by Ann Cristy
Where was Damon? Had he gone out? She went into the bedroom and rummaged through her things until she found a light robe. She couldn't bear to look at the kaftan crumpled on the living room floor, where Damon had dropped it.
She wandered through the semidark apartment. A faint, predawn light filtered through floor-to-ceiling sheer curtains over a wall of windows in the living room. She was about to retrace her steps to the bedroom when she heard a muffled mutter that made her freeze in her tracks. Goose bumps covered her arms. Then she saw Damon sprawled face down on a couch on the other side of the living room, far from the king-sized bed.
She edged closer and took the glass from his hand, then lifted an empty bottle from the floor. "I hope you didn't drink all this, husband of mine, or you will have one aching head when you wake up." Zen bent to give him a closer look. Though he was breathing heavily, he seemed in fair shape, so she left him where he was.
She returned to the bed, but she didn't sleep. For hours she considered—and rejected—all sorts of possible explanations for Damon's uncharacteristic behavior. None of them made any sense. Was he so unhappy being married to her that he had to drink himself into a stupor? Had he felt that laughter during their lovemaking had emasculated him in some way? The Damon she knew was made of heartier stuff than that. She just didn't understand him.
At midmoming she gave up her attempt to sleep, and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
At first she was puzzled when she couldn't find a small percolator. Then she remembered that Damon had used one the night before. Rather than seek it out, and perhaps disturb him, she used a drip coffeemaker to prepare a full twenty-cup pot.
The phone rang as she was scrambling eggs for herself. She lifted it on the first ring.
Sophie answered. "Xenobia? Is that you, dear? I hated to wake you, but Thag and I thought we would take the boys up to Saratoga overnight and perhaps drive to Cooperstown to show them the Baseball Hall of Fame."
"Wouldn't it be better to take two nights, Sophie?"
Zen suggested, then smiled to herself when she heard her mother-in-law's sigh of relief.
"Yes, dear, it would. That's a wonderful idea. We'll take Seamus with us. David is so fond of him, and now so is Daniel. We just can't let him return to Ireland without doing a little sight-seeing now, can we?"
"Of course not. Kiss the boys for me, and we'll see you on Friday."
"Thank you, dear. And how is that son of mine?"
"Still sleeping," Zen said.
"My, my." Sophie was still chuckling when she hung up the phone.
Zen finished scrambling her eggs, then made herself some toast from homemade raisin bread the housekeeper had left.
"Is the coffee for anyone?"
Startled, Zen dropped the toast and whirled around. Damon was standing in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist, his feet, legs, and chest bare, his hair glistening wet.
"It's for you, Dracula," Zen said with forced lightness. "But I think you would do better with a transfusion."
"Thank you, bride of Frankenstein." Damon winced when she laughed. "Why is it I never noticed that you have a macabre sense of humor? Maybe because I spent so much time dodging the barbed words you were firing at me, and trying to survive your attempts to kill me."
Zen placed a mug of coffee in front of him. "If you're referring to the few times you had unfortunate accidents—"
"Accidents! How I hate that word! Damn, Zen, did you have to bang that pot on the table?"
"I did not bang it. It's glass. I would never bang glass."
Damon closed his eyes in resignation and sipped his coffee.
"Head hurt?" Zen inquired, munching on toast. "Yes. Could you kindly stop chewing so loudly?" "Touchy, touchy." Zen placed some of her scrambled
eggs in front of him. He glared at them, then at her.
"Remove that garbage."
"Damon, I'm sorry that you have a hangover, but it's your own fault and—"
"Don't lecture. May I please have some more coffee?"
Zen poured some, and Damon drank it in silence, then pushed his chair back from the table.
"What shall we do today?" Zen quizzed his retreating back.
He stopped but didn't turn to face her. "I thought we were going back to the house."
"We don't have to. Your mother called and said that she and Thag are taking the boys to Saratoga, I suppose to see the battlefield there, and then perhaps to Cooperstown. Sophie felt that since Seamus—"
"Seamus?" Damon interrupted. "Is he still here?" He rubbed an index finger across his forehead.
"Yes. Your mother didn't want him to return to Ireland without seeing something of the country," Zen explained.
"Dandy."
"So what would you like to do. After all, this is our honeymoon."
"I'm not the one who needs to be reminded of that." Damon glared at her.
"If you're referring to my laughing last night—"
"I'd rather not discuss it."
"I just want you to know that I'm sorry you misunderstood—"
"I misunderstood nothing. Excuse me, I'd like to get dressed."
"Hardhead," Zen muttered, taking her cup and plate to the sink. She washed the skillet by hand in a sinkful of suds.
She wandered aimlessly around the apartment, checking each room, deciding that she didn't feel comfortable in such stark surroundings.
"Change it if you wish," Damon said behind her in the study. She dropped the Eskimo whalebone she'd been examining.
"Will you stop doing that? I could have broken this!" "So? It's yours. Replace it." Damon shrugged and handed her the carving. "You don't like the apartment as a whole, do you?"
"No. It's a bit too modern for me." "Then redecorate it. You have unlimited funds now, my love." The sardonic twist of his lips disturbed her. What new product of his imagination was plaguing him? "Would you like to take a walk?" he suggested. "We're close to Central Park."
"Are you sure you're feeling—" "I'm fine."
Zen opened her mouth to protest his rudeness, but the bullish expression on his face silenced her. "Yes, I'd like to take a walk," she said.
They got their coats and rode down in the elevator. As they approached Central Park, Zen saw that the trees were coming into full leaf. The greenery gave the park a fresh, bright look.
They wandered in silence along winding paths near the pond, watching the joggers and strollers who passed. Soon they left the park and headed down Fifth Avenue.
There was a cold bite in the air. Zen was upset to see a stern expression on his face. She took hold of his arm, tucking herself close to his side.
He looked down at her. "If you're cold, we can go back."
"No, I like to walk. In Ireland everyone walks. My hand was cold; that's all."
Damon's mouth softened, and he held her hand warmly. "I haven't walked in Manhattan in a long time. I forgot how beautiful New York is in the springtime."
"It's a wonderful city. I missed it when I was in Ireland."
"Was that all you missed?" His probing gaze told her he meant the question seriously.
"No, that's not all I missed." Zen felt as light as sunshine when he smiled at her.
"The fresh air has cleared my head," he admitted.
"Then it must have strong powers, indeed," Zen said, teasing. She looked up warily to find him chuckling.
"What a tongue you have. I must be masochistic to take you on for life."
"Is it for life?" she asked shyly. "Marriage is a very disposable item these days."
"Not ours." Damon tugged her close to his side so that their bodies bumped together gently.
All at once the spring air seemed ten degrees warmer. Zen felt welcoming heat penetrate to her very core.
Damon lifted his hand and hailed a taxi. They climbed inside.
"Where are we going?" Zen asked as he pulled her into his arms.
"Wait and see," he whispered into her ear. "We might as well enjoy the sh
ort time away from our sons. Don't you agree?"
"Yes." She smiled up at him, not caring where the cab was going as long as Damon was with her and he wasn't angry with her.
She glanced around her from the shelter of Damon's arms. "Oh, we're in Greenwich Village, aren't we. Isn't that Washington Square? Where... ?" She fell silent as the taxi pulled to the curb, and Damon helped her onto the sidewalk. She looked up at a sign over a store that said Village Deli.
"Do you remember when we came here?" Damon asked behind her.
"Yes." Zen leaned against him. "I had come into Manhattan on the bus from school. You met me and brought me here and fed me. Then you dropped me at your apartment because you had to go back to the office. That night—"
"We went to a show, then to a club to dance." Damon led her into the deli and ordered bagels and lox, coleslaw, and coffee. They sat on soda-fountain chairs at a miniscule table.
"I was very embarrassed because I had to wear a plain blouse and skirt to the show and the club." Zen closed her eyes as she forked coleslaw into her mouth.
"I thought you looked perfect." Damon offered her some salmon and laughed when she smacked her lips.
"I was very impressed by all the people who came up to speak to you and call by name," she said. "I had never seen so many celebrities before."
"I don't remember anyone except you." Damon rested his chin on his folded hands and stared at her. "You were a doll—too young for me but a doll."
"I wasn't too young for you," Zen said indignantly.
"I was twenty-eight and a man. I had finished school and already made my first million."
Zen stared into his dark eyes and forgot what she had intended to say in rebuttal.
"Why did you leave me?" His low words started her heart pounding. Suddenly the tone of the conversation had changed to one of utter seriousness.
"I... I..." Zen didn't have an answer. All at once she didn't know why she had left him—except that fear had chased her across the Atlantic.
"After you went to Ireland, my mother explained my aunt's part in sending you away. I directed all of my anger at you for running away from me, and my feelings toward her changed, too." Damon smiled at her. "How she hated the women in my life! I think that was part of the reason why she insisted on my writing to you." He shook his head. "I didn't want to ask you to come back. My pain had grown numb over the years, and I didn't want to open old wounds."
"I thought I hated you," Zen admitted painfully. "But when I came back and saw you, I knew I'd been lying to myself all that time."
"Let's get out of here."
They paid the bill and left quickly, hailing a cab to take them uptown.
"Have we been fools, Damon?" Zen whispered.
"Fifteen kinds of a fool, my love." He kissed her lingeringly, his mouth insistent, demanding.
"Damon..." Zen loved the feeling of being enveloped in his arms. "When we were separated, I had nightmares that you would never hold me again, never love me. In my dreams I chased after you, called to you..." She looked up at him, and realized with surprise that there were tears on her cheeks.
"Zen, my darling, we'll never be separated again," Damon vowed, his arms tightening around her.
Chapter 10
That night they went to see a show, a rollicking, racy musical that made Zen laugh and tap her feet. After the show she and Damon were slow to leave their seats.
"Relax," Damon said. "It's raining. Everyone will be fighting for cabs. Once the crowd thins the car will be waiting to take us to Dominie's." Damon's eyes ran over Zen. "Not that I care to. take you anywhere, dressed as you are. You look like a pink moonbeam." His dark eyes seemed to touch every part of her. "I would never have picked that color to go with your hair, but it looks great." He toyed with the cluster of curls that she'd swept behind her ear and fastened with a comb encrusted with pink crystal.
"I don't often wear rose, but Charine and your mother thought it would be a good color for me." Feeling shy under his intense gaze, Zen tried to smooth down the muted pink ruffles that decorated the knee-length hem of her strapless dress. The simple bodice was cut straight across the top of the bust. She wore medium-heeled silver sling-back shoes and carried a matching purse. She carried a crocheted lace shawl that one of Damon's great aunts had given her.
"You are the most beautiful woman in this theater, and if you weren't my wife already, I would seduce you and make you mine."
Zen's skin blushed as pink as her dress, and her eyes darted left and right to see if anyone had heard what Damon said. "You Greeks say the most outrageous things," she admonished her husband.
"I'm an American, as you are, my lovely wife." Damon caught her bottom lip with his teeth and nipped it gently.
"Stop. People are looking."
"Let them." Damon grinned at her, unrepentant.
A few moments later he rose and pulled her up with him, his hand tucked under her elbow. With great care he draped the shawl around her shoulders. "Will you be warm enough?"
Blue fire was coursing through her veins at his simple touch. Zen nodded. "I think I'll be comfortable."
Damon kissed her bare shoulder where the shawl had slipped. "Tell me if you're not. I'm more than willing to warm you."
"How kind of you," she said lightly, though her heart was pounding out of control.
They made their way past stragglers in the lobby to a cluster of people who were huddled under the marquee to keep dry.
Damon held her in the curve of his arm and peered up and down the street for the limousine, which cruised to a stop at the curb. The driver held the car door open directly under the canopy. They hurried into the warm, dry interior and settled gratefully against the leather seats.
Ensconced in Damon's arms, Zen was content to watch the rain streak down the window. They could drive to hell and back. She didn't care a long as she was with her husband.
Dominie's proved to be a popular club. People standing, sitting, and leaning everywhere. The dance floor, though larger than average, was packed.
"Good evening, Mr. Aristides. How nice to see you and—" The maitre d's plastic smile barely faltered as he tried to remember Zen's name.
"Good evening, Leonard. This is my wife, Mrs. Aristides. Darling, meet Leonard." Damon's introduction was cool, almost aloof.
The maitre d' led them to a booth screened by a row of plants. "Your table, Mr. Aristides," Leonard said stiffly.
Zen let her shawl fall from her shoulders to her elbows. "He sensed that you're angry with him. Is it because you wanted him to be more discreet, and not act taken aback because you weren't with one of your... er... friends?" She rested her chin in her hands and watched as he stared out at the dancing couples.
"Yes." He turned toward her. "And damn you for realizing that, Xenobia. I don't relish having a wife who reads my mind."
"And I don't like the fact that you've come here before with other women," Zen retorted.
A waiter arrived with mineral water for her and whisky for Damon.
"But I couldn't forget you, Xenobia." Damon stared into his drink, then reached over and took a sip of hers. "Ummm, that's good. After last night, that's probably what I should be drinking." He looked askance at her. "Do you think I'm trying to change the subject?"
Zen laughed. "Yes, but at least we're talking. About how we feel, how we react to each other." She shrugged. "I consider that a move in the right direction."
Damon entwined her fingers with his. "I won't tell you about all the women I had when we were apart. I will tell you, though, that I tried everything, every trick I could think of, to blot you from my mind. I hated not being able to. It made me feel weak. I woke up in the middle of the night with your face filling my mind, your name on my lips."
"And another woman in your bed." Zen finished for him. But her words held no censure. She understood a little better now the demons he had been fighting.
"Yes," Damon admitted. "And another woman in my bed." He lifted his glass and tippe
d some whisky down his throat. "I wanted those women to mean something to me. I wanted to find a woman, any woman, I could take home to mother and marry. I thought I didn't give a damn who she was... but I couldn't bring myself to do it."
They sat in thoughtful silence. When the waiter returned, Damon ordered a light supper of broiled prawns on a bed of endive. They drank a sharp, crisp Riesling.
After they had eaten, Damon squeezed Zen's hand. "Shall we dance?" he suggested. "Please."
As she followed Damon to the floor, Zen remembered a younger Zen Driscoll going to a club with Damon and dancing all night. How surprised and pleased she had been to discover that he knew all the latest steps.
Now Damon held her close, and they moved together to the slow, sensuous rhythm. When the tempo changed to a tango, Zen shook her head and laughed, 'I've never danced the tango," she protested. But Damon led her effortlessly and twirled her dramatically. Zen laughed breathlessly as he swung her away from him then pulled her back.
"Haven't you ever tangoed, my love?" Damon asked, grinning at her. "You do it very well." He guided her with firm but light pressure.
She could feel every muscle in his thighs as he held her. "My goodness," she exclaimed.
"A very sensual dance, isn't it?" Damon laughed down at her, his eyes twinkling.
"Damon Aristides, you should be ashamed of yourself." Despite their recent openness with each other, Zen felt a stab of envy at the thought of the other women who had enjoyed her husband's skillful dancing.
He leaned close to her as the music slowed to a ballad. "I was never quite as aware of a woman's body as I am tonight, my angel," he muttered into her hair. "However much I wanted a woman, I was never in danger of losing control. With you I'm never in control." He paused to maneuver around another couple. "Did you want many men when we were apart?" At her skeptical look, he added, "I'm being masochistic tonight, as Greeks often are." He sighed. "I want to hear—but I don't want to hear."
Zen met his smoldering gaze. "There were several men. I liked their company. I might have married Seamus eventually. He likes David very much, and he would have been kind to me. But I saw marriage to Seamus as something that would happen in the future." Zen wrapped her arms around his neck. "We're married now. We have advantages other married people don't have. We've had our baptism of fire. We won't be quick to part."