Alana went on. “The second night, at the inn, I had a strange dream. I woke up in the middle of the night and had to turn all the lamps on—you know what a coward I am when I'm alone with my imagination. I couldn't sleep after that. I remember it so well because the next day, on the drive back to Boston, my eyes were red and burning from lack of sleep. I really looked like a witch from Salem, with my red hair and red eyes."
"What did you dream?” Humberto said.
"A raccoon...” Alana said. “A beautiful raccoon in the window."
"A raccoon? They're so cute, those animals,” Humberto said. “I'm sorry, go on."
Valeria remained silent. She had turned oddly quiet, and seemed to be listening intently to Alana.
"He was gorgeous. His fur was so thick and silky, and his ring tail was this big,” she said, demonstrating the thickness with her hands. “Oh, he was luscious. His eyes glowed in the dark like a cat's. Anyway, he came to my bed and told me to come with him. Of course, he didn't literally tell me to come with him—you know how it is in dreams. Words weren't necessary. He could read my thoughts and I could read his. We climbed out through the window and he led me into the small forest that was behind the inn and we saw all the animals of the night. You know, all the animals that you can't normally find during the day. And we talked to them.
"We could communicate with the animals. And I climbed pine trees and jumped down from their tops as if I were a monkey, as effortlessly as if there were no gravity.” She looked at Valeria and said, a twinge of tremor in her voice, “And when I woke up the bedroom window was open. It was wide open. I thought I had locked it before going to bed, but obviously I had forgotten."
Alana saw Valeria swallow. She instantly knew what Valeria was thinking because it was the same thing she herself was thinking. She had been sleepwalking!
"It's so odd,” Alana said. “I knew I had a strange dream that night, but I couldn't remember the details. All I could recall was the image of that raccoon, so beautiful, so benevolent, though there was a darker side to it. But now I remember the whole thing from beginning to end."
"But Alana, what do you expect? Always watching horror films or reading horror books. Remember in school? You were always telling us scary stories, making us believe in ghosts and witches,” Humberto said, reaching for the empty bottle of champagne. “Well, Dom Perignon is finished. What do you want to drink now? Why are you two looking at each other like that?"
"No, we're not looking at each other,” Alana said innocently, giving Valeria a meaningful look.
Valeria bit her lower lip. She remained quiet, thoughtful.
"Let's dance!” Alana said, not only to cheer Valeria up but also herself. She sprang to her feet and pulled Humberto with one hand and Valeria with the other.
"Come on, let's go, the three of us, like old times."
They danced to four songs, their bodies swirling and twisting until Alana saw the expression of thoughtfulness disappear from Valeria's face. Then they went back to the table and Alana ordered another bottle of champagne, this one more reasonably priced. “I don't want to get sick, so we'd better stick to champagne. And this time Valeria and I are buying,” she told Humberto.
They toasted to their futures.
Humberto talked about his new girlfriend in Los Angeles and Valeria a little bit about her Pirate. Then one of Valeria's favorite love songs, Bon Jovi's “Always,” started playing and Valeria got wild about it and ushered Humberto back to the dance floor. Alana lifted the cold glass of champagne to her lips and drank it in two long draughts, her half-open eyes following them and watching them disappear onto the dance floor.
* * * *
He left the glass of Coca-Cola untouched on the bar and stood up from the stool.
This was it.
He had dreamed about this night for years, but now that he was about to meet her, really meet her, he was nervous. Just a little bit, but nervous nevertheless.
He had to smile, mocking himself.
He wondered how he would seem to her, a twenty-eight-year old, smug-looking guy clad in a loose white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and beige pants, his shoulder-length raven hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.
He would play it cleanly tonight. No telepathic control, no spells.
Definitely, unconditionally, absolutely no spells ... for he had become, in spite of himself, addicted to them.
He craved to talk to her as much as he craved her blood. But he had never been good with words. Actually, he had always been quite laconic and scornful of men who wasted time with fancy words, like politicians and lawyers. What was the use for words when a thousand thoughts could be expressed in a single stroke, or a kiss, or a ... bite?
God, it almost felt like being human again. No wonder he was nervous! It was not easy acting human anymore. In fact, it was almost frightening. But he guessed this was the prize for being the loner that he was.
He walked toward her table feeling quite breathless, keenly aware of the relentless beat of his heart, throbbing steadily in his chest.
CHAPTER 5
Alana was rummaging inside her purse for her lipstick when the voice stopped her in mid-action.
"Excuse me.” A melodic voice, huskily masculine.
Alana looked up, startled. Then, immediately recognizing the man who stood in front of her, her heart made a savage leap.
The face!
"Would you like to dance?” the man said, giving her a half smile, bending slightly forward over her and offering her his hand, a large tanned hand with lean dark fingers.
For a second Alana stared at him, speechless. She didn't know why, but she was extremely happy to see him. And she was so excited she literally couldn't move. She could picture her own face right now, turning from one shade of red to yet another darker shade of red.
His face twisted into a full smile, and she saw sharp white teeth and the most irresistible dimple formed on his right cheek.
"I ... yes ... why not?” Alana said, doing her best to appear aloof. Giving him her hand, she was keenly aware of the tingly coolness of his skin. She was still hot from all the dancing and the sensation was unexpectedly sensual.
He led her between the moving couples and into the middle of the dance floor, not breaking his firm hold on her hand. Then he clasped his arms around her waist and pulled her gently against him—gently, yet deviously possessive.
Instinctively she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, feeling acutely aware of his height. Even with her high heels, the top of her head was at the level of his chin.
They began to move slowly with the music.
Calm down, calm down, calm down, she told herself. But she only swallowed dryness, the violent beats of her own heart thundering in her head. For a while she allowed herself to be led, too nervous to even raise her eyes to look at him. Oddly enough, she had a distinct feeling of déjà vu.
His strong arms tightened around her waist, a subtle gesture, but one that made Alana lift her eyes to look into his face. He looked down to meet her gaze. Above them, red shafts of light moved rhythmically with the music, somehow making his features appear less benevolent and more menacing than they had seemed only a minute ago.
Alana frowned.
But then he half smiled, and the melancholic curve of his mouth erased nearly all trace of menace from his face.
His smile gave her courage. She smiled back and said, “Were you here the night of the opening? I think I saw you.” Dear God, why was she suddenly acting so shy? Why was she shaking all over?
He nodded. “Yes, I was here."
"Did you see me, too?"
"Everybody saw you that night. You were getting a lot of attention with your vampire costume and make-up. It suits you very much.” Then he added, his gaze locking onto hers, “But to answer your question directly, yes."
Perfect Spanish, yet with a faint foreign accent.
She lowered her gaze for a moment, conscious of the hardness of
his body against hers as they danced. The first four buttons of his white shirt were undone and his chest, tanned and dusted with black hairs, teased her eyes.
"Where are you from? You have a faint accent,” she said, looking up into his eyes again.
"Turkey,” he answered.
For a vertiginous second she felt the floor spin beneath her feet. “From Turkey?"she repeated.
The salty tang of the Bosphorus, a scorching sun and narrow dust-filled streets, imposing old mosques, exotic women wrapped in black garments, the blinding shimmer of gold and copper and bronze ... the bazaar ... the bazaar...
"You look ... slightly shocked. Haven't you met anybody from Turkey before?” he said.
"No, it's not that. I have, actually, in Boston. I studied there for four years. There were a few Turkish students in my dorm. It's not that. It's just that I've never met anybody from Turkey here in San Juan before. It's very unusual. Do you live here?"
"Yes. For the moment."
"Your Spanish is perfect, though. Where did you learn it?"
He looked pleased. “Thank you. I lived for a few years in Spain. I had business there. In Miami, too."
"What do you do?"
At that moment the song finished and another one began, this time a fast-paced, spicy merengue.
Reluctantly, Alana unwrapped her arms from around his neck and glanced hesitatingly in the direction of her table—not that it was visible from where she was standing, the dancing couples blocked the view.
But his steel arms never left her waist and he didn't allow her any more time to think. His right hand took her left hand, and, no questions asked, he began to move rapidly with the music.
Alana, totally panicked, didn't have any other choice than to put her right hand on his shoulder and move along with him. She hated merengue! The reason she hated it was because she didn't know how to dance the merengue.
"I'm a lousy dancer!” she protested, embarrassed, her voice raised high to compete with the volume of the music.
He laughed. “So am I!” he said, his arm tightening around her waist, pulling her still closer against him. As if he couldn't, or wouldn't, let her go yet.
She didn't know if he was an excellent dancer or not, but she saw how his body was moving, and knew he was lying. “No, you're not!” she said. Next to him she felt like a wooden puppet, but she tried to do her best to keep up with him.
He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Just relax,” he told her.
So Alana let him turn her around and around, keenly conscious of the lecherous way his hips and legs brushed and stroked hers, which was not really his fault but the nature of the dance. Always the good student, she began to imitate him. The three glasses of champagne she had drank helped, too. It was strange, but in a way she didn't remember the last time she had been this happy. She began to laugh.
"I guess I'm very anti-patriotic,” Alana said. “I love American music, not this island stuff."
"Three more merengues and you'll be doing it better than I do,” he said.
"You lied to me. You're an excellent dancer!” she protested.
But it was difficult speaking with so much noise, so they concentrated on the dancing until the end of the song.
"I'm sorry,” Alana said, somewhat breathlessly, trying to push him gently away. “But my friends must be wondering about me. Would you like to join us? My friends wouldn't mind."
Finally he released her. “I don't think that's a good idea,” he said.
Alana looked at him. She hated parting from him. And the desire to see him again was so intense it was almost incomprehensible.
He smiled a bit. “Can I see you again? Tomorrow night?"
"You want to see me again? Tomorrow night?” Alana said as calmly as she could manage, while something wild fluttered in the pit of her stomach. “Hmmm.... “She seemed to consider his proposal. “Let me see, am I doing something tomorrow night? Tomorrow's Sunday. I have to work, but I guess we could meet for a drink after I'm done. Where? Here?"
He nodded, a flicker of sarcastic amusement in his eyes. “Yes, here. At eleven o'clock?"
"Eleven is a little too early for me, I have to change after work. Unless you don't mind talking to a vampire,” she said, gesturing to her dress and make-up.
"I wouldn't have you any other way,” he said. “But let's make it eleven-fifteen, then."
"All right ... Well, until tomorrow then.” She turned to go, vaguely amused by his words.
"Wait a minute,” he suddenly said. “Aren't you going to tell me your name?"
She let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, my God. How foolish of me. My name is Alana, Alana Piovanetti. And yours?"
"Sadash."
"Sadash. No last name?"
"No, just Sadash."
"Just Sadash,” she repeated, savoring his name in her lips. “Sadash. Well, with a name like that you hardly need anything else,” she told him, smiling. Then she started toward her table, forcing herself not to turn her head and look back at him again.
When Alana returned to the table Valeria and Humberto were looking at her with wolfish grins on their faces.
Valeria didn't waste one second. “Who's that?” she said.
"You saw him?” Alana said, sitting down. “Don't tell me you saw me dancing merengue, too."
"I saw you first, but Valeria wouldn't believe it, so she got up to take a look,” Humberto said.
Alana grimaced. “Was I terrible?"
"No, no, you were good,” Humberto assured her.
"I can't believe you actually danced the merengue with a man,” Valeria said. She, too, hated that dance. “Who is he?"
Apparently during her absence they had ordered a small bowl of cashew nuts, and Alana reached for some and popped them into her mouth.
She shrugged, avoiding Valeria's eyes. “No one, just a guy. A minute after you left the table he came over and asked me to dance. He's ... remember the night of the opening—the face?"
Valeria smiled, surprised. “That's him?"
"Uh-huh,” Alana said, washing down some more nuts with a gulp of champagne.
"What face?” Humberto said.
Valeria explained, “The night of the opening, when we were sitting here in the club, she saw a strange face—a man—staring at her. At least it appeared strange to her, probably because of these red lights. A moment later he was gone. I didn't see him, she did."
"Oh,” Humberto said. “So this is the same guy."
"He's a knock-out, Alana,” Valeria said.
"He is?"
"Now she's going to say she didn't notice it,” Valeria teased, poking Alana's arm with her elbow.
Alana gave them an innocent smile. “I didn't notice it.” She yawned. “What time is it, anyway? Are you tired? I'm tired. Why don't we go home? You can come with us, Humberto. We can watch TV. I want to get rid of this damn dress and make-up."
"Sure, we can go. I have that Dali documentary in the car. We can put it in the VCR,” he said.
"Oh, okay,” Alana said.
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What's this? Aren't you going to tell us anything else?” Valeria said.
"It's no big deal, Valeria. I just danced with the guy. That's all it was, just a dance."
"Did he ask to see you again?"
"I have a headache,” Alana said, grimacing, massaging her temples with her fingertips.
Valeria looked at Humberto. “What a convenient headache,” she muttered.
Humberto laughed. “So she doesn't want to talk. Leave her alone."
"You never give up, do you?” Alana told her. The headache wasn't a lie, and the fact that Valeria didn't believe her suddenly felt exasperating.
"What am I doing? I'm not doing anything,” Valeria protested, glancing at Humberto for support.
"I didn't say you were doing anything,” Alana wearily said. “It's just that you're eternally obsessed in pairing me with someone. And you know how I hate that. But that doesn't stop you. You still do it."
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Valeria tilted back her head and gulped the rest of her champagne. The gesture was quick and rough, almost masculine.
"Hey, hey. What's this? You're acting like two silly little girls,” Humberto said, though he was so used to their behavior he seemed far from surprised. “Come on, give each other a kiss right now."
Neither Alana nor Valeria moved.
"Don't worry, Humberto,” Valeria drawled. “Obviously the champagne must have gone to her head ."
Alana threw her a malevolent look. Then she looked at Humberto and her eyes softened. “I'm sorry, Humberto,” she said, patting his hand. “Just ignore us, you know how we are. Let's just go."
They rose to leave.
Following Humberto and Valeria down the narrow cobbled street toward Humberto's car, it suddenly dawned on Alana why the man—Sadash—had looked somewhat different tonight. His face had not had that iridescent opal quality. It had not seemed to glow in the semidarkness of the club as it had done the night she first saw him.
* * * *
Alana sat nervously by the sarcophagus bar, her hand tightly clasped around a cold glass of Diet Coke. She had wiped off all of her vampire makeup and changed into a simple black jersey dress which clung to her flesh and revealed the soft curves of her body. Without make-up she seemed pale, younger. Her long hair was parted in the middle and brushed back, away from her forehead. It didn't have a definite style. It just flowed in unruly waves all over her back and shoulders. She took a sip of Diet Coke and glanced at her watch.
Eleven-twenty.
Already five minutes late. Where the hell was he? Dear God, she was already experiencing palpitations. If her pulse raced any faster she was going to have a heart attack.
Alana...
She stiffened. Surely no one had actually spoken her name, it was more as if it had echoed by itself in her ear, distantly, very distantly.
A second later a man whispered behind her, “Alana?"
Alana turned around.
There he was. Tall and broad-shouldered. Slender. Yet beneath all this slenderness the muscles were hard, she knew. She had felt them when they had danced last night. Something she couldn't quite describe, something ancient and powerful emanated from him.
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