and covered by red-satin sheets, already pulled down. A dream bed, the kind you always saw women in movie posters lying across.
"Go ahead and lie down here for a minute," he said, pushing her back so her head was resting on one of the huge pillows, framed by the golden mass of her hair. She looked like a drunken angel, and he felt a lurch in his loins that was a sure sign of danger and imminent failure. He backed off a bit, still staring at her.
She didn't move. Her eyes grew leaden, and he saw the last of her consciousness deserting her. She twisted her head once, let it fall over to one side, and she was out. Only the soft rise and fall of her breasts showed that she still lived, and he watched them in fascination, captivated by their perfect curves, the nipples that poked through the sheer material of her gown, which was falling off one shoulder and showing more than a little flesh.
Christian turned away quickly, knowing that his resolve was fading fast. He went to his satchel and retrieved the syringe. Gates had offered to provide one, but he'd wanted to use the one from the first two deaths, for luck.
It was yellowed, still bearing the signs of the Cocaine and the developing fluid. For an instant he felt guilty, as though he should have at least washed it off, but he pushed the thought aside. She was not going to complain, not now, not ever.
He went into the small bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Inside was a single, small, unmarked bottle. The poison, just as he'd been promised.
He took it out and returned to the other room. He inserted the syringe in the top and drew out a large quantity of the fluid. Gates had said a little would do it, but he wanted to be sure. He wouldn't need it after this. There was always something else. His specialized talent, it seemed, was finding the varieties in death.
Christian sat on the bed at Cherie’s side, lifted her eyelid once to peer beneath it and finding no one at home. She was gone. As surely as if she were already dead, she had departed her body and left it in his care. He swept his gaze down the length of her, lingered on her thighs, the delicate curves of her calves, and then swept back up over her breasts.
He reached out and pulled the gown the rest of the way off of her shoulder, letting her left breast fall free. Her nipple was large and round, darker than he'd thought it would be. Instantly his mind started to work again, changing images, playing off the color of her skin. His head swam with her nearness, and he turned away and took a deep breath. It would have to be now.
He turned back, grabbing her arm quickly, and plunged the needle home. He depressed the plunger, watching the liquid bubbling out and into her skin, watching the small lump that formed there. When it was empty, he pulled the needle free.
Something had already changed, he realized. Her breathing had stopped, and with it the brittle, annoying qualities that had been the focal points of her pers
onality had disappeared. The traces of her that lingered, even in unconscious stupor, had evaporated. All that was left was cold, haughty beauty. Dark beauty. Unattainable beauty.
Christian took the syringe to his satchel and placed it in the small baggie, then returned the bottle to where he'd found it in the bathroom. Time was on his side. There would be no lengthy distractions. He was in control. It had all been so easy, so simple.
He returned to the bed and sat down again, this time reaching immediately for the other shoulder strap of her gown and pulling it down. Both of her breasts were freed, perfect twins, and he slid the silky material lower, revealing a flat belly and dark, dark pubic hair. She wore nothing beneath the gown.
Slipping from his pants, Christian let his erection free from the painful restrictions and grabbed it in one hand, still staring at Veronica's long, lithe body. He moved closer and ran fingers over her thighs, moving them between her legs.
Seating himself on the bed, he leaned in and slid his mouth over her skin, reveling in the ability to caress her at will, to use her as he wanted, not as she wanted, the absence of any restrictions. He took one of her breasts in his mouth and sucked softly on the nipple. It did not grow hard, but he continued to roll it across his tongue. He gripped it in his teeth and pulled on it. It tasted of salt and the bitterness of perfume. He savored it, drinking it in.
He pressed himself against her and felt the cool silk of her skin. He shivered, and his erection throbbed. Rocking gently, he brushed himself against her, up and back, his breath growing hot and dry. He wanted to know every contour, to be certain he understood the angles of her, the surfaces, and the curves.
He slid between her legs and forced them wider, bending them at the knees, then rolled forward and slid into her. She must have been ready for this, even before, because he entered her easily. He watched her face, watched the dead eyes, staring at nothing, watched the complete submission of her flesh to his pounding and lost himself in her image.
Sins of the Flash Page 19