Intimate Strangers Affair Page 11

  “Sorry.” My heart beat a little harder with every step toward the open French doors leading to the garden. My skirts swished against the wainscoting, then the shiny brass pots that held the palms. I could barely hear the chatter around me or the violins playing. Outside, the night was nice and cooler, but not enough to cool off my anxiety. James squeezed my arm once more before leaving me alone on the terrace. Lush honeysuckle vines grew on the surrounding trellis and the air was thick with their perfume. Ugh. Trying not to gag, I looked around. The manicured hedges were taller than me, tall as the rangy man standing next to them. The tip of his cigarette glowed in the night. Then his white teeth flashed around it when he saw me. His hand flicked. Something hissed, and a quivering knife jutted from the ground, barely shaving the tip of my slipper. Not a millimeter to spare. I glanced up again. The man swung his arms wide, holding them open for me like a grand welcome.

  That dramatic gesture. I knew it in a flash. The same way I knew that fool blade of his and the way he threw back his head and laughed like he was doing right now. I stopped in my tracks, suddenly feeling uncertain about the next step. Was this a dream? Maybe the ground would give way in the next second and I would tumble down, landing finally and waking up the next moment in my bed. I stared at him. It couldn’t be, but it had to. Who else could it possibly be?

  “Claude?”

  “Come on over here, darlin’. Why are you just standing there like that? Don’t you recognize me? What’s wrong with you? Just seen a ghost?”

  Ha! How true. Maybe I was seeing things these days, hallucinating my brother because I wanted to see him. No one understood me like he did. All the good parts, and the bad. Maybe he could make sense of this muddle I’d gotten myself into. I certainly couldn’t.

  “What’s the matter? You’re looking kind of peaked. Like the time you jumped from that balcony on to the drunk. Saved my bacon, all right. The flying banshee. Never seen anything like it.”

  And you never will again. Just remembering that incident made my insides quiver. I started walking toward him, but he held up one hand palm out.

  “No, no. Just stop right there. No closer. Don’t want you spoiling my new duds. The latest from gay Par-ee. Or so the tailor said.” He smoothed down the shiny black lapels of his evening coat, then pretended to straighten his collar.

  “Okay, mister. That ties it. I wasn’t sure if that was really you, but now I know. Who the hell else could it be?”

  He grinned. “What gave me away? Was it the threads?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then it must be my indescribable charm. That certain savoir faire. Yup. That has to be it.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “My old knife trick? Clever, isn’t it?”

  “Clever? I don’t call nearly amputating my toe clever. Showy, that’s what it is. Risky. A gamble. A real gamble.”

  “What isn’t?” Shrugging, he puffed on his cigar. He looked up at the sky and sighed. “All righty, I fold. I give up. How did you really know it was me?”

  “Because you’re unique. There could only be one of you.”

  His grin widened, his chest poking out a little.

  “You’re the real genuine item. No one is quite like you. No one at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You see, Claude, here’s the thing. You are so…so rude. So completely jackass rude.” I snorted hard through my nose, watching him deflate. His smile sagged at the corners. Served him right. “Why’d you bring that up? I hate remembering that. It was terrible, the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

  “It was the absolute best. You saved my life,” my brother said gently.

  “But I’m a mur-”

  “Don’t say that, don’t even think that. You’re not. You never were. You’re a hero. My hero. Can I be you when I grow up?”

  “You? Grow up? That will be one fine day. Idiot,” I muttered.

  “Now, now. No sweet talkin’ me. No use pouring it on.”

  “Anencephalic.”

  He chuckled. “There you go. Mighty fancy ten-spot insults you’ve learned in that medical school of yours. Just lay it on me. That’s my girl.” Flicking his cigarette over his shoulder, he rushed toward me, crossing the flagstones in three loping steps. He swooped me up in his arms, and swung me around and around until my head spun. “Nathalie! Well, well. Look at you. Just look.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” One hand crept up to my head, and gingerly felt over the sapphire pins and intricate loops of hair. It felt okay to me, but what did I know? I checked my bodice again. No. That seemed all right this time. Maybe my shoes were on the wrong feet.

  “Nothing, darlin’. Nothing at all. Just that… Well, hell. You look like a…I don’t know how else to say it, but damn it! I have to call it or cash out. There’s no way around it. All right, all right. I’ll tell you. I can hardly believe it, but I’ll tell you. You look like a lady. A goddamned lady!” He sounded a little puzzled.

  “That bad or good?”

  “Neither, both, I don’t know. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. When was the last time? Not since that new casino on the Riviera…”

  “Claude Carlo.”

  He snapped his fingers together, then pointed at me. “That’s right, my namesake. Thought it would bring me luck, and it did. Enough to bankroll the next plan.” Laughing, he squeezed me even tighter. “My God, it’s good to see you, darlin’. Damn good. Feels like it’s been forever. Forever and a day.”

  “At least forever. I’ve missed you.”

  “And I missed you,” he said, finally allowing his baritone to turn softly sentimental. All traces of his habitual joking vanished for once. He kissed me lightly on one cheek, then the other. Then he rapped his knuckles on top of my head.

  I returned the favor.

  He grinned and made a big show of rubbing the offended spot. “Yeow! Is that any way to treat your older brother?”

  “Older. Ha! Just five measly minutes, a mere technicality. Listen up, mister. You may be older, but you’re definitely not wiser. I’m the wise one in the family.”

  “You always had a smart lip,” he said with affection.

  In reply, I ran my hand over his wavy black curls. He felt real. Real and well, not dying in some hellhole of a Union prison. He was free. Too good to be true. I didn’t know what amazed me more: Claude’s sudden appearance, or Major Moore actually keeping his word. I hadn’t expected it just yet, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that Claude was safe…for now. Relief slowly seeped through me as I laid my cheek against my brother’s smoothly shaved one. His hand pressed the small of my back. I automatically stepped closer, my head dropping on to his shoulder, his head resting on top of mine. We fit together as we always did, as we probably had since we shared our mother’s womb. Even after all those years away, it seemed so right as though we’d never been apart. I felt like a missing piece of me had finally returned. We stood there for a long time, holding each other, swaying gently to the music as a quadrille ended and a Viennese waltz began. The Blue Danube swept over us with the opening bars of its slow uplifting tune. And even when I heard a footstep over the flagstone, I didn’t think to move away.

  “Am I interrupting?” Don Miguel said in a soft voice that didn’t sound as if he cared whether or not he was. His words hung in the air like the first few trembling notes of music, glittering with challenge.

  Claude slowly lowered me to the ground. He kept one arm around me, his hand resting against my hip. “Not at all,” he said, but he still held me. He didn’t budge, not even when I gently elbowed him.

  “Miguel! There you are. May I introduce my brother Claude Arnaud? And, Claude, this is…”

  “Don Miguel Cabrillo.” My brother gently squeezed my hip to silence me. His smile was the one I knew and dreaded from childhood: total mischief with a touch of malice. “Interesting, very interesting,” he murmured, and offered his free hand to Miguel.

  The handshake was
brief, barely cordial, more like two swords crossing for the first time instead of simple etiquette. The men stared as if testing each other’s mettle.

  Eventually, Miguel spoke first. “Have we met?”

  “No. I know your cousin Edmundo. Or should I say, I did know him before he died. A shame about his murder. Imagine that. There he was, singing it up at the Golden Boar, and then bang. They didn’t even let him finish the last verse. Obviously, they didn’t appreciate a real musician when they heard one. Rough crowd, eh? That’s one helluva curtain call, I’d say. But then again, if Edmundo hadn’t been popped, you wouldn’t have inherited, would you?” Claude’s grin deepened, but it wasn’t a humorous expression. Far from it.

  “Yes,” was all Miguel said, walking toward me. He paused just in front of me, his bow low and formal. “I was going to ask for the honor of your first dance, but…” He looked from me to Claude, then back at me again. His gaze looked cold now. He seemed as remote as he had on the ship when he was by himself on the bridge. Gone was my charming dinner companion. The Don had returned in full force. My Miguel had vanished. “But perhaps, I am too late.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said crossly, ignoring his implications. How dare he? I wasn’t the one walking around town with the reputation of a neo-Romeo. I didn’t even have a thimbleful of his vast varied experience. Mister whatever-it-takes.

  “Now, just wait a darn minute here. Are you implying that-” Claude began.

  “That’s all right,” I laid my palm on my brother’s chest to stop him. “I’ll take care of it. No need to defend my honor.” I stepped away from him and took Miguel’s arm. “What is this? A waltz? Might as well get it over with. I hear it’s perfectly painless. No chloroform needed.”

  “Depends,” Miguel said as he led me through the French doors and back into the ballroom. The stuffy air immediately hit me: cologne, tobacco, spilled punch, and the underlying cut of stronger beverages. The sweat of humanity at play. All those smells choked me like a fist around my throat.

  Everyone seemed to be watching. Why were they looking? What was the big deal? We were just two people returning to the ballroom after a little fresh air. So what if my skirts were a little crumpled? That didn’t mean a thing, did it? I barely kept myself from nervously adjusting the front of my dress again as we walked through the room. The crowd parted for us like an opening curtain. No one, it seemed, wanted to get in Don Miguel’s way. Then the last couple stepped aside, the man bobbling his monocle, the woman fluttering her fan in their nervous haste. Now the polished parquet floor lay open before us. Under the Italianate gaslight chandeliers, the dancers swooped by in their diamonds and silks. Dresses of yellow, mauve, and burgundy swirled by like blossoms caught in a whirlwind. The waltz was in full swing, the turns fast enough to give any right-minded person vertigo.

  I tugged on Miguel’s arm, but he was immovable. His grip was unbreakably no-nonsense. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Slow down, will you? What do you mean by that? Depends on what?”

  Silently, he led me on to the floor. Without waiting a beat, he immediately spun me into his arms, his other hand guiding my back with a firm warm pressure that I could feel even through his kidskin glove. He paused, then plunged, and a moment later, we joined the whirl of dancers. He moved smoothly with the spare athletic authority that dictated all his actions, gracefully like a swordsman instead of a ballroom dancer. His muscular legs pushed through my skirts, his whole body propelling me whichever way he wanted.

  As we spun together, his lips touched my ear. I could feel his smile, then his words brushing me. “Depends on how well-suited we are.”

  One, two, three. One, two… It all came down to simple mathematics. It always did. Child’s play, really, I tried to convince myself, but it wasn’t working well. If this was so easy, how come it felt like it was so hard to do? One, two, three. Turn. One, two, three…

  “Nathalie.”

  Waltzing was tricky to do well, like stitching bleeding artery. I needed to be quick and neat. Should be a piece of cake, right? Only problem was that I’d had a lot more practice suturing than dancing. And now, to my chagrin, that lack of experience showed.

  “Look at me, niña.”

  Moving backwards, I faltered for a second, and my foot stumbled between his feet. Miguel quickly lifted me a little and set me down again. He was holding me close. Too close. His hip rubbed against my belly. My cheeks heated.

  “Stop it.”

  His brow lifted.

  “Too close,” I whispered.

  He smiled a little. “Not close enough.” His fingers fanned over my back in an affirming caress as he drew me even closer.

  I tried to pull back a safe inch, but he would have none of it. His strong arms flexed against me, keeping me there. I pulled harder, and during the subtle tug-of-war, a lock of my hair finally fell down across my neck. He reached up, his hand barely tracing a line up my spine, shoulder, then to the curve where my stubborn hair lay. He swept it up and tucked it behind my ear. The woman dancing next to us gasped aloud at his audacity.

  “Miguel,” My voice sounded lower, thicker with warning.

  Again, he barely smiled. We were both breathing harder now. I could tell. The buttons of his evening coat touched the ribbons and lace of my gown, rubbing, rubbing, almost snagging, but not quite. We glided into another tight turn, and every hard inch of him pushed against me. Was that…? No, it couldn’t be. This wasn’t mere anatomy any more. Such a difference between a dead man and a living one. How could he be so aroused? This was just a waltz, wasn’t it? Yet, I couldn’t deny the very real evidence. I saw the way his cheek tightened, his eyes darkening to near black when they met mine. I heard his need as surely as if he had shouted it. It must be real, because it echoed mine. I wondered if he felt that same heated ache in his belly, all that pain without blood. This couldn’t be. Shouldn’t. Miguel seemed to be asking me for permission even as his body already commanded mine.

  No, said a voice inside of me. Yes, said the other one. Why not? Shocked, I looked up and away. Over us, the rotunda was amber and cobalt glass, touched here and there with Arabian silver stars. And at that moment, I felt as if I were swirling up, flying to the sky in his arms, both of us on the wings of music. The rest of the room fell away into nothing. The crush, the smells, all disappeared. I forgot to count. I forgot about everything else. Everything that made sense. We were airborne, Miguel and I. Silently flying together. We were high, higher than high. Time seemed to slow down, then stop all together. Our hearts beat somewhere between each eternal second. Then eventually, one of us spoke. I think it was him. I wasn’t sure at first.

  “Muchas gracias, niña.”

  His voice startled me. “Thank you? For what?”

  “For this.”

  Abruptly, I came back to myself, realizing that the waltz had ended. There was a brief hush, then the muffled clapping of gloved hands and the rising pitch of conversations resuming. I halted. Stepped on his boot. Expressionless, he said nothing while his hand slid from my back to waist, steadying me against the momentum of those skirts.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” His eyes darted back and forth as if checking who might have overheard my question. Oh, I get it now. He was worried that someone might find out about his illness.

  I hastened to reassure him. “No, no, not that. I meant your feet. I stepped on them a couple times. All right, all right. More than a couple of times. Sorry.”

  Understanding lit his eyes. “I will need your very careful ministrations.”

  “You distracted me.”

  “Mutual pleasure is never a distraction. Not if it is done well.”

  “Well, you would know.”

  “And you.”

  “Me? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Maybe your brother has already told you. Has he?”

  “You mean Claude?” I asked slowly. All this concentration was making my temples ache.

  “Do you have…
others?” His brows snapped together into a thunderous line. He scowled down at me.

  Others? What others? Did he mean other brothers? What was Miguel talking about now? For a moment, I wondered if he was having one of those demon fits that Lin-Mei had hinted at. He needed to be handled carefully. “No. Claude’s my only brother. I only have him. Just me and him. It’s been that way for a long time.”

  “A long time, I see. Excuse me. El gusto es mio. My pleasure.” He stepped back suddenly, drawing his legs together and bowing. Then he moved into the crowd.

  “Wait.” The word poised on my lips. I wanted to throw my fan, hit him square between his broad shoulders. But a bunch of flimsy sticks and silk wouldn’t be enough to stop Miguel. I needed a harpoon with a stout leading chain. Damn him. This had to stop. Where was he going now? I felt foolish, left alone on the fringes of the dance floor. I followed him at a distance, watching his progress.

  He was cutting a wide swathe through the partygoers, but paused briefly when his bookkeeper George suddenly appeared in his plain workaday clothes. He looked like a short brown sparrow quite out of place among the peacocks. George handed him a message, which Miguel read quickly. Then the men conversed for only a moment, before George clicked his heels, bowed his head, and left the party.

  Not even sparing him another look, Miguel continued toward the door. He moved easily through the crowd. His lean black back progressed past the burgundy, verdigris, and brightly brocaded bunch. Then he suddenly turned toward his right as if trying to meet or trying to avoid someone. He walked a little faster until Margaret stepped before him. She said something, smiled, and he nodded in return, touching her arm gently as he passed her by. What had that been all about? I was dying to know, dying to not know. I heard my fan crack and stared down at the broken shafts.

  “They just don’t make fans like they used to,” confided a young woman whose heavily rouged cheeks made her look like she had an awful case of rosaceea. Even her thick make-up couldn’t disguise her bad skin.

  I wondered vaguely if she knew how comical her make-up was, and how a few herbs might be helpful. Otherwise, she certainly seemed to care about her appearance; from the smart feather clipped by a diamond to her hair, to the matching reticule and slippers. Her gloved hands fluttered over her flounced lilac skirts, which were drowning in creamy white lace. More lace and chiffon were artfully layered and tucked over her neck, chest, and broad shoulders. Fashion certainly had its uses. Disguise and enhance, as my aunt always said. Yes. This young woman seemed to understand that principle.