by Anthology
Journalism, after all, was for people who had balls of steel. She didn’t exactly fit the bill. For one thing, balls were reserved for the males of the species. For another, if she’d actually had any, she had no doubt that they’d be made of some sort of foam rubber composite that had been soaked in hydrochloric acid then shrivelled to pea-size.
That, of course, was the real reason she liked avoiding the wealthy and powerful. They always seemed so damned confident, while she only played at confidence in order to fool the world into thinking she knew more than she did.
So, journalism wasn’t suited to her in every possible way. But then, no job had ever seemed entirely appropriate for her, and at least this one offered the opportunity to travel and learn about interesting things. Besides, tonight wasn’t so much about talking to cocky humans as looking at beautiful objects, and if she played her cards right, she could avoid the former in favour of the latter. A house filled with shiny things was much like a museum, she reminded herself. A museum inconveniently filled with guests, all of whom were working their way towards drunkenness. Well, at least it would be easy to ignore them.
But she found herself wondering if Micah Drake would be so easy to ignore.
2
Cabs weren’t easy to come by in Silver Creek, but a phone call from her boss’s receptionist had told Kiara that a private car had been summoned and would arrive around seven p.m., just in time to make her fashionably late.
As the hour came and went, she waited by the front window, watching the snow continue to cascade to the ground in opaque layers. She found herself wondering if perhaps her driver had been pilfered by snow-coated partygoers waving him down in the street.
At last around 7:15 he showed up in a dark, powerful SUV of some sort, complete with tinted windows, pulling easily into her white driveway. Before the driver could leap out, Kiara was rushing out the door, signalling to him that she was coming as she wrapped her bulbous coat around her sleek black dress.
She hopped into the back seat and, slamming it behind her, said, “Micah Drake’s house, please.”
“What, lady? You don’t even have an address?” said the driver in a surly tone. Well, the evening was starting just great.
Kiara tried to study him in the rear view mirror, but a wool hat, combined with the enveloping dark of evening in a mountain town, managed to conceal his features almost entirely.
“I…oh, damn. I have the invitation here somewhere,” she said, rifling through her small purse and wishing she were wearing a headlamp. How the hell could she have forgotten his address? “You don’t know where his place is?” she asked.
“Of course I know. Everyone knows that house. I was just yanking your chain,” he said, chuckling.
“Ha. Good one.” Now please stop talking and drive.
But he didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t. “Have you known Mr. Drake long, Miss?”
“I don’t know him at all. I got the invitation via my job,” Kiara answered politely. I thought I said to please shut your yapper.
“I hear he’s some crazy old windbag,” said the man. “Thinks he’s more special than a three-dollar bill, just because he’s rich. Well, I’ll tell you something—anybody can be rich. It takes a proper man to look after those in need, though.”
“Agreed,” she said. “But maybe he does look after people. No one knows much about him.”
“A guy like that’s only in it for himself. There’s no way he’s running around helping folks like some superhero. You don’t get rich by wasting your time—or cash—on everyone else.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Kiara, hoping to shift the subject from its uncomfortable position. She wasn’t there to badmouth a man she’d never met. “Are you from New York?” she asked. “Your accent…”
“Originally from Brooklyn, yeah. You can tell? And here I was, trying to sound all refined and shit.” Well, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it, Buddy McChattycakes.
“You sound like Rodney Dangerfield,” she said. It wasn’t a compliment.
“Well, Danger is my middle name.” The man laughed again, amused at his own seriously questionable wit.
Kiara leaned back, trying out a new tactic: ignoring him. She exhaled and inhaled deeply, hoping to slow what she realized was a mounting heart rate. The evening was making her more nervous than she’d anticipated.
“You stressed out, sweetheart?” asked the driver, his eyes dimly reflected in the rear view mirror.
Don’t call me sweetheart, you jackass. “Yes, a little. I kind of hate parties.”
“Me too. That’s why I drive for a living. You see, I’m what they call antisocial.”
“You don’t exactly seem antisocial to me. You’re pretty talkative, in fact.”
The driver let out another chuckle. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
For a few minutes, miraculously, he didn’t speak, instead focusing on the road as he took Kiara through softly winding streets to the other end of town. Here, all the houses sat concealed up steep, long driveways, most blocked off by security gates and tall, imposing trees that stood like sentinels on guard.
Kiara had always been curious about the mansions’ interiors but had never managed to secure an invitation to one. Somehow she now felt as though she were breaking into a residence where she didn’t belong.
“You’ll be fine at the party,” the driver said, his voice softening. “You’re a pretty young woman. I hear they do well at these shindigs.”
“Um…thanks?” Maybe she’d been too hard on him, if only in her mind.
At last they came to a turn onto a darkened driveway which seemed at first to lead directly into the woods. No street number greeted them; only a bronze crest with two intertwining dragons, hung at the base of a large oak tree.
“This is the place?” she asked.
“Yeah. That’s the Drake family crest. I’d know it anywhere.”
A hidden iron gate sat open and the driver chugged past it along the driveway, doing what Kiara had to admit was a fine job of avoiding fishtailing on the snowy surface.
“How do you know about the Drake crest?” she asked, her mind returning to the evening’s assignment.
For once, the man didn’t answer. Instead, he steered the car towards a lane at the side of the large house that now sprawled before them, avoiding the stretch limousines and luxury sedans pulled up out front.
“I know a good many things about a great many things.”
At first Kiara wasn’t sure if she’d imagined the Brooklyn accent disappearing, or if it was simply a trick of her mind. But the man had certainly begun to sound…different. His words had taken on a depth, as though what she’d witnessed until that moment were only a mask.
The driver pulled the car up to the back end of the enormous house and got out, walking ahead to open a large iron gate. It seemed as though the headlights now focused on an expansive open space; the sort of grounds that one might see at a French chateau. Beautifully kept, private and luxurious, even in the depths of winter.
Kiara opened her own door and stepped out of the car, watching him as he turned back to face her. He was illuminated by the headlights now, and she could see that the man she’d pictured from the back seat was something else entirely. This man, who’d removed the wool hat to reveal a thick head of brown hair, was young and well-dressed. In fact, he wore a tuxedo. Strange apparel for a hired driver, to say the least. But that was hardly the most striking thing about him.
He was glorious. An Adonis. His face was sculpted, broad jaw, defined cheekbones. And as he stared at her, a smile crept over his features, revealing dimples which planted themselves among the shallow, dark stubble coating his cheeks.
Kiara found herself reeling, shocked by the transformation from the image in her mind to this exquisite creature.
“What’s going on?” she asked, standing and holding onto the door, as much to maintain her balance as anything. “Where are you taking me?”
“This is the house’s
back entrance. We can avoid the crowds this way.” Now she was certain that his accent was something foreign. English, maybe.
“And why would we do that?”
“You said that you’re not keen on parties. I thought you might prefer this method.”
The man held the gate open, gesturing to her to proceed through. “After you,” he said, those dimples still present, beckoning to her.
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Kiara. “But I’ll admit that the night is beginning in a more interesting way than I’d anticipated.”
“Good,” he said as he stood examining her. “I enjoy interesting.”
She moved towards him, noting light turquoise eyes and full lips as she drew closer. He was certainly delicious. How had she never seen him in town? It couldn’t be…no. It couldn’t be.
Realizing that she’d been staring at him for what seemed like minutes on end, she turned her gaze towards the back yard, which was accented with soft lights here and there, highlighting the pristine layer of snow surrounding a large swimming pool. In the distance, steam swirled upwards from an intimate hot tub that appeared ready to accept bathers.
The pathways leading through the grounds were paved with flagstones, which had remained dry as bone despite the snowfall, no doubt heated from underneath by some expensive means.
“So this is all yours,” said Kiara, unable to keep her evolving theory to herself any longer. “Mr. Drake.”
3
“You sorted that out quickly, Kiara,” he replied, turning to face her. “Well done. I can see that a journalism degree isn’t wasted on you.”
“Not entirely,” she said, laughing. “And you’re what? All of twenty-five years old?”
“A little older, but thank you. I appreciate the compliment. And you’re twenty-four, and hoping for an interview, I believe.”
His accent had officially morphed into something more closely resembling upper class London than anywhere in the United States.
He proceeded towards an impressive two-storey wooden guest house. The structure was large enough to pass for its own modest mansion. Vast windows glowed with orange light from within, and Kiara could see comfortable-looking leather furniture welcoming visitors inside.
“I had no such aspirations,” she said. “But I’ll gladly take an interview, if you’re offering.”
“I am. So I’m going to grant you my one and only interview of the century, thus deftly avoiding the festivities inside the house myself,” he said. “On my terms, of course.”
“Of course. But you’re not going in to the party? To talk to your guests?” She knew the answer already, but wanted to hear him say it.
“If we so choose, the party can be out here. If I’m to be honest, I prefer to let the guests spend their time speculating about me. They all think that I’m some ancient philanthropic art collector with a white beard that trails on the ground, and I’m only too happy to let them continue to think it. I’d rather chat with someone who’s actually enthusiastic about life than those who are approaching death.”
“That a pretty morbid attitude,” said Kiara, accompanying him towards the guest house.
“Perhaps. But come,” said Drake, opening the door and ushering her in. “I’ll be happy to answer almost any question that you might have, before I show you the works of art.”
You’re quite the work of art yourself, she thought, looking once again at his extraordinary features. She’d really never seen such a man. There was something that he exuded, an essence that seemed to radiate from his very skin. It was a sort of lure, an almost impossible beauty. Kiara had never found herself so immediately and utterly attracted to a person in her life.
And yet she didn’t know him at all.
Reminding herself that he was a billionaire and she a mere starry-eyed graduate of journalism school, she proceeded into the space, which was set up like a cozy living room. A comfortable L-shaped couch was the focal point, surrounded by an oriental rug and a fireplace which, she realized, was the source of the inviting glow that she’d seen from outside.
“This is awfully lovely,” she said, wandering as she admired the interior. “Nicer than my apartment, anyhow. Not that my apartment is any great shakes.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Drake as he reached into a small refrigerator, extracting a bottle of champagne. He pulled two crystal flutes off a nearby shelf and laid them on the large antique wood coffee table.
“Well, aren’t you prepared for welcoming a young female guest?” Kiara asked, watching him at work as he popped the bottle open.
“I try to be. But I’ll admit that preparation is something I can’t entirely help.”
“Are you saying that you’re a little obsessive?” asked his guest, as she removed her coat and sat down at one end of the couch. That was something they might have in common.
“That’s one way of putting it. My mind tends to be in many places at once, you see. I need to organize myself in advance in case I get distracted by something else.”
“I see,” she said. “And what sort of thing distracts you?”
He looked at her, his icy-light eyes communicating humour as well as something else: curiosity, perhaps.
“A beautiful woman might distract me, if she’s got a keen intellect and an interest in the things that appeal to me,” he said.
“And what else?”
“Many things. So many, Kiara.”
She smiled. “So, what I’ve gathered thus far is that your answers are going to be vague and possibly a little short,” she said, pulling off her boots and placing them next to the couch as she drew her feet up underneath herself.
Drake sat down next to her, handing her a glass. “I shall do my best to answer them with clarity. But some replies will not become entirely clear until you and I have gotten to know each other better.”
“I thought that was what we were doing.” She took a sip of champagne, looking over the glass’s rim, studying him further. That face—one could never grow tired of looking at it.
His eyes locked on hers, intense now, as though peering into her mind. “Two people cannot to get to know each other fully over the course of an hour or two. But we shall do what we can. Let me begin with my own question. Your name: Kiara,” he said. “When I learned it, I was intrigued. Where does it come from?”
She laughed, relieved that his query wasn’t of a more personal nature. “When I was a baby, I was apparently quite bald. My parents tried in vain to predict if I would have light or dark hair. Finally they settled on my name, which means ‘light’ in Italian; ‘dark’ in Irish.”
“Well, it’s a lovely name and seems to cover both ends of the spectrum. And, as it turns out, you have dark hair to go with your light complexion. It suits you,” said her host. “Now as for me, what is it that you wish to know?”
“Why are you here, in Silver Creek?”
Drake laughed then. “Well, why don’t you ask me the most complicated question in the history of the world?”
“How is that complicated? You chose to live in a mountain town, away from all major cities. There must be a reason.”
“I only live here part-time, to make matters still more convoluted.”
“Oh,” said Kiara, disappointed to hear it. Immediately she reprimanded herself for the emotion. Stupid. You don’t even know the man, and you’re already wishing he were going to be around at all times. Like you’re ever going to see him again.
“Much of the time I’m…overseas,” he said. “Fighting battles. You know how it is.”
“Do I? Somehow, I don’t think I do.”
“Let’s just say that my life is a little complex. I come here, to Silver Creek, to get away from it all. To hide, to escape my other life.”
Kiara wondered if he meant the words literally.
“What is it that you’re you escaping?” she asked quietly.
Drake moved his body towards hers, looking into her eyes once again. She kept hers locked on him,
though every instinct told her that it would be safer to look away. His intensity felt as though it might burn through her, peel a layer of her armour away and leave her vulnerable to his fierce magnetism.
“War,” he said.
4
“War?” said Kiara. “Do you live in the Middle East when you’re not in Silver Creek? What exactly are you talking about?”
Drake smiled warmly as the young woman spoke, his expression intended to conceal an abundance of emotions that he preferred to keep inside.
Pain. Sorrow. Fear.
He’d known that she was coming; as with so many things, his powers of foresight were keen. And here she was, the aspiring young journalist. Bright-eyed, excited about life, quiet, reflective, beautiful. So when his employees had told him that her office had requested a car to pick her up, he’d informed them that he would look after it himself.
It was his interest in spending time with a person unmarred by the passage of time, unscathed by all that he’d seen in his long life, that had drawn him to her. She was inexperienced, innocent. Probably even a little naïve. But an interest in art and architecture, the things which kept him sane, was enough to entice him. They would have that in common and perhaps he could spend a pleasant evening with the young woman, away from the eyes of the older cynics who were no doubt milling about his house, poking at his treasures and speculating as to their origins.
And now here they sat, alone together, isolated. She really was all that he could have hoped for. Her dark hair complemented milk-white skin and light green eyes. For the evening out, she’d chosen a dress that fit her curves very well, showing off just enough décolletage to let him know that her breasts were lovely. Soft and round. Her waist was small, perfectly curved to receive a man’s large hand as he grasped her, whether from in front or from behind.
And he found himself clasping his hands together, keeping them in check as they told him how very much they’d like to move towards her; to flick away that strand of hair that insisted on tumbling over her right cheek. To tease a finger along the side of that neck.