The Lady Vanishes

by Nicole Camden

  A tiny, tiny voice suggested that maybe he should talk to her about this, but he ignored it. Her father had ruined her life, had made her not believe in happily ever after. Milton’s own father—a literature professor at Harvard—had believed in the power of literature to reveal humanity, to show truth, whether ugly or misshapen or guised as lies, and the truth was, Milton wanted to bring Carter Burke to justice partly to prove that he could, and partly to make Regina Burke happy with him.

  With only the slightest hesitation, he typed, “Yes.”

  REGINA KNEW SHE WAS DREAMING, at least at first, but she forgot as soon as she began to climb the steps. She was headed to the magician’s workroom, she knew she was, but she wasn’t sure why. He was up there, but what was he doing, what did he have planned for her?

  The door was huge, somehow taller than any other door in the house, and as she turned the knob, she thought she could hear a woman’s voice and laughter. Frowning, she opened it, and froze. It was her. It had been her voice. She was wearing something sparkly and revealing, and her arms were tied above her head and her ankles bound. Milton was touching her, running his hands over her with impunity, and she was moaning, letting him, enjoying it.

  Fascinated, Regina started forward, and Milton turned to look at her. “Regina?” he asked.

  Regina frowned, tried to speak, but the voice came again: “Regina.”

  Regina came awake with a start, jerking upward and hitting Milton’s forehead with her own.

  “Ouch. Shit,” she gasped, her eyes watering.

  She gotten him good as well. He was holding his nose like it might start bleeding at any moment.

  “I’m sorry.” Regina scrambled to her knees and tried to take a closer look. “Shit, are you bleeding?”

  After a moment, he released the bridge of his nose, and managed a smile for her. “Well, that’s one way to wake up.”

  Regina looked around, confused. He was fully dressed in jeans and a dark gray sweater, his hair damp as if he’d just taken a shower. Her eyes felt gritty, like she’d slept in her contacts.

  “Or you could have some coffee.” He gestured to a tray laden with what looked like an omelet, orange slices, and a carafe of coffee. One of his paper roses was laid across the tray. “I’d like to take credit for cooking it, but I sent Shane to pick it up.”

  “What time is it?” Regina scrambled off the bed, horrified to realize that she’d fallen asleep. She had to get home, change, get to work. Shit. She hadn’t been this irresponsible in . . . she couldn’t remember.

  “Relax.” He lifted a hand. “It’s like five a.m. You have plenty of time to eat, have a cup of coffee, and still go home and change.”

  Five a.m. He was right. “You don’t mind?”

  He was still sitting on the bed, but he smiled at her and lifted his own cup of coffee to his lips. “I don’t mind.”

  Now that she thought about it, the food smelled heavenly. She hadn’t eaten much last night before she’d apparently passed out. How fucking embarrassing.

  She felt awkward, standing there, but she didn’t want to just crawl into his bed and make herself at home again, as she apparently had last night.

  “Come on,” he said, patting the bed next to him. “I know you’re probably hungry.”

  Regina pushed the hair away from her face and walked over to him, taking a seat on the bed next to the nightstand where he’d placed the tray.

  “You’re not hungry?”

  He shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. “Not really. I hope you like spinach and feta.”

  Regina loved spinach and feta, but she didn’t want to pig out with him sitting next to her. Luckily he stood, setting his mug aside, and handed her the plate.

  “Here, eat.”

  Regina obeyed, watching him while he poured her a cup of coffee. Oh, fuck. He’s perfect. I want to marry him. Shaking off the thought, Regina straightened. It’s just the coffee addiction talking. Will not give hand in marriage for cup of coffee.

  “Cream?” he asked, and Regina nearly whimpered.

  “Please.”

  He poured it for her and then glanced at her lap. She’d already eaten half the omelet, which was delicious, but her bleary gaze was fixed on the coffee. She set her fork down, balancing the plate on her lap, and reached for the mug, which he gave her with a slight chuckle.

  He seemed a little subdued this morning, and there were slight circles under his eyes.

  Regina considered asking him if he had slept, but then she took her first sip of coffee. Halle-fucking-lujah.

  “Good?” He laughed, and Regina gave him a look that called him an idiot for asking. Smiling at her, he stood and walked over to the chaise longue she’d noticed yesterday. Her backpack was there, as well as her clothes, which were carelessly piled rather than neatly folded. He wasn’t perfect after all. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  He transferred her bag and clothes to the bed next to her and proceeded to move restlessly around the room while she watched. He didn’t seem to be able to sit still, making her wonder if she made him nervous or if he were trying to tell her that while last night had been fun, he wasn’t interested in continuing their little encounter.

  Her throat tightened and she set her coffee back on the nightstand.

  “Everything okay?” she ventured, wondering why she felt so hollow. She’d known this was temporary, she just hadn’t expected it to be quite this temporary.

  “Great.” He removed a deck of playing cards from his pocket, shuffling them rapidly.

  Regina took another bite of her food, watching him, until he seemed to realize that he had her undivided attention. The cards were gone before she’d seen him move.

  “Sorry,” he said, scratching above his ear. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask you to come over again tonight.”

  Relief made Regina smile broadly. “I think you just did.”

  “So that’s a yes?” He rocked back on his heels a little.

  “Yes.” She grinned, and took another enthusiastic bite of eggs.

  “Good,” he said and laughed. “Good.”

  “Now that that’s settled . . .” Regina finished the last bite of her eggs and set the plate on the tray. She picked up her coffee again. “Where did you sleep last night?”

  “Ah”—he shifted his feet—“I was pretty restless, so I slept for a little while on the couch in the library. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “You could sleep on that thing?” she murmured, thinking about last night with more than a little heat.

  “No.” His gaze was warmer as well, his eyes wandering over her. “Would you like to shower before you go?”

  Regina wasn’t sure she’d be able to withstand the temptation of him, hot water, and what was probably a shower built to host a bacchanal.

  “You’re already dressed,” she blurted out before she thought.

  His eyes widened, and she realized that she’d just spilled the beans about what she wanted to do with him in that shower. His delighted smile said that he didn’t mind in the slightest. “I’ve got time if you do.”

  Regina considered. She had an extra pair of scrubs in her locker at the hospital. If she showered here, wore the clothes she’d had on yesterday, and changed there, she would be good. She even had contact solution. She could give them a good rinse before putting them back in her eyes.

  A smile curled the corner of her lip. “A shower sounds pretty nice.”

  He kicked off his shoes. “Yes, it does.”

  MILTON GRIMACED AS HE PUNCHED UP THE SPEED on the treadmill in the office gym. He was sore, actually sore, from the evening’s—and the morning’s—activities. That woman knew how to do some creative things with a showerhead.

  Nick, who’d just finished running through a martial arts routine on a nearby mat, wiped his sweaty forehead with a towe
l, and took a seat on a nearby weight bench. His dark blond hair was damp with sweat, his blue eyes glowing with curiosity.

  “So?” he said loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the treadmill. “How’d it go?”

  Milton used the question as an excuse to dial the speed back down. He ran, but he’d never learned to like it much. When he’d slowed to a brisk walk, he said, “Two words: Mind. Blown.”

  “Yeah?” Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “She seemed kind of reserved to me.”

  Milton shook his head, knowing that a gentleman didn’t talk about a lady, but he wanted to talk to someone. It had been . . . She had been . . . Damn. He didn’t have the words for last night. “Not that reserved.”

  “Hmm.” Nick looked at the ceiling. “So are you a couple?”

  Milton sighed. “Not exactly.”

  “Fuck buddies?”

  “No.”

  Nick waited patiently. Milton shrugged with feigned indifference. “She doesn’t want to go out in public with me—doesn’t want the attention because of what happened with her father.”

  “You’re not in a boy band. The paparazzi don’t follow you around or anything.”

  Milton nodded. “But I’m involved at the hospital, and she thinks that we’re going to break up and it’s going to negatively affect her position there.”

  Nick seemed thoughtful. “Okay. That makes sense.”

  Milton scowled. He didn’t want it to make sense, and he didn’t want his friends supporting her ridiculous idea. “Why is she so certain we’re going to break up? Why is everyone so certain that I’m going to lose interest and break up with her?”

  “Maybe she’ll lose interest in you,” Nick suggested, and Milton threw a towel at him.

  “Great. Thanks a lot.”

  “You know,” Nick began, standing up, “for someone who spent all night getting laid, you sure are bitchy.”

  “Fuck off,” Milton growled, and Nick left, chuckling.

  After Nick left, Milton worked out for another half hour before heading to his office across the floor. On the way, he debated just taking off and stopping by the hospital to see if she wanted to get coffee or something, but stopped himself. He would see her tonight. She’d agreed to rehearse with him in his workshop that evening, though he wasn’t sure how much actual work was going to get done.

  Within fifteen minutes of sitting down behind his desk, he realized that he wasn’t going to get any work done for Roland, either. He might as well go to Harvard Square and practice his tricks.

  With a decisive click of the mouse, he shut down his computer. He texted Shane to meet him downstairs and stood up to put on his jacket.

  “Heading out?” It was Roland, leaning on the doorjamb, his face expressionless. “What time did you get here? Seven thirty? You’ve only been here three hours.”

  “Yeah,” Milton said, wincing. “I’m a little distracted.”

  “A little,” Roland agreed. “The doctor?”

  “More or less.”

  “There’s rumor of a mind being blown?”

  Milton looked at his blank computer screen. “Completely and utterly true.”

  “I don’t get it,” Roland said companionably. “She’s just a woman. Enjoy her, but don’t let her make a mess of your life.”

  “Roland.” Milton shoved his arms into his jacket. “Stuff it.”

  Holding up his hands in surrender, Roland turned away.

  Milton left with every intention of going to Harvard Square and performing tricks all day, but halfway down the elevator, he received a phone call from his mother.

  “Hi, Mom,” he answered, already feeling guilty because he hadn’t called her this week.

  “Milton, are you working?”

  “I’m at the office, but I was just leaving. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine,” she said, her voice brisk and no-nonsense as always. “But you should come see me today if you can. We should talk.”

  His mother rarely asked for anything, preferring to manage by herself, but when she did ask for something, Milton made a point of giving it to her whenever possible.

  “Sure, Mom. I’ll be there in a half hour or so.”

  “You don’t have to change your plans. Just stop by when you can.” His mother’s voice still possessed the slight accent of her Armenian upbringing.

  “I can right now. See you soon.” Milton signed off, resigned to having yet another conversation about his relationship with Dr. Regina Burke. He felt certain that Mrs. Beechum had shared that he’d had a woman over last night.

  Shane was waiting for him in the parking garage, engine idling. Milton ducked inside.

  “Let’s head over to my mother’s.”

  “Sounds good, boss,” the big man replied. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, she’s fine.” Milton’s mother always insisted that Shane come inside and have some tea and a snack when Milton came to visit her.

  “Good.”

  “Tell you what, stop at the florist first. I want to pick up some more flowers for her.”

  When Shane pulled up to the curb, Milton ran in and bought flowers, as always doing his best to charm Maria, before dashing back to the car with the bouquet of his mom’s favorite, Gerbera daisies. Not all that easy to find this time of year, so he’d been surprised and appreciative to find them in Maria’s store.

  His mother’s house was in a neighborhood not far from the hospital, Mission Hill. Milton had the idea that he could maybe see Regina for lunch afterward, though he usually stayed and talked to his mom for at least a few hours, fixed a few things around the house, and she always insisted on feeding him when he came.

  Thirty minutes later, the limo pulled up in front of the one-story home where he’d grown up. The house was tiny, no more than nine hundred square feet, and built in the fifties with the rest of the neighborhood. Milton had done his best to make improvements to it, upgrading the electricity, replacing the asbestos shingles with siding, putting in new floors, new windows, a new roof.

  He’d offered to buy her a new place several times, but she always refused.

  “I’m going to catch a few hours of sleep, boss. Tell your mom I say hey.”

  “You got it, Shane,” Milton replied. He felt pretty bad for waking the man at four thirty this morning and asking him to pick up breakfast. Not bad enough that he hadn’t done it. He would have gone himself, but he hadn’t wanted Regina to wake with no one there.

  His mom opened the door as he stepped out of the limo. She was wearing one of her colorful tracksuits, this one in bright magenta, and her graying black hair was pulled into its usual braid.

  “Mom.” He hugged her and then handed her the flowers. “How are you today?”

  “Fine, fine.” She waved him inside. “These are beautiful. I’ll put them in water.”

  His mom hadn’t changed the décor much since he’d been a kid. A large floral couch dominated the living room and the antique furniture from her mother’s family took up the rest of the space. Along one wall, floor-to-ceiling shelves were crammed with books, photographs, and scraps of his childhood. In the center was a photograph from when he was about eleven: He and his brother were playing in the postage-stamp front yard, while his mom stood with her arms folded over her chest, looking down at them from the small porch. His dad had taken the photo from the driveway.

  His dad was the reason there were so many books. Burton Shaw, a literature professor at Harvard, formerly from Cambridge. He’d married an Armenian woman from Watertown whom he’d met on the Harvard campus where she worked as an assistant. Together they’d had a modestly well-off life with their two sons: Milton and William. Milton had always been a little strange, at least compared with other kids. He was always direct—too direct, often too loud, and he never quite seemed to know how to handle strong emotions. H
e would withdraw when he felt something too strongly. But then William had gotten sick and Milton had had to find some way to handle his emotions.

  Fingers twitching, Milton followed his mother into the kitchen, her favorite room in the house. The roses he’d sent her on Saturday were in a vase by the window. He’d had all the countertops replaced with a gold-colored granite that she loved, and all the appliances were top of the line. He’d had to send her and his aunt Sheeba on a cruise to get her out of the house so the workers could come in.

  She unwrapped the daisies and filled a small purple vase that he’d given her with cold water. Using kitchen scissors, she carefully snipped the ends of the delicate stems and placed them in the water.

  “Paula tells me you have a new girl.”

  Milton had never really wondered where he’d gotten his propensity for blurting out uncomfortable truths. His mother rarely did anything except come straight to the point.

  “I met a woman at the hospital, actually. She’s a doctor.”

  “A doctor? What kind?”

  “The kind who treats cancer in children.”

  His mother paused, her wrinkled hands holding the scissors poised around the stem. “That’s good. She must have a kind heart.”

  Milton considered that. He wouldn’t have pegged Regina as kind. Determined. Focused. Resolute. Practical. Yes. Those things. But not necessarily kind. He wondered what had made her become a children’s oncologist. Of course, if he asked her something like that, he might have to answer questions about why he visited the children’s hospital every week and played magician.

  “She’s great,” he said instead, hoping his mother wouldn’t probe any further.

  His mother gave him a knowing look.

  “You like this one. Paula said you had that look in your eye.”

  “Mom, I hired Mrs. Beechum as a housekeeper, not your personal spy.”