Dragon Call (2 page)

Greg drew her away from the bar, giving her a
choice of remaining stiff and resistant, or falling. Reflex kicked
in once more, and she slid her arms around his neck.

“What about him?” she asked, annoyed.

“He’s been watching you the entire time you
were at the bar.”

“All thirty seconds? That’s not watching;
it’s glancing.”

“Trust me. I’d give him another two minutes
of watching before he approaches.”

“…and?”

“And unless you’re into dungeons and
cat-o’-nines, I don’t think you want him to approach. He won’t take
no from you,” Greg said against her ear, “but he wouldn’t dare
ignore it from me. Relax.”

He led her out of the din of music and into a
smaller room, still crowded but shielded from the noise by yet
another padded wall.

“Well, I’m safe now,” Cora said when they
turned the corner. She pushed against his shoulders, attempting to
break his hold. “Thanks for the heroics, but I don’t need a white
knight.”

Especially not a white knight with a talent
for spotting the hawks in a woman’s psyche. Cora remembered the way
the woman with devil horns had jerked when Greg gave her reading,
and she cringed to imagine her own inner heart bared to entertain a
crowd.

“I’m trying to figure out how I can start
over with you. Do you believe in second chances?”

“Look,” Cora said abruptly. “I’m not here
because I believe in the powers of the dark or even any powers at
all. I don’t own a deck of Tarot cards or keep an altar in my spare
bedroom. This isn’t my kind of gathering. I’d appreciate it if you
don’t assume I’m okay with invasive readings. If you’re curious
about me, ask me questions.” She took a breath, surprised at her
own forcefulness, and finished with, “Consider this your second
chance.”

“Thank you.” He loosened his hold on her
waist. “Ready for my first question?”

She nodded. Greg ducked his head and smiled
against her temple. “Do you always find the most obnoxious freak in
a gallery of freaks?”

She couldn’t ignore the good humor in his
voice and smiled. “Why start small?”

“For the same reason you dip your toes into a
pool instead of leaping in headfirst. So you can make an informed
decision before you commit.”

“I’m not interested in commitment.” No
commitment, but she wasn’t completely against the idea of
re-establishing her sex life. Greg was warm and solid. It felt good
to embrace him. “Nothing more long term than a dance.”

“Sensible woman.” He moved them in an
uncomplicated step, a lazy shuffling circle most often found at
high school proms during the slow songs. Cora appreciated the easy
movement and its low-pressure intimacy. Her ears also appreciated
the muffling of music. She could hear him breathe if she tucked her
face into the curve of his throat.

“An anomaly, though,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought sensible women didn’t wear red
dresses.”

Cora laughed. “Old wives’ tale…every woman
should own and wear at least one red dress.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s clinically proven that a woman in a red
dress has more conversations at social events than a woman not in a
red dress.”

“So a red dress is a man-catching tool?”

“A red dress is a
networking
tool.”
She had to fight to keep her smile under wraps and maintain a prim
façade.

“Networking involves an exchange of names.
Usually an exchange of business cards as well.”

“I’m fresh out of business cards,” she said,
surprised at how much fun she was having now that she had
established some ground rules. She finally let the smile out. “I
could write my number in lipstick on your shirt collar.”

He dipped his head and kissed her so suddenly
that Cora stopped dancing altogether. She didn’t have time to
react, even if she had a reaction in mind besides dumbfounded
gaping, because as quickly as the kiss begun, it ended. Her
enjoyment ended much the same way.

“You’re not wearing any lipstick,” he said,
touching her bottom lip with one finger, “so I presume you don’t
have any in your bag and I have no chance of a phone number.”

“I should slap you and tell you any chance
you might’ve had before is gone now.” The indignation in her voice
wasn’t contrived. She didn’t like surprises.

“You should tell me your name because I like
you.”

When she didn’t answer immediately, he drew
her close again and resumed dancing as if nothing had happened.
Cora chose to move with him rather than compound the awkwardness by
stumbling.

“Penchant for falling into the arms of
obnoxious men,” he said. “If I were a gentleman, I’d deliver you to
somebody who could rescue you from me.”

And if she were smart, Cora knew she should
excuse herself and work on regaining some composure. Before she
could do so, a high-pitched bell sang out from the breast pocket of
his jacket. He loosened his hold and extracted a pager long enough
to check the number.

“I hope your own short-term commitment
sensibilities mean you won’t take it personally if I excuse
myself,” he said.

That threw her off all over again. She
shrugged, hoping it came across as nonchalant. “Of course not.”

He drew a business card from the pocket of
his jacket, soft leather she had touched only moments earlier.
“What’s your name?”

“Cora.”

“Cora.” He smiled, took her hand, and pressed
the card against her palm. “Call me.”

“I’m only in the city until January,” she
said.

“My phone will work up to and through
January. Call,” he said again and put his hands in his pockets.
“We’ll talk. Over lunch or over coffee or over anything you’d care
to talk over. Perhaps about your name.”

Greg grinned. “You look far too charming to
leave, but I do need to run. Will you be all right here? Would you
like me to see you out?”

She considered his offer. His ability to turn
flirtation into an extreme sport gave her pause, but it thrilled
her as well. There was something to be said for fantasy, and she
could definitely see herself playing the naïve lady to his devilish
womanizer. It would be very romance-novel. Altogether, she could
make worse decisions in choosing the company of a man.

“I’ll stay a bit longer, even though I’m sure
I’ll pay for it later,” she said finally. “Thank you, though. And
maybe I’ll call.”

“If ‘maybe’ is all you’ll give, I’ll keep my
fingers crossed. Goodnight, Cora.” He touched her shoulder, a brief
and politely intimate farewell, and walked away.

She fingered the edge of his business card
until he was out of sight before glancing at the type. Gregory Cho,
proprietor of an apothecary in Chinatown, was, she decided, worth
pursuing. She tucked his card into the little patent red leather
clutch she carried. The bag’s only other contents were a $100 bill,
her driver’s license and cell phone, and a string of condoms,
pressed upon her by Diane before they left for this
get-together.

Armed with the adventurous woman’s survival
kit and Greg’s phone number, she rejoined the crowd. Her
shrinking-violet shroud had vanished. A little smile clung to her
lips. Tomorrow, she might even convince Greg to invite her to
dinner.

Chapter Two

The next day, Cora’s mother and sister ganged
up on her a second time and hauled her off to The Spa Part Two: the
Torture Continues. The dialogue hadn’t changed between Part One and
Part Two.

“You can’t sleep anyway,” Diane reasoned,
while she and Cora were stretched supine on side-by-side massage
tables, “so why toss and turn in bed when you could be dancing? My
neighbor a few floors down is hosting. You can leave whenever you
want and don’t have to worry about a cab.”

“I went out with you last night. Would it be
such a waste of an evening to stay in with rented movies and boxes
of chocolate and gossip about everybody we know?”

“You do that when you don’t have any other
options. Tonight we have options.”

Cora could think of a dozen reasons why she
would rather be in bed not sleeping than at a party not sleeping.
She didn’t get a chance to voice them before her mother, enjoying
the full-body treatment on Cora’s other side, seconded the
motion.

“I think a party would be absolutely lovely.
Where else can a woman meet a man? And, honestly, you really
do
need to find a man. Or three, for that matter. Cora,
darling, you’re on a quest to
rediscover
yourself and
rediscovering yourself includes rediscovering your sexuality.
Diane, tell your sister to find a man. She never listens to
me.”

Cora cringed into the terrycloth pillow
beneath her head. Miranda Phillips was the socialite’s socialite.
“Glad I’m not paying either of you for professional advice.”

Diplomatic Diane cleared her throat. “She met
a man last night.”

Cora groaned. “Would you two stop?”

“What? I’m concerned about my daughters.
Diane can’t decide whether she prefers men or women. Not that I
care one way or the other, but honestly Diane, make up your mind.
And Cora, you don’t go out at all anymore. Not since the fire.”

“Don’t get into that, Ma,” Diane said.

Cora pressed her face harder into the pillow.
Every conversation had to come back to that in one way or another.
She would give her right arm for life in a silent film, even if
only for a little while.

“Music does have a healing quality,” Diane
said, steering the topic back to socializing and away from
psychoanalyzing. “I’ve said it before. It has a way of finding the
beat in your soul and bringing it back into alignment when it’s
lost its own rhythm.”

“This from the woman who, not 24 hours
earlier, entertained herself with vapid witticisms and pink
drinks?”

“Diane, you
didn’t.
”

Diane groaned. “Didn’t what?”

“Behave like that in public.”

“Like what?”

“Catty. I taught both my daughters better
than that. Catty is for private, gracious is for public, regardless
the company you’re keeping.”

“I’ve heard the music you listen to,” Cora
mumbled dryly into the pillow after Diane and Miranda stopped going
back and forth. “Trance seems more likely to put me to sleep than
to enliven my soul.”

“Different music for different illnesses,”
Diane countered.

“Forget the music and tell me about the
man.”

“You’re ruining my massage,” Cora
complained.

Miranda snorted. “Many things in life are
better than massages. Orgasms are one of them. Tell me about the
man.”

Cora sighed. “I wouldn’t exactly call him a
man.”

“Either he has a penis or he doesn’t.”

“Ma!”

“What? It’s biology.”

Cora shifted so she could glare at Diane, who
shot back an innocent, wide-eyed, “what do you want me to do about
it?” look.

“Make her stop,” Cora mouthed.

Diane pantomimed cutting her throat and
hooked a thumb in Miranda’s direction. She raised her eyebrows to
punctuate it as a question. Diane’s masseuse coughed. He may have
thought it amusing, but Cora gave the suggestion a moment of
serious consideration.

Miranda was not only a socialite, but also a
witch. Somewhere along the way (around the time New Age and
alternative religions came in vogue) she had decided that, as an
inherited witch rather than a self-styled witch, she should
approach life in a manner suiting her heritage. Her big thing right
now was an obsession with marrying her daughters off properly and
breeding them true, and Cora felt like she was trapped in a
medieval novel on the thankfully rare occasion she had to spend
lengths of time alone with her.

Keeping Miranda’s snobbish regard for station
in mind, Cora shifted once more and looked at her mother sidelong.
“He was performing party tricks in the kitchen when I met him,” she
said. “Using Goldschlager as a tea substitute and reading guests’
gold flakes.”

Miranda flinched. “Diane, doesn’t the set
have any class these days?”

“Fun and games, Mother,” Diane murmured.

The hairs on Cora’s arms stood on end. She
could feel Diane’s glare on the back of her head. Well, so what.
Diane was ready to throw her to the wolves at that party and she
had no qualms about throwing her to the Mother Wolf while Cora was
helpless and naked save a white towel. Diane deserved a little of
the heat herself.

Miranda huffed. “I can see my concern for
your future is unwelcome. I only ask, Diane, that you refrain from
allowing your sister to get involved with some common poseur.”

“Christ, Ma—”

“Coraline!” A horrified Miranda jerked up,
clutching her towel to her chest. “When did you start using
language like that?”

Cora’s mouth tightened and she sat up as
well, gathering her towel and swinging her legs off the massage
table. “You know very well when. I respect your beliefs. You should
do me the courtesy of respecting mine.”

She slid off the table before Miranda could
gather the sense to do the same and made a dash for the door. She
knew Miranda wouldn’t follow her back to the spa’s showers. Cora
had gotten to the dramatic exit first, and Miranda wouldn’t take
second-best for dramatics. That suited Cora fine. She wanted to
escape her mother, anyway, not move the issue to another
location.

The shower wasn’t far enough. Cora didn’t
linger over scrubbing massage oil from her skin and hair. She
finished the shower, dressed, and left Diane a note explaining that
she had to get away for some fresh air.
We’ll have dinner
,
she wrote. To her relief, she managed to escape the spa before
either Diane or Miranda caught up with her.

She plunged down the stairs to the first
subway station she came to without bothering to read the sign. The
flow of New York commuters carried her to the token booth, where
she slid the woman behind the glass a $20. Armed with enough tokens
to carry her around the entire city and back again, she moved
through the turnstiles and onto the waiting train just before its
doors closed.