Journey in Time
Chris Karlsen
Journey in Time
Copyright 2011-Books to Go Now
For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [email protected]
First eBook Edition –September 2011
Printed in the United States of America
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
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Chapter One
London
“It’s late. I’d like to go,” Alex said.
He avoided large events like this. He attended tonight out of obligation to a couple of his music clients who were part of the entertainment. Their performances over, he wanted to leave.
“Please, let’s stay awhile longer. Please,” Annabelle pleaded.
Next to him, she noted all the celebrities in the room. A former girlfriend, his interest in the voluptuous blonde waned months ago, but she’d badgered him into bringing her to the star-studded event. At first, he said no. She assured him she understood it wasn’t a date. She only needed an escort. He gave in. Now, he wished he hadn’t.
Flame undulated and shimmered in Alex's peripheral vision. He turned. A column of coppery silk came closer, stopping just beyond his reach. In a sea of sequined black dresses and flaunted cleavage, the lustrous dress was a burning match head in a vacuum.
The material clung and swayed with the movements of the wearer. Curiosity aroused, he scanned the lady from the tip of her matching high heels to her raven colored hair. Devoid of embellishment, the elegant gown’s straight-cut neckline revealed only the woman's collarbone and the curve of her shoulders. A slit on one side ended mid-thigh where a slender leg periodically peeked out, then retreated into the shadows of the skirt.
The official photographer for the ball snapped shot after shot of various attendees, but not the lady in the fiery gown. Good, Alex thought, she's not a VIP's wife. He shifted his chair and tried to get a better view of her face. Twice, when she greeted someone, he caught her profile. Then, she continued on her path. She moved farther from sight, leaving him to guess if she was as lovely as he wanted her to be.
While Annabelle nattered away, he continued to track the mysterious lady in copper.
She stopped and spoke with an older man he’d seen before but didn’t know. They exchanged a European style kiss and her lips brushed his cheeks. After a short conversation, she gave the man a quick hug and Alex finally saw her face.
Strong, high cheekbones and a firm jaw line balanced the full mouth and drew attention away from a long, narrow nose. Darker complected than most women in the room with a natural looking tawny color to her skin, Alex wondered if she was Arabian. What words described her? Exotic? Alluring? Both.
Her gaze slid from the man to the rest of the room. Light eyes surrounded by thick black lashes fixed on him as though she’d read his thoughts and sought the author.
Heat. Instantaneous and powerful, almost tangible, Alex smiled, savoring the feeling, the rush. The women in his life, came and went, some quicker than others. All held appeal for a time. None had this meteoric effect.
Annabelle interrupted his enjoyment. She’d seen a popular footballer at another table she wanted to chat up. If things went well, “who knows,” she said with a demure shrug and left.
The orchestra played the first few notes of Unchained Melody. This might be his only chance to get the extraordinary woman alone. He made his way to where she stood with her back to him.
“May I have this dance?”
She turned and smiled. “Yes.”
A stranger to her, etiquette dictated a mere touch of his palm to hers. He preferred to set his own standards. He wrapped her hand in his and pressed her palm to his chest. Her brows lifted a fraction but she allowed it. Her icy fingers were a marked contrast to the heat radiating through the silk of her gown.
Stray tendrils of her hair hung in soft waves around her face and tickled his cheek and jaw. Her perfume teased the senses, faint and suggestive. He fantasized where on her body it was strongest. Had she sprayed a fine mist and walked through, or had she dabbed it behind her knees, her ears? Did she dot tiny drops along her navel and lower? He imagined those chilly fingers touching warm breasts as they left a circle of scent.
The song was half over and they still hadn’t spoken. Time was the enemy. In haste, his usually glib tongue failed him and he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Your perfume...what is it?” Alex gave himself a mental kick. He’d wanted her name not the name of some silly perfume.
“Intuition.”
An appropriate name if her intuition suggested something more than dancing with him.
Beneath the crystal chandelier, she arched a little and looked up with silvery-grey eyes. The faux candlelight formed a luminescent bead in the center of her bottom lip. On impulse, he lowered his head and brushed her mouth with a soft kiss. The kiss and the song ended simultaneously. She pulled away, studying him with an unreadable expression. Alex bent to kiss her again.
With gentle but firm pressure of her palm on his chest, she stopped him. She ran the pad of her thumb over his mouth, removing the traces of her lipstick.
“Don’t get yourself in trouble, Mr. Lancaster.”
Her eyes looked to a point beyond his shoulder. He twisted and saw Annabelle coming towards them. Before they were parted he turned to ask the mystery woman her name. She’d gone.
She knew him, not surprising since his picture often appeared in social and financial columns. Who was she? Intrigued, Alex determined he'd find out before the night was over.
Two hours passed and Alex had caught only a few glimpses of her as she talked to different people. Numerous times he tried to edge his way through the crush. Whenever he started to get close, she faded into the throng again. On several occasions, he was certain she'd seen him approach. The unsettling suspicion she was avoiding him flared, but he dismissed the possibility.
Earlier, Alex spotted Hassan Al-Ahmed, a Saudi business acquaintance. Hassan attended many charity events. If anyone knew her name, he would.
Alex found Hassan deep in conversation with a group of businessmen. He tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hassan, please excuse the interruption, may I have a moment, in private, please?”
They moved to a corner of the room.
“What can I do for you my friend?” Hassan asked.
“There’s a lady in a copper dress here tonight, tall with black hair, looks a bit Middle Eastern--” Alex glanced around the room. “I don’t see her at the moment.”
“I know the woman you mean.”
“Do you know her name by chance?”
Hassan shook his head. “Sorry. She attends these affairs on occasion but we’ve never been introduced."
"Didn't she tell you her name when you danced?"
"I didn't ask her when I had the chance." Hassan arched a you must be losing your touch, brow. Alex had no desire to go into a lengthy explanation. "Stupid. I know
."
"I can tell you this. She always comes alone to these functions and always leaves close to midnight, rather like your Cinderella, yes?"
Alex nodded. "Except I'm not going to rely on her losing a shoe. I intend to catch the lady before she leaves."
"She’s an elusive creature. You might find it easier to catch the wind. I wish you luck."
It was almost midnight. The crowd had thinned to clusters of small groups near the dais. Alex scouted the best location to watch for his mystery woman. The end of the bar offered a view of the exit doors so he positioned himself in a shadowed area. On cue, the lady made her way towards the doors and into his line of sight.
He made his move. Half way to the exit, Arthur Snoad, a musician's agent, intercepted him. "Alex, we need to talk."
While Arthur rambled on about bad distribution policies, the doors opened briefly to reveal the lady standing at the curb.
Alex dodged more of Arthur’s tedious questions and suggestions. "I'll consider your ideas. Call me Monday," he offered before he broke off and shot out the exit. He caught a whiff of Intuition and a flash of shiny skirt as the door to the limousine closed. Had she seen him? The darkened windows made it impossible to tell.
Who are you?
Chapter Two
“You have to meet Ian’s best friend, Alex,” Miranda said.
“I’d rather not,” Shakira said.
“Why? He’s smart, witty and dishy. You two would get on famously.”
“Alex Lancaster and I already met, sort of. Once was enough.”
“When did you meet?” Miranda couldn’t believe Shakira hadn’t mentioned it sooner. “What do you mean, once was enough?”
“It’s not important.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Forget it. We met. I didn’t like him. I find him offensive. End of story. All that matters is, he’s nice to you and you like him. My opinion is personal and has no bearing on your feelings toward the man.”
“Shake, I know him. If he offended you, I guarantee it wasn’t intentional.”
“Can we talk about something else? Are you and Ian coming to our show this weekend?” Shakira asked.
“Of course, but I’m not finished talking about Alex. Whatever he did, you should let him explain. He and Ian are due back anytime now.”
“That’s my cue to go,” Shakira stood and gathered her shopping bags.
Miranda continued, “You’re making a mistake not giving him a chance to explain.”
“Duly noted.”
They talked more about the show on the way to Shakira’s car. Miranda heard the loud engine of Ian’s Lotus and stalled for time. The misunderstanding between Alex and Shakira needed sorting out. In her heart, Miranda knew the two of them were perfect for each other.
Chapter Three
Summer in the Norfolk countryside meant flower boxes overflowing with fat geraniums and vines laden with blooms. It meant a warm breeze from the Midlands and the rare few weeks English drivers with convertibles rode with the tops down. Unfortunately, Ian’s Lotus didn’t have a soft top. Alex pushed his sunglasses up and rolled down the passenger window. He stuck his head out, chin to the sun to catch a few rays while Ian opened the wrought iron gates.
The July sun beat down too hard for comfort. Sweat quickly beaded on Alex’s forehead and down his hairline. “Forget this.” He pulled his head back into the car and turned the air conditioner vents so they blew on his face.
“For God’s sake, install electric gates,” Alex called out as Ian battled a rusted hinge with brute force. A suggestion he made every time Ian went through the same fight with his gates.
A black Jaguar convertible parked farther up the drive drew Alex’s attention. A V-12 model XKE, the classic sports car looked in mint condition. The body’s mirror finish and chrome wheels glinted in the sunlight.
Miranda, Ian's wife, stepped off the porch and waved at him. Alex waved back as a dark haired woman in jeans and tee shirt came out carrying several large shopping bags. She put the group in her right hand down on the ground while she opened the trunk lid. One-by-one, she tried various ways to load the huge bags into the Jag’s tiny trunk. She finally gave up and stacked them onto the passenger seat.
He guessed the car to be at least thirty years old and the woman a few years younger. The long-legged driver looked as well taken care of as the vehicle, like a prized thoroughbred. Her casual clothes hugged her body without being tight. Blue-black hair hung to the middle of her back, the ends cut razor straight, only a few strands dared to lift in the breeze. Even with the oversized sunglasses that shielded part of her face, she appeared attractive...and familiar. And, he knew why.
Alex hopped out of the Lotus and squeezed through the partially open gate.
Ian looked up. "What are you doing?"
Walking backwards, Alex started to answer when a car door slammed. The Jag’s engine roared to life behind him followed by the crunch of gravel. He spun around in time to see the car exit the far side of the driveway.
He jogged up to Miranda. "Who’s your friend?"
Miranda continued toward the house. "My girlfriend, Shakira, you know the one I tried to introduce you to.”
“That’s Shake?”
Miranda nodded.
“Shakira what?”
“Shakira Constantine, the one who plays in a band on weekends. I believe you called it a...” frowning, she tapped her finger against her chin. “I want to get the quote right. Ah yes, ‘a grubby little band’ you didn’t want anything to do with.”
Shakira Constantine. At last, he had a name for the mysterious lady he danced with at the charity ball, a brief encounter regrettably interrupted.
“Why do you ask?” Miranda said in a sugary sweet voice, feigning innocence.
Alex gave her his most charming grin. “Perhaps, I was a bit hasty. When and where is her band playing next?”
"Tomorrow night. Want to join us?"
"Wouldn’t miss it."
Chapter Four
On stage Shakira went over the playlist and watched the entrance for Ian and Miranda. She saw them as soon as they arrived. All three of them. Her eyes widened.
Bloody hell! They’d brought Alex Lancaster. Miranda and her damn matchmaking, I’m going to kill her.
Shakira ducked behind the stage curtain. She flattened herself against the wall and closed her eyes. Memories of the night she met Alex burst to life again. She’d relived their dance a hundred times in her head, how handsome he was and how well they moved together. The daydream always returned to the kiss, not a real kiss, not really, in truth, a brush of his lips across hers. She hated the fact she dwelled on it, but that didn’t stop her. The kiss had made her breath catch in her throat and a little light-headed. Air turbulence of the brain brought on by an exquisite man. So wonderful and so disillusioning, she thought with a sad sigh. He’d kissed her when he was there with another woman. Inexcusable.
She pulled the fringed edge of the curtain back and peered out with one eye. The cocktail waitress chatted with them, her empty tray resting on her hip. Alex said something and everyone at the table laughed. The waitress tossed her hair over her shoulder and touched his hand whenever she spoke. Blatant flirtation Shakira thought as she watched the interaction—not that she gave a whit.
A party in the next booth signaled the waitress and she moved to take their order. “’Bout time,” Shakira muttered. She let go of the curtain and flattened herself against the wall again. What was she going to do? She couldn’t ignore them.
This sticky situation was all Miranda’s fault. Since her teens she talked about the big wedding she wanted. Does she have that wedding? No! She elopes. If she’d had the traditional one, as planned, Shakira and Alex would’ve met then. When they saw each other at the charity ball, there’d have been no dance, no kiss, and no awkward moment. He’d never have been so rude and insensitive to his date knowing Shakira might tell Miranda how badly he behaved.
Shakira s
ighed and touched her lips. There’d have been no kiss.
She eased the curtain back again for another peek and almost bumped noses with the band’s lead guitarist, Jack. “Ack!” She jumped, shaking the velvet drape as she dropped the edge. Dust motes by the hundreds flew out from the material and hung suspended. “You scared the life out of me,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face. “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Jack repeated. “What are you doing? You’re bobbing back and forth behind the curtain, slinking around.”
“I’m not slinking. I am...just...checking the attendance.”
“Yeah, right.”
She used him as a shield to watch Alex. Jack followed her gaze. “Isn’t that--”
“Yes,” she snapped.
Jack’s brows lifted a fraction. “Know him, do you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“This is some chick thing, isn’t it? Spare me the details. We’re on in fifteen. I’m grabbing a beer.” He shot another glance at Alex. “Be careful of that one. If you were my sister I’d lock you in the closet whenever he came over. But, having said that, I’m very grateful you’re not my sister.” Jack slipped his index finger into the front of her bustier and tugged on the lace to sneak a peek.
She slapped his hand away. “Stop it.”
“Yeah, very grateful you’re not my sister.” He chuckled and walked towards the bar where a clutch of groupies swarmed him.
She’d played second lead guitar with Beltane for a year. The band attracted a wild fan base of women-some appallingly brazen. Understandable.
The lead singer, Tristan, had sandy brown hair, sorrowful deep-set eyes and a heartbreaking baritone voice. Whenever he sang a sad love song women believed it was a personal plea. Females surrounded him and nurtured him with their own brand of sympathy at the session breaks. Tristan always included at least two or three love songs in the show.
Journey in Time (Knights in Time) Page 1