Blue Dawn (10 page)

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Allie rose, signaling an end to the conversation. “The column will likely be in Monday’s paper, so if you have anything new before then, please call.”

Madame Carabini rose, and saw Allie to the door without further comment. Erik slung his camera bag over his shoulder and followed, glad to escape the psychic’s scrutiny.

Erik had just reached the curb when Allie turned on him. “Why did you lie?”

“Lie?” Erik looked up in shock. How had Allie known he lied? To his knowledge, she had no telepathic tendencies.

“Yes, lie.” Allie spoke without hesitation. “I may not always be the best judge of people, especially when it comes to my own life. But I
am
a good observer. That’s what makes me a good reporter. What Madame Carabini said upset you.

You turned white. For a moment you looked as if you’d seen something terrible. It’s true, isn’t it?”

Erik regarded her in silence. Despite her accusation, he did not sense any condemnation.

Rather, he could see the concern in her troubled green eyes, and hear it in her voice, the natural response of her generous nature.

He wavered. Should he tell her? He didn’t want to lie to her. Not more than was absolutely necessary until the time arrived to tell her the whole truth.

He took a deep breath. He would gamble, to a limited extent. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It’s true.

Those incidents occurred.”

Allie’s expression grew puzzled. She frowned. “But why would your father shoot that bird? Especially after you’d cared for it?”

Erik’s stomach tightened with a spasm of long-suppressed hurt and anger. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. So help me to understand,” Allie said softly. “Tell me.”

“No.” Erik backed away from the gentle plea in her soft green eyes. Under her gaze, every one of his systems was going haywire.

“Why not? Why won’t you tell me?”

“It’s not important.” He shrugged, deliberately deleting every shred of emotion from his expression. “It was all a long time ago. Today is what matters. Tomorrow. Not some minor incident from long ago.”

“If it was so minor, why deny it?”

The logic of her simple question, combined with the gentle manner in which she voiced it, were devastating.
Why indeed?
If it was nothing, why couldn’t he talk about it? Why did he perceive such a minuscule part of his life as a threat?

With an effort, he pushed the confusing questions aside. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He brushed past Allie to unlock the passenger door of the Jag, then straightened and opened the door.

Allie regarded him, her brow creased. “All right,” she said finally.

But as she slipped into the car, Erik knew it wasn’t all right. He could see it in the questions on her lips, and in her eyes; he could hear it in the tenderness in her voice.

Worse, he could feel it deep inside, where the questions he had never dared think before were slowly taking form.

Why had his father insisted on killing the bird he had loved and nursed back to health? And perhaps more importantly, why was attachment to another creature, however insignificant, deemed a sign of irredeemable weakness? Why was love, that most human of emotions, so scorned on Zura?

Sunlight poured through the bank of open windows into Allie’s studio apartment, along with an array of noises as the street below gradually awakened to Saturday morning commerce.

Thoughtfully, Allie stirred the tin of forest green latex paint, but her mind was neither on the long stretch of dingy yellow wall stretching away from her on either side nor the street noises below.

Despite herself, she couldn’t stop thinking about Erik. The glimpses of his past revealed by the psychic yesterday had disturbed her deeply.

Why had he lied to Madame Carabini? she wondered. And why, after he’d admitted the truth, had he refused to talk about that incident with the bird? Without doubt it had hurt Erik the boy greatly, so why did the grown man want to dismiss it as nothing?

Allie groaned and shook her head. And why did she—the woman who had sworn off all men, and in particular a man who had playboy stamped all over him—even care? Why did her heart immediately ache to soothe wounds he wouldn’t even admit existed?

She shook her head again and stirred the paint with a vengeance. Because she was a sentimental sap. Because she was a fool. Because she still kept seeing what she wanted to see rather than what was really there, getting herself into trouble again and again.

She bit her lip and fiercely shoved all thoughts of Erik away. With renewed resolve, she ripped the cellophane wrapping off a new paint brush, and surveyed the walls of her renovated warehouse apartment. Three of them were exposed brick, but the one plastered wall seemed to go on forever, a boring blah vista, much like the thought of the long, lonely weekend stretching ahead of her. Why had she refused all offers of help? What had ever possessed her to think she would enjoy painting by herself? That she might actually find it therapeutic, a calming retreat from the hurt and humiliation and worry of the last few weeks?

The doorbell chimed. Allie jumped up and raced to answer the welcome diversion. Sharkey padded after her, looking for his chance to escape into the hallway.

She didn’t bother with the peephole this morning; she hadn’t developed any skill at identifying callers from their crotches. Using her bare foot to block the little cat’s escape, she pulled open the door—to no one.

Her brow wrinkled in surprise. As she stepped into the hall, her foot hit something and she stumbled.

“Ouch!” She grimaced and looked down at the offending item. It was a cardboard box full of tins of Whiska’s cat food. Sharkey jumped over her foot and pounced on the box with delight.

“What the—”

“Good morning.”

Allie’s gaze darted farther down the hall from where the quiet greeting had emanated. There, hands in the pockets of his close-fitting jeans, and leaning against the brick wall, was Erik. His tanned arms were bare under the pale turquoise T-shirt, a shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean build. As usual, he wasn’t smiling, just observing with those strange gray eyes.

Allie blinked. She tried to smile. Already a faint humming had started up in the back of her head.

Under the long man’s shirt she wore over tattered cutoffs, her nipples tingled and perked to attention, their persistent and unwanted response to Erik’s overwhelming masculinity.

Despite the warmth of the June morning, she shivered. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Erik’s gaze meshed with hers. “Kate told me you had a lot of painting to do. She said you were insisting on doing it yourself.”

He paused. “I don’t have anything to do this weekend. So I thought maybe I could help.”

Caught off guard, Allie almost said yes. She opened her mouth then shut it as a cloud of suspicion reined in her impulsiveness. Why was he here? What did he really want?

She straightened and tried to smile innocuously. “Thank you. But it’s not necessary.

And you don’t really want to spend one of your first weekends in Chicago painting someone else’s apartment.”

For a moment Erik remained silent. If her response disappointed him, Allie couldn’t tell.

Then he disengaged himself from the wall and walked towards her. He stopped a couple of feet away, his expression suddenly earnest, and far more disarming than Allie would have thought possible.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I know how you feel about men right now. About me. And I respect that. You’re right. But I’m not doing this to be nice. I thought maybe we could trade. I’ll help you paint. And then you can help me.”

“Help you? How?”

One of Erik’s rare smiles creased his rugged face, with electrifying effect on Allie.

“I need help finding an apartment,” he said. “I don’t know Chicago. I’ll help you paint. You can help me find an apartment. Okay?”

The thought of help painting her apartment was tempting —especially since she’d just realized painting alone would not salve her worries. And like it or not, the thought of Erik helping her paint was even more tempting.

Uncertain, Allie stalled. She looked down at the box of cat food where Sharkey sniffed undisturbed.

“What’s with the cat food?”

“I knew you had a cat. I noticed him the night I was here.”

Allie colored at the reminder of an evening she wanted to forget. “Well, that’s a new one,” she quipped, struggling for balance. “No one’s ever arrived at my door bearing cat food before.”

She cocked her head and regarded Erik with mock criticism. “You’re probably the kind of guy who gives his wife a washing machine at Christmas.”

“A washing machine?” Erik looked perplexed.

“What does a washing machine have to do with cat food?”

Allie rolled her eyes. She didn’t understand how her humor never hit home with Erik. But maybe it was just as well.

“Never mind.” She grabbed his arm, smiled sweetly, then tugged him into her apartment.

“Ten hours from now, I want you to remember that
you
were the one who offered to help.”

With abandon, Allie crooned along to a song blaring from the radio. She swayed to the music, occasionally shutting her eyes but still wielding the paint roller to the beat.

Erik watched her, first with amazement, and then, he realized with a shock, with something that could only be pleasure. Pleasure in her happiness, pleasure in an exuberance he’d never seen before and which appealed to him for no logical reason.

Careful to keep his expression in check, he watched as Allie kept time to the music. Was this what humans called being slap-happy? Because Allie had definitely changed as the morning faded into afternoon.

Lulled by the rhythmic motion of the roller, the smell of fresh paint, and the warm, moist air as the heat in the apartment climbed inexorably to well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit, he had become almost somnolent.

But the repetitive work and the heat seemed to have the opposite effect on Allie. The hotter and the wearier she got, the crazier she became, slapping on the paint, joking and laughing, telling humorous and revealing stories of
The Streeter’s
first two years.

He watched Allie wiggle the pert little bottom that was becoming of increasing interest to him.

He couldn’t stop glancing at the slim, smooth, paint-spattered legs whose swaying he was responding to in the most primitive way possible, all Zalian controls to the contrary.

He swallowed. Obviously, the methodical plan he had devised to win Allie’s affection both at work and on the home front was working.

The problem was, he wasn’t sure
who
it was working on. Certainly he had expected the intrusion of at least some emotion. After all, he was one quarter human. But he hadn’t expected to
like
the process so much. Or her.

He noticed Allie’s cat slip out from behind a divider separating the bedroom from the rest of the large apartment. Allie set down her roller and, with an impulsiveness he was starting to recognize as characteristic, scooped up the little cat and started to dance around the room to the lilting strains of the next song.

After a couple of turns, Sharkey meowed and managed to wriggle out of Allie’s arms. He disappeared around the divider with a screech.

“Hmph.” Allie pouted. “That wasn’t very nice.

You’d think after all I’ve done for him, he could at least dance with me. This is one of my favorite songs, too.”

She glanced at Erik. Her pout turned to a grin.

She stepped over to him and held out her arms.

Erik stopped painting. The expectant gleam in her eyes set off a faint spark of apprehension within him.

“May I have the honor of this dance, Mr.

Berenger?”

“Why?” The word escaped before Erik could stop it.

“Why not?”

Erik cleared his throat. No one danced in Zalia.

And it wasn’t a skill he’d thought he’d need for his short time on Earth.

“I can’t dance.”

“That’s what you and every other man on the planet says. But I know you can. Please? I’ll lead.”

Without waiting for his answer, she tugged the roller from his hand and dropped it into the tray.

“Come on.”

She took his hand and tugged him forward. She clasped his left hand in her right hand, positioned his right hand at her waist and her left hand on his shoulder. “Just follow me.”

She started to twirl him around the room, in a sweeping motion he recognized in seconds as following a three-beat pattern. Before ten bars of the song had passed, he had picked it up, and was skimming around the large room with Allie.

She smiled up at him, her eyes aglow. She wrinkled her nose, smudged with paint in a way that did nothing to detract from her beauty. For the first time he noticed the faint sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“See? I told you you could do it,” she said encouragingly. “You’re a much better partner than Sharkey any day. Isn’t this fun?”

Solemnly Erik nodded. Because she was right.

Holding Allie closely, gazing down into her glowing face, sharing her pleasure in the music and being alive, was ”fun”.

In fact, he realized with a start, it was better than fun. For the first time in his life, he felt connected to another being. By the music. By the warmth of her hands. By the sunniness in her face.

Of their own accord, his lips started to curve upwards.

The music slowed. Allie cocked her head and looked at him again. “You should do that more often,” she said.

“What? Dance?”

“No, silly. Smile.” She lowered the hand holding his but did not release it. “Why don’t you smile more often?”

“Because Zali—” Erik broke off.
Because Zalians
don’t smile
. For a moment he reeled with shock and confusion over his loss of control, over the fact that he’d almost given himself away.

He cleared his throat. “Levity was never a big thing in my family. I . . . we . . . in my family we were always taught to suppress our emotions. To be in control. Too much laughter, too much crying, too much anger, these were all things to be avoided.”