Mystique (8 page)

"I don't work every night."
Feeling his gaze on her,

Misty kept her eyes focused straight
ahead. "You're a proud little thing."

"I don't know why you keep coming
around. We said everything there was to say yesterday morning."

"Not quite," he disagreed,
firing the powerful engine and pulling smoothly into heavy traffic.

"But why do you keep coming?"
she repeated, confused. "I won't change my mind."

"I know. I've changed mine."

"About what?"

He didn't answer. Instead he concentrated
on maneuvering the sleek car through the congested traffic. Misty gazed
distractedly out the window at the people hurrying along the sidewalks. Where
were they going? Home? Out to dinner? To a show?

Finally Luc drew the car up outside the
Terrace Hotel. As Misty began fumbling with the door handle he said mildly,
"Don't bother, darling. It's locked on the wheel." He parked and turned
to her. "I've thought over what you told me yesterday, and I realize your
request has merit." He pressed a button on the steering wheel, and the
door on her side of the car unlocked. Then he got out, removed her things from
the trunk, and ushered her up the steps to the entrance.

"What do you mean?" Misty asked
as a thin thread of panic uncurled inside her.

"Shall I park your car, sir?"
the parking attendant asked Luc.

"No, thank you," Luc replied.
He walked with Misty into the lobby, handed her the carrier, kissed her on the
cheek, and left without explaining how he'd changed his mind.

Misty stood staring after him, thoroughly
perplexed. But in another moment she realized it was time to change and she
hurried to her dressing room. Once dressed, she studied herself in the mirror.
Morey had been right again. For some reason the persimmon-colored gown seemed
to enhance her hair rather than clash with it. She applied pale gold eye
shadow—tonight she would have cat's eyes—and leaned closer to the mirror. Was the
gown cut a shade too low in front?

The crisp silk was molded tightly to her
bosom and clung as though magnetized to her form. The wide neckline skimmed her
shoulders, and the long sleeves ended tightly above her wrists. There was no
extra material to get in her way as she played the piano. The dress was light
and very comfortable, and it gave the skin on her neck and above her breasts a
peachy pearlescence. Misty laughed with delight at her image as she put on
dangling gold earrings, her only jewelry except for a thin gold watch. She
found costume jewelry a distraction when she played and rarely wore it.

Misty strolled out of the dressing room
twenty minutes early and went over to Willis, who was gesturing to her.
"Hi. How's the crowd in the Edwardian Room?" she asked.

"We're full up, as we've been since
you began playing here," Willis told her. "Here. You have time to eat
some soup and bread and drink a glass of milk. I've put it all out for you on
the little table behind the palm tree."

Misty blinked at him in surprise.
"Willis, you know I never eat before I play."

"But this won't be a lot of food.
Come on and sit down." He ushered her to a chair at the small corner table
and gestured to one of the waiters.

"I don't think I should do
this," she protested faintly, tantalized in spite of herself by the
fragrant soup.

"Eat," Willis commanded.

She did. The clear beef broth with
vegetables tasted great with the French crackers, while the glass of milk was a
welcome addition. "Thank you, Willis. That was delicious. I do feel
better." Misty put her hand on the maitre d's sleeve.

"It's about time I fed you. I don't
know why I didn't think of it before," he grumbled, then turned away to
speak to a portly man in a cashmere suit.

Misty wanted to ask Willis what he meant,
but he was busy and, besides, it was time to begin playing.

Her sense of well-being affected her
playing in a positive manner. She found herself straying from her usual
repertoire of popular songs and show tunes to play a rousing piece by Nicolai
Rimsky-Korsakov. She smiled at the audience's burst of applause, then moved
immediately into Rachmaninoff, chuckling when she heard a collective sigh rise
from some of the diners. She returned to her standard repertoire feeling
refreshed.

The evening passed quickly. At midnight
she realized she felt less fatigued than usual. She looked up to smile at her
audience... and gazed right into Luc Harrison's brown eyes. He raised his glass
to her and tipped some of the brown liquid into his mouth. She caught her breath
as a tingling warmth started in her toes and worked its way upward.

After that, she couldn't seem to control
her eyes. They strayed at will toward Luc. Each time, she found him watching
her. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. Her fingers seemed to take on a life
of their own as they skimmed skillfully over the piano keys. A few stragglers
lingered in the dining room and applauded loudly after each song as she
continued to play, putting all her heart and soul into the music.

Finally there was no one left but Luc. In
accordance with house rules, she could have quit for the night, but she didn't.
Instead, she continued to play ever more difficult pieces.

At two-thirty a hand came down over hers
on the keyboard. "That's enough, darling. You're tired."

Misty nodded, staring mesmerized at Luc
as his determined gaze kindled a warmth in her such as she had never felt
before. "I think I could play all night," she whispered to him.

"I know," he told her, lifting
her from the piano bench and slipping an arm around her. "Go and change.
I'll drive you home tonight."

"Isn't this awfully late for you?
Don't you have to work at the bank in the morning?"

"Yes to both questions. But I think
I may have a solution to the problem."

"Oh?"

"Never mind that now. I'll tell you
later." He led her to the wide corridor and patted her backside. "Go
and change."

"I... I..." Misty stood,
irresolute.

"Stop thinking up excuses, Mystique.
I'll just have to refute them."

She turned away, frowning as she said
good night to Willis and went into her dressing room. After scrubbing the
makeup off her face, she changed into the velvet jeans and emerald green blouse
she'd worn on her way over to the hotel. I don't understand him, she thought.
He confuses me. Tonight I'm going to tell him again that I want nothing to do
with him. She stifled the ache that the words brought deep inside. If she was
to survive, she had to keep men like Luc Harrison out of her life. It was the
only way. She left the dressing room, wearing no makeup except a little lip
gloss.

Luc was waiting for her. He took the
carrier out of her hands. "You look twelve years old," he said,
staring at her. "I'm not."

"I'm glad," he said, imitating
her stern tone. But his eyes glinted with amusement.

"Mr. Harrison..." she began as
they walked out the front door to the Ferrari. Louis, the parking attendant,
was holding open the passenger door. "Thank you, Louis." She tried to
smile.

Luc got in, started the car, and pulled
away from the curb. "Put your head back and rest," he told her.
"You can say anything you want when we get home."

Misty turned in the seat to face him.
"I want to tell you now, Mr. Harrison.

"Luc."

"All right, Luc. I want to tell
you—"

"Put your head back and relax, love.
Then you can talk

to me."

Misty settled back, her eyes skimming the
facades of the buildings they passed and die darkened interior of the car.
"You keep interrupting, me," she complained.

He laughed lightly. "I promise not
to do it anymore," he said, pressing his hand on her knee for just a
second, seeming not to notice when she quivered at his touch.

"Good," she said, suddenly
hoarse. "Luc, I want you to stop coming to the Terrace Hotel."

"Darling, how can I? I'm one of the
owners."

"You're doing it again," Misty
said, rolling her head to stare at him.

"Sorry, sweet."

"We talked this through on New
Year's Day, in your apartment." "My suite in the hotel," he
corrected her. "Stop interrupting!" "All right," he
whispered. "Luc!"

"I'm listening."

"We talked, and we decided we
wouldn't see each other again."

"Now I have to interrupt," he
said, trying to soothe her with a squeeze on her knee that made her jump.
"I did not agree that we shouldn't see each other again. I admit that I
was a little thrown by your demands, but I did not say that I wouldn't see you
again."

"Well, now you can," Misty
declared.

He shook his head. "I can't do that.
Primarily because it would be a lie." He turned the car onto the entrance
ramp leading to a small underground garage where only two other cars were
parked.

With a start of surprise Misty sat up
abruptly, looking around her. "Where are we?" she demanded.

"Now, don't panic. We're in the
underground garage I share with three other brownstone owners in the neighborhood.
Although the cost is outrageous—"

"I don't want to hear how expensive
it is to park your Ferrari." Her voice rose to a shriek. "Take me
home."

Luc parked the car, removed the keys, and
got out. He went around to her side, opened the door, and leaned in to take her
arm. She shrank back, cringing. Luc's mouth tightened ominously.
"Darling, don't ever flinch from me." He went down on his haunches so
that they were eye to eye and lifted her hand to his mouth, his eyes never
leaving her face. "Please come in for a moment, Mystique. I want to show
you something." He pulled an envelope from his pocket.

"I want to go home. It's late."
She swallowed, her throat dry.

"Just let me show you these
papers." He glanced around the garage. "This place is well lit, but
not for reading. Besides, I want to show you something else."

Reluctantly she swung her legs around and
let Luc help her to her feet. "I won't stay long."

"It won't take you more than fifteen
minutes to read these papers," Luc assured her, leading her to a doorway
with a steel nameplate that read: Lucas S. Harrison. "This stairway leads
to the basement of my brownstone," he explained. "Above us are the
owners' four backyards. Each one is separated by trees and fencing to ensure a
measure of privacy for all the tenants." He led her up cement steps, his
hand enveloping hers. At the top he unlocked another steel door and switched on
a light. 'This is the wine cellar. It feels cool, doesn't it? Through here,
Mystique." He ushered her down a wide pathway with wine bottles on either
side to a thick oak door, which he also opened. It led onto a more spacious
area of the basement. "I keep gym equipment down here." He gestured
toward a weight machine, a punching bag, and a padded exercise board.

"Nice," Misty murmured,
glancing at the unfinished brick walls.

"If you'd like an exercycle, we can
get that, too," he said.

Misty stared at him. "I don't care
what you put in here. I swim at an athletic club three times a week."

Luc considered the room. "I don't
think we could fit a pool in here, darling."

"I'm not your darling," she
snapped, preceding him up a wide staircase that led into what Misty surmised to
be the front foyer of the house.

"That's the front door leading to
the street," Luc confirmed, pointing to an oak door inset with a
stained-glass window. "We'll go into the living room. On the second floor
is my library, on the third floor is the master suite, and on the fourth floor
are three more bedrooms. There are four bathrooms. Down here, besides the
living and dining rooms, is the kitchen and a larger room that I use for entertaining.
I have day help, but no live-in—"

Just then Misty heard a rhythmic clicking
coming across the oak floor. A large brown Doberman stuck his head around an
open door. Misty stepped back, paralyzed with fright. A thousand remembered
nightmares filled her thoughts, foremost among them the image of the dog that
had bitten her when she was thirteen. The growling, snapping, and snarling
seemed to be all around her, as fresh in her mind as the moment the animal had
attacked her, leaping out at her as she walked past his house. Later, when the
owner had suggested to her father that she had provoked the dog, her father had
agreed without hesitation that she probably had.

"Darling, for God's sake!" Luc
exclaimed. "Are you afraid of dogs?" He took her into his arms,
cradling her, protecting her, trying to lift her chin, which she burrowed
against his chest. "Bruno, down," he ordered. "Good boy."

Misty took several deep breaths. "A
dog like that bit me," she said shakily. "It wasn't my fault."

"No, of course it wasn't. You're
trembling." Luc tipped up her chin. "Don't be afraid."

Gradually, feeling warm in Luc's embrace,
she grew calm. She turned her head to study the dog, who was lying on the
floor, his head between his paws, whining softly. Misty gave a weak laugh.
"He thinks I'm crazy, doesn't he?"