Love's Golden Spell

by William Maltese

  “Koeksisters,” Christopher said, startling her out of her reverie. Most of the dishes were cleared. She looked at him, embarrassed and confused.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, sounding and looking genuinely concerned. Perhaps he was afraid she was suffering a delayed reaction from heatstroke.

  “I’m fine,” she said. It was a lie. She wasn’t fine. She was hoarding memories as if they were priceless treasures. But revealing them to Christopher risked exposing them as nothing more than cheap imitations. “You were saying something about your sisters.” He didn’t have sisters. She knew that. She knew all about him. He neither knew nor cared about her.

  “Koeksisters,” he repeated, watching her more closely. “It translates ‘cake sisters,’” he said, no doubt encouraged by the focusing of her eyes. “Braided dough, deep fried, and then chilled in syrup of water, sugar, cream of tartar, ginger, cinnamon and glycerine.”

  “Oh?” She laughed, picking up her fork and stabbing the pastry with apparent relish. “Delicious!”

  They were served a chilled South African Riesling from a vineyard outside of Stellenbosch.

  “South African wines were at their best in the nineteenth century,” Christopher said. “They enjoyed a vogue in England and France that no other non-European wines have matched, not even your superb American vintages. However, something happened to that quality that has wine experts guessing—rather like Falernian, the most celebrated of ancient Roman wines. Praised by Pliny and Horace as being ‘immortal,’ Falernian was uncorked to rave reviews for centuries. Today, those same hillsides are yielding wine that, while good, is by no means extraordinary and definitely not immortal.” He pushed back his chair, and Ashanti appeared to assist Janet with hers. “But I promised you more than supper and wine trivia didn’t I?” Christopher said. He started to take her arm, disappointing her, perversely, when he didn’t follow through.

  They walked through several rooms, each emphasizing the house’s largeness. The Van Hoons had come a long way since Petre Van Hoon arrived from the Netherlands with his few personal possessions. The founder of the Van Hoon dynasty had lived in a mud shelter like the local natives. This house, with its silk-covered walls, gilded cornices, antique furniture and crystal chandeliers completely overshadowed those humbler beginnings, the opulence further widening the gap between Janet and Christopher. These Chinese porcelains, Japanese bronzes, Persian rugs, and Louis Quinze pieces could attract the wealthiest and most beautiful of women.

  The Ivory Room was in the basement, reached by a curving flight of stairs behind a Gobelin tapestry. The narrowness of the stairs brought Janet and Christopher into constant contact, but neither made the move to descend single file. Janet reached the bottom feeling breathless, and not just because of the exercise.

  “It’s only a bit farther,” he said. His smile flashed white in the dim lighting. It was a perfect spot for him to take advantage, but he didn’t. Janet was disappointed, since she had decided how to handle it: not with fighting but with a bored acceptance—up to a point.

  They stopped in front of a massive door that was too large to open into the narrow corridor. Christopher unlocked it and put his shoulder to it. It moved sideways, showing blackness in the space beyond.

  “Here, give me your hand,” he instructed.

  She hesitated, embarrassed for doing so. If he were going to attempt something, he wouldn’t ask for her hand. He’d take it. “It’s dark in there,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “Which should make you feel particularly safe,” he said. She didn’t see how. He laughed. “I prefer my lovemaking with the lights on. I don’t know about you, but I like to see what’s going on.” He reached for her hand. She didn’t give it to him, but she didn’t resist, either. There was a comforting familiarity to his fingers closing around hers. She trusted her intuition and followed him through the opening.

  Déjà vu: the caves of the Molapong Valley where she, with far less hesitation, had entrusted herself to the safekeeping of a younger Christopher Van Hoon.

  He slid the door closed behind them, excluding all light. Being so close to him made her heart flutter. She gasped when his supportive fingers slipped free, leaving her helplessly adrift. “Christopher?” she asked the darkness.

  The lights came on. He was amusing himself at her expense. He could have reached the switch from the outside. At Molapong, he had worn the same expression after telling her they were lost and then, magically, leading her to safety.

  “Are you having fun?” she asked sarcastically. Her question was superfluous. Of course he was having fun! They were in an empty room with cement ceiling, walls and floors. This was a joke!

  “Now don’t get your tail in a knot,” he said, mirth bubbling over with each word. “Everything in this world has its price. My amusement is certainly cheap enough for what you’re getting out of the bargain.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Janet said, an expansive wave of her arm encompassing the room. “I certainly don’t get to see the likes of this every day, do I?”

  “Ye of so little faith!” he condemned, and laughed as he had laughed at Molapong. The strain in his face dissolved, unmasking a Christopher years younger. His eyes twinkled. His dimples sank deeper as his smile widened. She wanted to touch his cheeks with her fingertips and explore those indentations.

  She was distracted by the grating of metal against metal. One whole wall was moving. Janet watched, fascinated. She had been on the verge of saying something stupid. Had he waited one minute longer before pressing the button, he would have heard her confessing everything.

  She was walking a fine line: on one side her loyalty to her dead father and to her dead husband; on the other her desire to salvage something for herself before it became too late. The thing she kept forgetting was that Christopher didn’t offer salvation. He hadn’t understood the girl turning away from him. He wouldn’t understand the woman coming back.

  She focused on the macabre reality of the room beyond the wall. On all sides, stacked in niches and on special supports designed to store them, one on top of the other, were thousands of elephant tusks. She was staggered by the sheer number. She had no idea what the collection was worth. Never in her wildest imagination had she thought to see this much ivory in one place.

  She turned accusingly on Christopher, aware deep down that the tragedy behind this grisly collection was only one of her excuses for coming to Africa.

  “How many elephants did you kill to give the Van Hoon empire this?” she asked, her voice trembling. He had hunted with Vincent before he met her. He had proudly shown her a gazelle killed on an afternoon hunt with his father. She had taken one look at the lifeless delicate animal, and been sick to her stomach. He’d promised he wouldn’t kill another. His father, furious at such a silly promise, had boxed his ears, calling him a sissy.

  The boy who made that promise wasn’t the man whose handsome face was now showing none of the amusement of a few moments before. “I do all my hunting with a camera, remember?” he said, his voice so frosty it froze her to the quick.

  “I want out of here,” she said. A constriction in her heart made further speech impossible.

  She didn’t wait for his permission to leave. She managed to maneuver the sliding door, and then took the hallway to the stairs. If she tripped silent alarms on the way out, she didn’t care.

  She headed for the library, expecting Ashanti to appear out of the woodwork to intercept her. She didn’t see anyone. She did see the Baccarat decanter of cognac standing on one of the elegant library tables.

  She was cold, very cold. The burn of the brandy going down helped. She poured herself another swallow, sitting down in the nearest chair. She was trembling. She shut her eyes, trying to get control of herself. When she opened her eyes, Christopher was in the doorway watching her.

  “What are you staring at?” she demanded, her nerves on edge.

  She expected an immediate sarcastic reply, but he didn’t answer for several
long moments: When he did, his voice was strangely distant, even apologetic.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you reminded me of someone.”

  She felt the shivers dancing along her spine. “Of whom?” she asked in a whisper so low she wasn’t sure she said anything. Her breathing stopped. It was erratic when it returned.

  “I don’t really know of whom,” he admitted.

  She wanted to cry out that she reminded him of a thirteen-year-old girl he once knew, but a large lump in her throat wouldn’t let the words slip past. There was little point in bolstering a memory so weak it was beyond recall.

  She was on the verge of tears, and she wouldn’t be able to explain them. She was saved by Ashanti. “Mr. Geiger is here to see you, Mr. Van Hoon,” Ashanti announced.

  “Excuse me, Janet,” Christopher said, and left the room. By the time he returned with the man, Janet had regained her composure. “Janet Westover, Donald Geiger,” Christopher said.

  Donald nodded in her direction. He was in his forties, his short stocky body poured into soiled pants and shirt. His black hair was graying, his lips narrow, his suspicious brown eyes shifting from Janet to Christopher and back again. He was nervous.

  Christopher locked the door. Janet came to her feet, not appreciating the smile Christopher gave her.

  “Don’t mind Janet’s apparent paranoia,” Christopher said. He was talking to Donald but looking at her. “She sees me locking the door and lets her imagination run rampant.”

  Donald was embarrassed. “Maybe I should come back later,” he said, proving he was as ill at ease as he looked.

  “Nonsense!” Christopher said. “Janet is anxious to be entertained, and she hasn’t been pleased with the job I’m doing. Maybe she’ll be more receptive to what you have to offer.”

  “Maybe I should go?” Janet suggested.

  Christopher wasn’t accepting that alternative, either. “Don’t be silly, Janet,” he said. “Who knows, you might find this the most interesting part of your stay at Lionspride.”

  “Really, I—” Donald began but was interrupted.

  “For the moment, we’ll just pretend Janet isn’t here.” Christopher said.

  He was baiting her. He was enjoying her discomfort in front of Donald. He was encouraged by the flashes of anger in her eyes. She had gone through so much that day it was difficult not to strike out at his sarcasm, but she controlled herself.

  “Donald?’ Christopher said, evidently pleased that Janet couldn’t or wouldn’t speak. He went to his desk and slid his paperwork to one side. From one of the side drawers, he took a square of black velvet and spread it over the cleared surface. “Let’s see what we have, shall we?”

  Donald was as glad as Janet that Christopher’s attention had shifted. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small sack closed off at one end with a drawstring. His large fingers expertly loosened the string. He tipped the bag and spilled out a stone onto the black velvet. The stone was a rough octahedron, and it was the color of Christopher’s eyes, complete with dark specks that marred an otherwise translucent surface.

  “Yes, that is nice, isn’t it?” Christopher said. If his attention was diverted from Janet, it wasn’t for long. “Do come on over, Janet!” he insisted. “You’re not going to see this every day. And it’s one aspect of the Van Hoon enterprise that has nothing whatsoever to do with blood sport. Or is it only the killing aspects of the family that interest you?”

  She came to the desk and stood by it, drawn to the gold of Christopher’s eyes rather than to the gold of the bauble on his desk top.

  Christopher took a jeweler’s loupe from a drawer. He picked up the rock and began a thorough examination of it. For a moment, he was totally occupied, and Janet willed herself not to wish that he would find her half as exciting as he found that piece of colored stone.

  “Exceptional!” he said, putting the loupe to one side and rolling the glassy octahedron between his large and powerful fingers. How exciting those fingers would feel lovingly touching her skin, His attention shifted from the stone to Donald, Janet seemingly out of the picture. “What do you think?” he asked. “Thirty-two carats if we shoot for flawless?”

  “Rubel said thirty-four,” Donald answered. “He recommends we do it with a heart cut.”

  “Here, Janet,” Christopher said, tossing her the stone. She caught it purely out of reflex. “What do you say?”

  “What is it? Topaz?” she asked. When she and Bob were looking for her engagement ring, she had seen a yellow topaz. It wasn’t as big as this stone, though.

  Donald gave an audible intake of breath that dismissed Janet once and for all. Christopher’s golden eyes sparkled more than the uncut gem.

  “It’s a diamond, Janet,” Christopher said, shaking his head and clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. “I thought every woman knew a diamond when she saw one. Aren’t they supposed to be a girl’s best friend?”

  “It’s honey colored,” she said, putting the stone back on the velvet. Donald’s reaction, more than Christopher’s statement, told her it was indeed a diamond. She was nervous with a stone that would cut to thirty-four carats, much heavier (more valuable) than Elizabeth Taylor’s much ballyhooed ring. She rubbed hands together, renewing the warmth Christopher had passed to her through the cool crystal.

  “It’s a fancy,” Christopher said. “Impurities make it that color.”

  “They make it a damned sight more expensive, too” Donald interjected, dispelling the notion that impurities equated with inferior quality, in this instance.

  “Right,” Christopher agreed. “We are always exceedingly pleased when one of these babies turns up.”

  He picked up the telephone on the desk, his gaze on Janet. There was humor in his eyes. Again, he had made her appear foolish. “Bartlet, will you send Samuels around front with the car, please?” he said into the mouthpiece before replacing the receiver. He walked over to the door and unlocked it. “I’m afraid Donald and I have things to discuss that you’d find horribly boring, Janet,” he said. “I hope you’ll accept my apologies for cutting our evening short.” He smiled that same maddening smile. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”

  “That won’t be necessary, I assure you,” Janet said, more affected by her dismissal than she would admit.

  “Feel free to take the dress with you as a consolation prize,” he called after her, making her skin turn hot with embarrassment. She knew what Donald Geiger was thinking. “You certainly look better in it than the other women did,” Christopher added. His amused laughter was still ringing in her ears when she reached the top of the stairs. She was tempted, but she didn’t slam the door of the bedroom. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

  She had no intention of keeping the dress. The tapes were all she wanted from him. By tomorrow, they would be safely on a plane for Seattle. Whatever glimmer of hope she had had of dissociating him from his despicable father was shattered.

  The zipper stuck in her hurried attempts to shed the offensive silk, and she began to panic during the following moments of struggle. She couldn’t go back to the library for help, but the alternative was to tear the dress. She couldn’t ruin something so lovely that, by her standards, was so extravagantly expensive, even if Christopher cared less.

  “Thank God!” she said, heaving an audible sigh of relief when the zipper came loose.

  She changed, knowing Christopher would be curious about the delay. He would think she had misgivings about leaving Lionspride. The sooner she set him straight on that score, the better.

  Ashanti was waiting patiently at the front door. There was no sign of Christopher. Janet was the last thing on his mind at the moment. A large golden diamond was more interesting than a busybody come to do him mischief. At least that’s the way Janet saw it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE ROLLS ROYCE SILVER SPIRIT was long, roomy and had all the creature comforts, including a television set and a bar. However, Janet couldn
’t get comfortable. She was leaving Lionspride. Again. Nothing horrible had developed from Christopher’s stolen kiss and his insults. They merely confirmed what she had known all along: the past was over and done, never to be lived again.

  She was disappointed and knew why. She touched her fingertips to her lips. The feel of Christopher’s stolen kiss lingered somehow. She was disgusted by the pleasure evoked by the memory of his mouth on hers.

  That kiss set her up. It took her by surprise, as though hinting of worse things to come. The resulting horrors, though, were figments of Janet’s overactive imagination. Christopher had enjoyed a delicious meal. He’d played games in the darkness of the basement. He’d terrorized her with a few suggestive words and looks. Then, satisfied that he’d paid her back for her plotting against him, he’d sent her on her way. He was a king tired of his court jester, offering her a used dress in reward for stale amusements.

  She put herself in his position. He graciously consented to let her into his home. He personally greeted her, trying to make her feel comfortable. He offered her punch after her long drive from the city. He cooperated in every way, only to have it dawn on him that she was there to do a hatchet job on his family.

  Well, Janet didn’t feel guilty. Fair play was a luxury owed those who played by the rules, and the Van Hoons never did that. Their fortune originated with Petre Van Hoon’s swindling of a poor native who didn’t know a diamond from a pretty stone.

  Janet laughed—not in amusement, either. It was ironic to have witnessed Christopher drooling over a diamond just as Petre Van Hoon must have done. Christopher was no ragged vagabond with only the belongings on his back, but the same greedy gleam was in his eye. She had seen it there when he was packing her off moments after that precious stone had entered his life.

  She leaned into the luxurious leather of the seat. Ahead, the largest man-made structures in the world were piled high across the horizon. Some of the rock crystal in those enormous heaps of mine tailings were dragged from over two miles beneath the city. The foundation of Johannesburg was honeycombed with kilometers of tunnels stretching in all directions. As much traffic went on below the surface as on the streets above. All for the sake of gold.