BlackWind (48 page)

“The quickest way to interest a human male is to enflame his ego,” Cedric remarked as he licked the fork clean.

“What are you talking about?”

“Perhaps I was a bit erroneous in my thinking,” the aged Nightwind suggested. “I've been sitting here thinking I should not discourage you from seeing the Reaper.”

“Why not?” Bronwyn asked suspiciously.

“Well,” Cedric said, putting the can and fork on a kitchen counter, “the best way to show you Cree is not the man for you is to allow you to see him socially. Once you see he's nothing more than an uncouth, unsophisticated, and dull beast, you'll get over this ridiculous infatuation.”

Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. “Infatuation?”

“Ah, hell, Bronwyn,” Cedric stated with a dismissive wave of his frail hand, “you women go all goo-goo-eyed over that bad-boy persona. Best you learn it's not a romantic thing but a dangerous personality you're dealing with.”

“And me going out with Koe Brell will accomplish what?”

“It'll make the Reaper jealous, if he is at all interested in you.”

Bronwyn thought about it. Maybe Cedric was right. Cree had shown a decided streak of jealousy where Koenen was involved. What would it hurt to tweak that jealousy a bit?

“And Danyon wouldn't like it,” Cedric remarked.

“Like what?”

“You dating that Brell man.” Cedric cocked an eyebrow. “He's with Aine right now and won't be back for another day or so.”

Annoying Danyon had never entered her mind. She spent little time in thinking about the Nightwind and none at all worrying about what did and did not concern him. To her, he was a necessary evil that came along with having Cedric as her companion.

“What would it hurt to go out with the Brell fellow?” Cedric asked.

“I don't know.”

“Then call him back and say you'll accompany him. The place he wants to take you sounds interesting.”

Bronwyn chewed on her thumbnail for a moment. then made up her mind. “If this turns to crap, I'll blame you.” She got up and went to the desk.

Cedric shrugged. “You will anyway, dearling.”

She punched the button and listened as Koenen Brell told her about a supper club in downtown Des Moines called The Triskelion.

“It's a converted warehouse with brick walls and wood floors. There are three sections of the club and they're shaped like the triskele. Know what I mean?” he asked in his thick Auzzie brogue.

Bronwyn pushed the pause button and turned to Cedric. “What's he talking about?”

“He's referring to the ancient Celtic symbol for earth, sea, and sky.”

“Oh,” she said and started the message playing again.

“The bar spirals off to one side, the supper tables to another and the bar tables to the third. The dance floor is a large triangle in the center,” Koe told her. “The food is great and the atmosphere has to be experienced. I know you like Celtic music and that's all they play there. You have to go, Bronwyn! Give me a call and tell me what time to pick you up.”

Cedric chuckled. “Great close.”

“If anyone should know about that,” Bronwyn said dryly, “it's you, Mr. I-Buy-Everything-I-See-On-Infomercials.”

“We needed a widget that dices, pares, and cubes raw meat.” Cedric sniffed. “No self-respecting meat eater should be without one.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Take the man up on his offer. What have you got to lose?”

The Triskelion was crowded when Bronwyn and Koenen arrived. Customers were milling around in the lobby, drinks in hand, waiting for a table. Some looked resigned to what might be a long wait but a few were obviously angry, impatiently glancing at their watches, scowling at those around them.

“If you don't have a reservation on Friday nights, you're screwed,” Brell remarked. With a hand to her back, he ushered Bronwyn past a group of yuppie types. He smiled at the reservations girl, who stood like a sentinel between those gathered and the dimly lit supper club beyond. “Table for two for Brell.”

The girl checked her clipboard, running her finger down the list of names, and seemed relieved to find what she was looking for. She smiled. “Your table is ready, Dr. Brell.”

“How come this asshole gets right in and we've been waiting for a damned hour?” a frizzy-haired woman demanded, her eyes spiteful.

Koenen came toe to toe with the woman. “Could be,” he said, his voice icy, “you have godawful hair and my lady doesn't. Or it could be because you're butt-ugly and she isn't. Whatcha think?”

The woman's narrowed eyes flared, her mouth dropped open, closed, and opened again.

“Has anyone ever said you look like a largemouth bass when you do that?” Koenen inquired with a wink and a cluck of his tongue.

The woman gasped in outrage, sputtered, and turned to the man beside her. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Gregory?”

Gregory shrugged and looked away.

“Right this way, Doctor,” the reservations girl said, obviously trying not to laugh.

Bronwyn glanced back at the woman, snarling vulgarities and insults at her companion. “You are terrible, Koe,” Bronwyn quipped.

“I don't suffer stupidity gladly,” he commented as they reached their table.

“I can see that.” Bronwyn took the chair he held out for her.

Koenen sat across from her. “Women like that drive me crazy.”

“She was rude.”

“And classless and vulgar and myriad other epithets I could hurl at her hideous hairdo.”

Their waitress appeared, handed them the dinner menu, then took their drink orders.

“For as long a wait as there appears out there,” Bronwyn commented, “the service is very prompt.”

“As I said, the regulars never have a problem getting in on the weekends. We know to reserve our tables.” He shook the folds from his napkin. “Otherwise, you may not get in at all. I'll venture to say the Frizz Queen won't be enjoying the hospitality of the Triskelion this evening.”

Bronwyn looked around the cozy room. There were thick beams overhead with old cogwheels attached to pulleys that no doubt had served mechanical purposes at one time but which now were used as giant plant hangars. One wall of windows looked out into a courtyard filled with trees and shrubs adorned with tiny white lights. A large fountain sat in the center of the courtyard with park benches to either side. Above the central dance floor, a huge stained glass atrium reflected the light of the full moon.

“This is lovely,” she said.

“Yes, it is.” Koenen reached for hand. “Almost as lovely as you.”

Bronwyn eased her hand from under his and continued her inspection of the room.

As she scanned the small crowd of customers, she was stunned to see Viraidan Cree at a table near the dance floor. He was sitting hunched over the tabletop, his hands wrapped around a nearly full mug of what looked like dark ale. He was staring into the mug and his face was grim, his lips tight.

Bronwyn silently called his name, wondering if he was capable of “hearing” her in the noisy room. He looked up and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met, held as the Celtic music swirled around them. For a long time, they stared at one another, then the Reaper's gaze shifted to Brell and narrowed. He blinked and turned away, lifting his mug to drain it.

“Bronwyn?” Koenen questioned, waving a hand in front of her face.

Bronwyn flinched, heat flooding her cheeks. She jerked her attention back to the man sitting in front of her. “I'm sorry. What did you say?”

Koenen looked behind him. “What's so engrossing back there?”

Bronwyn couldn't refrain from looking toward Cree's table and was surprised to find it empty. She felt keen disappointment plummet to the bottom of her stomach. “I...I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Anyone I'd know, too?” Koenen inquired as their waitress arrived with their drinks.

“I wouldn't think so,” she lied.

A lively ballad started from the band and a young woman with long curly red hair and dressed in a short black skirt and white silk blouse took the stage. As the woman's feet began moving in the tapping rhythms of a lively Irish step dance, Bronwyn and Koenen joined the other patrons in keeping time by clapping.

“Do you step dance?” he called out over the music.

“Lord, no!” Bronwyn laughed.

“I know DeeDee does.”

“She took lessons as a girl. I, on the other hand, have two left feet when it comes to tap dancing.” She took a sip of her Bloody Maria. “How ‘bout you?”

Koenen chuckled. “Elephants can dance better than me. I hate dancing. I can't even do the two step.”

“Why do you come here if you don't like to dance?”

“For the atmosphere and the wonderful food you're going to enjoy.”

Bronwyn had hoped to take a turn on the dance floor. Her regret obviously showed.

“Want me to find someone to trip the light fantastic with you?” Koenen inquired.

Bronwyn was saved from answering when Koenen's pager went off. He cursed as he unclipped it from his belt. Reading the calling number, he frowned. “Damn it! I asked them not to bother me unless the world was coming to an end!”

“Baybridge?”

“I'm sorry.” Koenen angrily folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “I need to see what they want.”

“I hope it's nothing serious,” she said as he got to his feet.

“The damned buildings better be on the verge of collapse, is all I can say.”

Bronwyn watched him stalk toward the lobby where she'd seen the phones. His shoulders were bunched and she was glad it wasn't she who had called him. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned to look once more at the spot where Cree had been sitting. Finding even the mug gone caused deeper disappointment.

Loud applause rang out when the dancer finished her number with a high kick and a rapid tattoo of her tap-studded toes on the parquet. While showing her own appreciation of the dancer's talent, Bronwyn felt hands on her shoulders. Soft warmth invaded her ear along with the words: “Let's dance.”

She turned and blinked. Cree was standing there. He held out his hand.

Moving as though she were in a dream, Bronwyn put her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. He led her to the dance floor. As they reached it, the music started. Bronwyn tensed, trying to pull away, but he would not allow it. He swept her into his arms—one hand firmly at her back, her right hand clutched tightly in his.

“I don't want to...” she said, her eyes filling with moisture.

“Shush,” he instructed, moving them to the middle of the floor.

It was the song that had brought tears to Bronwyn's eyes. The slow tune had been Sean's favorite. The memory of her singing the words to him caused intense hurt, the pain of it stabbing at her heart, raking over the wound she knew would never heal. The singer's words tore at her very soul:

“Red is the rose on yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne

But my love is fairer than any.

Come over the hills, my handsome Irish lad

Come over the hills to your darling

You choose the road, love, and I'll make the vow

And I'll be your true love forever.

“ ‘Twas down by Killarney's green woods that we strayed

When the moon and the stars they were shining

The moon shone its rays on his locks of golden hair

And he swore he'd be my true love forever.

“It's not for the parting of my sister Kate

It's not for the grief of my mother

'Tis all for the loss of my handsome Irish lad

That my heart is broken forever.”

Cree waltzed with expert grace, his long legs in perfect sync with the soft strains of the Celtic melody washing over them. His eyes were locked on hers as they danced, her body so close to his she could feel his belt buckle against her stomach. The black silk of his shirt shimmered beneath the revolving lights of the disco ball overhead. Sparkles of that playful light reflected off his soft black leather britches, so tight on his powerful legs it looked as though he had been poured into them.

Vaguely aware of the people watching them, of the women staring with hungry eyes at his taut body, she began to relax in his arms. The moment she gave in to the pull of the music, the insistence of his hold, he pulled her closer to him so that her cheek came to rest against the opened collar of his shirt. She felt his chin rest gently on the back of her head and closed her eyes, taking in the cinnamon smell of his cologne and experiencing its fragrance in the pit of her belly.

It was as though they were the only two people on the dance floor. The singer seemed to sense their pleasure, for she sang it again in its entirety. Cree waltzed Bronwyn across the floor, his movements sensual and plying her body with wave after wave of desire. When the music stopped, he dipped her low, held her there for a moment, then swept her around in a half circle and finally tight up against him so that their bodies touched from chest to knee.

There was no sound in the room as they stared at each other for the space of several heartbeats. When noise at last intruded on their intimate moment, it was the band's fiddler, who played a lively Celtic tune with vigor.

Cree still held Bronwyn's hand in his. He brought it to his lips and turned her arm so he could plant a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. His gaze never left hers.

Bronwyn drew in a slow breath, deeply affected by the sensations his touch sent through her. When he finally released her hand and stepped back, she felt like throwing herself into his powerful arms.

“Another time,” he said, then turned away, disappearing among the dancers before she could bid him stay.

It was Koenen's hand, tight on her upper arm, that brought her back to her senses.

“Did you enjoy making a fool of yourself out there?” he snarled, drawing her off the dance floor.

Bronwyn tugged against his rough handling and pulled her arm free. “Excuse me?”

Koenen's handsome face twisted into a mask of contempt. “I can't believe you allowed that son-of-a-bitch to rub all over you like that. I've never been so disgusted. You were acting like a slut in heat!”