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.”
&n
bsp; “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.
Clumsily, he began to unfasten my gown, muttering a little curse as he freed my arms from the sleeves and pushed it over my hips. After I stepped out of the circle of red silk, he removed my undergarments one by one until, finally, I stood naked in the moonlight, trembling slightly, resigned but exultant, too, filled with a wild joy that seemed to sing in my veins. Stepping back, he looked at me, and his eyes darkened with something almost like reverence. For. the first time in my life I felt completely beautiful, and I was glad, so very glad that I could be beautiful for him.
Resting his hands on my shoulders, he gazed into my eyes for a long moment, his own conveying a silent message that caused the music inside to swell. He caressed my shoulders, my throat, touching me gently, reverently, his fingers sliding slowly over my flesh. His hands encircled my breasts, his fingers stroking the soft, fleshy mounds. My eyes closed as waves of sensation swept over me, carrying me into a void where there was nothing but this man, this moment, these feelings that swelled and surged and threatened to drown me. With one hand lightly at my waist, he bent to kiss each nipple, his lips moist and warm, and I caught my fingers in his hair, almost fainting with desire.
It had been so long, so long, that I had denied myself, denied this part of me. Now as he caressed me, kissed me, drew me into his arms, I shivered, and Anthony, thinking I was cold, folded me closer, murmuring soft words. He caught my lips with his; his mouth worked slowly, savoring mine, his lips spreading and forcing my own to part. That kiss seemed to last forever, sheer torture that combined agony with bliss, and, naked, I clung to him as his silk shirt pressed against my bare breasts.
Finally, lifting me into his arms, he carried me to the bed, lowering me onto the satin counterpane, and he knelt over me and kissed me again and again, on my temple, my throat, my breasts, my thighs. The feeling inside me grew more and more tormenting. Anthony moved away from the bed, and I felt lost, alone, incomplete, craving his touch, craving his body and the musky smell of him that was like heady perfume. He stepped into the shadows away from the windows, and I could see his dark form moving and bending as he removed his clothes. As I watched, his neckcloth floated to the floor like a silky moth.
I closed my eyes and stretched on the counterpane, its satin smooth and cool beneath me, emptiness above, space that must be filled with muscle and bone and weight and warmth and wonderment. Need mounted to agony as I opened my eyes and saw him step out of the shadows and into the moonlight, naked now, looking like a magnificent statue suddenly imbued with life. He stood there for a moment bathed in silver, moonlight rippling over that perfect body, and then he smiled a wicked smile and I raised my arms as he moved across the floor to the bed.
The mattress sagged and the springs creaked noisily as he climbed onto the bed, and he looked so startled by the sound that I laughed, and Anthony laughed, too, gathering me to him. The weight of his body crushed me, heavy, hurting, glorious. It was lovely, lovely, and I struggled beneath him; for a few moments we were like two children playing a naughty game, wrestling together on the slippery satin counterpane, limbs entwined, and then his face, inches from my own, grew stern, almost savage, and his lips sought mine with bruising force and a wild, tumultuous fury possessed us both. He was fierce and forceful, uninhibited, and I was uninhibited, too, returning each touch with equal ardor, clutching him to me as senses shredded like silk tearing and we soared as one to a dizzying height and plunged together into a shattering paradise where ecstasy exploded again, again, and again.
XIX
The music of Rossini swelled, fast, merry, slightly frenzied, ringing loudly through the wings and down the hall, into my dressing room as I checked my makeup. Through the closed door it was like the frantic buzzing of a swarm of insects, and soaring over it was the voice of the soprano, who was much too shrill. A capacity crowd filled the theate
r. Every seat was taken, and dozens of people were standing in back. In twenty minutes the first act would be over and I would step out in front of the footlights and all those hundreds of people would be staring at me, waiting for Elena Lopez to dazzle them.… I forced the thought from my mind, concentrating on the face in the mirror. The perfect, sultry face of Elena.
Millie was fidgeting around like a nervous cat, making a terrible racket, dropping things, and I was the one who should have been nervous. I wasn’t. I was resigned. I felt much older, and wiser, too. Last night had been explosive, and it had been satisfying, but, somehow, it had merely underlined my loneliness. I had made love with Anthony Duke, but I could never love him, could never depend on him. He was as mercurial as quicksilver and as elusive, bright and glowing and impossible to hold. I was wise enough to know that, wise enough to realize that no matter how many times we made love it could never be more than physical gratification.
“—wants to take me out,” Millie was saying. “Altogether too fresh, he is, thinks he can take liberties. I’m respectable now and I intend to stay that way, though I must admit it gets a bit tiring. He is very good-looking in a rough-and-tumble sort of way. What do you think?”
“I—I’m sorry, Millie. I wasn’t listening.”
“David Rogers. He wants to take me out tonight after we finish up ’ere. Has plans, he does. Thinks I don’t know what he’s after. Do you think I should go out with him?”
“You’d probably enjoy yourself.”
Millie brushed a stray tarnished gold curl from her temple. “I probably would,” she admitted. “I suppose you can carry this respectability bit too far. A person needs to have a little fun, wouldn’t you say? I just might let him take me to dinner.…”
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