Falling Angel (8 page)

Cara stood up. “Hi! I’ve been meaning to call you to explain, but I lost your card.” Her voice sounded unnaturally shrill to her ears. “I wasn’t feeling good, and I didn’t want to take up any more of your time. . .”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Ben said, suddenly serious. “But it’s good to see that you’re all right. I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine. I was just having a bad night.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said. She could tell by his guarded tone that he had taken her remark personally.

The overhead lights dimmed, and the theater was lit by hundreds of tiny bulbs embedded in the ceiling like distant stars. The innocuous Muzak faded, replaced by a rousing Vivaldi concerto as latecomers hurriedly took their seats. There was no time for further explanations.

“I have to go,” Cara said. “I’m actually working here, helping with this whole thing.”

Ben smiled at her and nodded dismissively. “See you later.”

She had hurt his feelings. He thought she disliked his company and wanted nothing more to do with him. Cara couldn’t end the conversation on such a sour note. She leaned down so he could hear her over the music and the excited chatter of the audience.

“I’m sorry I ran out of your apartment. It wasn’t because of you. In fact, meeting you was the highlight of my evening.”

His expression softened. “I’m happy to hear that. Let’s talk more at the dance, if you have the time.”

“I’d like that.”

Cara wove her way to the back of the packed theater and found her seat as the curtain rose. She could barely focus on the homage she had helped create for Mrs. Fineman, pieced together from a montage of photos and film footage. The audience laughed and cheered as they took a whirlwind trip through Mrs. Fineman's childhood, her marriage and the births of her children, holiday gatherings, exotic vacations and other seminal moments of her comfortable and privileged life.

Although she was seated at the back of the 808-seat theater, Cara was as sensitive to Ben’s presence in the room as the princess to the proverbial pea. It was as though a beam of energy held them both suspended in its path. She felt she could pinpoint his exact location, a nexus amidst the sea of heads.

In the dark anonymity of the theatre, Cara’s body pulsed and her heart rate quickened. Her breath became short and labored. As she remembered the warmth of Ben’s hand on her shoulder, a thrill went through her.

Squirming in her seat, she crossed her legs tightly. She had had crushes before, but this was ridiculous. What was it about Ben that she found so compelling? Could his rakish good looks, culinary skills, creative talent, and genuine concern for her wellbeing possibly have something to do with it? Whatever the cause, the feelings Ben engendered in her were unlike any she had experienced before. And she wasn’t at all sure that was a good thing.

The dining room at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel, exclusively reserved for the evening, was full by the time Cara arrived in the last van of partygoers from the theater. With its ornate green carpet, rose-filled urns, chandeliers and gilt-edged walls, the room harkened back to an era when people dressed for dinner and men retired to the drawing room afterward to smoke cigars and exchange hunting stories.

Cara scanned the room as she walked to her seat. There was no sign of Ben. She sat at a table in the back, next to an arching Palladian window that looked out onto the street.

As the maitre d’ poured the wine, Cara chatted with the other people at her table, a young couple from Amsterdam and an older man who appeared to have compensated for his baldness by growing a long white beard. Their company was pleasant enough, but Cara was unable to concentrate. She picked at the mushroom tart dressed with truffle oil, then excused herself to use the restroom.

In front of the bathroom mirror, she reapplied her lipstick and damped down the tendrils of hair that curled from the Grecian up-do Ann had fashioned for her. Where was he? Had he decided to leave after the movie? And what was he doing at the Fineman’s party, anyway? Cara had perused the list of attendees but his name had not been on it. Was he the guest on someone’s RSVP? He didn’t appear to be sitting with anyone when she saw him. Most likely he’d decided that he didn’t want to meet her later after all, and rather than avoid her all evening had simply gone home.

Don’t flatter yourself that your presence here means that much to him, she told herself. He’s being a nice guy, trying to make you feel better for making such a fool of yourself last week. The fact that he was gone upset her more than she cared to admit. It would have been better if he’d never shown up at all.

She scanned her face in the mirror. After twenty four years on earth, she felt more confused about who she was and what she wanted than ever. Her work seemed to be the only stable thing in her life.

She held back the self-pitying tears threatened to fall and ruin her carefully applied makeup.

You’re such a baby, she told herself, getting all worked up like this. You’re not even premenstrual!

Sweeping her makeup off the counter into her bag, Cara left the bathroom. She wasn’t yet ready to return to her table, to the curious gazes of strangers and the animated chatter of a party at which she was only an organizer, not a real participant. Wandering out to the lobby, she climbed the wrought iron staircase to the mezzanine. At the top of the stairs she leaned against a wooden pillar engraved with an intricate floral design, her hands on the wooden railing that overlooked the lobby. A slow tear rolled into the corner of her mouth, salty sweet.

“Cara?”

She turned. Ben stood before her as though summoned. A tan trench coat covered his suit, and his hair was beaded with raindrops. She could feel the chill of the outside air as he stood close to her. A drop of water fell from his hair onto his cheek. He gazed at her face, and she hoped it wasn’t too obvious that she had been crying. 

“Is everything all right?”

Cara composed her face into a facsimile of a smile. “Oh yes. Everything’s fine. I was just taking a little breather.”

Ben leaned over the rail next to her.

“You get a little claustrophobic in crowds, don’t you?”

“I guess I do.”

“Me too. I actually decided to walk from the theater to get some fresh air. I entered the lobby and looked up, and there you were, like a statue of Aphrodite in your Grecian gown.”

Cara looked at him and he held her gaze for a long moment.

“You look stunning,” he said.

Cara was aware that the hotel hummed with activity around them. Yet, on another level it felt as though they were completely alone, suspended in time and space.

“Thanks,” she said at last, breaking the spell. “I just got this dress. It was a sort of birthday present to myself. “

“It suits you.”

“Thanks,” she repeated, feeling awkward. Ben was looking at her in a way she never would have expected, with a kind of raw appreciation that made her stomach lurch as though she were on a roller coaster ride. She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and looked down, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “Anyway, about the other night. I want to explain . . .”

“I told you, no explanation necessary. I know why you left.”

Cara looked up, startled. “You do?”

“Of course.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “You were afraid.”

“That’s absurd. Afraid of what?”

“Afraid you were going to fall in love with me in spite of your best intentions.”

Chapter Seven

Cara felt her cheeks burning. Who the hell did Ben Kilpatrick think he was?

“You thought I was afraid I would fall in love with you?”

“Are you going to deny it?”

“You’re crazy!”

“So you’re not in love with me?”

“I barely know you.”

“And you’re not afraid of what might happen if we got to know each other better?”

“Why should I be afraid?” Cara laughed. “That’s ridiculous!”

Ben nodded in agreement. “Of course it’s ridiculous. I’m pretty much the complete opposite of what you’re looking for.” He took her hand and held it tight. “So, go out with me. If there’s no chance of anything happening between us, what have you got to fear?”

Cara was uncomfortably aware that he had her trapped. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said, uncertainly.

“Then it’s settled,” Ben said victoriously. “I’ll call you to set something up for next weekend. Give me your number.”

He wrote it down on the back of one of his business cards and filed it away in his trench coat pocket, all the while with a little half-smile on his face that Cara found amusing and infuriating at the same time.

Obviously Ben was inordinately pleased with himself. He thought he was the cat’s pajamas. Tricking her into going out with him.

“Now that that’s taken care of, what do you say we get back to the party?”

Ben held out his arm and Cara took it. He escorted her formally back downstairs, past the small piano bar and into the dining room.

The guests were spooning the last of a delectable Grand Marnier-infused chocolate soufflé off their plates as Ben dropped her off at her seat.

“Save a dance for me tonight?” he asked.

Cara nodded. “Sure.”

“Though if you’re expecting Frank Sinatra you’ll be sorely disappointed.” Ben grinned. “I may be a man of many talents, but unfortunately dancing isn’t one of them.”

She watched him weave his way through the tables to the opposite side of the room. His table was hidden from view by a massive, rose-filled urn.

“You missed zee main course,” the woman from Amsterdam told her with a heavy accent. “It was marvelous; spring lamb with potatoes.”

“I’m so disappointed!” Cara said, smiling broadly. The woman looked at her strangely, then shrugged and turned back to her husband.

Cara took a tiny nibble of the chocolate soufflé and put her spoon down. It was delicious, but she was far too shaken up to eat.

The meal over, in small groups the guests left the dining room to continue the festivities in the upstairs ballroom. Ben was waiting for Cara at the door, and led her on to the dance floor as the band started a lively foxtrot.

He hadn’t lied about his two left feet. Despite his natural animal grace, he became strangely uncoordinated on the dance floor. After stepping on her foot for the third time, they mutually agreed to pursue a more sedentary activity.

They moved from the ballroom to the expansive lobby. Ben made his way to the bar, returning with a glass of white wine for Cara and a whisky for himself.

“Want to find someplace a little less crowded?” he asked.

“You read my mind.”

They retreated to a balcony off the lobby. Below them, a fountain bubbled in the middle of a formal inner courtyard. Raised beds of flowers and shrubs adorned with tiny lights radiated in all directions from the fountain in a geometric pattern, bordered by smooth pathways of pale grey stone.