Dying To Know You
(a short story)
J.M.Zambrano
Kindle Edition
Published by J.M. Zambrano on Kindle
Dying To Know You
Copyright 2011 by Jean Marie Zambrano
Cover Design by Kimberly Van Meter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Novels by J.M.Zambrano
The Trophy Hunter
Pool of Lies
DYING TO KNOW YOU
Through the window of the lodge, Michael watched her take the slope with abandon, beauty in motion even from a distance. “Who is that?” he asked his breakfast companion. Harry, year-round Aspen resident, would know.
“Cassie Cole,” Harry replied. “She’s got a style you can’t miss.” Harry paused and looked across the table at Michael. “I can’t believe you two haven’t met.”
The twinge of sarcasm irritated Michael. He cupped his hands around his coffee mug as he continued to follow Cassie’s descent. When she moved beyond his range of vision, he turned to Harry. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“Right.” Harry pushed aside the remains of his breakfast and shuffled his bulk in the chair, preparing to rise but poised for something. “Did you find everything at the house in order?”
Michael detected a sneer in Harry's tone. Had his employee discovered his souvenir collection and thought his silence about Michael's fetish had a value? Michael had paid him in advance for the year that the house had stood empty, but since it was the holiday season, did the man expect a tip? Michael smiled and reached out, offering a handshake instead. “Perfect.”
Ignoring Michael’s proffered hand, Harry rose and took his down parka from the back of the chair. “Next time you talk to your father, give him my best.” He slithered into the parka, zipped it up and pulled on gloves.
Michael nodded, a difficult smile twisting his lips. At fifty, it galled him to remain in the shadow of his father. Their relationship had been tenuous at best, thinning to the point of bare civility during the past two years. Michael welcomed the ocean that separated him from the old man.
After Harry was gone and Michael's sour mood had passed, he thought of the woman skier who had seized his attention earlier. He made some calls on his cell, paid the breakfast tab and left the lodge.
His calls quickly bore fruit as information on Cassie flowed in from his security service. She’d been in town a little over a year—the length of Michael’s absence—and owned a successful B and B, no insignificant feat in this downer economy. Cassandra Cole. Twenty-eight years old, born in Des Moines, Iowa, graduated Iowa State University in 2003. Michael’s security service had furnished other statistics as well as pictures. Cassie had posed nude for Playboy in 2000. Perhaps that and similar contracts explained how she was able to pay cash for the B and B.
The pictures only confirmed what he had imagined. Covered by her ski garb and from a distance, how could he have known? He didn’t ask himself but once, glad he still possessed the sixth sense—the sick sense, as his intimates called it—the ability to scent his kind of woman, always a blonde, as surely as a drug dog sniffed out cocaine.
He couldn’t wait to make contact and quickly arranged for an introduction. One year was a sufficient period to mourn Alyssa. In fact, it was one year too long. Except for the special circumstances surrounding his wife's death, he’d have been back in the game before she was cold.
#
Cassie smiled her perfect smile as she watched him from across the ballroom of the Henderson’s retreat. Michael Albrecht, wealthy, fifty-year-old playboy-cum-widower, was getting ready to make his move. He appeared a much younger man—one who moved more like a twenty-year-old. Six-one with a full head of blond hair going silver. Single and on the prowl again. He was exactly as his pictures had promised.
Taking a drink of her ginger ale, she looked directly toward him as he made his way across the room, knowing that the crowd of people still between them could not dilute her glance. Then she waved and beckoned him with a tilt of her head.
#
There was no way he could have missed her in the crowd of men in dark suits and women in little black dresses. Cassie Cole wore deep crimson. Strapless. A simple gold chain around her neck and gold drop earrings were her only adornments. Their hostess, Jill Henderson approached as if on cue and made the proper introduction.
After Jill's discreet departure, Cassie laughed. “It reminds me of some bird ritual mating dance,” she said.
Michael felt a blush creeping up his neck—a first. He couldn’t take his eyes off her pale skin against the red of her velvet gown. A server passed with a tray of champagne. Michael took a glass and offered it to Cassie.
“No thanks.” She picked up her unfinished drink from a side table and took a sip. “I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you.”
Michael kept the champagne for himself and then set it down. Her frankness was so completely charming that he took hold of her hand with confidence and responded in kind. “I saw you on the slopes yesterday and asked a friend who you were. I hope you aren’t offended.”
“Do I look offended?” Cassie arched a brow.
Up close, he noticed the beginning of fine lines around her eyes—probably from spending a lot of time out of doors. But, taken as a whole, her complexion was nearly flawless. Her arms were trim and smooth, yet muscular. Her eyes, cerulean blue, communicated unmasked desire to him as the hand he held squeezed his in return. Her strength sent shock waves straight to his groin.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered, setting his glass down beside hers. He fleetingly noted that both their glasses were nearly full.
Inside his SUV, she cuddled close to him. “I prefer my place,” she said, though he’d assumed without asking that they’d go to his.
“Your bed and breakfast?” he asked with a laugh. “Won’t that be a bit short on privacy?”
Cassie smiled back and drew her winter wrap closely about her. “I don’t live at my place of business.”
She directed him to a small, two-story Victorian set on a hillside, in back of the Alpine Inn, her B & B. Taking a garage door opener from her handbag, she opened the door to the partially underground garage, where he noted space for only one car. He wondered where hers was parked. Did she anticipate that he’d need the space tonight?
As if reading his mind, Cassie said, “Mine’s back at the party.”
“Of course.” Michael felt strangely flustered. Paranoia, ulterior motives. He lived with these suspicions. How sweet it would be to have someone genuine.
Wordlessly, she led him up a wooden staircase that went from the garage to the house. They entered a pleasantly old-world kitchen, where she first tugged off his overcoat, then removed her own wrap and hung both on a carved, wooden coat rack. The kitchen was semi-dark, but soft light spilled in from a hallway. As he moved toward the light, Cassie pressed against him. “Can I fix you a bite of something?” she whispered suggestively.
Yes, bite me, he thought. Pausing in the entry hall, he looked up a flight of stairs. “We are alone?”
“Why do you ask?” She preceded him up the stairs.
“You’re whispering.” He followed.
“Oh, that.” Cassie giggled. “Trying to be sexy,” she continued in a fake Bacall voice.
Her laughter was infectious. Michael allowed himself a luxury he’d long done without. “You really don’t have to try on my account.”
Her bedroom was small, as rooms in true Victorian houses often were, and simply furnished. A maple poster bed, the size they used to call a double bed, now looked exceedingly small to
him.
Again, she responded to his thought. “How much room do you need?”
As he sat on the bed while she slipped out of the red velvet gown and hung it on a hanger, he had the fleeting thought that the heat of passion should dictate that the gown be dropped on the floor and trampled under their eager feet.
“Would you like something to drink...first?”
He shook his head. Weak light from a crescent moon illumined her silhouette against a window that was curtained with sheer, eggshell-colored lace. He could see her breasts, small and upturned—virginal even, though he seriously doubted that to be the case.
“I would,” she said softly.
“Would what?”
“Like something to drink.”
She left the room and he heard her bare feet on the stairs descending quickly. Sounds of cupboards opening and closing. The un-Victorian hum of a microwave.
He was hard when she returned, and a drink was the last thing he wanted. But maybe she wasn’t as confident as she appeared.
“You like rum?” she set two mugs on the night stand beside the bed.
“Sure, if you do.”
“Hot buttered rum,” she said, making the words sound obscene. Cassie lifted her mug and Michael did likewise. “To a future filled with surprises,” Cassie continued, their mugs on a collision course. Michael withdrew his arm after the mugs touched, and took a long drag of the sweet drink that he decided he might need, after all.
#
Michael awoke to a throbbing headache. Aside from the pain, his head felt as if it were stuffed with mush. He tried to remember the feel of her under him, but could recall nothing after the big buildup. He glanced at Cassie lying curled away from him, apparently still asleep. Feeling the urgent need of a bathroom, he rose cautiously, unwilling to wake her, unsure of exactly what had transpired between them.
In response to his first tentative movement, she flipped over on her side, facing him, propping herself up on one elbow, drawing the top sheet primly up under her chin. Her hair was tousled, and without makeup she looked about sixteen years old. He'd have been worried about that had he not done his homework. Her expression was so totally relaxed that his lack of memory of the event left him more confused and devoid of any vestiges of desire.
“Michael,” she said, “you were exactly as I expected. I couldn’t have asked for more.”
#
During the ensuing week, Cassie’s duties at the B & B were causing Michael increasing frustration. Though they spoke on the phone daily and had even taken time for a couple of lunch dates, Michael burned for her. “In due time,” she’d told him, promising some free hours on the weekend.
Since he had plenty of time to rehash their conversations, nibbling suspicions had already begun eroding the budding relationship, while doing little to cool his desire for her. On that morning after their night together, Cassie had made breakfast for him. Crepes and sausage. She’d done this while he’d been in the shower, plus she’d taken time to run over to supervise breakfast preparation at the inn.
During breakfast, Michael noted that she’d eaten little and talked much. “Does the inn remind you of your Swiss roots?” she asked.
“I was born here,” Michael replied. “My mother is American.” He suspected that she already knew this. If she were diligent, she could also find out that he hadn’t really known his father or visited Switzerland until he was eighteen years old. His parents’ divorce had been bitter. His father’s fortune had little effect on his mother. An heiress in her own right, backed by old, east coast money, she couldn’t be bought. Yes, his father had tried to buy him, but then waited until Michael reached adulthood and came to him of his own accord. This alienated his mother, who promptly cut all ties with him. Her rejection was probably the reason for his preference for blondes. Or so his therapist had suggested. His mother had brown eyes and dark hair that she refused to let become gray. But he’d long been done with therapy—too many things might leak out and sink his ship.
“All marriages don’t have to end that way,” Cassie said.
He nearly dropped his fork. “What way?”
“Your parents’ divorce,” she replied, looking taken aback by his tone. “You must have guessed that I’d read your biography. It’s on the net for all the world to see.”
He reached across the table and took hold of her hand.
“I understand.” She looked down at their entwined fingers.
“It was emotionally draining, at times.”
“Even with all their money,” she said without any discernible trace of sarcasm. “Is that why you’ve never had children?”
He let her hand drop and looked up startled into her candid gaze.
“Because you didn’t want to end up putting them through your experience?” she ventured.
“I guess. But surely that’s not out there in my bio.”
“It’s a reasonable assumption. Am I wrong?”
She wasn’t and he told her so.
“What if I told you I wanted children?” she asked. "Would you still be interested in me?" She filled his coffee cup.
He drank and the warmth filled him—not just from the coffee, but the hint of a future he’d long given up on. But he hadn't answered her question, and she hadn't pressed the matter.
Now, days later, the events of his night with Cassie took on new perspective. Initially, his inability to recall a sexual encounter had left him wondering if he’d been drugged, and it had occurred to him to see his Aspen physician and get his blood tested. He promptly vetoed the idea when he thought of the tale leaking from the doctor’s office to the tabloids: Michael Albrecht victim of date rape drug.
But, did he, in fact, have unprotected sex with Cassie? Had she planned a seduction when she knew she was ovulating? Was she just like all the rest—just after what he had? As his father had often reminded him, a child is a tether both financially and emotionally. If that was Cassie’s plan, she’d regret her actions. As with the others who’d tried to make a fool of him, Cassandra Cole could be just a phone call away from extermination.
And then she phoned him, her voice as light as a snowflake. She had some free time and wondered if he’d like to go skiing. Against his better judgment, he practically raced to change clothes, unpack his skis and attach them to the top of his SUV.
He arrived at Cassie’s door breathless, winded from the short climb up the front stairs. Michael attributed this to his burgeoning desire that had nothing to do with a run on the slopes.
“Are you okay?” Cassie asked.
“Sure. Why?” he replied, though he did feel a bit light-headed.
She shrugged and smiled at him. “I’ve made us some lunch. Is it too early?”
It was 11:15 A.M. He’d skipped breakfast in his paranoid stew. “It’s never too early,” he remarked drolly, trying to regain his edge.
Cassie laughed. “Michael, why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about lunch?”
She shut the door behind him and began to unzip his jacket. He could feel the heat of her body as she pulled the garment from his shoulders. In the background of his passion, the relentless sound of his father’s voice quelled his developing erection.
“Cassie, about the other night, there’s something--”
She touched a forefinger to his lips. “Shhh. Not another word. It happens. I understand. I was hoping you wouldn’t remember.”
His shoulders stiffened under her grasp, while the other part of him went completely limp. Did this mean they didn’t have sex? That he couldn’t…perform? That was absurd. He’d never had a problem. Never needed Viagra or any of those old men’s drugs.
#
On the following day, Michael paid a visit to his physician’s office. His ski day with Cassie had ended up with just lunch, and then an emergency plumbing problem at the bed and breakfast had taken up the rest of her day, killing their ski plans and whatever else might have transpired. He doubted that anything beyond skiing would hav
e occurred, as his breathlessness had persisted, and he’d fallen asleep in front of his TV at nine o’clock that night.
Dr. Stremel ushered Michael into his office as soon as the receptionist notified him of Michael’s arrival. Unlike other patients who filled out the stock medical questionnaire, the doctor updated Michael’s medical information personally.
After filling the doctor in on his current medications, Michael rolled up his left sleeve and allowed the doctor to take his blood pressure. During this time, Michael also informed the doctor of his breathlessness and changing sleep habits, steering clear of the sexual performance issue.
“How long did you say you’ve been on the blood pressure medication?” Dr. Stremel asked, after making some notes in Michael’s file.
Michael thought for a moment. “Close to a year. I had some stress issues after Alyssa died,” he finally said.
“I don’t wonder,” the doctor murmured, his bushy eyebrows arching slightly as he looked at Michael.
“My blood pressure was up, so my doctor in Arlington put me on Propranolol. It seemed to be doing the trick.”
“Perhaps too well. Michael, your BP is lower than it’s ever been since I’ve known you. I’d like to do an EKG and a blood test, then if all’s well, touch base with your doctor in Virginia. If he’s in synch with the idea, we’ll reduce the strength of your medication or maybe put you on something milder.”
#
Michael’s relief was enormous. Nothing that a medication adjustment couldn’t cure. Cassie hadn’t drugged him. He was not becoming impotent. He was certain that the medication change would get rid of that problem, too.
He mentally juggled plans—drive home and phone Cassie or just show up at the B and B—maybe pressure her into taking some time off. Perhaps it was time for her to retire from the workforce. Would becoming a family man be so disastrous, or was that just his old man’s read? As the parental string that attached him to his father thinned to the snapping point, his cell phone chirped. He accessed the screen for the incoming text message: Remember Sandra Bauman. The sender’s identification was blocked.
Dying To Know You Page 1