by Anthology
SIREN’S KISS
A novella by CD Bradley
I curl my thumbs under the edges of the lace Cosabella stockings and pull them on one leg at a time. Tonight will be my night. After all the years of training and damn repetition, I will show them all just what I can do. I grab the thin black and red corset and don it like a gladiator preparing for battle. The tightness restricts and empowers me at the same time. The boning demands that I keep my breathing even and slow. I must be in control at all times. I wonder if Martha Argerich felt the same rush at her concert debut?
Did she tremble with fear or march on stage head held high? Having met her at Teatro La Scala in Milan I guess neither. She was quiet and reserved yet unmistakably powerful. I press a button on my phone and the suite is filled with the soft sounds of her piano bringing Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1 to life. I am instantly brought back to the first time I saw her play. The perfection and freedom of her performance was like a force of nature, but in the most graceful and natural way like a great waterfall cascading over the rocks that contain it.
I realize my choice in music is not the norm for a twenty-four-year-old, but I did not have an average adolescence. God I hated my mother at times. I can hear her now “Practice separates amateurs from the elite.” She was right of course but what sixteen-year-old wants to admit that. I watched Cassandra and Venus come and go with tales of the exciting places they had been and I burned up with envy on the inside. Frustrated with no outlet, I poured the energy into every language and discipline my mother instructed me to master.
I move through the immaculate suite. Heavy gold drapes adorn the massive window overlooking the river. My footsteps echo off the marble floor to the high ceilings and bounce off the exquisite crown molding. Every wall is stark white but the expansive doorways are a deep mahogany. I pass through the rich wooden work of art into a bedroom fit for a princess. The ornate four poster canopy bed is that of fairy tales. What would it be like to fall onto those covers in the embrace of the chiseled god of my dreams. I imagine his piercing eyes staring into mine as we fall weightless and crash into each other.
I do not have time for fantasy. Tonight is the most important of my life, I will emerge victorious or not at all. I stop before the Sheri Hill gown that hangs on the corner of the bed. The red French satin is almost weightless in my fingers as I hold the mermaid style gown to my chest. I have waited so long for this. My life has been filled with strong women and I feel the adrenaline of their joint successes as the universe aligns to shine on my moment. Slipping into the fabric I feel like a real princess. I stand staring at the polished figure in the mirror and suddenly self-doubt creeps in and attacks me like a tiger out of the darkness.
What if I fail? There it stands like a great wall between me and the achievement of my dreams. All the glitz and glitter in the world won’t matter. If I fail tonight it will all be over. I let out a slow heady breath and grip the edge of the velvet arm chair. My heart races like a lion and I sink into the depths of the Victorian masterpiece. What if I fail? I realize now my mother’s insistence. She knew that one single mistake would cost everything. I slip off the crimson gown, hold it to me as if it is a lifeline and look around the magnificent suite as if I am a child lost in the woods. My fear echoes off the mahogany walls and screams from behind every tapestry. I need fresh air. The corset that is meant to encourage self-discipline and restraint now chokes the life out of me. I drop the dress, run to the window and throw it open. The cool night air rushes into my lungs and chills my bare skin.
I take several deep breaths and stare out over the Thames River. A thousand lights sparkle in the distance. London at night is truly breathtaking. From my suite at The Savoy I can see the changing lights of The London Eye going round in perpetual motion. I soak in the beauty of the grand Ferris wheel accompanied by the grace of Chopin and I find my breath. I have been preparing for a decade for this night. In my soul I know that I am ready. Fear and trepidation will have to take a back seat. I turn from the window and go to retrieve the fallen garment from the marble floor.
The fabric glides over my body as if it were cut just for me. The asymmetrical gown is stunning. I do a small twirl admiring the ruffle that flows from my hips down to the train. Every aspect of tonight has been planned and rehearsed to the smallest detail. I know the steps by heart. The Image of Diana Vishneva twirls through my mind. Her delicate slippers catching each note of the concerto. I channel her as I glide through the suite, my bare toes painted red as the gown that flows about me. I slip on the Vince Camuto heels and imagine that I am Diana fastening my toe shoes for a grand debut at the Bolshoi Theater in Russia. I will follow each step exactly as planned. Every move is cemented into my subconscious. Years of preparation come down to this one night. I want to make my mother proud. I want to show them I am worthy of the time and the sacrifice. I step gracefully to the music spinning in the heels. Careful not to make a sound. Like my ballerina idol, I have mastered the art of slipping in and out of a room silently. I must dance as if my life depends on it, because it does. The reality of what is about to happen flows over my body like ice water shattering my fantasy.
Fear again takes me like a wave. I brace myself against the wall. What if I’m not ready. The thought of disappointing my mother weighs heavier on my mind than death or even torture. I want the countless hours of preparation to be worth it in her eyes. I want to be worth it in her eyes. My mother is not a tyrant. Although I must admit I called her as much in my youth. But now tonight I understand the gravity of her persistence. I remember sitting in front of her cross legged by our massive marble fireplace, a bored seventeen-year-old, repeating the same damn phrase in French over and over. On this night of a thousand stars, take my hand and come away with me. It was stupid of course and made no sense whatsoever.
“En cette nuit de mille étoiles, prends ma main et pars avec moi,” I repeated numbly staring at the flames dancing wild and free and longed to join them.
“Again.” She would always answer. In perfect French with an accent as if she had lived there all her life. “Say it like you mean it. Say it with passion. You must feel it, believe it.”
“En cette nuit de mille étoiles, prends ma main et pars avec moi.” I would try again batting my eyes playfully in a pseudo attempt to look passionate.
“Again.” She would demand and so we would go round and round for hours until she was satisfied. Then she would simply change the game. “Good. Now in Russian.”
To say I hated linguistics would be the understatement of the century. Suddenly I hear Noam Chomsky’s voice in my head. My mother stopped at nothing to make sure I had the best tutors in the world. I appreciate now all that she has done and though it is not her way to say it I know that she loves me.
“Te amo mi querida niña. Brilla mi amor, como las estrellas.” The voice that has haunted my dreams for years drifts into my head. My first mother. It has been so long I can barely remember what she looks like. Tears sting the back of my eyes and threaten the carefully placed makeup. I love you, my darling girl. Shine, my love, like the stars. Her voice calls to me in my native Castilian and I know instantly who it is. I close my eyes and for a moment I feel her warmth. I am six years old and wrapped up with her in a silk duvet. My six-year-old life was perfect. I don’t remember her death, only standing at the funeral watching the caskets of both my parents being lowered into gaping holes in the earth, that lay waiting like a wolf to swallow them up. It was on that day I met for the first time my Uncle Marcelo. He towered over me like a giant with a thick graying beard and a shiny bald head. He scowled down at me, his new charge, and hands on my hips I scowled right back defiantly.
That was the beginning of hell. Eight years I lived with a monster. My fairy tale world was brought crashing down in an instant. He took me to live with him in at his home in Brussels. There he kept me like a prisoner while he squandered my parents money. I was reminded every day of the burden my presence was on him and how if it weren’t for
my inheritance he would cast me out like the worthless street rat that I was. Never in my life had I felt so utterly alone as I did those first few months. I cried myself to sleep every night begging God to return my mother. But she never came. In my dreams I could hear her telling me to be strong and shine like the stars. But the blinding light that ripped through my windows each morning dragged me kicking and screaming back to the reality that she was never coming back.
Gymnastics was my only outlet. Initially my sleazy uncle had a thing for the instructor so I was forced into lessons but it quickly became my lifeline. I practiced incessantly. I needed to win. I needed a way out. Successes in the gym were rewarded as Uncle Marcelo liked “having a winner” but failures were met with punishments of increasing intensity. The first time he put his hands on me something changed in his eyes. The deep brown orbs eclipsed with the depths of a soulless night. The lines of his face meshed into a snarl as if the devil himself was awakened. My stomach sank to my knees. There was no escaping him. The next three years were almost unbearable. I simply wanted to die. My only reprise was to win; then and only then would he leave me alone to read in my room. My desire to win and my relentless pursuit of it had nothing to do with glory and everything to do with survival.
The realization causes me to laugh out loud breaking the spell of the memory. My desire to win is still out of survival but now I want the glory too. I pick up the heavy black and gold embossed parchment cordially inviting me to the Siren’s Ball. The masquerade affair will be held at Syon Park Manor from 9:00 p.m. until 2:00 a.m. I glance at the large overstated clock in the foyer. It’s just past seven thirty. I need to finish getting ready. The car service will be downstairs to retrieve me in one hour and should drop me at the manor at exactly 9:12 p.m., allowing me to enter with the first wave of guests.
I take a deep slow breath as I approach the mirror. That gives me just three hours before the fireworks go off for the midnight celebration and the kiss that will change my life forever. I hold up the custom made Christian Louboutin Lip Rouge in its black and crystal case. The shade is as red as my shoes. I slip it carefully into my evening bag. I will wait to apply it until just before I go. The sensation, despite years of practice, is still somewhat invigorating to say the least. I carefully touch-up the rest of my makeup and heat my long deep chocolate tresses into loose curls. I am barely used to this volume of hair and the process is taking longer than I would like. Impatiently, I eye the delicate black and red masquerade mask that sits on the vanity to my right.
The stunning piece of art is intricately decorated with fine scroll work and metal filigree that extend over one side like the tentacles of a butterfly. It really is the perfect combination of grace and anonymity. Will it provide enough mystery and allure to draw him in? How in a crowd of a thousand people will I capture his eye? I know that I must, success depends on it. I cannot fail, everything in my life to this point comes down to these three hours. Though the night before me seems to stretch on forever with the monumental task that awaits, I know that it will vanish like a drop in the vast sea of time.
The final step of my transformation, I pick up the hand painted Sergio Boldrin masterpiece and tie it into place. My deep black lashes and ice blue contacts seem electric through the accentuated eye holes. I am ready. I grab my small black evening clutch and slip out the door. The car I know will be waiting downstairs. My heart is racing to an intoxicating rhythm. The time is here. This is it, do or die. My red heels click across the white and black marble lobby floor of the Savoy and all eyes are on me. I don’t slow even for a minute, just continue to the waiting black Mercedes. The driver smiles approvingly at my attire, I can’t help but smile back as I climb in. I’m not in the least worried by all the attention. This is the carnival celebration, in another moment all their attention will be on the next girl coming through the lobby. I only hope I can stand out enough to capture the attention of Erik Fredrickson Hook, the world’s richest shipping magnet.
Every girl at the ball will be trying to win the favor of the most ruthless billionaire in the world. I stare through the wet glass at the sparkling streets beyond. Lights are blinking in time to the song that plays in my mind. I catch my reflection in the glass and smile. He will notice me. Everything depends on it. I must lure him in with a siren’s song and make him mine.
“På denne kvelden med tusen stjerner, ta hånden min og kom med meg.” On this night of a thousand stars, take my hand and come away with me, I recite flawlessly in his native Norwegian. The siren’s call I giggle quietly. The car slows and my focus shifts to the great stone steps as the car slows outside Syon Park.
The moment I see him my heart literally stops in my chest. My corset is suddenly two sizes too small and I search desperately for my breath. The driver comes around the vehicle and suddenly the door opens. I gasp as the lights and sounds of the party are all around me. They are all a blur as I watch him shaking hands with each patron welcoming them to the party. Without taking my eyes off him, I take the driver’s outstretched hand and stand.
He turns toward me for the first time and a smile curls over his lips. Our eyes lock and I can barely breathe. This exquisite six-foot god in a Dormeuil suit and plain black masquerade mask is definitely not the sixty-two-year-old man I am here to see. Still, I can’t take my eyes off him. Perhaps he works for Mr. Hook or maybe he is the curator for Syon Park. Either way he is heading the receiving line and I will have to encounter him to get inside. I let out the breath I have been holding and start up the steps summoning every bit of courage in my body. The corset prevents me from losing my cool. The slim bondage lines hold me upright and remind me to breathe slow and even. I must maintain control at all times.
Just a few more steps and my hands will be in his. His emerald eyes are pulling me in. My heart pounds in time with the music. I can’t be this affected by a total stranger. I am the one who hypnotizes and gets the job done before they ever know what happened. I just have to get inside the party and put this guy out of my head. The line moves forward and we are face-to-face. I open my mouth but the words won’t come out. He has a mess of dark blond curly hair that is styled to perfection but maintains an air of mischievousness that longs to be played with. I picture my fingers running through it and gripping tightly as his head dips between my legs. His eyes drink me in and I am helpless. They are deep emerald pools that reflect the hills of Ireland and a devilishness that cannot be contained. He says nothing but his hands find mine. His touch ignites me. Adrenaline pumps from his warm embrace of my hand through my entire body. His eyes come alive and his body stiffens. He sucks in a sharp breath as if he has been stabbed and I can tell he feels it too. The rest of the world seems to fade away from us. We are two strangers alone in the dark. He looks at me as if he already knows every secret desire I dare to keep. For the first time in my life I am exposed, vulnerable before him. But I am not afraid.
He opens his mouth to speak but the next person in line taps me from behind to move along. Suddenly the spell is broken and he shoots them a look of pure hatred over my shoulder. He squeezes my hand in a silent plea not to go, but I take the moment to escape. I slip my hand from his and disappear into the crowd. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear the music. I have to get a grip on myself. I move through the bodies that surround me like a vessel lost in the sea of the dead. I don’t know what just happened, but I need to get the hell out of here.
I make my way to the restroom. The ball itself is in the Great Conservatory but the Carnival Party is spread over the grounds and encompasses several buildings. Safely behind the large wooden door I am isolated from the chaos and from him. I cannot let this man, whoever he is, get in the way.
After making sure no one is around, I open the black clutch and pull out a small vial. It is time. I spray the delicate Dolce pheromones on my pulse points. The smooth sensual notes of amaryllis and white lilies linger softly and mix with my natural pheromones. The mix is intoxicating and will be damn near impossible to re
sist. I take out the custom Louboutin lip rouge. The siren red speaks volumes without ever saying a word. I brace myself for the storm that is coming and put it on. At first contact with my lips a warm rush flows through my body like bubbles from champagne. I feel my inhibitions leave me behind. The tingling sensation continues like a river over my most sensitive flesh heightening every contact so that even my lace panties set me on fire. I am ready; there is no turning back. I brace myself against the sink and try not to picture the strapping god at the door. Those eyes still burn through every inch of me. The aphrodisiac in the pheromone spray and the lipstick are not helping. While my head knows these are tools I have “mastered” my body is pulsing vigorously at the thought of him. Fuck. I have to get him out of my head. I ride the wave of sensation and grip the sink tighter. I am a professional damn it. Or at least I will be after tonight. Fuck this. I am in control. I push away from the sink determined to achieve success at any cost.
I focus on the task at hand. Having only seen pictures I know that he will be a tall salt and pepper blond. Even at sixty-two he will tower over any other man in the room. His presence, they say, is commanding and unforgiving. But he has never met me. I feel the confidence of the drugs and I know the game is on. Practice makes perfect. Tonight will be the culmination of everything I have worked for. With a deep breath I push the bathroom door open and the music envelops me as I step into the crowd. Each man I pass acts as if the most succulent prime rib has just been waved in front of their nose and I know the pheromones are working. I am no longer a pretty little girl to be pushed around; tonight I am in control.
I work through the eager crowd down the large marble hallway toward the conservatory. The music is thumping and commands me to move. The illuminated glass panes before me create a great glowing cathedral. The great conservatory lies in the center of vast gardens that have been tended by the Dukes of Northumberland since 1594. Light radiates through each translucent section and explodes into space. I have never seen anything like it. I enter the magnificent ballroom and everyone in it is moving in time with the music. So many people. I can feel the heat of their bodies, the pulse of their desire. I scan the room but Mr. Hook is nowhere to be seen. He must be here somewhere this is his party after all.