“I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he said.
He tightened his right arm around my waist, drawing me against him, and he touched my cheek with his left hand, his fingers moving down to my mouth, his thumb gently stroking my lower lip. I closed my eyes, lost, approaching the edge, longing for the dizzying fall to commence. He lifted the hem of his hood and covered my mouth with his own, and I began to reel. His lips were firm and moist and warm, pushing, pressing, forcing my own to respond. I clung to him as his tongue thrust forward and filled my mouth.
He drew back. I looked up into his eyes. They seemed to glow darkly, luminous, lovely, silently telling me all the things a woman longs to know. He turned me around and began to unfasten my gown. I was trembling now. I thought I was going to swoon. The music came through the windows, sensuous and vibrating with passion, and it seemed to come from within me, seemed to fill me. His hands moved over my arms, pushing the sleeves down, and a moment later the dress fell to the floor.
I stepped out of the circle of cloth. He picked up the gown and tossed it onto the sofa and took me into his arms again and, raising the black silk hem, kissed me once more, tenderly, lazily, deliberately holding back the urgency that tormented us both. When he released me, I moved over to the sofa and took off my shoes and removed my petticoat. He stood in the shadows, watching, until I was naked. I removed hairpins and dropped them onto the sofa and shook my head and my hair tumbled down my back. The pink rose fell to the floor and petals scattered.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he murmured. “I love you, Elena.”
“You—you don’t have to say that.”
“I love you,” he repeated.
Taking me up into his arms, he held me against his chest and carried me into the bedroom. He lowered me onto the bed and stood back, looking down at me. He was like a demon lover dressed in black, the black hood covering his head, and I was naked and vulnerable and filled with an aching need that grew more and more urgent as those hidden eyes examined every inch of my body. The candle flames brushed the walls with soft gold light. Music still came from the gardens. He leaned over and stroked my breasts, ran his hands over my stomach, tightened his fingers about my waist, and I reached up to touch the hood.
Moving away, he stepped over to the candelabrum and extinguished the candles one by one until the room was in total darkness, velvety darkness that seemed to swallow me. I heard his boots clatter to the floor. He stood up, and I sensed his movements as he undressed. Moments passed, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see a faint outline as he approached the bed, naked now.
He climbed onto the bed and took me into his arms and kissed me over and over again, tenderly, tormenting me with kisses, his arms enfolding me, muscles tightening as his kisses grew more urgent, expressing a passionate need that mounted into furious demand. I responded with a violence that matched his own, clinging to him, shattered by sensations so intense I thought they must surely destroy me. Finally, he climbed atop me, crushing me beneath him, and I cried out as he entered me and thrust fiercely, driving deep and filling me completely with that one violent stroke.
I shuddered and dug my fingernails into his back. Flesh seemed to melt and expand and explode as he pulled back and thrust again and yet again. I had never known such fury, such splendor, such savage ecstasy. Every fiber of my being was shaken and shredded and I knew this had to be the height of all bliss, but it grew more and more intense and I seemed to be climbing and each rung took me into another realm of ecstasy, and I sensed it was the same for him. He paused. For one excruciating eternal moment he held back and left me suspended on the highest rung … until those ultimate thrusts sent me hurtling into a glowing oblivion.
XLII
A bird sang cheerfully in the gardens, and his song seemed to be part of a dream. I opened my eyes to see Juanita smiling. She was standing near the foot of the bed, wearing the white cotton blouse and embroidered red skirt she had worn the night before, her long black plait glossy in the sunlight. I sat up, gathering the sheet over my breasts. Sometime during the night we had gotten under the covers. Before he made love to me a second time? After?
“I will bring your clothes, and after you have dressed there will be breakfast,” Juanita announced.
“What—what time is it?”
“After eleven,” she told me. “You will be leaving at one. There isn’t much time, but he said to let you sleep. I thought you might like coffee first.”
She pointed to the tray on the table, smiled her gentle smile again and busied herself around the room. The coffee was strong and hot and delicious, and after the second cup the last vestige of drowsiness was gone. When I finished, the bed had been made and a complete new set of clothes laid out, undergarments, petticoat, a violet-blue riding habit. There was even a pair of black kid boots and a violet-blue hat with black and purple plumes spilling over one side of the wide brim. He had thought of everything, I told myself, slipping into the undergarments and petticoat.
I sat down at the dressing table and brushed my hair and put it up in a loose roll. There was no candlelight now, no sensuous guitar music, and I was not befuddled with wine. I felt cool and calm and appalled by what had happened, appalled that I had been so easily manipulated. He must be very pleased with himself. He had slept with Elena Lopez, and she had been all too willing. Had I wanted to I could have found all sorts of excuses for myself, but the fact remained that I had played right into his hands. Leaving the dressing table, I finished putting on the attire he had chosen with such care. The riding habit was a perfect fit, as were the boots, and the whole outfit might have been especially designed for me.
Juanita served breakfast in the other room, but I ate little. Returning to the bedroom, I put on the hat, adjusted the brim to the proper slant and stuck the long hat pin in place. Ten minutes later as I waited in front of the hacienda, I heard his boots clicking on the tiles of the outside staircase. I stared resolutely at the fountain, refusing to look at him as he joined me.
“You can ride, I trust?” he said.
“I can ride.”
“Good. You look lovely, Elena.”
I ignored the remark. He decided to ignore my icy manner. Pedro led two horses around the drive, Black Hood’s chestnut and a lovely mare with a pearly gray coat and an English sidesaddle on her back. Black Hood helped me into the saddle. I wrapped my knee around the pommel and arranged the folds of the violet-blue skirt.
“No blindfold?” I inquired.
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“You’re not afraid I’ll lead the law back to this hacienda?”
“You won’t,” he said.
He climbed onto his horse, and a moment later we were riding toward the distant slope. My mare was gentle but strong. I found it quite easy to keep up with him. We climbed the slope and crossed the grassy stretch and went into the wooded area, riding at an easy canter. Leaving the woods, we moved over open country, vast and lovely and drenched in sunlight. A lonely hawk circled lazily in the sky, a speck of brown against the pale blue.
I tried not to think about the night before, but I kept remembering those moments of passionate splendor that had been the most shattering, the most magnificent I had ever experienced. He had held me in his arms so tenderly afterwards, stroking my skin, murmuring my name, that soft, husky voice the voice of a man deeply and irrevocably in love—or had I imagined that? Had the wine intensified and distorted everything?
An hour passed, two, and I was beginning to grow weary as we continued to ride. We had passed the lightly wooded clearing quite some time before, and I had averted my eyes from that mound of gray rocks, trying not to think about the scene of horror enacted down by the river. Could it have been only yesterday?
We reached another wooded area, and through the trees I could see the huge golden-tan boulders I remembered so well. Black Hood drew the chestnut to a halt and reached over to take the reins from my hand, looking at me with eyes that
were completely inscrutable.
“You wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
I climbed off the mare, and Black Hood dropped the reins, letting them trail. The mare began to graze contentedly on the short grass beneath the trees. Black Hood drew his pistol and moved the chestnut forward at a cautious pace, soon disappearing behind the boulders. I grew tense and nervous, afraid of what might happen. What if Anthony had brought the law with him? What if Black Hood walked into an ambush? He might be killed. Long minutes passed, five, ten, fifteen, and I didn’t know if I could bear much more.
I kept staring at the boulders in the distance, and it was with a rush of relief that I saw him come around one of the largest and ride toward me. As he drew nearer I noticed a large burlap bag hanging from his saddle. There had been no shooting. Anthony had brought the money, and no one had been harmed. Black Hood paused beside the mare and leaned across to take hold of her loose reins. He stopped a few paces from where I stood. Bewildering emotions rose inside of me as I looked at him.
“Your friends are waiting for you,” he told me. “It’s a short walk. You’ll find the coach beyond those boulders.”
“I see you have the money. I hope you’re satisfied.”
He ignored the remark. A long moment passed, and then he tightened his grip on the reins.
“Goodbye, Elena,” he said softly. “We’ll meet again soon. Perhaps much sooner than you imagine.”
He tapped his heels against the chestnut’s flanks and rode away at a brisk gallop, the mare keeping pace behind. As I watched him leave, upsetting emotions continued to stir inside me. There was a feeling of emptiness, a sense of loss, that I couldn’t understand. He disappeared, at last. Still, I stood under the trees for several minutes, deeply bothered, and then finally, I turned and started slowly toward the boulders.
XLIII
I stood at the front of the stage, hands on hips, eyes flashing. The poor musicians clutched their instruments nervously, waiting for the explosion, and the four male dancers who had been hired to accompany me huddled near the backdrop, afraid to breathe. The vast theater with its rows of empty seats was so quiet one could have heard a pin drop, until Anthony got out of his aisle seat and strolled breezily down to the orchestra pit, totally unperturbed. Had there been a gun in my hand I would have shot him without a moment’s hesitation.
I had been perfectly reasonable, open to suggestion and patient to a fault. I was willing to work to the point of collapse in order to make this San Francisco opening special, but we had gone over this particular number at least ten times since noon, and Mr. Anthony Duke still wasn’t satisfied. He still felt it necessary to carp and quibble and make ridiculous suggestions. The musicians were exhausted. The four male dancers were ready to drop. I was ready to kill.
“Let’s try one more time,” he said amiably.
That did it.
“You can go straight to hell!” I cried. “I don’t intend to dance another step! I may never dance again for the rest of my life! I’ve had it up to here, Mr. Duke! I suggest you find someone else to ridicule and bully! Don’t you dare try to humor me!”
“Now, luv—”
“Out! Everyone out! Rehearsal is over for the day!”
The dancers scurried off stage. The musicians quickly emptied the pit. In a matter of seconds Anthony and I were left alone. He looked up at me and sighed. I glared at him, still standing near the edge of the stage with my hands on my hips. Neither of us spoke. There were clattering noises backstage as dancers and musicians departed, and then, after a while, total silence.
“You’re tense,” he remarked.
He skirted around the orchestra pit and moved up the steps at the side of the stage.
“I meant what I said, Anthony. Don’t try to humor me. I’m in no mood for your—your joviality.”
“You were terrific, you know. I realize this new routine is difficult for you, and—”
“Difficult! Are you implying I can’t—”
“This is the first time you’ve worked with other dancers. It isn’t you I’m worried about, luv, it’s them. Christ knows where Peterson found them. Members of a Spanish ballet troupe, he claims. They move like they’ve spent most of their lives roping steers.”
“They’re highly competent dancers.”
“Hardly speak a word of English, either.”
He strolled over to me, smiling, and tried to take my hand. I pulled away.
“Three more days until opening night,” he said, “and every seat is sold out. We’re going to make history. San Francisco has never seen anything like this. When they write books about these times, Elena Lopez is going to have whole chapters devoted to her.”
“Do you think I care about that?”
“I think you’re exhausted, Elena,” he said. “I think you’re nervous and distraught and need a little relaxation. You haven’t gone out a single night since we got here. Besides, it’s bad for business. People need to see you. Staying cooped up in your hotel room isn’t helping at all. You’ve turned down every invitation.”
“That’s my affair.”
“In some cases, I’m glad. That fellow Wayne, for instance. I’d hate to see you get mixed up with a chap like that, but when the Governor himself asks you to dine—”
“I’m weary, Anthony. I’ve never been so weary in my life. I’m tired of theaters, tired of dancing, tired of being on show twenty-four hours a day. I’m tired of the strain, the upset, the—”
“You don’t mean that, luv.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me to him and resting his chin on my head.
“You haven’t been the same since that Black Hood incident. I realize it was an ordeal for you, but everything worked out beautifully. Even though we lost twenty thousand dollars, the publicity was worth ten times that much. The greatest showman on earth, couldn’t have arranged such a coup.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said stiffly.
“You’re going to go to your dressing room and change,” he informed me. “Then you’re going to go back to the hotel and rest. Tonight I’m taking you out. We’re going to the fanciest restaurant in the city. It’ll do wonders for you.”
“It’ll also cost me,” I snapped.
“I’ll pay, luv. Don’t I always?”
“You hand over the actual money. Then you deduct it from my share of the profits. It’s listed as ‘expenses.’”
“Tonight is on me,” he promised.
He nuzzled my cheek with his and then stepped back. I was still irritated, but it was impossible to stay angry for long. He knew just what approach to use, just the right tone of voice to mollify me. I went backstage to my dressing room. Millie was out somewhere with Bradford, and it was just as well. I wasn’t in any mood for her bright chatter. I washed and changed into a garnet taffeta frock, enjoying the silence and solitude. Anthony was right. Since my arrival in San Francisco almost two weeks before, I had been irritated, strangely dissatisfied and prey to a peculiar melancholy I couldn’t seem to shake.
Everything seemed pointless. I had fame, modest wealth, a glamorous life full of color and excitement, and it meant nothing. I realized that more and more each day. Some performers thrived on glory, basking in their fame. As long as their egos received proper nourishment, that was enough. But I felt as if I were participating in some kind of insane race. I was well in the lead and the crowd was cheering me on, but I could see no finish line in sight. There was no finish line. For the past five years I had kept right on running. To what purpose? I had achieved incredible success, but in my heart I had to acknowledge that it was an empty success.
For some reason the encounter with Black Hood had brought all this to the surface. The dissatisfaction and melancholy had been there all along, carefully contained, but I had refused to acknowledge them. That was no longer possible. Black Hood had somehow or other touched a cord inside me and made me aware of feelings I could no longer ignore.
With
a heavy sigh I turned away from the dressing table and put on the hat that matched my gown. The hat, a sumptuous affair of stiff garnet taffeta, dripped with frothy black plumes. Elena Lopez had to maintain her flamboyant air. The publicity I’d received in San Francisco was incredible. My abduction by the bandit had created a furor, and it seemed the city could think of nothing else. The newspapers were filled with sensational stories, and my refusal to disclose any information about my abductor had given rise to wild, romantic speculation. I was the heroine of the day, and I couldn’t step out of the hotel without attracting a huge, admiring crowd.
Posters announcing my opening night were displayed on every street corner. But there was more. Several nights before, a theater on the waterfront had premiered Elena and The Bandit, a lurid melodrama that apparently had been written overnight and staged in record time. It was a nightly sell out. Incensed at first, Anthony threatened to sue, but then he decided the extra publicity was good for business. My own opening night was set back in order that a more elaborate production might be mounted. Male dancers were hired, new sets hastily constructed, and new costumes designed. Anthony thought it might be interesting to have the men dressed all in black with black silk hoods over their heads, a suggestion I immediately vetoed.
Now, I turned as he opened the dressing room door. Anthony would never think of knocking. Attired in dark blue jacket, gray suede top hat in hand, he was the picture of a perfect dandy, handsome and merry and vain, as he went over to the dressing table mirror and straightened his pearl gray neckcloth.
“Ready?” he inquired.
“I suppose so.”
“We’d better go out the front way,” he informed me. “I peeked out back, and there’s a mob waiting for you. They must have found out about the rehearsals.”
Dare to Love Page 46