Mad Dog Justice (36 page)

Heat rose in my face, and my scalp prickled deliciously. I ached with desire. Watching Nora, I felt I could have been at a
habanera
at a lantern-lit café in Buenos Aires. My writer’s imagination was working overtime.

Applause rocked the room as the lighting returned. Nora disappeared into the crowd. Standing in a state of stunned silence, I was certain she was unattainable.

“Unbelievable, isn’t she?”

A woman about my age—midthirties—looked up at me. She, too, had that Latin look—sensuous, pulsing with life. Yet she looked partly Eastern European, maybe Polish or Russian; it was hard to make out. Her features were more Slavic than the dancer’s. But there was that black hair and dark, laughing eyes.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And … expressive …”

“She’s my sister, Nora.”

“Yes, now I see. There’s a resemblance.”

“That’s the best compliment I’ve received in years.”

“These things run in families.”

“I’m Lee. Lee Walsh,” she said, extending her hand.

“Bill Shaw.”

“Would you like to meet her?”

Was I hallucinating?

“Of course. But I …”

“The only ‘but’ is that she’ll eat you alive.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, wondering if this was truly happening. Yes, I’d had luck with women, but this was more than I could hope for.

“I’ll be right back.”

It occurred to me that, despite all the women I’d known, I suddenly felt like a callow high school kid—even nervous. I belted down the rest of my scotch, feeling its warmth spread through my cheeks.

When they approached, I was actually quivering with nerves. In her stiletto heels, Nora was my height. Close up, her eyes were large, dark, and liquid. They roamed over me. I felt I could lose myself in the depth of her gaze.

“Nora Reyes, this is Bill Shaw,” Lee said.

I grasped her hand as tingling coursed through me. I’d never felt such a sensation simply touching a woman. Her hair glistened in the overhead light. Her nose swept down to those flaring nostrils. And her chin was full, with a plump underbelly—soft and inviting. Her olive skin appeared moist. I could smell its oil; it wasn’t lotion or perfume. It was her.

Her eyes moved brazenly over me. I felt exposed, vulnerable. Yes, Lee was right: I was being devoured by this gorgeous woman.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Lee said, and melted into the crowd.

Coltrane’s sax sang “All or Nothing at All.” I felt a deep
yearning seep through me, and somehow I knew I’d always remember this night.

“Tell me, Bill Shaw,” she said, “Have I made a mistake all these years avoiding these West Village get-togethers?”

“You’ve done the right thing.”

“And tonight? Coming here?”

“The right thing again.”

She laughed. “I suspect so …”

“Hopefully, your suspicions will be realized.”

She laughed with an open mouth. Her teeth were perfect. Her lips were sensuous, bow shaped, pliant, and moist looking. I felt an insane urge to press my lips to hers, to taste the wetness of her tongue. It was a craving so intense, I thought for a moment I would clutch her in my arms, press her to me, feel her heat, explore inside her mouth.

“That was a beautiful tango. Argentinean, right?” I said.

“Yes. Most people don’t know the different types,” she said, her finger brushing my cheek. My face burned. Her touch left my skin tingling.

“I could teach the tango to you.”

“I would like that,” I said as my body thrummed. “Are you a professional dancer?”

“No. I’m an actor.”

“Have I seen you in anything?”

“Not unless you watch soap operas. I’m in
The Burning World
. But tell me what
you
do, Bill.”

“I’m a writer,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like every fool at this gathering.

“Really? You look like a … a cop.”

I laughed self-consciously. I’d been told this so often I sometimes felt I should have an honorary badge.

“Yes. You’re tall and well built. You have a strong face. And those eyes. Such a deep blue. You look very … rugged. I
like
that
in a man. And a writer … brains
and
brawn,” she said, canting her head.

My face felt flushed.

“Have I read anything you’ve written?”

“Only if you read crime fiction.” My God. Did I sound vainglorious? “There was
Fire and Ice
.”

“
Fire and Ice?
Isn’t that a
movie
about a serial killer?”

“It’s a standard detective cliché,” I said, feeling awkward. “It was adapted from the novel.”

“Now I’ll have to read the book. I’m an avid reader. You wouldn’t be looking for a freelance editor, would you?”

“That could be arranged.”

“Bill, we can arrange anything we want,” she whispered, moving closer.

“How about we arrange to go to dinner?”
God, where had that come from?
It simply slipped out. My legs were turning to liquid.

“Where will we go?”

“There’s a lovely Spanish restaurant on Charles Street … El Charro,” I said, afraid she might think I was patronizing her.

“And then what?”

“Then …” I said, suddenly at a loss for words.

“I’ll bet you live near the restaurant,” she said with laughing eyes.

“I
live
on Charles Street … a garden apartment in a brownstone.”

“That would be wonderful,” she said, grabbing my arm.

That night—fifteen years ago—was the beginning of the end of everything.