Intimate Strangers Affair Page 18

  He glanced down, mumbling something softly. Amazing. I didn’t think he could talk any softer, but he did. Inaudible. I tilted my head and looked at him carefully. Was he blushing? Now I really had to know. It had to be romantic, incredibly romantic. So embarrassingly romantic that he couldn’t even say it in front of me when I was paying attention. It must be good. Really good.

  “Blackberry,” he whispered.

  “What?!”

  “It means…”

  “I heard you.”

  “It reminds me of you.”

  Me? A blackberry? My mouth hung open. So much for my poetic ideas. Dashed, completely dashed. Whatever happened to lovely names like “rose” or “honey?” I didn’t get it. I looked over at the dusty prickly bushes that grew in ungainly green humps, the vines going every which way. Thorns, nasty thorns, all over. Is that how he saw me? I frowned.

  His thumb ran over my lips, playfully tugging at the down turned corners. “What did you say? ‘So much work. Such awful fruit’. I disagree. The results are very satisfactory.”

  “Satisfactory?”

  “You tell me.”

  He had a point. It was pretty damn good. More than good. Fantastic might be an understatement. But I still didn’t quite understand the nickname. Was it my personality, or my person? My eyes widened as I considered the possibilities. I gasped, remembering when he’d said it, breathing it into me when I could barely hear him. He didn’t mean…that. He couldn’t!

  As if he heard my thoughts, he chuckled softly and a little wickedly as he touched me there again, intimately, confirming my suspicion.

  “There?” My breath caught, hanging on the word.

  “There,” he murmured. “It requires a very delicate touch. Just like picking berries.”

  “You’re very experienced. And very bad,” I whispered back.

  “Si. You learn quickly.”

  “How quick?” I rolled over him, grabbing his arms. Ah! At last. The upper hand for a change. I grinned, pressing down.

  He smiled back, relenting. He lightly kissed me once, twice, then he twisted. Bucked me off. Our positions reversed.

  Panting, I said, “I was always good at anatomy. Physiology. How things work. Even better.”

  “A quick study? Lucky for me,” he said, his smile deepening.

  “Lucky for both of us.”

  Chapter 7: For the Dark

  It was almost midnight. The day was disappearing quickly, but it wasn’t just the day. Miguel had disappeared too, somewhere between his study and the bedroom. Again! Maybe next time I should tie him down to the bed. I seriously considered it as I stumbled over another stone in the courtyard. It was dark. Carrots. I had to start eating those carrots. I could barely see a tall slip of shadow move from building to building. It was like trailing a phantom.

  “Come on, we’re losing him,” I hissed, tugging on my brother’s sleeve.

  Claude didn’t budge. “I’m going to die. Why don’t you shoot me and put me out of my misery? Right now. I’ll leave you my lucky cards, darlin’. The ones with all the high cards marked. Whenever you play that black Jack, you just think of me fondly and say, ‘I always regret how cruel I was to my dear brother Claude. If only I hadn’t dragged him out of the Zeus Hotel where he was nice and warm and—”

  “Playing around with…”

  “Persephone,” he supplied helpfully between moans.

  “Persephone!” I snorted. “Pretty long in tooth for the goddess of youth. She’s thirty-something. At least! What were you doing in that spooky house? Catherine says it’s a dirty place. Caters to every possible vice. Everyone and everything. Animals, contraptions, perversions. You could get sick in a place like that. You promised not to play. “

  “I wasn’t…playing. I was following a lead. Every man has a weakness, and the major has his,” Claude explained. “The lady in lilac. I saw her sitting there with the other nymphs. She’s odd. Something about her.”

  “What?”

  “The way she…uuhh.” Moaning louder, he doubled over into a large upside down U. “This is it. Got my one-way ticket to heaven. I’m going.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, no one died of overeating. I’m surprised you didn’t feel dyspeptic earlier. You always do this. Eating like a starved elephant, regretting it afterwards. Nothing a little wintergreen won’t cure.”

  “Jesus! Not this time…this time’s different. I don’t think…” He broke off suddenly and leaned over a hitching post. Sweat popped out on his forehead, his eyes bulging. And then he was violently ill. All over.

  “Claude!” I supported him as he heaved some more. When he was done, we walked to a water trough. He was strangely silent as I splashed water on his face. My brother still looked diaphoretic. His pupils were so dilated that his irises were only a faint gray rim around the black center. I gently pressed the right side of his belly.

  Claude slapped my hand away. “Stop that. It’s empty. Nothing left. Phew. That was a wild one. Don’t mind if I never repeat that one again. Stop it. Hey, stop it, I said. Do you always mug your patients?”

  “I’m not mugging you, it’s called palpation.”

  “Yeah, it’s only called that when doctors do it. If it’s anyone else, it’s assault and battery. Criminal, that’s what it is.”

  “Interesting. Your liver’s big.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of that before. A big mouth, sure. A big…well, never mind.” Claude ran a shaky hand through his black curls. “What do you mean?”

  “Your liver’s enlarged, tender. Like Miguel’s. Hmm. Pulse okay.”

  “What do you think, doc?”

  “You’ll live,” I said gruffly. No matter how awful it had been, vomiting had been the best thing for him. He had to get rid of whatever was sickening him. I reached into my secret skirt pocket and pulled out my small medical kit. I opened it. The gaslight glinted off the scalpel.

  “Oh, no. You’re not doing that on me. Sister or no sister, you’re not cutting on me.”

  “Just be quiet for a change.” I took out a small vial and counted out two charcoal pills. “Come on, open up. It’s an antidote. Listen, mister, you’ve been poisoned. Like Miguel. So you need to remember. What did you eat today?”

  “Christ. I don’t remember. No one remembers what they ate. Ask me something else. How about my winning cards last night? Black Jacks in the high corner. Spade and clubs. As always. No one got it. So the whole juicy pot came to me. Now that was sweet. Real sweet.” He downed the pills with a handful of water. Grimaced. “That, on the other hand, wasn’t so sweet. Tastes just like your cooking. What did you learn in Paris, anyway? Medicine or torture?”

  It was easy to pretend I hadn’t heard him. I had lots of practice. Wordlessly, I gave him two more pills and gestured for him to take those too. Afterwards, I made him open his mouth again and raise his tongue to make sure that he had really swallowed the medicine. He had. Good. “Okay, now think hard. Did you eat anything new? Anything different at all?”

  “Besides this, you mean? I don’t usually swallow briquettes. I’m not a coal-burning stove, you know. But seriously, let’s see. I had huevos, chicken, bread. Those little tortas. Those were good. I ate everything you did. Everything except…”

  “Tapenado.” I snapped my fingers, realization zinging through me. “It was loaded with mushrooms, remember? I can’t eat them because of my allergies. That’s it. That has to be it, because I didn’t eat the truffles or those other dishes. I don’t do fungi, and that’s Miguel’s favorite food. Everyone knows that’s his special weakness. What could be better than those mushrooms? Good old Amanita. Doesn’t Death Cap grow around here? And it’s easily confused with its cousins. One’s a food, the other poison. Maybe it’s just an accident after all. Both times.”

  “Both? I don’t think so, darlin’. Maybe one time, but not two different times, two different foods. Once is an accident, twice is deliberate. Deliberate murder.” Claude pressed his hand against his forehead and blew ou
t a breath. “You know, I feel kinda funny. A little dopey. No.” He pointed a finger at me. “Don’t say it, that would be a cheap shot. Real cheap.”

  “Listen, Claude, you better go home and sleep it off.”

  “Can’t.” My brother stretched his arms and yawned. “What about the case of the vanishing Don Miguel? We lost him.”

  “Not really, I know where he’s headed. Cabrillo Shipping. I’ll go there.”

  Claude rubbed his eyes. “But you need…help.”

  “What I need is not to worry about you. You won’t be very much help if you collapse on me. Go home and get some rest. Take care of the major when you’re feeling better. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” I peered into the darkness and crossed my fingers for good luck. I hoped to God that it was true.

  ***

  The breeze of the bay was salty and stiff enough to rent the fog into a ragged veil from which the moon slipped in and out of. It was dark. Dark and frigid. San Francisco was like a fickle lady; could blow hot, then cold in a matter of hours, depending on whether the fog rolled off the ocean. There was just no telling which. And now, it was ice pick cold again, the kind that stabbed through my thick black sweater and woolen necessaries. I stood shivering behind Cabrillo Shipping, my face pressed against the old wood wall as I peered through the open window. Miguel was waiting inside his office. One long, tall figure in black. And I was waiting for him. Outside. Alone. Clandestine, as usual. If only he’d think about telling me for a change, I could be saved the inconvenience. A lot of inconvenience. This sneaking-around business was a lot more work. It was already enough work just taking care of Miguel. When he let me, that is.

  We argued over everything, if you could call it an argument when only one person talks and the other person just stares like some marble statue in a garden somewhere. I wanted him to take more milk thistle, but he refused. I didn’t want him to go through with this meeting, and he agreed. Or so I assumed from his stony silence. But the next thing I knew, he’d disappeared again from the house, and I’d caught his trail barely in time. I’d followed him here to the harbor.

  Worrying, I watched him. He seemed better. His color had improved, and he had not puked for the last twenty-four hours. No more untoward effects from the poison. Or from the boiled eggs and burnt toast he’d dutifully eaten all day without any complaints. He stood quietly, not pacing or fidgeting like most people do to occupy their time. He was so still that I was frankly getting a little bored watching him. Shifting, I looked across the dock. His ship The Silver Aura was a beauty: three masts, a new smokestack, cannons, broadside, fore and aft. Only two sailors were guarding deck, the rest of the crew must be below or enjoying their shore leave. No one had loaded the ship yet. There was no sign of the stolen gold, and I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

  Rubbing my arms briskly, I settled back against the outside wall, trying to get a little more comfortable. Suddenly, a gloved hand covered my mouth, stifling my gasp, almost suffocating me. An iron arm wrapped around me and yanked me backwards through the window. I tumbled butt-first into the room. My boots scraped the sills, then thwacked against the floor as I fell sideways. Then I collided against a chest. One solid expanse of masculine muscle I’d know in the darkness anywhere anytime.

  Miguel. He felt hard and unyielding, not comforting this time. No tenderness or intimacy now. He seemed removed. Ruthless. A dangerous stranger. Abruptly, he let me go, then shut the window. Firmly. Almost quietly. Only the soft thud at the end betrayed his irritation. He swiftly crossed the room, locked the door, and then wheeled around, turning back to me. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. Oh. Not just irritated. Angry. Definitely angry. I was in for it now. I stepped backwards, bumping into his big oak desk.

  “Doctora Arnaud,” was all he said. My formal name. Bad sign. No teasing niña, or tender querida. He folded his arms. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” I tore the black knit cap off my head. All my hastily stuffed hair was falling out anyway. The rest tumbled down my back, stuck here and there with a few remaining pins. His eyes followed my hair’s descent, then lingered over my split skirt and my ankles showing underneath. One corner of his lips turned downward.

  His silent disapproval made me bristle. “What? Are you going to criticize my clothes? It’s the latest thing from Harper’s Bazaar. Just the fashion for finding your missing lover in the dead of the night.” I casually swung the sailor’s cap from one finger. “Every lady should have one of these. Lucky for me, I already do. I seem to be chasing someone a lot lately. Especially when that sick someone is supposed to be in bed. Asleep. Not sneaking out of the house like a some midnight bandito.” Good. I sounded a lot braver than I felt. He barely shook his head. “Why are you here?”

  “Well, obviously…”

  “What are you doing here?” He flung out an arm towards the window. Pointed. “It’s midnight. The docks.”

  “I might ask the same of you.”

  “A woman. Alone. You should not be here. Anything could happen.”

  “Nothing did. This is my neighborhood, I grew up here. I know this wharf like I know all the parts of the brain. Cerebrum, cerebellum, pons-”

  “Enough. This is no joke.”

  “I’m not joking, Miguel. Really. I was quite safe.”

  “Safe? Are you? Think again.” Two quick steps and he was standing right in front of me. His hands gripped my arms. Hard. Almost cruel. He shook me once so that the last of my hairpins fell to the floor. Then he lifted me on to the desk and stepped forward until his knee pressed between my legs. His breath came in short sharp pants as if he was barely containing some pain or great emotion. “I could be anyone. Grabbing you. Taking you.” One hand ran along my hip, molding my thigh until my fear turned into strange excitement. “Anyone could be doing this. And this.” My lips turned dry as he demonstrated. And this time, when I gasped, it wasn’t from shock. It was sheer, shameful joy. “Anyone, niña.”

  “No…no one but you,” I said, curving into his touch. My body learned, meeting his rhythm with my own. His hands journeyed over me with those warm deft motions: revisiting old places, exploring farther, discovering new points of pleasure. There. Oh, and there too. I was dissolving. The room dissolved around us, falling away so that nothing existed except for him, me, and this terrible need anchoring us together.

  What was this compulsion? Until this moment, I’d never understood that driving force which shattered any sensibility. Mine or his. Nothing else mattered anymore, because I had surrendered to a burning red haze. I had become part of it, part of him. My hands, by themselves, grabbed his hair, bringing his mouth toward me. Seeking, demanding, I plundered him from above, as his fingers, then his heat plundered me from below. One stroke, my body clenched like his taut face. Tightening, squeezing. I watched his beautiful eyes clear, brighten, widen with disbelief. Two, three, another stroke, and those eyes clouded over as his entire self convulsed into me, and I around him. Then we fell against each other, wrapped together, gasping for air. It was fast, greedy, uncontrolled. It was wonderful. Different every time. A miracle I didn’t understand. A miracle I gloried in.

  “Cristo. Are you all right? Did I…” Swallowing hard, he brushed my hair off my cheek. He lingered where his whiskers had rasped my skin. Tender, I flinched. Couldn’t help myself.

  He looked surprised and dismayed. “Did I hurt you? I’m…” Shock seemed to cut off his last few words. He couldn’t finish. Shakily, Miguel stepped away, handing me a square of linen, then readjusting himself. Regret marked his face. He looked almost ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Don’t you dare apologize. I’m not sorry, not for a single second. That was…mmmm…” Lazily, I leaned back on my hands.

  His expression cleared while he looked me over carefully. He considered. “You’re not upset.”

  “Of course, not. Should I be?”

  “I was angry. Rough. Careless.”

  My eyes popped open as realizatio
n struck me like a fist. “We forgot again. We know better than that.”

  Miguel looked grim and a little resigned. “I know better,” he admitted. “You sweep me away, querida.”

  “I do? I like the sound of that.” The news cheered me. Maybe I, even with all my inexperience, had something new to offer him, something that broke through the wall he erected between the real Miguel and the world. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. No matter. I had enough optimism for two. I ignored how his eyes turned guarded again. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Maybe next time we could…”

  The door knob rattled.

  He scooped up the pins from the floor and handed them to me. Then he motioned for me to hide behind the back of the sofa. His hands checked his clothing one last time before he said, “Si.”

  “Don Miguel, please. I must talk with you. It’s imperative,” someone said urgently through the thick wood door. Desperation punctuated the end of each sentence. We exchanged a look. It was the voice of the last person we expected, the voice of a wanted man. It was George.

  When George walked into the office, he brought the smell of cold sea air and peppermints. How could he be the culprit? Impossible. No one villainous ever smelled like candy. All the serious bad guys stank of whiskey, tobacco, or sweat, but peppermints? No. It just didn’t seem likely, not when he looked like someone’s grandfather. He appeared more inclined to bounce a baby on his knee than to stab someone in the back. I couldn’t believe it. And judging from his casual pose, Miguel didn’t seem to either. He only leaned against the edge of his office desk.

  “Hello, George.”

  The short bookkeeper looked as if he’d seen better days. His porkpie hat was dented on one side and dusty, and his usually meticulous suit looked rumpled as if he’d slept in it. George hastily doffed his hat, then shuffled his scuffed boots from side to side as if he was uncertain how to proceed. Worry deepened the wrinkles in his round face and aged him even more. He ducked his head, and his fringe of graying hair flapped forward. “Thank you for seeing me, sir. I had to wait for the right moment to sneak in. The police are everywhere. I was afraid I couldn’t reach you in time.”