No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (7 page)

He deftly removed the corkscrew. I noticed that his hands were beautiful, too, long and very slender, although quite pale, as if he did not spend much time out of doors. An onyx and gold ring gleamed on the pinky of his right hand.
 

“There,” he said, and handed the now-open bottle to me. “You may pour, if you like.”

I took the bottle and carefully poured him a glass without spilling anything, thank God. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that my hands shook a little. “Your meal should be out shortly.”

“I look forward to it.”

And then I tore myself away, soon absorbed in bringing out plates to the patrons who had been seated before him, refilling drink orders—in short, buried in the minutiae of any busy shift.
 

Once I paused in the kitchen to gulp down a glass of water, and Meg popped in and grinned.

“I hear you have a secret admirer.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, Christine!” She paused for a moment to readjust the red silk rose she wore tucked into the bun at the back of her head. “I haven’t had too many guys plopping down two hundred bucks for the chance to sit at
my
station.”
 

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah,
that
.” She reached out and readjusted a curl on my forehead, looked at me critically, then said, “You probably need to put on more lipstick.”

“Oh, come
on
, Meg—”

She produced a tube from a pocket hidden somewhere in her skirt. “Girlfriend, if there was ever anyone who needed a sugar daddy, it’s you. So pretty up already.”

I took the lipstick from her and dabbed a little on. “I’m sort of seeing someone, Meg.”

“Yeah, and?” She reached out and flicked away a little excess lipstick from my lower lip with her pinky. “You’ve gone out with Randall what, once? Plus a couple of practice sessions? I wouldn’t exactly call that an exclusive relationship.”

“Meg, the guy’s a customer—”

“So what? Women meet rich men on the job all the time.”

“Who says he’s rich?”

She gave me an unbelieving, “you are so stupid I’m not even going to comment on the fact” look. “Last time I checked, poor guys don’t tip two hundred bucks to sit at a particular waitress’s station, and they don’t order hundred-dollar bottle of wine, either.”

“Okay, so he’s rich. Does that matter so much?”

At that, all Meg did was lift an eyebrow. “You of all people should know the answer to that one, Christine.”

And she left me with that, picking up a tray of food and sailing back out into the dining room.

That’s really unfair
, I thought. Did being poor automatically render you vulnerable to the first guy with a big bankroll who came along? I didn’t think so. Besides, compared to me, Randall really was comfortably well off—his home was paid for, and he made a decent stipend as a T.A., not to mention the private gigs and studio time he took on the side. Not exactly Donald Trump, of course, but certainly a lot farther up the economic scale than I was at present.

But I didn’t have a lot of time to ruminate on the value of a rich boyfriend, or whether what Randall and I had so far constituted a “relationship”—the Phantom’s dinner was ready, and I had to take it back out to him.

Unfortunately, my promise to him that it would be out “shortly” had, well, fallen short. It was pretty common on busy nights like this, and we were just about the busiest I had ever seen. By the time I got back to his table, it was well after eight o’clock, and the music had been turned up a click to accommodate the people who were starting to filter onto the dance floor George had set up at the far end of the restaurant.
 

“Sorry about the wait,” I said, placing his plate of veal before him. “We’re sort of maxed tonight.”

“No bother,” he replied. “I’ve been people-watching.”

There was definitely plenty of that to be had. The group seemed to have grown even wilder and more diverse as the evening progressed. But he sat in a sort of dark eddy away from the crowd, observing but not really a part of it.
 

“Is there anything else you need?” I asked.

He turned then and looked up at me, and again I could feel my breath catch in my throat. Something about the gleam of those eyes behind the mask made it hard to think straight. But he said only, “If I think of anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

I managed to muster a smile. “You know where to find me.”

“Indeed I do.”

The exchange seemed innocuous enough, but again I found myself searching for a suspicious subtext in his words. Still, it was enough of a dismissal that I could make my escape and go on to tend the other customers at my station. But even as I went about my tasks I could feel his eyes still on me, watchful behind the half-mask that hid everything save what he cared to reveal to the world.
 

Christine...

He finally was willing to believe in the mercy of God. Finally, tonight he had seen her, spoken with her, even managed to touch her delicate hand as she struggled with the bottle of wine he had ordered.

The photos were nothing, liars that had done nothing to convey the luminosity of her fair skin, the hidden auburn gleam in her dark curls, the subtle dimple at the corner of her cheek. Even less had they been able to convey her quiet wry humor, the gleam of intelligence in her blue-gray eyes, or the pretty lilt of her voice. That he had been able to sit here, conversing with her in the merciful half-darkness of
L’Opera
, seemed nothing short of a miracle.

He was able to watch her as she bustled about, expertly removing dishes or placing steaming plates of food in front of her patrons, all the while gleaming like a princess in her white and gold gown, ropes of pearls glimmering in the dusky glory of her hair. She reminded him of some of the old fairy tales he’d read when he was a child, of the princess in exile, forced to do menial chores but still retaining her innate nobility and grace.

It was all he could do not to take her from this place, here and now, but of course that was not feasible. No, he could only sit and make himself enjoy the truly excellent wine and quite passable veal, when all the while his true nourishment came from watching her.

He watched as more couples took to the dance floor at the rear of the restaurant. God, what he would give to hold her in his arms, feel her body pressed against his! But that had to be impossible—she was working this evening, and surely that would be a heinous breach of protocol?

She appeared to remove his empty plate, and asked if he would care for dessert or perhaps a cappuccino or espresso?

What he wanted was for her to sit at his table and share the last glass of wine from his bottle, but of course that was even less likely than taking her on to the dance floor. Still, anything to prolong the evening—

“An espresso, and a tiramisu,” he said in response to her question. He actually did not care much for dessert as a rule, but it was a good way to pad the bill.

She took the order and disappeared into the kitchen, collecting a few additional requests for coffee and drink refills along the way. He admired the easy, casual way she was able to work with people, as if it were perfectly natural for a being with the looks and voice of an angel to wait on others like a common serving girl.

More than ever he was convinced that what he planned was the only true, right way for Christine. She was too good for this world, and if fate had been cruel enough to force her into servitude, then it was his place to combat fate and take her where she would be utterly secure and protected, where her enormous gifts could be nurtured and cherished.

In her absence the costume contest commenced, with a man who appeared to be the restaurant owner acting as master of ceremonies. He was dressed as Mephistopheles and certainly looked the part, right down to the spade beard and pointed eyebrows. Still, his costume was unimportant, and Erik had to admit he was somewhat amused by the eclectic group that paraded across the temporarily emptied dance floor.

Since the winner was chosen by audience appreciation, it was no surprise that the one chosen was a woman in a very scanty—if gorgeously beaded—devil costume. He shook his head, amused and disgusted at the same time. There were many more costumes in attendance that deserved the prize, but none of them had legs that went on forever and an amazing amount of gravity-defying cleavage—no doubt surgically enhanced.

Still, the costume contest was of very little interest to him, since he had decided not to participate and Christine, as an employee, was of course ineligible. He knew that his costume was correct in every detail, down to the ring on his little finger and the diamond-patterned $200-per-yard fabric that made his dress suit. He certainly had not come here to put himself on display, however, and would not have done so even if he had needed the prize money, which he certainly did not.

Christine arrived with his espresso and dessert just as the dance floor began to fill again. He allowed her to set both before him, but then he leaned forward impulsively and said, “Would you care to dance?”

She took a step backward, obviously shocked. “But—I’m working!”

“And have you taken a break yet this evening?”

From her hesitation, the answer seemed to be “no.” He wasn’t surprised, considering how busy the place was.
 

“Indulge me,” he said and stood, offering her his hand.

For one long, frightening moment he feared she was going to refuse. Then she laid her hand in his and said, lifting her chin valiantly, “I don’t think I’m breaking any labor laws.”

He smiled at the defiant sparkle in her eyes and the sheer loveliness of her. Hardly daring to believe this was really happening, he led her to the dance floor.

Luckily, the restaurant’s owner (and presumed arbiter of the evening’s playlist) was something of a traditionalist. Instead of some hard-pounding techno or completely undanceable rap, the song playing was Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman’s duet, “Time to Say Goodbye.” Of course, at the moment Erik hoped this was anything but goodbye, but at least the song gave him a chance to really hold her, to sweep her along with the melody.

Being a singer, of course she was attuned to the rhythm of the music, but she also did not seem to fear being held by him, to let him clasp her one hand and cradle her slender waist in the other. God, the sensation of her body against his, the intoxicating scent of roses that came from somewhere in the dark masses of her hair! Her fingers twined with his, and she moved gracefully despite the heavy skirts of her costume, which he could only assume was none too easy to dance in.

He had experienced a few moments like this in his life. The first time he had heard Beethoven’s
Ninth
. The first time a woman touched him. Of course the first time he saw “Music of the Night” performed on stage. But the difference here was that the embodiment of all those passions, all those dreams, he held now in his arms.

All too soon the song was over, and Christine pulled away almost immediately. Her cheeks were flushed, but she would not meet his eyes.

“I really need to get back to work—”

He had to let her go. As much as he wanted to hold her forever, he did not want to cause trouble or call too much attention to himself. He had probably done too much already.

“Of course. Thank you very much for the dance.”

She shot him a quick, uncertain smile but still would not look him directly in the face. Murmuring something about getting his bill, she disappeared among the crowd.

Was it unreasonable that he could still feel the touch of her hand in his, still smell the scent of her hair? His body ached for her even as he made his way back to his table, sipped at his now-lukewarm cup of espresso, and wished that the evening would never end.

But, as with all things, of course it did. Christine brought him his bill, but at least now she seemed to have recovered herself enough to meet his eyes and smile.
 

“Thank you for coming this evening—”

Of course he couldn’t tell her that he’d give up all his useless millions just to hold her again. “This has been a memorable Halloween,” he replied instead, and was amused to see the quick blush rise in her cheeks.

“Yes, it has,” she said, and looked as if she wanted to say more, but she was interrupted by a drunken hail from the next table over.

“Waitress—hey—another round over here!”

She turned, distracted, and he took the opportunity to drop five hundred-dollar bills on the table and sweep himself away outside before she could notice. The air outside was cold and smelled damp, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of wet asphalt. It had obviously rained hard during the hours he had spent inside the restaurant, but now the pavement was merely slick with rainwater, the sky mottled with hard-driven clouds that were charcoal-gray against black.

The valet brought his S-Class around promptly, obviously giving him preferential treatment even though several other people had been out there waiting for their cars before Erik had arrived. He tipped the young man—obviously another college student—with a twenty before taking the wheel and driving off into the night.

He had actually learned to drive at a fairly early age, although it had been Ennis, who had taught him, certainly not his own father. Erik enjoyed the isolation he could experience behind the tinted windows of his car, and although he never drove during the daytime, he liked to take the car out at night, when he could drive through the meandering roads that crossed the arroyo and feel as if he were somehow part of the world, if even for only a short time.

Tonight was no different. Tonight, if anything, he felt more kindly disposed toward the human race than he had in a long time. He had spoken with her, seen her face with his own eyes—even, incredible as it seemed, held her in his arms. And she had not recoiled—if anything, he could sense her attraction to him, even though she tried to hide it, even though he knew even now she was probably telling herself that it was just a silly response, that she was truly only interested in Randall.