Divine Fire

by Melanie Jackson

  The directory beside the brass doors told her that the building was also the business home for a number of accountants, lawyers, computer software firms and one e-publisher. None of this information made her feel welcome, or happy about getting into the elevator. The airplane here had been packed, and she had had enough of confined spaces.

  Fortunately, the elevator was roomy enough to not provoke her claustrophobia when the door slid shut. The private elevator to Damien Ruthven’s penthouse was quick, and silent in its arrival.

  There was no formal foyer on the penthouse floor. The elevator doors opened directly onto a gigantic space that now functioned as an office and reception area. The only screens that blocked the elevator were twin banks of lush houseplants that had been allowed to turn feral.

  She stepped carefully around them. There was no sign of thorns on any of the plants, but she was in enemy territory now. It behooved her to be cautious.

  Brice stepped into the open and took a deep breath. She found the interior of Damien’s home rather more inviting than the arctic foyer below, though no less grand. The floor was of a lovely rose marble, softened further by Persian rugs roughly the size of your average Middle Eastern country and probably made when Persia still was Persia, though she couldn’t swear to it since they showed no signs of wear. There was also a lot of glass on the wall in front of her, though it was mostly covered in sheers woven with golden thread and opera-house drapes of deep red velvet.

  The only exception to the curtained look was the window directly behind an ancient desk where a woman—presumably the secretary Brice had spoken with so briefly—sat looking out the naked glass at the tumbling snow beyond.

  The desk the woman was barricaded behind was a piece of furniture large and elegant enough to be called an historic artifact. Someone, or maybe several someones, of vast importance had undoubtedly used it while deciding the fate of nations. It was, Brice was certain, designed to deter interlopers like herself—not that it would work! No desk would keep her from Byron’s memoirs.

  Since she was unobserved, Brice took her time looking around. There were also some lovely and—naturally—large paintings on the walls. She was no expert, but she was certain that at least one was a Matisse. It sat above an enormous fireplace, which was unlit but laid with kindling and logs.

  Brice put her suitcase down with a decided clunk, and, not caring if it made her seem crazy or rude, she did a silent 360-degree inspection of the room. It was all much the same—tasteful, expensive, large—except for a narrow iron staircase in one corner that spiraled dizzily up toward a frosted-glass ceiling. It looked a bit like a dinosaur’s skeleton and would be as difficult to climb as a giant’s ribcage. There were two other corkscrew staircases that rose up from other rooms, metal cyclones that reached for the distant ceiling.

  The flights of curved steps ended in a catwalk affair that ran around the room, its decorative iron rail broken up by a series of torchère lamps that were probably a lot larger than they looked from where she was standing. She wasn’t an expert, but something about them screamed Tiffany.

  There was a second ring of balconies, also lined with books and reached by even narrower stairs. Beyond that was a glass dome, either made of white glass or else frosted over by the snow. The effect was rather like standing inside a giant wedding cake—a very expensive wedding cake.

  If Brice had harbored any fears about Damien Ruthven being a starving working man just doing a nasty job to get by, they were now laid to rest.

  “Ostentatious, but I could learn to call it home,” she muttered, then flinched when the room picked up her words and amplified them.

  “It does take some getting used to,” a pleasant voice answered from behind the grand desk. “But after a while it actually feels rather homey.”

  Brice turned and looked again at the secretary. The woman was turned her way now. She was young and blonde—though not adolescent, Brice was relieved to see. She also seemed friendly, though there was a definite measuring quality in her gaze that mirrored the looks Brice had received in the lobby. Brice wasn’t used to inciting so much curiosity. Perhaps she was the first writer to ever brave the dragon’s lair.

  “You must be Karen Andersen,” Brice said, and then ruined the coolly polite greeting by sneezing violently. “Darn it!”

  “Yes, and you are Brice Ashton,” the blonde said warmly. “May I take that case for you? Or do you have more manuscripts for Mr. Ruthven?”

  Brice stared at her in confusion, then started laughing. She fished a tissue out of her pocket.

  “Please, take the case. There is nothing in it for Mr. Ruthven. My flight was delayed by the weather, and since I was so late, I came here directly instead of stopping at the hotel.” While she explained, Brice slipped off her coat. She quickly stuffed her tissue in a pocket.

  “Well, let me put these over by the desk and take you in to Mr. Ruthven. He was just about to have tea. However, he delayed to take a call from an associate, so you have made it in time for tea after all.”

  Brice gave up trying to be formal and dignified and smiled. “Thank you. That would be lovely. I asked for tea on the plane, but it was a lost cause. I finally used the teabags as eye compresses and gave the water back so they could finish washing the dishes in first class. They served some sort of fish up there, and the odor would not go away. I fear there will be stories of food poisoning on the news tonight.”

  “Well, I can promise you a wonderful pot of Darjeeling—and scones too. And not a single fish.” Smiling, the secretary ushered Brice toward a set of French doors carved of dark rosewood. She didn’t attempt to knock—all those angels lounging on fruit would destroy her knuckles—but simply opened a door and said: “Your guest is here.”

  And there he was: the literary critic, the creature many suspected of having a soul of clay, if not being a golem himself.

  Brice studied him warily.

  He looked wrong for the part, she decided immediately. After hearing so much about the fire-breathing Damien Ruthven and listening to his secretary and the security guard refer to him as “Mr. Ruthven” in tones of utmost respect and even awe, Brice expected to meet a man of advanced years and impressive demeanor. But though imposing enough—and those eyes! Good God! They were as black as anything she had ever seen—he appeared to be no more than forty years of age. He also wore his hair long and had an earring.

  Not certain if she found this lack of stereotypical fashion to be reassuring, she advanced slowly.

  “Damien Ruthven?” she asked, wanting to be sure that she had the right man.

  “In the flesh,” he answered in a cultured voice, which held the hint of a British accent. He rose from behind his desk—it was an artifact too—and walked toward her. His eyes looked her over carefully. It was too much to say he sounded surprised, but Brice sensed that she had somehow astonished him. Perhaps he had also been expecting someone older. “And you are Miss Ashton.”

  “Yes.” Brice couldn’t help but continue to stare as he offered his hand. It was complete foolishness, a wild fancy brought on by jet lag and dim light, but he looked a great deal like the later portraits of Lord Byron, when pain and war had toughened his features into something nearly piratical.

  Their fingers met and then their palms. A slight tingling passed through her skin, almost as though she were receiving a series of slight shocks. Brice was also aware of the heat rolling off of him. She wondered if she was especially chilled or if he had an abnormally high body temperature, or perhaps was ill.

  Damien’s eyes widened, as though he, too, could feel the shock of the flesh, and he continued to stare at her. His expression was partly delighted and partly puzzled.

  “Have we met?” Brice asked, and then wished she hadn’t. Where were her verbal filters today? She could feel herself blushing under the mobile brow that elevated at her question.

  Maybe he wouldn’t notice, since she was already flushed with cold.

  “No, I’m certain not,” Dam
ien answered, finally releasing her hand. He added graciously, “But I understand why you ask. I, too, had a moment when I was sure that I had seen you before. But perhaps it was an author photo.”

  “No, I’ve never had one done,” she answered.

  She did not protest when he laid a light hand on her arm and guided her toward the desk, where there was an enormous vase of gold irises and very little else. No phone, no computer—no thumbscrews or iron maidens either. Other than a small desk lamp, there was no sign that the twenty-first century had penetrated his domain.

  There was also no tingling when he touched her—not with the fabric between them—but she felt his warmth through the wool of her sweater.

  “I have not had one done either,” he confessed. He gestured to a chair near the fire. The fireplace in his library-cum-office was smaller than the one in the reception hall, but it was also hung with equally expensive art. This one looked to be a Goya. She stared at the portrait with disfavor. It was one of Goya’s crueler paintings, done when the lead poisoning had eaten away at his brain.

  “We are both somewhat shy, it seems,” he added.

  His column always appeared without a photo. Brice’s writer friends had speculated that it was because Damien Ruthven hadn’t been able to find a way to hide his horns and forked tail. That was ridiculous, of course, but there was definitely something about him that made her think of black magic.

  She nodded to herself and tried to organize her face back into polite, professional lines while she studied another painting. It was a portrait of a pair of terriers and a monkey dressed as a Moorish slave. Byron was rumored to have had such a painting done while in Greece. It was fascinating to think about this possibility, but slightly less intriguing than her host, so she saved her questions for later.

  “Perhaps we are merely private,” she suggested when the silence strung out and she reluctantly admitted that it was her turn to say something. “We may not care to have strangers feeling a high degree of intimacy with us when we don’t want intimacy with them.”

  Unable to keep her eyes away from him any longer, she looked back at Damien. He was smiling, but it wasn’t an entirely reassuring expression; she sensed that it was prompted by amusement at her reaction to him and his surroundings rather than by good manners.

  “Did you know that I’m a mind reader?” he asked, proving her suspicions.

  “No.” She cleared her throat and glanced at the large mirror behind the desk, wondering if her expression was giving her away. But she looked normal, even if she felt odd. She went on the offensive. “Wouldn’t that be discomforting at times?”

  “At times. For some people,” he answered, deliberately misunderstanding her. “But to answer your unspoken question—yes, that is the painting that Byron commissioned. An ancestor of mine bought it many moons ago. He thought it was the perfect whimsical touch for an otherwise serious office.”

  “He seems to have bought a lot of things for the place,” Brice retorted, and then blushed again. This time there could be no doubt that he saw the stains on her cheeks.

  “You are correct. The Ruthvens were here at the birth of the industrial era and enthusiastic participants in the legal pillage of this nation’s natural resources. The name Ruthven is not as well known today as Rockefeller or Dupont, but we went to many of the same parties. I hope you won’t hold that against me, though. Truly, my taste in art and sense of civic responsibility are much improved over that era.”

  The door opened, and Karen entered, carrying a tray loaded down with a teapot, cups and saucers, creamer, sugar bowl, scones, clotted cream, lemon curd and jam. One whiff of the pastry and Brice’s stomach began to grumble in loud, rude tones.

  “You’ve apparently arrived in the very nick of time. Our guest requires immediate sustenance,” Damien joked.

  Karen smiled at Brice; then her eyes darted toward Damien where they widened. “The food was as bad as the tea?” she asked Brice sympathetically, though her eyes remained on her employer.

  Brice was a student of human nature. Having seen Damien Ruthven and felt the effects of his charm, she could well imagine that Karen Andersen was smitten with her employer and not happy to see him appearing so invigorated by the presence of another woman. Brice half expected Karen to look at her as if she wished her in a bed of banana leaves with a roast apple stuffed in her mouth and cloves studding her hide. But there was nothing but surprise and—damn—more curiosity in the woman’s gaze when she turned back. Clearly the fungus of envy had not set its spores in her. Either she was not romantically interested in her employer or she did not perceive Brice as a threat. Karen was curious, though. Very curious.

  “Worse by far. And I couldn’t even use it for compresses,” Brice said finally, returning Karen’s smile. Her stomach rumbled again. She might have blushed more, but that didn’t seem possible.

  “Just don’t spoil your appetite. You’re in for a treat tonight.” The secretary poured a cup of tea and handed it over.

  “I am?” Brice accepted the cup, looking from Karen to Damien. Karen’s eyes were twinkling in an alarming manner. Damien looked vaguely annoyed at the pronouncement, but also resigned. He was apparently used to his secretary being well acquainted with his affairs.

  Was it another hint of long-term intimacy?

  And why should she care? Really, she shouldn’t.

  Still…Brice found that she did care. Damien Ruthven was her find. She didn’t meet many intriguing people, she told herself, and she wanted the opportunity to get to know this one without interference.

  “We have reservations for dinner at seven—if you are not too tired,” Damien added as an afterthought. “I hope you like Italian and French cooking. There is a small place near hear that does some wonderful fusion cuisine.”

  “I adore them both—singularly and collectively,” Brice said, but inside she was thinking hard. Was dinner with this man a good idea? For that matter, was being in his home at all wise? It had seemed a good idea when she’d thought it up, but it was looking less sensible by the moment. The line between home and office was only a doorway wide.

  “Good. I couldn’t let you come all this way—and in such bad weather—and not take you out for a proper meal.” He was still smiling, still looking vaguely amused.

  “The car will be here at six-thirty,” Karen reminded them as she departed.

  “And speaking of the reasons for me coming all this way…” Brice set her cup aside once Karen left the room.

  “Certainly, let’s speak of that. But have a scone first. They’re wonderful. Do you like clotted cream?”

  “Yes, actually, I do,” Brice admitted. “But perhaps we should—”

  “Excellent. And try the lemon curd. It’s made fresh and is absolutely ambrosial.”

  Brice’s stomach squawked again, and she gave up trying to resist the pastry’s lure. Nothing had gone as planned today and she hadn’t much dignity left anyway. Damien might as well see her eat like a starved wolverine. It would make an interesting sidebar in his column if he decided to write about her visit.

  Their hands touched as he offered her the dish of lemon curd and she felt the now familiar electricity and then a small moment of vertigo. Brice pulled back. She blinked twice and the room stilled.

  Hunger—that had to be it. And travel lag. And weariness. She hadn’t slept well the last couple of days, being plagued with dreams of terrible storms and screams in the cold darkness.

  Probably, once fortified with some stick-to-the-ribs food, she would be more up to the task of being sly and subtle when she asked about Byron’s memoirs. Just now she didn’t have the weight to step into the ring with her opponent, and she was just barely awake enough to know it.

  Chapter Four

  Shall I tell you what renders love dangerous? It is the sublime idea which we often appear to have of it.

  —Letter from Ninon de Lenclos to Marquis Sévigné

  Man’s love is of a man’s life a thing apart. ’Tis a
woman’s whole existence.

  —Byron, Don Juan, canto I

  Critics are like children who can whip horses but not drive them.

  —Molière

  It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims. I was once very fond of both, but now I never swim unless I tumble into water. I don’t make love until almost obliged.

  —Byron (letter, September 10, 1812)

  The snow that greeted them when they stepped out of the limousine still felt like laughter, but Brice thought it had taken on the quality of something closer to sly and sinister hilarity now that the day was dying and the sun burying itself on the western horizon far beyond the city. There was hardly any time to worry about this strange feeling, though, because Damien whisked her indoors before more than a handful of seconds passed.

  The ceiling of Di Serrano’s was high and beamed, lending the room a warm feeling in spite of its size. Torchères of stained glass shed softly colored light on the linen-clad tables and rough plaster walls where vases of elegant calla lilies were mounted in ornate brass sconces. In the background a pianist played softly. Brice couldn’t place the tune, but it wasn’t “That’s Amore.”

  There wasn’t a wax-covered Chianti bottle or red-and-white-checked napkin in sight either.

  “It’s ‘Viens, Mallika’ from Lakme,” Damien murmured, inclining his head, answering her unspoken question and proving that he was, in some circumstances, very much the mind reader he claimed to be.

  His warm breath made Brice shiver.

  They were shown to a table near a large window that looked out on the street filling steadily with snow. She knew it would change quickly, but for now the world looked pristine and untouched even with the street ablaze with Christmas fanfare. And it was dazzling. The city’s already formidable collection of lights had been augmented with lavish seasonal displays, and the cold air made the light sharper than diamonds.

  Damien took over the task of seating her, but he allowed the man he called Antonio to whip out the brocade napkin with a practiced flick of the wrist and send it fluttering into her lap with the lightness of a butterfly alighting on a flower. Brice smiled at the swarm of men who appeared carrying all sorts of salvers and bottles which they left, and candelabras which they removed.