“Ay, coño! Forget them! I want dinner.”
It had begun to rain, a typically misty Pacific Northwest sprinkling that formed fog in the distance. In her head, she formulated a succulent meal to cook for dinner: risotto with spinach and walnuts, a fresh garden salad topped with organic cherry tomatoes and homemade ranch dressing. Chocolate pudding with whipped cream for dessert.
That night, satiated from her home cooked meal, Herculea lay in her queen sized bed and wrapped herself in the cool Egyptian cotton sheets. She stared at her cell phone on the mahogany nightstand. She still hadn’t returned Pedro’s call, and an inexplicable pull inside of her told her to just turn off the lights and sink into a much needed slumber. Instead, she reached for the phone and retrieved Pedro’s number from the call log. In seconds, his line was ringing.
“Buenas noches, Herculea.”
“Buenas noches, Pedro. I’m returning your call.”
“Yes, bien. So, tango on Thursday evening?”
A potent image of Pedro’s face, framed by a rugged 5 o’clock shadow, sizzled in her mind for a moment before she replied, “Yes, Thursday sounds good. Where should I meet you?”
“Meet me?” He sounded momentarily insulted. “I am a gentleman, and I will pick you up, of course. Just text me your address after we hang up.”
His voice was authoritative, but Herculea had a strict first date policy that meant she never let the man pick her up at her apartment. Her rule had safety reasons, but also personal ones. In her twenties and thirties, she had lost count of how many duds she had endured a seemingly interminable evening with. It was comforting to know that she could make a quick escape in her own car, on her own terms, and in her own time. Her gut instinct told her to refuse Pedro’s insistence, even if it insulted him. But she also felt intuitively that this date would be anything but a dud. She would probably have to force herself not to succumb to his powerful charms.
“Okay, Pedro. Pick me up at 7? And I’ll text the address.”
“Bien. Good night, Herculea.”
Before she could say good night, he had hung up. What an odd first phone conversation, she thought. She still knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was from Argentina and had a penchant for the tango. Exhausted from the day, her thoughts slowed as she snuggled against her pillows and allowed sleep to gently envelop her.
Chapter 2
The evening carried a certain pulsation in its wake as a chilly spring breeze wafted through the open window. A pale slice of moon edged into prominence as the sun plunged into hiding beneath silver-gray clouds. From her cozy bedroom, Herculea watched the majestic scene unfold in the sky as she did nearly every night. How she longed to have someone to share this thrilling beauty with.
Soon, Pedro would be at her doorstep, she mused, as a shiver coursed through her body. But it was just a date, she reminded herself, and she may be destined to spend many more solitary evenings watching the moon rise.
In the background, a recording of Spanish guitar rhythms floated through the room and out into the night. Involuntarily, Herculea tapped her foot in synch to the music, as she envisioned herself taut against Pedro’s long torso as they indulged in the seductive tango. Ballroom dancing had many faces: the fox trot, the waltz. But the tango was the most powerful dance of them all. Complex and compelling, the tango had to burn in someone’s blood. The tango needed to pulsate as its own heartbeat through a dancer. Certainly, it required technical skill, but Herculea believed it was the natural sensuality and soul of the dancer that made the tango riveting. Yes, the tango was“el ritmo de la vida.”
Distantly, a knock sounded at her door, nearly drowned out by the Spanish guitars. Herculea jumped up and glanced at the clock. It was just after seven o’clock, and Pedro was surprisingly punctual. She gave herself a harsh appraisal in the mirror, frowning at the haircut she had been daring enough to get just that afternoon. She had requested side swept bangs, the sexy kind that fall gracefully over one eye, but the inexperienced stylist had chopped her bangs to just above her eyebrows. She tried to brush the plastered bangs away from her forehead, but they wouldn’t budge. The shoulder length style makes me look a few years younger, she thought, so it can’t be all bad. Hurriedly, she tossed on her black wraparound sweater over a red lace dress, grabbed her evening bag, and met Pedro at the door.
His eyes were even more intense than she recalled. Invisible flames flickered in the air between them. Herculea held her breath as Pedro appreciatively surveyed her curves, snug inside her provocative red dress that offered a taste of cleavage and more than an eyeful of shapely hips and thighs. He didn’t seem to notice her ridiculous haircut, and it was certainly not his hair she was looking at either.
His charcoal gray suit looked custom designed, and the jacket emphasized a fortress-like chest and an impossibly broad expanse of shoulders. The five o’clock shadow was still there, and Herculea wondered if it was always there. Pedro was exquisitely masculine, and perhaps he had a beard even if he had just shaved.
Without saying a word, Pedro lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. Herculea indignantly realized that her knees were going slightly weak. How was she going to tango with this devastating man? Before she could let another concern invade her mind, Pedro finally spoke, releasing her hand, but holding her gaze.
“You look so beautiful. I am honored to take you out tonight.”
“Gracias.”
She accepted his compliment simply and allowed him to lead her to his car. Automatically, he opened the door for her and waited until she was inside before shutting it. Herculea basked in his chivalry, a quality she found severely lacking in virtually every man she encountered, except perhaps Kent. As an Englishman, Kent had been raised in a country famous for its civility and manners. The way Pedro was acting, though, was almost reminiscent of an earlier era. For an inexplicable moment, Herculea felt as though she had been transported from the twenty first century.
This notion evaporated instantly as Pedro ignited the engine and guided the car into reverse, pulling out onto the busy road lined with traffic and street lights. Herculea sat quietly with her legs crossed in an instinctively protective position as Pedro continued his heated assault on her with just his eyes. Those eyes contain such unusual power, she thought. His pitch black eyes beheld a slightly animalistic glimmer framed by something even more hypnotic, a quality she could not easily describe. She had written a two hundred page dissertation on Amazonian rituals to obtain her doctoral degree, but Herculea doubted she could manage to put together one coherent sentence about the man’s entrancing eyes.
She turned to catch a glimpse of his angular profile and was again struck by the near perfection of his features. She wondered how old he could be. He looked somewhere in his early forties perhaps, but his age, like his eyes, seemed to defy clear explanation.
“You are very quiet, Herculea. I hope that is not because you are tired?” He furrowed his brow with questioning concern.
“No, not at all,” she said quickly.
“Good. Because you will need plenty of energy for tonight.” He winked naughtily at her, and she widened her eyes, startled. He continued, chuckling, “First we are going to tango. We will work up a fierce appetite before I take you to dinner.”
Pedro was certainly a confident man, but his self-assurance bordered on arrogance. She was hungry and hadn’t expected this strange order of events. Dinner and dancing, isn’t that how it usually went? It hadn’t been that long since her last romance for her to forget such a basic idea. She hoped the only appetite he was talking about was one for a meal. While her body could easily fall prey to his predatory charms this very night, her mind could not be coerced into acting so rashly. Suddenly, Herculea realized that after one encounter at the gym, a phone conversation, and the beginning of a date, she still knew nothing about Pedro. What kind of job did he have? What part of San Francisco did he live in? She parted her lips to launch an inquiry when he suddenly spoke again.
> “Here we are,” he announced in his richly toned Argentinian accent.
Herculea looked up and saw a palatial building in front of them. Sitting on an enormous property dotted with trees strung with lights, the building was enrobed in soft pastel colors. It looked like a magical place, and she was sure it must be on the outskirts of San Francisco. She had never seen anything like it in the city. Before she could say anything, Pedro was opening the passenger door and escorting her out of the car in his gentlemanly yet overtly flirtatious way. She allowed him to lead her by the hand to the ostentatious gold inlaid entrance, situated just beyond a marble pathway.
Inside, to the right was a dining room draped in expensive crystal chandeliers, and to the left was a ballroom filled with couples dancing and a live band on stage.
“What a beautiful place,” she breathed in amazement. “Where are we?”
“We are here,” Pedro replied cryptically, encircling her waist with his vice-like arm and strolling with her towards the ballroom. “Are you ready to tango, Herculea?”
His words were barely audible over the vibrating sounds emanating from the musicians, and she merely nodded her head, feeling slightly shaky. He enrobed her in his powerful arms, gliding onto the center of the dance floor with a commanding hand pressed against the small of her back. He was an excellent dancer, and she let him lead. As they moved in instinctive rhythm with the music, his eyes never left hers. Elegantly, he dipped her, maintaining the pulsating contact of their bodies. She felt both delicate and sultry as her red lace skirt swayed with the music, and her scarlet high heels tapped alongside Pedro’s large black dress shoes.
Hours later, bathed in sweat and sore from head to toe, they finally sat down to dinner. Pedro ordered a bottle of Chilean wine without consulting Herculea. He also ordered a selection of appetizers before she had a chance to look at the menu.
“I promise you will love everything.” He winked at her.
She shut her menu and gave him a tight smile. This sort of domineering treatment was not what she was used to.
“Do you travel much?” She asked, trying to get him to share any bit of information about his life.
“All the time,” he replied tersely. “You?”
Ignoring his curt reply, Herculea said, “Yes. Actually, next week I’m going to Brazil for work.”
“What will you do in Brazil?” Pedro asked with mild interest.
“A colleague and I are going to do research for an article on capoeira.”
“How boring. I know something more exciting you could do in Brazil.” His eyes blazed mischievously.
“Let me guess. Dance the samba?” Herculea retorted sarcastically.
“No,” Pedro replied without humor. “No. You said you are a cultural anthropologist, right? And you like to do research. Well, I think you should research the Silver Goddess.”
“I’m sorry. The what?” Herculea asked.
“The Silver Goddess is immortal and lives on the Island of Vinova. No mortal person has ever gone to her island. She is a very private person.”
As Pedro spoke, Herculea wondered if he had already had a glass of wine earlier in the evening. He was spewing madness, and she wasn’t amused.
“I don’t know why you’re telling me such a crazy story, but…”
Pedro cut her off. “It’s not a story. Not a legend. It’s the truth. The Silver Goddess drank an elixir that gave her eternal life. A special blend of herbs and spices---and red wine. It’s all written in a book called The Immortality Abyss. You could be the first to research and write about her.”
The last part of Pedro’s monologue intrigued Herculea. For her entire career, she had wanted to publish her own book. What if Pedro were telling the truth? It couldn’t hurt to at least investigate the possible existence of the Silver Goddess. In fact, it could be the career opportunity every young researcher hopes for.
After dinner, Pedro led Herculea by the hand into the parking lot. Together, they strolled over a foot bridge leading to a romantic gazebo. He sat down on the bench and brazenly pulled her onto his lap.
“The tango continues,” he murmured huskily.
Shoving his hands into her thick tresses, he opened his mouth and seized hers, massaging her neck gently while ardently kissing her lips. Herculea curled closer to him on his lap, rocking her head back and allowing him deeper access to her mouth. The combination of too much wine, Pedro’s overwhelming masculinity, and a seductive evening breeze made Herculea dizzy. She felt aflame with desire to shred this man’s clothes to pieces and let him have her right here in the gazebo. Instead, she let him continue his passionate assault on her mouth, feeding off her lips as though she were a feast after stark famine.
Feeling her self-control rapidly waning, Herculea breathlessly pulled away. “Mmm. Um, stop. That’s enough for now,” she breathed shakily.
He branded her with his gaze and tried to reignite the kiss, but she pulled back again.
“No. Really. I think maybe we should go,” Herculea insisted, still feeling her head whirl from the intense kiss.
“You know that’s not what you want. But I will drive you home,” Pedro said with heavy disappointment.
“Yes, please drive me home. It’s been an unforgettable evening.”
He smiled slightly at her words, guiding her to the car and keeping one arm wrapped tightly around her waist.
Alone in bed that night, Herculea struggled to fall asleep. Feeling a draft from the window, she flipped over onto her belly and pulled the covers over her head. As a haunting image of his face floated through her mind, she had the unnerving sensation that the evening with Pedro would prove to be unforgettable for a very long time.
Spell of hokus pokus, hell of pure black magic
Red wine and spices, common vices
Cayenne pepper, pomegranate juice,
Lemon, lime and orange rind
Secrets of the sea, mysteries of the land
Passed down by the Ancestors
The Stolen Mortals’ revenge
Awaits soon
The Island of Vinova
Awaits forever
---Verse Two of The Immortality Abyss
Chapter 3
Soaking in her chrome bathtub, ubiquitous glass of wine at her side, the Silver Goddess heard rustling from the adjoining chamber. The shuffle of sheets and then the snapping of a zipper filled her ears as she took a deep swallow of her drink. Thaddeus must be dressing to leave after their interlude, she surmised with a cynical smirk. He liked to fancy himself free, but he could never stay away for long. That was the magic of the Immortality Abyss. One could take a brief respite from the Island of Vinova and roam free for a day or two, perhaps even a week, but inevitably the Silver Goddess’s clutches were too tight to escape. More than that, her allure was infallible, and she knew it.
Pedro used to rhapsodize about her intoxicating fragrance of passionflower mingled with ripe strawberries. He had inhaled the irresistible fragrance each time his boat docked onto shore, feeling in his core a sweet prelude of the pleasures he would experience inside the castle with his lover.
Without warning, the Silver Goddess poured the remainder of the wine into her throat, nearly choking on it. Angrily, she hauled the wine goblet to the porcelain floor and sneered in satisfaction as it crashed into countless shards. Thoughts of Pedro always had this effect on her. She would never admit to herself how utterly foolish she had been to banish him. So many days she wished she could somehow have him back. But now he roamed among mortals…
Thaddeus dashed into the room with a concerned expression on his face.
“Is everything alright? What was that crashing?”
She gave him a disdainful look. What an imbecile he could be. He followed her eyes to the shattered glass on the floor.
“What was that crashing? Well, let me see. Could it have been the broken glass all over the floor?” The Silver Goddess lashed out at Thaddeus.
“This needs to be cleaned up before
someone gets hurt,” Thaddeus advised.
This comment earned him another look of disgust from the Silver Goddess.
“Clean it up? Shall I do it?” She balked, laughing humorlessly. “Go get one of my manservants.”
With a glance of dejection blended with resentment, Thaddeus exited the room, his fists at his sides. He was not her butler, and he despised when she treated him that way. How could his body be so strong, yet his resolve so weak, he wondered in frustration. In the corridor, he saw one of the muscular manservants enter the Goddess’s chamber. An unwelcome twitch of jealousy pulsed on his face, as Thaddeus stood immobile, listening to the exchange between his lover and the manservant.
“Clean up that mess,” the Silver Goddess instructed harshly from her bath.
Reflexively, the manservant stared into the water, trying to discern the Goddess’s lush body parts. This earned him another terse remonstration from her.
“Don’t ogle me! Just clean up and go.”
She knew she could be as rude as her temperament required. Her manservants had drunk the wine years ago and were as fully trapped inside the Immortality Abyss as Thaddeus was.
“Quickly!” She screamed as the hapless manservant scooped up the broken glass with his bare hands, depositing it into a plastic bag as fast as he could without cutting himself.
He didn’t dare look at her again, although from the corner of his eye, he could see that she was toying with him, letting her breasts rise just above the top of the water before concealing them again within a cloud of frothy white bubbles.
Thaddeus craned his neck in the hallway, pressing his ear against the wall. He grimaced as he heard a delicate splash of water. Had the manservant joined her in the bathtub? Could she really be that treacherous?
Thaddeus had always likened the Silver Goddess to an exquisitely carved ice sculpture. The only difference was, she would never melt. Her deep freeze somehow set his entire being bursting into blue flames. He did not love her, but he felt a powerful sense of ownership over her. And he would not let her strip him of his manhood by frolicking with another lover.
Murder on the Riviera Page 6