for her if ya want."
A sharp whistle sounded across the lobby, directed at him evidently, for he flinched. He added, "Gotta go," and dashed away, holding the dollar bill gingerly. Charlie swallowed a small lump in her throat and looked back to the aquarium as if she were drowning and the small, brilliant light of the tank were the sun to show her the way to the surface. She did not want to be here. She fought down an overwhelming moment of panic, wondering where her mother could be.
A janitor came through with a small carpet sweeper, cleaned the area of the lobby briskly and quickly, leaned to the aquarium and snapped the light off. He smiled at Charlie.
"Even fish have to sleep sometime," he said apologetically.
She nodded. She continued to watch the darkened tank, although the fish were nearly impossible to see now, and the eel withdrew entirely into his rock. The janitor worked his way around, humming off-key to himself, and then there was silence again except for the sound of the aquarium pump, and the faint voices from the waiting family in the other alcove.
She closed her eyes briefly and sent a small prayer for their daughter, whoever she was.
"Charlie."
Startled, her eyelids flew open, her body jerking in reflex.
He stood very near her, so close she wondered how he had gotten there without her knowing, unless she had dozed for a moment or two when her eyes closed. His face was shadowed in the dimness of the alcove, but she would know it anywhere, dark hair smoothed back, dark eyes intent on her, dark goatee neatly trimmed, his ivory shirt gleaming from the depths of his dark and expensive suit jacket.
He removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her silently. She took it, careful not to actually touch his fingers, and realized a tear or two dampened her cheekbones. She dabbed at them, drying her face.
He refused when she tried to return the handkerchief.
Uneasily, Charlie wrapped it about her hand. "Thank you, Valdor."
He inclined his head. "Are you all right?" His dark gaze swept the wheelchair.
She paused before answering. "I will be."
"May I sit?"
So formal. Always, so formal. Born in Europe, educated in Italy and France, like his father and grandfather before him, his fiery intellect bent entirely toward the arts. He discouraged use of his first name, Federico, which Americans invariably tried to reduce to Fred, preferring to be addressed by his last name, even in intimacy. He had spent most of his youth in San Francisco before going to Europe to finish his degree in business and art, and he had scarcely a trace of accent in his voice, but his mannerisms, his culture, his outlook, his whole persona were indisputably Continental. He even far preferred to gamble in Monte Carlo rather than in Vegas.
At one time she had thought it incredibly sophisticated. Now she thought little of it one way or the other.
He sat down anyway, taking care to pluck at the crease in his trousers so that it would stay in place.
"You were there tonight," Charlie said, suddenly realizing that though she had never seen him he had to have been among the crowd.
"I was."
"Why?" The calm in her tone surprised her.
"I heard of the show. I came because I hoped… you had started painting again."
"I will never paint again."
"You cannot say that. No one of us knows what our future holds."
A small sigh escaped her despite her effort to rein in all her emotions. Valdor's eyes flickered slightly.
"I can say that I don't feel like painting again."
He countered, "But we both know your feelings change. You are mercurial, like the wind."
She was not, and he knew it, and about the only major feeling she had ever had change was her love for painting— and he knew that, too. She ignored the dig. The palm of her right hand itched a little, missing the feel of Jagger's harness in it, and the protection he gave her. Valdor would not be sitting opposite her now, a cool,
A sharp whistle sounded across the lobby, directed at him evidently, for he flinched. He added, "Gotta go," and dashed away, holding the dollar bill gingerly. Charlie swallowed a small lump in her throat and looked back to the aquarium as if she were drowning and the small, brilliant light of the tank were the sun to show her the way to the surface. She did not want to be here. She fought down an overwhelming moment of panic, wondering where her mother could be.
A janitor came through with a small carpet sweeper, cleaned the area of the lobby briskly and quickly, leaned to the aquarium and snapped the light off. He smiled at Charlie.
"Even fish have to sleep sometime," he said apologetically.
She nodded. She continued to watch the darkened tank, although the fish were nearly impossible to see now, and the eel withdrew entirely into his rock. The janitor worked his way around, humming off-key to himself, and then there was silence again except for the sound of the aquarium pump, and the faint voices from the waiting family in the other alcove.
She closed her eyes briefly and sent a small prayer for their daughter, whoever she was.
"Charlie."
Startled, her eyelids flew open, her body jerking in reflex.
He stood very near her, so close she wondered how he had gotten there without her knowing, unless she had dozed for a moment or two when her eyes closed. His face was shadowed in the dimness of the alcove, but she would know it anywhere, dark hair smoothed back, dark eyes intent on her, dark goatee neatly trimmed, his ivory shirt gleaming from the depths of his dark and expensive suit jacket.
He removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her silently. She took it, careful not to actually touch his fingers, and realized a tear or two dampened her cheekbones. She dabbed at them, drying her face.
He refused when she tried to return the handkerchief.
Uneasily, Charlie wrapped it about her hand. "Thank you, Valdor."
He inclined his head. "Are you all right?" His dark gaze swept the wheelchair.
She paused before answering. "I will be."
"May I sit?"
So formal. Always, so formal. Born in Europe, educated in Italy and France, like his father and grandfather before him, his fiery intellect bent entirely toward the arts. He discouraged use of his first name, Federico, which Americans invariably tried to reduce to Fred, preferring to be addressed by his last name, even in intimacy. He had spent most of his youth in San Francisco before going to Europe to finish his degree in business and art, and he had scarcely a trace of accent in his voice, but his mannerisms, his culture, his outlook, his whole persona were indisputably Continental. He even far preferred to gamble in Monte Carlo rather than in Vegas.
At one time she had thought it incredibly sophisticated. Now she thought little of it one way or the other.
He sat down anyway, taking care to pluck at the crease in his trousers so that it would stay in place.
"You were there tonight," Charlie said, suddenly realizing that though she had never seen him he had to have been among the crowd.
"I was."
"Why?" The calm in her tone surprised her.
"I heard of the show. I came because I hoped… you had started painting again."
"I will never paint again."
"You cannot say that. No one of us knows what our future holds."
A small sigh escaped her despite her effort to rein in all her emotions. Valdor's eyes flickered slightly.
"I can say that I don't feel like painting again."
He countered, "But we both know your feelings change. You are mercurial, like the wind."
She was not, and he knew it, and about the only major feeling she had ever had change was her love for painting— and he knew that, too. She ignored the dig. The palm of her right hand itched a little, missing the feel of Jagger's harness in it, and the protection he gave her. Valdor would not be sitting opposite her now, a cool,
Similar Books
