Journey in Time (Knights in Time) (2 page)

“Of course, but I’m not finished talking about Alex. Whatever he did, you should let him explain. He and Ian are due back anytime now.”

“That’s my cue to go,” Shakira stood and gathered her shopping bags.

Miranda continued, “You’re making a mistake not giving him a chance to explain.”

“Duly noted.”

They talked more about the show on the way to Shakira’s car. Miranda heard the loud engine of Ian’s Lotus and stalled for time. The misunderstanding between Alex and Shakira needed sorting out. In her heart, Miranda knew the two of them were perfect for each other.

Chapter Three

Summer in the Norfolk countryside meant flower boxes overflowing with fat geraniums and vines laden with blooms. It meant a warm breeze from the Midlands and the rare few weeks English drivers with convertibles rode with the tops down. Unfortunately, Ian’s Lotus didn’t have a soft top. Alex pushed his sunglasses up and rolled down the passenger window. He stuck his head out, chin to the sun to catch a few rays while Ian opened the wrought iron gates.
 

The July sun beat down too hard for comfort. Sweat quickly beaded on Alex’s forehead and down his hairline. “Forget this.” He pulled his head back into the car and turned the air conditioner vents so they blew on his face.

 
“For God’s sake, install electric gates,” Alex called out as Ian battled a rusted hinge with brute force. A suggestion he made every time Ian went through the same fight with his gates.

A black Jaguar convertible parked farther up the drive drew Alex’s attention. A V-12 model XKE, the classic sports car looked in mint condition. The body’s mirror finish and chrome wheels glinted in the sunlight.
  

Miranda, Ian's wife, stepped off the porch and waved at him. Alex waved back as a dark haired woman in jeans and tee shirt came out carrying several large shopping bags. She put the group in her right hand down on the ground while she opened the trunk lid. One-by-one, she tried various ways to load the huge bags into the Jag’s tiny trunk. She finally gave up and stacked them onto the passenger seat.

He guessed the car to be at least thirty years old and the woman a few years younger. The long-legged driver looked as well taken care of as the vehicle, like a prized thoroughbred. Her casual clothes hugged her body without being tight. Blue-black hair hung to the middle of her back, the ends cut razor straight, only a few strands dared to lift in the breeze. Even with the oversized sunglasses that shielded part of her face, she appeared attractive...and familiar. And, he knew why.

Alex hopped out of the Lotus and squeezed through the partially open gate.

Ian looked up. "What are you doing?"

Walking backwards, Alex started to answer when a car door slammed. The Jag’s engine roared to life behind him followed by the crunch of gravel. He spun around in time to see the car exit the far side of the driveway.

He jogged up to Miranda. "Who’s your friend?"

Miranda continued toward the house. "My girlfriend, Shakira, you know the one I tried to introduce you to.”

“That’s Shake?”

Miranda nodded.

“Shakira what?”

“Shakira Constantine, the one who plays in a band on weekends. I believe you called it a...” frowning, she tapped her finger against her chin. “I want to get the quote right. Ah yes, ‘a grubby little band’ you didn’t want anything to do with.”

Shakira Constantine.
At last, he had a name for the mysterious lady he danced with at the charity ball, a brief encounter regrettably interrupted.

“Why do you ask?” Miranda said in a sugary sweet voice, feigning innocence.

Alex gave her his most charming grin. “Perhaps, I was a bit hasty. When and where is her band playing next?”

"Tomorrow night. Want to join us?"

"Wouldn’t miss it."

Chapter Four

On stage Shakira went over the playlist and watched the entrance for Ian and Miranda. She saw them as soon as they arrived. All three of them. Her eyes widened.

Bloody hell! They’d brought Alex Lancaster
.
Miranda and her damn matchmaking, I’m going to kill her.

Shakira ducked behind the stage curtain. She flattened herself against the wall and closed her eyes. Memories of the night she met Alex burst to life again. She’d relived their dance a hundred times in her head, how handsome he was and how well they moved together. The daydream always returned to the kiss, not a real kiss, not really, in truth, a brush of his lips across hers. She hated the fact she dwelled on it, but that didn’t stop her. The kiss had made her breath catch in her throat and a little light-headed. Air turbulence of the brain brought on by an exquisite man. So wonderful and so disillusioning, she thought with a sad sigh. He’d kissed her when he was there with another woman. Inexcusable.

She pulled the fringed edge of the curtain back and peered out with one eye. The cocktail waitress chatted with them, her empty tray resting on her hip. Alex said something and everyone at the table laughed. The waitress tossed her hair over her shoulder and touched his hand whenever she spoke. Blatant flirtation Shakira thought as she watched the interaction—not that she gave a whit.

A party in the next booth signaled the waitress and she moved to take their order. “’Bout time,” Shakira muttered. She let go of the curtain and flattened herself against the wall again. What was she going to do? She couldn’t ignore them.

This sticky situation was all Miranda’s fault. Since her teens she talked about the big wedding she wanted. Does she have that wedding? No! She elopes. If she’d had the traditional one, as planned, Shakira and Alex would’ve met then. When they saw each other at the charity ball, there’d have been no dance, no kiss, and no awkward moment. He’d never have been so rude and insensitive to his date knowing Shakira might tell Miranda how badly he behaved.

Shakira sighed and touched her lips. There’d have been no kiss.

She eased the curtain back again for another peek and almost bumped noses with the band’s lead guitarist, Jack. “Ack!” She jumped, shaking the velvet drape as she dropped the edge. Dust motes by the hundreds flew out from the material and hung suspended. “You scared the life out of me,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face. “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” Jack repeated. “What are you doing? You’re bobbing back and forth behind the curtain, slinking around.”

“I’m not slinking. I am...just...checking the attendance.”

“Yeah, right.”

She used him as a shield to watch Alex. Jack followed her gaze. “Isn’t that--”

“Yes,” she snapped.

Jack’s brows lifted a fraction. “Know him, do you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“This is some chick thing, isn’t it? Spare me the details. We’re on in fifteen. I’m grabbing a beer.” He shot another glance at Alex. “Be careful of that one. If you were my sister I’d lock you in the closet whenever he came over. But, having said that, I’m very grateful you’re not my sister.” Jack slipped his index finger into the front of her bustier and tugged on the lace to sneak a peek.

She slapped his hand away. “Stop it.”

“Yeah, very grateful you’re not my sister.” He chuckled and walked towards the bar where a clutch of groupies swarmed him.

She’d played second lead guitar with Beltane for a year. The band attracted a wild fan base of women-some appallingly brazen. Understandable.

The lead singer, Tristan, had sandy brown hair, sorrowful deep-set eyes and a heartbreaking baritone voice. Whenever he sang a sad love song women believed it was a personal plea. Females surrounded him and nurtured him with their own brand of sympathy at the session breaks. Tristan always included at least two or three love songs in the show.

At 6’6", Dermot, the drummer, a dedicated body builder bulged with muscles. He kept his head and chest shaved and performed shirtless. Better to show off the enraged dragon tattooed on his well-defined pectorals, he claimed. The creature's pointed wing tips began at his shoulders and ran the length of his arms. The dragon's angry head and body covered his torso. The creature’s fiery breath flamed toward his groin. None of the women who flocked around Dermot were interested in nurturing him, which suited him just fine.

The keyboardist, Paul, the self-styled thinking woman's hero wore horn-rimmed glasses. They made his bright, green eyes appear large and limpid. On the quiet side, women liked his shyness and foolishly assumed him sweet.

Lastly, Jack Stone, the lead guitarist and the most popular member of the band had fans that followed him from club to club. At 6'2 and broad shouldered, Jack conjured up visions of Viking conquerors. His light blonde hair flowed in waves down to the middle of his back. Deep blue eyes and a brilliant toothpaste ad smile drew women like chocolate.

If he sailed up to a sandy beach standing at the prow of a Norse longboat, no woman with eyes in her head would ask, "What's a Viking doing in the 21
^st
century?" She'd be far more inclined to find out if Jack took female slaves.

By mutual agreement, Shakira and the dishy musicians kept their relationship platonic. However, the bargain didn’t keep them from teasing each other, and especially her, unmercifully, sexual innuendo being the root of most of their jokes.

She’d procrastinated long enough. She had to greet Miranda and Ian. Maybe Alex wouldn’t recognize her. Lord knew how many women crossed his path since they met. Reassured, she took a bracing breath, smiled, and went over to the table.

"Hi, I'm so glad you came." Shakira kissed Ian and then Miranda on the cheek.

Without hesitation and wanting to hurry through the next few minutes, she turned to Alex and held out her hand. "Good evening...Mr. Lancaster," using his name when she saw the recognition in his eyes. "How nice to see you again, I'm Shakira Constantine."

"It's nice to see you again and finally find out your name. I tried like the devil to get back to you the other night. You seemed to disappear every time I came close. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were avoiding me."

Shakira knew a baited question when she heard one. She asked them all the time in depositions. The person under examination must either admit the truth or lie. One lie led to another, until the person painted themselves into a corner. Rather than make the same mistake, she kept the polite smile pasted in place and tried not to act guilty.

"Were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Avoiding me? Was my kiss so repugnant?" Alex brought his hand to his chest, and mocked a knife to his heart.

"You kissed?" Miranda interjected.

"We danced."
 

"We danced and then we kissed," Alex corrected her. "Had I been given another second we'd have kissed again." His intense gaze challenged her to deny the truth.

"Perhaps,” she conceded and then added, “but I doubt it, since you were there with your girlfriend."

Alex relaxed against the cushion of the booth. "If you're referring to Annabelle, she's an ex-girlfriend. She likes celebrity events. I was invited. She wasn’t. I merely acted as her escort so she could get into the ball. As a matter of fact, she left with a footballer. I take it you considered me quite the cad and avoided me for that reason?"