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Whisper of a Moment
Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.
Part IV
I’m enchanted by the gulls. Not many where I come from, and the few I’ve seen were sad, bedraggled scavengers, nothing like the keening flock that surrounds me now. They can almost hover, I didn’t know that, they bob in the air around me like a huge heaving swarm of squalling gnats, and snatch crackers from my fingers until the last of the packet is gone.
My lunch companion watches with amusement and interest as I return to the little table we’ve taken at the wharf, three or four hopefuls still following on the off-chance of further largesse. “You’re subverting them, you know,” he says mildly. “Disrupting their natural patterns, making them dependent on a rather recent bobble in the evolutionary progression.”
“All that?” I answer, and resume my seat across from him. “And here I thought I was just giving them some crackers.”
“No disapproval intended,” he says, and takes a long pull from the imported ale I’m paying for. “I’m all for shaking the tree now and then; I simply like to be aware of the status, effects and implications.” He studies the inch of ale remaining in the thick-walled glass mug, and favors me with a somewhat oily smile that no doubt is supposed to be ingratiating. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you …?”
“Not a chance.” I keep my voice firm. “That’s two for you; if you want more, you can cover it yourself. And if you suck down enough that it cuts the quality of the info you’re providing, it could affect your fee.”
“Take more than this to get me properly pissed,” he says, and drains that last inch. “But I do appreciate a businesslike attitude.”
Now, this probably says a lot about me, if I could just figure out what it means: where Harry Doyle and I subtly rubbed each other the wrong way, and Wesley Wyndham-Pryce left me annoyed and impatient, I’ve been taking real pleasure from Ethan Rayne’s company since the moment he arrived at the little dockside restaurant. He has the most honest face I’ve ever seen on a human being; it’s fascinating, every line, crease and fold marking out a detailed map of dissipation, debauchery, happy embrace of every possible form of dissolute pleasure. Looking at that face is like studying the murals at Pompeii, the ones they won’t let children see on the public tours. Not even the dimmest mind could mistake this for a nice man, but he’s unquestionably distinctive.
His personality is just as striking. The man is totally suited to his chosen role: in the same way a shark is a perfect predator, or a mole a perfect burrower, Ethan Rayne is a perfect cheerful amoral unrepentant scoundrel. “Rotter,” he’d call it, and with pride. It’s refreshing and entertaining and even relaxing in a way, so long as I don’t trust him for a fraction of a second.
Also, and here’s where it starts to get strange, there definitely has been a subtext running through our conversation so far. I don’t know if he just does it automatically with every woman who crosses his path, or if he picked up on something that made him think I might be approachable, but Ethan has been making a run on me — low-key, indirect, but unmistakable — ever since we identified ourselves to one another; and I, while not sending out any green-light signals, haven’t been shutting him down, either. Okay, sure, to some extent I’m getting a kick out of it as just a contributing element in the overall routine, but it’s still unusual for me.
Maybe his attitude explains some of it. Where I come from, getting-acquainted patter usually starts off, “Het, les, or bi?” It’s a great time-saver, as is my standard answer: “Nil.” (Which isn’t entirely accurate. I have a keen interest in sex, I’m just not about to let anybody get too close; and, if you’ve already ruled out any kind of personal connection, what makes people preferable to utensils?) Ethan, though, is unhesitatingly and unabashedly willing to trot in little circles trailing one wing, lay a pebble at my feet, whatever it takes to improve his chances, and there really is something insidiously flattering about having such total, single-minded attention aimed in my direction.
“Raises an intriguing point, though,” Ethan is continuing, eyes crinkled with amusement. “One is supposed to bridle when asked to subjugate his art to the crass demands of commercial necessity; I wonder where the line is to be drawn when it’s a matter of cash versus appetite?” He shoves the mug away with a sigh. “Prickly question. I suppose I should err on the side of caution till I work it out. Shall we proceed, then?”
“If you’re ready.” Originally I had meant to have him available as a general resource, an alternative perspective if one was needed, but recent developments have shifted my aim. “I understand you’re a worshipper of chaos.”
His lips purse while he runs the statement through his mind. “ ‘Worship’ is a bit strong, I would think. A withered, cynical soul such as mine could hardly dredge up so much fervor. But, yes, chaos is an ideal for which I have a pronounced affinity.”
“Nice to have that clarified.” His hand has been oh so carefully drifting toward me across the table, and I withdraw mine with callous deliberation. Flattering or no, this is business. “As an idealist, maybe you can tell me what’s the appeal, exactly.”
“Appeal,” Ethan repeats, and now his thoughtfulness seems to go deeper than affectation. “Part of it’s sheer contrariness, I suppose. People persist in seeing chaos as a negative; one tires of repeatedly pointing out its beneficial aspects.”
He looks to me expectantly, so I play along. “Humor me,” I say. “Explain it just one more time.”
“Very well.” He gathers himself in his chair, ready to launch into what is clearly a favorite subject, his earlier claim notwithstanding. “In casual minds, there’s a tendency to believe chaos is the same as entropy. Not at all; entropy is the gradual sinking of the universe into an undifferentiated state, lukewarm and bland and thoroughly uninteresting. It’s an overall trend, present wherever you look … until you bring in Life, large L. Organic processes run counter to this humdrum winding-down; Life persists in becoming more rather than less complex, bumping upslope in little evolutionary jolts. Not without some reluctance, however: entropy opposes these upstarts, and it requires constant stimulation — radiation, climate changes, ecological upheaval, competition from other sources — to keep them moving.
“When intelligence enters the picture, the complexity takes another spike. Organizational trends outstrip biological processes by quantum levels, but you can still see the same dynamic at work. A group will grow to a certain point and then stabilize, not only ceasing progress but actively resisting any change in its status.”
He rubs his hands, beaming at me out of that wrecked face. “That’s where I come in, myself and lesser lights in the same constellation. Biology or sociology, it doesn’t matter, these evolutionary bumps don’t simply occur on their own, they come about in response to outside stimulus, they change only when change is imposed on them. Without us, life and society would stultify, ossify, stagnate, fall in on itself. The function we serve isn’t just useful, it’s necessary.”
I’m halfway convinced even though I’m ready to break out laughing. Ethan may be a hell of an actor — probably is — but I think he genuinely does believe what he’s saying. Just enough of a smile behind the words to make it seem like he’s trying to con me and I’m not buying, I prompt, “So you’re a public benefactor.”
His return smile is immediate and apparently spontaneous. “Only by coincidence,” he tells me with villainous relish. “I do it because I enjoy it. I’d do it if I was destroying civilization instead of helping it advance, because it’s the best fun there is.”
I do something with my eyebrows. “Really? Sweet-talk a girl, why don’t you.”
He laughs and rubs a finger along his cheek, his eyes on mine. “No discourtesy intended, poppet. It’s just … there’s a game the vulgarian Gates folds in with all those elephantine operating systems bundles of his: FreeCell, they call it, child’s play in terms of technique and strategy. You know the one I mean?”
I don’t, but I’m not about to admit it. “Go on.”
I tried to mask my impatience, but he must have felt it, the same way I feel his amusement deepen. “Well, I’ve played it out of boredom, when I was utterly desperate for diversion and no other activity was at hand. Child’s play, as I said … but you know, there’s an internal structure that does pique some tiny twinge of aesthetics. I’ll find myself delaying what could be a winning sequence of moves, shifting and arranging the files of cards on the screen to construct a particular setup, so that at the proper moment I can set the whole thing collapsing in on itself at once with a single touch.” His smile now is reminiscent, almost dreamy, and not slightly alarming to someone who knows any of his history. “Chaos is far more vigorous than that, far less structured, but the same principle pertains. Wherever I find myself, I watch constantly for that needle-fine pivot point in the flow of mundane events, that whisper of a moment, when a single strategic nudge can explode the orderly processes and produce something entirely new, unpredictable, pregnant with promise and possibility.”
I already knew the man had to be complex, even contradictory, but I still wasn’t expecting anything like this. “You construct this elaborate organization of facts and events, just so you can tear it down.”
He narrows one eye, thinking, and says, “No, more a matter of shifting and reworking existing structures. But the end point is the same, I grant you: push a button, and bang! Down she comes.” He leers at me. “Dismayed?”
“No, just really surprised.” Sometime in the last minute or so his hand has come to rest over mine; I let him keep it there, maybe if his attention is divided it’ll take him longer to start lying to me just for the hell of it. “I never expected someone in your line of work to be so frapping methodical.”
“That’s because you still have a pedestrian understanding of the subject,” he says, turning my hand over and stroking my palm with his forefinger. “Chaos is more than mere randomness, it’s vibrant disorder. Putting it in motion takes time and attention; do it right, and you get all kinds of clash and clangor and pretty sparks …” His voice trails off, and his gaze is suddenly hard and keen. “Hullo, what’s this, then?”
I’ve heard that sound before, it comes when I’ve screwed things clear through, but for the life of me I can’t figure where this one springs from. “Excuse me? Do we have a bugtrack here?”
“Your lifeline,” he tells me, and now his finger is deliberately tracing across my palm instead of searching for some obscure erogenous zone. “It’s snarled, as if it’s trying to loop back in on itself. That just doesn’t bloody happen.” His eyes come up to mine, and the magnetism I felt before has quintupled, but with a flavor of the same intellectual excitement I got from Wesley. “I’ve seen something like this before, once only, when I was performing a spot of unsolicited body art a couple of years back. Didn’t know what it meant, and still don’t, but if you’re anything like the freak case she was —”
Forget it. I pull my hand back, sharpening my voice. “We’re losing our place here, aren’t we? The deal was, I pay, you talk.”
“Indeed it was.” His smile is speculative, like a wolf studying a caribou and trying to decide does he want flank steak or rack o’ ribs. “Emphasis on was. I’m not above rustling up the odd bit of boodle in an idle hour, but now you’ve tweaked my professional interest. Where do you come from, my girl?”
I’m already on my feet. “Enjoy your beer, Rayne. Drown in it, in fact.”
He flutters negligent fingers at me. “Temperance, O fierce beauty. I know I’ve no hold on you, but I do still have something you want.” The smile deepens, becoming enormously more attractive and dangerous. “What do you say, hmm? Quid pro quo?”
I can actually feel my eyes glaze over. “Which who huh?”
A corner of his mouth tightens, but the eyes remain gently amused. “Even trade, sweetling. I answer one of your questions, you answer one of mine. Back and forth, tit for tat. Need I explain further?”
Instinct tells me to throw him off the wharf and leg it for the horizon, but I push that back. I don’t really need much from him, and there’s no way he can learn anything substantive from just a couple of questions. I sit back down, and say, “Fine. But I get the first question, and if I think you’re dancing around the answer, you’ll get exactly the same kind of runaround from me. Tat for tit.”
“And we have a bargain.” He sits back, all too satisfied for my comfort. “If you’re to be first, then, choose your question.”
Normally I would edge around the subject, but I’m not about to lose any ammunition when I have a solid target. “You’re talking about fomenting disorder as a personal thrill, almost an achievement in aesthetics. What if there were such a thing as a random chaos generator? How would you, or somebody like you, react to that?”
He’s frowning now, as if I just said something blasphemous. “Not very well, I’m afraid, not if they share my sensibilities.” He measures me with crinkled brow, and I know he’s calculating how much he has to say if he wants to get good info when it’s his turn. “It’d be like cheating at Solitaire: not something I’d object to in principle, but it takes all the fun out of the game, you only do it if there’s something other — and larger — to be gained.” A tilt of his head. “Acceptable answer?”
It is, actually; I don’t want to let him loose easy, but I can’t think of anything reasonably contained in the question that he didn’t cover. “It’ll do. So, your turn: what do you want to know?”
“Ah, here you have the advantage of me.” His tone is rueful, though everything else about him still projects unrelenting focus. “You’ve had time to think through your major points of interest, and had already acquired valuable data from me before we reached an agreement. I, on the other hand, am confronted with a cloud of mystery, and must expend my currency carefully. Where to begin?” His eyes sweep over me. “Best, I fancy, to first evaluate the facts at my disposal. Across the table from me is what appears to be a Caucasian female of good health and considerable fitness.” He stops, weighs that, and corrects himself. “No, make that a high degree of fitness, I would wager there are several Olympic athletes she might make uneasy. Continuing: her physiognomy, mannerisms, and style of dress suggest an age in the mid-twenties, certainly no more than twenty-six and probably nearer twenty-four …” Again the measured pause, and his smile broadens. “But, you know, there is a je ne sais quois about her, an indefinable hint of someone trying to seem older. Given skin firmness and the vein patterns on the backs of her hands, I believe I’m looking at a young lady of perhaps nineteen years.”
He has me and we both know it, but I’m not giving anything away for free. “What, you want to see my ID?”
Voice and expression are bland, smug. “Well, now, I wonder if I should count that as one of her questions. It would put me two up on her … but no, I believe scrupulous fairness will serve me better just now.” He’s scored again, and again I don’t let it show, and again he knows anyhow. “So. Her speech is colloquial American, but I can’t pin down the accent, and some of the turns of phrasing ring a bit queer. Makes me consider that she might be some other nationality entirely, indoctrinated with sufficient thoroughness to allow her to pass as a native …” This time, when he pauses, I realize what’s happening: he’s tossing out prompts, and reading my reactions. I’m no soft touch, but some people are so sensitive to subliminal cues that it’s impossible to hide much from them. Looks like Ethan is a practiced example, or maybe he’s just on my wavelength somehow. “No, I think not,” he’s saying. “Not even the Australians can project that particular marriage of arrogance and naiveté, though they come closer than anyone else. I’ll mark her down as American, but there’s still a difference to be considered.”
“Sooner or later you have to actually ask something,” I say flatly, toning down the belligerence and being careful to make it a statement. He hasn’t hit anything important, but his insight is still unnerving.
“In time,” he agrees cheerfully, and then goes right back on track. “She handles her business negotiations with a casual firmness that indicates she has no wish to waste money, but also no hesitation in paying what something truly is worth. At the same time, I see nothing of the inbred insouciance that comes from growing up with no shortage of cash. The young lady has more than sufficient funds, then, but she wasn’t born to it. So either she’s being bankrolled — meaning she isn’t so independent as she wishes people to believe — or she’s acquired it herself. If the latter, her tender years and aggressive demeanor would move me to suspect some unconventional means of personal financing. Criminal, most likely.”
Another bull’s-eye, and all I can do is yawn and look at my watch. Yes, there are some Ukrainian Mafiosi who will be deeply pissed if their accountants ever manage to trace through the spaghetti-tangle of transfer codes I ran through their offshore accounts. If I didn’t know Ethan’s capabilities, I’d think there was actual mind-reading going on here. He can’t keep it up forever, though, eventually he has to run dry. “Still waiting for that question.”
“As am I.” He’s in his element, and it strikes me that this is an inversion of my conversation with Wesley: different personalities, different techniques, but he’s taken control and I’m stuck with reacting. “Now, the subject is quite poised, and her confidence seems genuine and unforced. There’s something bristly about her, though, an edginess at odds with her obvious competence. There may or may not be some insecurity underlying that, but there definitely is a strong current of anger: deep, black, volcanic anger, mostly under control but the control is intermittent and uncertain. From whence such smoldering rage could originate … ah, now there is a matter of deep interest, the answer to which could answer much else.” He leans toward me across the table. “My question, then: why are you so angry?”
Right now the reason is, because I can’t break your neck without violating the terms of the bargain. I inhale and exhale three times, slow, and when I’m sure I can trust myself I say, “That’s a big question. A big one. It’s worth a lot more than you gave me.”
“Truly?” He’s pleased, and it has to be more because he knows he has me than from the seriousness of the matter itself; it can’t mean as much to him as it does to me. “I think we both recognize that you have more honor than I do, so I’ll leave it to you to determine. Ask me more, and decide for yourself when you’ve got value to equal what you’ll be called on to provide.”
I am so screwed. He has me cold: he’s played me perfectly, read my personality and sucked me in past the point where I can get out, left me no options, and even knowing it doesn’t allow me to change it. I underestimated him big-time, invited a low-level trickster to lunch and found myself snared by a master manipulator. Putting it back to me was the final perfect touch, as long as I get enough from him to match what I don’t want to tell, I have to deliver.
I try anyhow. “Wouldn’t you rather just have more money?” I ask him, and all the calm I can muster doesn’t make it any less a plea. “I guarantee, my personal issues won’t really mean anything to you. And right now I’d fork over a lot to not have to answer.”
A true sadist would never cut someone loose once he had them hooked, but Ethan actually thinks about it. “You make a telling argument,” he says at length. “And it’s quite tempting. But if you’ll recall, it isn’t your ‘issues’ that caught my notice, but the enigma of what brought you here under such odd portents. For one of my calling, this is a prize not to be relinquished. I sincerely regret what distress it may cause you, but I must know. That’s the rubber.”
Even as a turndown, it shows me an avenue of relief. “We’ll switch it around, then,” I say. “I’ll start telling you things — not my private stuff, but whatever might go along with the weirdness you think you see in me — and you decide when you’ve got enough to cover what you’ve told me.”
Nothing changes in his face, or eyes, or sitting body alignment, but all the same I know I’ve hit my mark. “Neatly done,” he murmurs finally. “I thought I had you wrapped and tapped, but … very neatly done, indeed.” There is real pleasure in the smile he gives me, but no diminishing of his determination. “Be assured, I’ll make certain I get payment in full.”
Okay. The game is as dangerous as ever, but it just became less painful. “I’ve been sent here as an investigator,” I tell him. “I can’t say who — not my secret to give — but all they want is information. I’m supposed to find out what I can about a developing situation and report back. I have training and tools that probably nobody else on this planet can bring to bear, but I’m essentially human. I’m on a mission, pretty routine as far as it goes, and when it’s over I’m supposed to zip right back to where I came from.” Now I’m the one to reach out for his hand. “If you see some crazy destiny in my lifeline, then you know more than I do. I’m just a girl doing a job. Get past the odd fringe items, that’s all it is.”
He’s stroking my hand again, simultaneously ruminating on the palm creases that set him off in the first place, and working the unexpected connection he’s managed to establish with me despite all my wariness and wishes. I’ve judged it pretty nicely, I think; without going into detail that would fatally compromise security, I’ve actually given him more than he gave me. We’re even now, and if he tries to push it, I’m back in a position of strength.
“Where were you born?” he asks me, and there’s a musing acceptance behind the words that tells me he knows he’s lost his leverage; he’s asking out of plain curiosity, and to see what I’ll say.
“Best I can figure, within a hundred miles of where we’re sitting.” I didn’t have to reply at all, but I’m grateful to him for allowing me the out. “Raised elsewhere, like you guessed, but officially I’m a native.”
“And I’ve spent almost as much of my life here as in my own homeland,” he says in return. “You’re back where you don’t truly belong, and I find myself more comfortable in a place that isn’t truly mine.”
“Wow, that’s really sensitive and perceptive of you,” I say. “As long as you’re tossing it out as an observation, that is, and not trying to slide back in for more information.”
“Not for information, no,” he says, and damned if he hasn’t found some sensitive spot in my palm. “I’m trying to remember if I was anywhere near this area, oh, twenty years ago. Can’t say for sure, some of those years were blurred by various recreational chemicals.”
I don’t get it at first, and then I let out the kind of belly laugh I never would have dreamed I had in me. “Oh, that’s rich,” I gasp, wiping my eyes with my free hand. “Is that scruples I’m hearing? Wouldn’t have expected it from you.”
“No, no,” he says, waving it away with mock severity. “Insult me however else you wish, but don’t accuse me of conscience.” Suddenly there’s a lot less distance between us at the table, and his eyes are locked to mine with a force I can’t break. “Whether I would let it stop me has never been tested,” he tells me, straight up without dodging or shading it. “But one does like to know these things.”
The charm this man can bring to bear is frighteningly potent; I actually feel regret at telling him, “Sorry to puncture your fantasies, sport, but you strike out on two fronts.” I count them off. “First, I know exactly who my father is, DNA match and everything, and you’re not him. Second, you’ve got no chance with me regardless. Ever. Period. Full stop.”
He nods, unsurprised. “You wound me,” he sighs. “But why so vehement? I can be quite entertaining in the short run, and I’m told I have some versatility in that most diverting of pastimes.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I shake my head, and for once I don’t try to guard my voice. “You’ll never touch me because you scare me too bad. You got closer to me than I thought anybody could, and you did it in minutes, and that’s where all the shutters come down.”
Neither of us speaks for some time, and his hand rests on mine with no further pseudoerotic ministrations. At last he asks, “What of your mother?”
I’m back in control, I don’t stiffen or freeze or jerk away, but to someone this adept at people-reading it doesn’t matter. I carefully detach my hand, and say, “Why do you ask?”
“You mentioned DNA confirmation regarding your paternity,” he points out. “And before that there was a comment that could have indicated uncertainty regarding your birthplace.” He doesn’t try to reach out again, hand or voice or eyes; he regards me with something that might be mistaken for gentleness. “Do you even know your mother’s identity?”
I stand up, unhurried and unflustered. This has gone too far. “I think I’m done here,” I say.
“It’s possible,” he says, “that I might actually be able to help you.”
“It’s possible,” I shoot back, “that you could get enough inside dope to really start screwing with my head.”
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
And leaves it there.
And I’m sitting down again.
I don’t know how he knows, but he knows not to say anything. We watch one another across the table, and after almost five minutes I’m the one to break the silence. “No, I don’t know who my mother is. And I’d give almost anything to find out.”
“As I’m sure you will, now or later.” He lets the physical distance stand between us; we’re past the point of his frivolous (if earnest) little mating dance. “You’re a most determined young woman. So near to the place of your birth, and on a mission … such an opportune turn intimates that you might have arranged these circumstances.” A little quirk of his lips shows that he’s read my affirmation in the response I can’t even feel. “You’ve been doing dual duty here, then, seeing to your assigned task while pursuing your own ends in the meantime. Tell me, have you made any inroads in your search?”
I no longer have the spirit to resist, and I’m not sure it would make any difference if I did. With some sense of relief I give him a fast summary of what I told Wesley about the arrangements to erase the facts surrounding my entry into this world. I wind it up, “Whoever it was covered all the bases. I’ve done everything I could to backtrack from the stuff about me that couldn’t be wiped out, but the only real lead I got was an accident, and it didn’t tell me much.”
“Ah, but it told you something.” He tents his fingers. “Go on, fill in the picture.”
“Not much to tell,” I say. “My birth records are all gone, like I’ve already said, and false ones left in their place. But, a record that wasn’t mine, at the county courthouse … well, it was a photostat, and the original document got folded over so that part of the one that had been behind it got copied, and it ties in with just enough that I know it had to be my mother.” I shrug. “It was only a corner showing, really. All I got was the file identifier — a file that no longer exists anywhere else — and my mother’s initials.”
Ethan’s eyes are distant as the mind behind them flits through facts and tangents in a way my own brain never could, microchip or not. “County courthouse,” he repeats. “But you said within a hundred miles, so it’s not this county, is it? And you couldn’t know it was your mother’s file unless you had ruled out all other possibilities and it was the only one left.” He rubs his upper lip without much enthusiasm. “The sheer drudgery it would entail makes me shudder, but surely you could work your way through old population and residence and tax records until you encountered a name that would match the single fragment you recovered.”
“I’ve tried.” I force my clenched fists to relax. “I’ve tried. But if there’s anybody anywhere in that area who falls within the right parameters and ever had the initials DNR, I haven’t spotted it yet —”
“What?” His head comes up, nostrils flaring. “DNR, you say?”
“Yeah, that was it.” The swiftness of his response makes my heart jump, but I push that away. It’s impossible, there’s no way he could know …
“The small corner you saw,” he says. “On the miscopied photostat. Was it from a medical record?”
I don’t want to let it happen, but even so I’m beginning to hope. “I can’t say for sure, but I think it must have been. It doesn’t match the layout format of anything else.”
His fingers drum on the tabletop. “I’m afraid I may have bad news for you, poppet. No certainty, but …” He frowns. “Sometimes, between projects, I’ll fill the hours by immersing myself in American television. Horrid drivel, most of it, but one can acquire a stupendous store of arcane and mostly useless minutiae that way. If you’ve screened the pool of candidates and found no possibilities, it’s likely those weren’t your mother’s initials after all. DNR is a common medical abbreviation, you see: Do Not Resuscitate.” His hand is covering mine again, squeezing it as if to impart strength. “If this was your mother’s file, as you seem certain it was, then she will have had a terminal illness or dreadful injury, or perhaps been in a comatose state, and instructions were given that no ‘heroic measures’ were to be used to revive her if her heart stopped.” One last squeeze, and he withdraws his hand. “I’m sorry to be the one to say it, but very probably she’s dead now.”
I came to terms with that possibility a long time ago, but it still amazes me that he could zero in so quickly on a vital clue that’s eluded me for years. “I don’t believe you,” I say, regarding him with wonder. “You’re not real. How can you keep coming up with these things?”
He laughs, the old roguishness oozing back into his expression. “Non-linear thinking, sweet child, that and years of experience at rascality. Oh, my old grandmother used to insist I had a touch of the Sight … but then, Gran ate Marmite straight from the tin, so there you are.” He twinkles at me, knowing it’s wasted but enjoying the effect anyhow. “You know, I believe I’m entitled to another pass at that ale, after all.”
“You’ll get it,” I tell him. “And a bonus on top of that.” I stand up, opening my purse and pulling out all my ready cash — hell with it, I can always get more — and drop it on the table in front of him. Four wrapped packets of twenties, and worth every note of it. “You’ve earned it, and I’m grateful.”
He’s quick; the packets are gone as soon as they touch the table, and he’s smiling amiably up at me. “And deeply appreciated it is. But are you certain I can’t interest you in anything else?” The smile deepens, as does the subcurrent running between us. “I did note, you know, that it wasn’t my little insinuation of possible paternity that had you marking me off — girl after my own heart, you are, never let principles interfere with pleasure — and I know this little procedure with lotions, some silk scarves, and a spirit lamp …”
“Why do you even try?” I’m smiling, too, even though my resolve is firm. “I already told you why that area is off limits, you have to know you can’t change my mind.”
“Indeed I can’t,” he replies, languid satisfaction velveting every word. “But I can leave you speculating on just what you’ll have missed.”
And I’ll be damned if he hasn’t done exactly that.
I’m well away from the marina before it fully sinks in that he also got most of what I was so desperate to keep to myself.
If I can’t do better than this, I’m headed for a major splash and burn.
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