13 comments/ 19572 views/ 14 favorites A Fall of Night By: TheWitcher "No way!" Anna laughed, peering over her shoulder at the computer screen. "It is, look." Dorien gestured at the screen, her face bright in its blue glow. This was unreal. So unreal that she started to feel a little unsettled. Behind her, on the sofa, she heard Debbie giggling, high pitched, hilarious. "Who is it?" Anna said. "Don't know. There's some user name, registered in Italy, but I have no idea beyond that." She stared at the screen. This was insane. "Is it real?" "Yes. I mean...I think so. I set it up in the Netherlands, so it's legal." Slowly the hilarity drained from the room, replaced by incredulity. Then a stunned silence. Who would pay five million dollars for her virginity? ****** "You're American?" "I have dual citizenship. My father is Dutch," she said, shifting uneasily. He looked at her, grey eyes intense beneath beetling brows, silver like his hair. There was something about him that made her skin crawl. "You speak other languages?" "Dutch, some German, a little French." He nodded, walked to the window adjacent to the polished desk, looked out across the city, thinking. She glanced quickly across at Anna, saw her shrug almost imperceptibly. The office was cool, overly air-conditioned, but not unpleasant. Since they'd entered it had been filled with the rich smell of fresh coffee, an anonymous young woman in a business suit filling the waiting silence with its arrangement before discretely absenting herself. In the weeks since the auction it had become apparent that the offer was deadly serious. It was an extraordinary sum, a life changing sum. For a nineteen year old struggling to pay college bills it was the answer to her prayers - she'd be set up for life, not just for college. At first negotiation had been by email. After that she'd met with his agent. A slim woman called Margaret, dark-haired, with the brisk air of a lawyer. There'd been a medical examination to confirm her claim - discrete, professional, a top clinic, doctors - all paid for by the 'client'. Finally, satisfied, he'd wanted to meet with her in person - final arrangements to be concluded at the meeting. She'd thought of telling her mother - even of bringing her along as her chaperone - but that was one complication too many. Telling her father was out of the question. Instead she'd asked Anna, a few years older and the most worldly of her friends. He'd met them at the offices of a legal firm, an anonymous presence high in the steel and glass shelter of one of the city's myriad skyscrapers. It was clear from the outset that the location held no special significance to him, was chosen precisely for this characteristic. He was a tall man - a head taller than Dorien -- gaunt rather than slim and impressive rather than handsome. His age indeterminate, anywhere between late forties and early sixties, Dorien thought. His grey eyes were his most impressive feature - they were intense, penetrating, almost discomfiting. She'd felt uncomfortable from the first moment. He'd greeted them warmly enough, but she had the feeling that it was a shallow welcome, no more than a façade. As soon as she'd entered Dorien had been struck by the strange atmosphere, a feeling she couldn't shake. She kept thinking there was someone else present - someone glimpsed in shadow from the corner of her eye - but every time she turned, nothing. It didn't help to put her at ease. "Miss Janssen?" His voice disturbed her reverie, pulled her back to the room. He was staring at her, leaning on the windowsill, wearing a determined smile. "Sorry... I was thinking." She tried for a smile - made it halfway, into a kind of grimace. "You understand, Miss Janssen, that the timing of this...event...is of paramount importance?" His voice was accented, but it was no language with which she was familiar - more eastern European, she thought. She nodded. "So Margaret led me to believe. She wasn't...uh...specific about what or why." "No. I asked her not to be." Abruptly he seemed to reach some kind of resolution - returned to the desk, taking a seat behind it. He exuded power, she thought. Not physical power, more the power of a senator or of royalty. Someone who was used to people doing what he wanted and expected everybody to do as he said. She didn't like him - felt a little intimidated by him, in truth. "Margaret tells me that you have no particular taboos." "That's right. I'm, uh, fairly open minded," she blushed a little at that, "um, what did you, uh, have in mind?" For a moment he looked at her, his face blank; then he laughed - a genuine chuckle of amusement. "Charming as I find you Miss Janssen, it is not me who will be taking your virginity." She looked at him, nonplussed. He smiled warmly at her - warm like a cat at a trapped mouse, she thought. "No. Your virginity is a Valentine's Day gift - for my son," he said at last. Dorien blinked, looked at Anna. This was even weirder. "What do you get for the man who's got everything, right?" Anna said, grinning. He laughed harder at that. "Quite so." Finally he opened a drawer on the desk drew out a Manila envelope, placed it on the desk. "I think it is time we 'talked turkey' as you Americans are so fond of saying," he said, tapping his lip with his finger. "You appear to meet my needs, Miss Janssen, and I am willing to enter into this contract with you. It is only fair that you understand my requirements before you agree - they're quite particular and not open to negotiation." He paused, looking directly at her with those intense eyes of his; it was hard not to flinch, impossible to hold his gaze for more than a moment. "Firstly, introductions. My name is Ivan Alexandrov. Who I am and what I do is unimportant. I ask you to respect my privacy on this matter. What is important is that I am willing to pay you five million dollars, US, for you to lose your virginity with my son. Is this acceptable to you, so far?" Dorien swallowed, nervous. Nodded. "Excellent. This is my first requirement. The deed will be done on February the fourteenth, on Valentine's Day. Does this pose any difficulty for you?" She shook her head. "Good. Second requirement. He is not to know that I am paying you or the nature of this transaction. He must think it a romantic assignation, even after the deed is done. Is this clear to you?" "Yes..." Her mind raced. "But how -" He held up his hand, interrupted her. "You will have time to question me in a moment, allow me to lay out the details of what I require first. Agreed?" She nodded. "This last part is most crucial. I will require proof that my son has taken your virginity." He looked at her so intensely she could almost feel it -- like the legs of insects tickling her skin. "You will use a condom. After the deed is done you will bring this used condom to me, on the morning of the fifteenth. Is this absolutely clear to you?" Ughh. "Yes." "Good. As you see, my demands are simple. You may ask questions now." Dorien looked at Anna. She shrugged. "How do I get to..." She paused, feeling momentarily embarrassed, struggled to find a suitable phrase. "To, uh, sleep with him, if he isn't expecting me - what if he doesn't, you know, want to?" "For five million dollars, Miss Janssen - be persuasive," he said, his tone mocking. "You are a very pretty girl, you will have fewer troubles than you imagine. I will arrange for you to meet him, the rest is up to you." She swallowed her irritation. "Does it have to be the fourteenth, I mean, what if he's sick or something?" He looked at her for a long while before answering. "Miss Janssen, you are a Valentine's Day gift. He will be in Venice on the sixteenth, the date is non-negotiable." "Okay, right." The silence stretched. Dorien turned to Anna. She raised her eyebrows, shrugged but said nothing. "No more?" he said at last. "Good. In this envelope," he pushed it over the desk towards her, "you will find pictures of him - so that you can identify him." Dorien opened it, expecting to find the Hunchback of Notre Dame looking back at her. Instead she found a good looking man in his early twenties, though his age was hard to place. Fine, prominent bones, dark hair, a strong jaw - a touch of melancholy around his eyes, perhaps. His face was intriguing, she thought. "What's his name?" she said absently. It was pretty clear that the man in the photos didn't know that they were being taken. "Nikolay." She nodded. Put the photos back, there was little chance she'd fail to recognise him now. "Okay, Mister Alexandrov, I'll do it, I accept." Anna giggled slightly. "I didn't doubt it," he said, glancing briefly at Anna. "Mikhail here-" as if on cue the door behind the desk opened and a man in a light suit walked in, "-will see to payment. I suggest one million now - deposited into the bank of your choice - four more when I receive my proof. Is this acceptable?" "It is." She could barely keep the excitement from her voice. Five million dollars. How bad could it be? "Good. Mikhail will give you a number to call when you are ready. I think that concludes our business, Miss Janssen." "Yes." God, his eyes were so intense. ****** "Well?" Anna said. Dorien swallowed, disconnected the call. "It's there. One million dollars," she said, smiling slightly, eyes a little wild. "My God, I'm rich." Anna laughed. "You don't seem that happy for a millionaire." "I haven't earned it yet," she said, shrugging. "So, what did you think?" Anna said, lying back on Dorien's bed, stockinged feet wriggling in the air. "I don't know... It was weird," she said. "But, then, what's normal about any of this?" Anna giggled loudly, put on a reasonable approximation of Alexandrov's accent: "I am eccentric billionaire, last year I buy Dubai, this year I buy virgin for son-" "For five million dollars he can have me..." Dorien said, speaking over her. "-you must fuck him and bring me condom, is all part of weird family ritual..." she said, laughing. "Anna!" "Oh, alright," she said at last, sighing. "You rich kids are no fun. What's this son of his look like, anyway?" Dorien handed her the envelope. "He's not Quasimodo, at least." "He's probably got terrible BO." Anna pulled the pictures from the envelope, leafing through them. "Actually, he's not bad looking... Makes you wonder why he can't get his own virgins a bit cheaper." "Will you stop saying that?" "What?" "Virgin," she said, blushing slightly. "I don't want the whole campus to know." Anna looked at her, laughed. "You won't be for much longer, Dorien!" she said. At that Dorien looked so uncomfortable that it stopped her laughter. "Hey... You haven't got to go through with it, you know," she said seriously. " You could just say no, forget the whole thing." "I know that, I know I could. I've thought about it, I have. But it's five million dollars, Anna," she said quietly, sitting next to her on the bed. "Five million -- think about what that means." "Have you?" Dorien smiled. "I don't know... Not really, I guess." She stared off towards the window, watching the drapes stir gently. "He kind of freaked me out..." "Who? Alexandrov?" "Who else?" she said, taking another drink. "Didn't you feel anything weird about him?" "A bit, I suppose. He was a little intense... But I don't suppose you get to be rich enough to buy virgins without being focused," she said, smiling wickedly up at Dorien, saw the merest ghost of a smile in response. "No... It was more than that. Just a feeling..." She saw Anna looking at her, smiled. "Probably nothing, just nerves." She shook herself, brushed the feeling away. "Anyway, I thought we would go meet Nikolay here," she pointed at the top photograph - in it he was just coming out of a shop, his face smiling easily at someone out of shot - "see how I feel about it then..." "Okay, your call Dorien." ****** She had two days left. Two days until Valentine's Night. For five evenings she had been coming, sometimes alone, sometimes with Anna. On each of those nights the same routine, sit at the bar, or a table, drink soda, wait until it closed. The bar was quiet enough that the barkeep didn't seem overly keen to examine her fake ID. For the first couple of nights she or Anna'd had to rebuff advances from men, but their presence was quickly absorbed by the locals and the advances had slowed, then stopped. On each night, no Nikolay. For a time she had been uncomfortable with the thought of what she'd agreed to do. The concept of selling herself, her body, did not sit easily with her, would have horrified her family, her dad - the American dream's last true believer - had they known. Something that weighed heavily on her. Then as time passed and she had come to realise that Nikolay might never show, she had developed the opposite anxiety - that she would lose the money altogether, that her life would return to the humdrum stress of always being one bill away from dropping out. To make it worse, the routine itself was enervating. On the first evening she'd felt the thrill of something new, some obscure excitement embodied in the act of offering herself to a stranger. His absence had gradually worn that down, blunted her excitement along with her anxiety. Now it was just a bar, just another night. Nikolay was a shadow, unseen, unexpected; more legend than reality - the one conclusion that she was able to draw being that Ivan didn't know his son nearly as well as he should. So it was that his sudden arrival out of the winter rain on this Friday night produced a muted reaction. For a moment she didn't notice him amongst the scattering of figures in the shadowed interior, then for a while she refused to believe that it was him - though she knew it was, knew his face better than her own. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, open neck. Hidden from sight, she watched him buy cigarettes from the machine, select music from the jukebox - melancholy songs rich with guitars and blues' beats - and take a seat at the bar, sipping from a bottle of beer. He was alone but he betrayed none of the self-consciousness that usually embodied, sitting instead with an assured confidence. His pictures didn't do him justice, she concluded. He looked younger in the flesh, only a little older than her she suspected, and he was better looking than his pictures suggested - lean and tanned, with close cropped black hair. With a deep breath she slipped onto the stool next to his, crossing her long legs, hooking one ankle behind the other, and leaned on the bar. He glanced across, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the dark. He had his father's eyes. Storm grey, intense, direct. She shivered. "Get you something, Miss?" the barkeep said. She looked at Nikolay. "Whatever he's having, please." Nikolay looked at her again, his face neutral, his eyes cool. He had something else in common with his father, she thought. Like Ivan he seemed to exude power, but in Nikolay's case it was more immediate, more present - the sort of feeling you'd get from standing too close to a tiger, she imagined. The barkeeper placed an opened bottle on the bar, smirked, went away. "Uh, hi," she said, smiling at him. His expression didn't change. For the longest time he stared at her, his bottle held in the same hand as his cigarette, smoke drifting aimlessly through the air. She fidgeted uncomfortably. "You are an exceptionally pretty girl," he said at last, his voice educated, precise, no accent. "And clearly not used to approaching men in bars. So?" She slugged a big chunk of beer, unsettled. "Uh, you're right..." she said, her mind racing. "I've, uh, just broken up with my boyfriend and, uh, you know?" She swallowed more beer. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, drunk a little beer, his movements precise, fluid. "Attractive as you are, I'm afraid I'd be poor company this evening." Her heart lurched nervously, this wasn't going as she'd planned. "Now you've intrigued me, saying that," she said. "Why?" For a time the silence between stretched, but she didn't sense him dismissing her, or shutting her out; he seemed to be thinking. Finally he spoke, not looking at her: "I had to kill a man today." For a moment she didn't react, her mind struggling to understand what he'd said in the absence of any context. Then a thousand things raced through her mind - shock, fear, horror, curiosity all warring together. Strangely, curiosity won. Perhaps if it hadn't been for the five million she'd never have approached him, but something else possessed her now. "That's not an answer I expected," she said. "Why?" His eyes regarded her evenly, but with more interest than before, she thought. "Do you like this bar?" he replied. She looked about. In truth she hadn't thought about it before. It was where Ivan had said she would find Nikolay. Beyond that it held little interest for her. Now she looked at it with fresh eyes. It was better than the student bar on campus - full of shadowed recesses, where that was too brightly lit - it had a small dance-floor, a decent jukebox, a serviceable bar. "I have no strong feelings," she said. "Me neither." He sipped his beer, eyes never leaving her. "Fancy a walk?" She looked out through the window. "It's raining." He shrugged. "Okay," she said at last. "I'll walk with you." A slight smile drifted across his face. "Aren't you scared? I've just told you that I killed a man." "Are you planning on killing me?" she said, wide eyed. "Not yet," he said, smiling. And then, like that, she knew she had him. She didn't know how she knew, or why. But she did. Like she knew when a key fit a lock, or a hand a glove. A pleasant, warm feeling, like finishing a piece of music when you know you've done well. "Then I'll take my chances," she said. He smiled at that. She was surprised when he offered her his arm, more surprised when she realised how much she liked holding it. He led her into the rain. The streets were slick, traffic hissing past on the wet road surface, tail lights reflecting like red jewels. Those few people still walking were busy rushing from shelter to shelter, umbrellas, hoods or jackets held desperately against the cold rain. Somehow, the two of them didn't seem to be getting wet, little more than an occasional windblown drop troubling her; nor did she feel the cold. They walked for a while in silence, Nikolay smoked a cigarette. It was strong, pungent but not unpleasant. "You look cute when you do that," he said into the silence. "What?" "When you wrinkle your nose like that. Makes me want to keep smoking." She smiled warmly, pulling him closer. "So, are you going to tell me your name?" "Nicholas. Nicholas Alexander." "Dorien Janssen," she said. "So, where are you taking me Nicholas, or shall I call you Nick?" "Which one do you think suits me best?" She looked at him, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip thoughtfully. "You look like a Nicholas; so I'll call you Nick." "Why?" "Because I'll be the only one doing it - everybody else can call you Nicholas." They crossed the street, dashing between almost stationary traffic on to the opposite sidewalk. "Where are you taking me?" she said again. "To get a donut." "A donut?" "Wait and see." The cafe had a frontage that was a long expanse of glass, two windows curving into the central door, gold lettering on the pane. The window on the counter side was filled with stands covered by cakes and pastries, their warm colours seeping into the night through the rain streaked glass. The other offered a more conventional view of tables and chairs, secluded booths. A bell tinkled lightly when Nick opened the door, guiding her into the shop. Inside the walls were panelled in dark wood, hung with black-framed pictures depicting European landscapes in black and white and sepia. A long, old fashioned cafe counter ran the length of the room, tables and booths of leather and scarred wood scattered opposite. A Fall of Night "Nicholas," the man behind the counter said, lifting his hand in greeting, smiling warmly at them. "What can I get you?" "Hi, Pietro. Two Fasnacht, one doppio," he said, turned to look at Dorien. "What coffee would you like with your donut?" "Um, cappuccino, please." To Dorien it looked as if the cafe - and Pietro too, she thought - had remained unchanged since the fifties. "Ah..." Pietro said, waving his hand, smiling. "For such a pretty girl, I'll make you a real cappuccino, not the muck they serve in this country." They slid into a booth, waiting while the sound of the coffee machine, the clatter of plates filled the space. "So, tell me about yourself?" he said, lighting another cigarette. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. "What would you like to know?" "Okay. Do you have a job?" For a moment the arrival of the donuts, the coffees, disturbed them. The donuts were still warm and they quickly devoured them, licking their fingers clean of the sugar afterwards. They were exceptionally good, rich and sweet, the perfect complement to the bitter-sweet cappuccino - stronger than she was used but very good, nevertheless. After, she found herself chatting easily with him, telling him about her father's carpentry business, her mother's teaching, her own ambitions as a musician. It was as if she'd known him for weeks, not hours. It was much later, well past midnight, when Nick offered to take her home. She laughed, she hadn't even noticed how late it was. They got a cab from the cafe, Nick embracing Pietro like a lost relative before they slipped into the night. At some point in the evening, she realised, she had completely forgotten that she was supposed to be seducing him for money. Somehow, sitting in the back of the cab, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand holding hers, she just didn't care. He kissed her goodbye at the entrance to the students' residence, just the briefest brushing of his lips on hers. Chaste, but it made her heart skip. Up close she noticed that his eyes weren't entirely grey - in their depths tiny motes of gold floated, bright like fireflies in the night. It was only later, restlessly awake in her bed, that she realised that she hadn't learnt a single thing about him. ****** Saturday dawned cooler and drier than Friday, a breeze off the coast sending the clouds scudding inland. Perhaps dawned was the wrong word, Dorien reflected. It was nearly eleven when Anna finally dragged her out of bed. "So, did you finally get to meet the mysterious Nikolay Alexandrov?" Anna said, handing her a strong black coffee. They sat in the coffee shop just off campus. "Kind of... He calls himself Nicholas Alexander." "Must be ashamed of his freaky, virgin buying dad," Anna said, blowing the steam off her cup. "Could be. He didn't mention him. At least I don't think he mentioned him," she said. "What, were you that drunk?" Anna said, grinning. "No, not at all. We had donuts and coffee. Well, one beer," she said, conceding, smiling a little with recollection. "We talked a lot. Actually... I talked a lot, he listened." Anna looked at her carefully. "And are you on track for your five mill'?" Dorien shrugged slightly. "I think so. We're meeting later for dinner." "And the recital?" Dorien's eyes widened, Anna smirked. "Oh, God Anna, I forgot about that... Shit, what am I going to do?" "Ask him?" "What?" "Ask him to come... It's hardly likely to be packed is it?" Dorien thought about that for a moment. "I don't know if it's his thing..." "Is it your 'thing'?" "Of course it is. Okay, I get it... I'll ask him," she said. "God, Anna - I'm nervous enough as it is." Anna laughed slyly. "I get the impression that Ivan could have saved his money, looks like our friend Nicholas would get it for free if he wasn't paying..." "Anna!" she said without anger, smiling confidentially. ****** Performing at Elebash Hall was normally reserved for members of the college's doctoral program. On this occasion, however, it was playing host to the burgeoning talents of the undergraduate faculty - a series of short pieces to showcase upcoming talent. Dorien was supposed to feel honoured and privileged that she had been invited to perform - a recognition of her 'extraordinary talent'. What she actually felt was sick. She paced the dressing room, little more than a collection of tables and mirrors - so cluttered with discarded instruments, cases, clothing and, bizarrely, a plastic polar bear that even nervous pacing was a challenge. Her fellow musicians, equally stressed, were likewise scattered about the room - pacing, tuning instruments, reading music, talking, or just getting in the way. They only added to her anxiety. She hated the dress she was wearing, blue and flouncy and fancy. She felt too hot. She felt thirsty. She was afraid to drink in case she needed to use the toilet. She was afraid of making a fool of herself in front of Nick. There, that was the problem. Nick. Why the hell did he matter so much all of a sudden? "Ten minutes, Dorien. Ten minutes." Disembodied voice from the door. Oh, God. Now she did feel sick. "Hi." She jumped. Nick stood behind her, a large bunch of roses cradled in his arms. Oh, God. Now she felt sick and embarrassed. She blushed bright red. "Sorry, did I do the wrong thing?" he said, smiling. He looked about the room, taking in the chaos, the shouted conversations, the frantic preparations, raised an eyebrow. "No. No, not at all." She pushed her hair back from her forehead. Two musicians in tuxedos entered from the stage entrance, rushing past. She guided Nick into the corner out of the way. "I'm just a bit nervous. Uh... Thanks... For coming." He smiled at her again. "My pleasure. Thanks for asking me. Here... These are for you," he handed her the roses, looked about for a vase, someone to take them. "Thanks. They're beautiful." She smiled at him, sniffed them, looked about for somewhere to put them down. "Five minutes, Dorien. Five minutes." Who the hell was that, anyway? She twisted about. Where was she going to put the roses? She could feel herself panicking. "Uh..." she said. Nick laughed, genuinely amused. "Here," he said, taking the roses. Still laughing he stuffed them into the paws of the plastic polar bear. "Frosty can hold them for you." "Thanks," she said, relieved - her panic receding in the face of Nick's amusement. "You'll be great," he said. She smiled at him. He kissed her. Just briefly, a touch of his lips on hers, a hint of something more. "Two minutes, Dorien. Two minutes." She wondered if she could get Nick to strangle him. "I'd better go," he said. "I'll see you after the recital, okay?" She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. With Nick gone she could retrieve her flute. The case lay on her table - beaten, battered, scuffed. A working case, not a case for display. With ritual precision she clicked the catches open, lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in its bed of crushed blue velvet, the flute gleamed, a gift from her mother. When she lifted it from its bed she found herself again surprised by its weight. It was solid silver, heavy and perfectly weighted. "Dorien, you're on." She took a breath, the weight of the flute reassuring, her focus shifting. Then she turned, and walked out. Calm, controlled, ready. Elebash Hall could seat nearly two hundred people. For this performance there were fewer than half that many seated around the shallowly raked hall - many of them students, lecturers. As she walked out she was met by a low wave of applause, sporadic, not over-enthusiastic. For a moment she paused in the centre of the stage, searching the crowd, partly blinded by the low stage lights. Even half-blind it didn't take long - Nick stood out like a wolf amongst dogs. He sat in the centre of the third row, where his eyes could most easily meet hers. She smiled shyly at him for just a second, then she bowed briefly. She played Partita in A minor by Bach, no longer than nine minutes, and she played it for Nick. At no stage did his eyes leave hers. At the end he stood and applauded. She was a student, an undergraduate - good but not yet worthy of a standing ovation. It didn't matter, Nick had such a powerful presence, such a commanding influence that in seconds most of the crowd had joined him on their feet. More to impress him than her, she thought, but she blushed happily, nevertheless, bowing several times before retreating to the relative sanctuary of the backstage environment. He met her at the stage door. As soon as she saw him she laughed happily, grabbing his arm in delight. "You got me a standing ovation," she said, kissing him impulsively. "If I knew it would make you this happy, I'd make sure you got one every time..." he said, smiling, wrapping his arm about her shoulder. "If you promised to come every time, you wouldn't need to," she said before she realised what she was saying. She blushed, something she was doing a lot recently, she thought, and pressed herself against him, pulling his arm tight around her shoulder. "Fancy a drink after all that blowing?" "Blowing!" she said, laughing. "Philistine. But, yes, you can buy me a drink." Saturday evening was busier than the Friday had been. The weather perhaps played a role, but Dorien also thought that Valentine's Day falling on a Sunday had made the Saturday a popular alternative. Certainly the bar they chose had been decked out in an excess of red and gold, cherubs and hearts, so that it more resembled the boudoir of a hopeless romantic than the elegant wine bar it had once been. That hadn't stopped her from blushing in delight when Nick bought her a rose to make up for the bouquet she'd lost to Frosty, handing it to her so that his hand lingered on hers for a little longer than was, perhaps, strictly necessary. In keeping with the Valentine's theme, the bar was doing a special on pink drinks - with the consequence that she ended up drinking pink champagne while Nick managed to look almost elegant with a pink gin. It was too noisy, too crowded and too 'in your face' to allow any romance to blossom. She stuck it for as long as she could. "So where are you taking me for dinner?" she said at last, when the cloying faux romance became too much and the craving for the real thing finally overcame her. Nick grinned. "Bit much isn't it?" he said, swallowing the last of his drink. "How do you fancy letting me cook you dinner at my place?" Dorien's heart skipped. She hesitated. It wasn't that this wasn't what she wanted. The bold, romantic part of her wanted - desperately wanted - Nick to take her home, to make her dinner, to spend time with her. The other part was simply frightened. She liked him, really liked him - but she knew next to nothing about him, and not a lot about men. She didn't know if she was more nervous about disappointing him or frightened for herself. Then there was the five million... He watched her levelly, his eyes unreadable. "Or I know a little Italian place not far from Central Park, the owner's a friend..." he said. Her bold part won. "No, Nick, it's okay. Let's go to your place. I'd love for you to cook me dinner, please." She took his hand, holding it gently, smiling shyly at him. ****** The distance between the bar and the park was short, but as soon as they stepped into its shadowed precincts Dorien knew there was something wrong. There was a tension in the air, a strange anxiety touching its chill hand to her heart. It wasn't cold - holding Nick's arm it was as if the chill couldn't reach her - but she felt chilled nonetheless. It was a feeling that made her look about her, searching for something. Whatever it was, it remained hidden. Nick led her further in, tracing the twisting paths apparently unconcerned. It was a new moon, the sky dark, but Nick appeared to have no trouble seeing, leading her surely along dark paths she could barely make out. Unsettled she found herself gripping his hand tightly, her feeling of unease increasing with the dark, the sudden loneliness. All about them the vegetation pressed in, hiding the little light that leaked in from the surrounding city. Even just this short distance from the road it was quiet, her heels clicking loudly on the path. "Nick, I'm not sure this was a good idea... Perhaps we should go around?" He didn't answer, his face serious, his eyes searching the surrounding darkness as if he would see what it concealed. Pressed close against him she could feel the tension in him. "Nick, something's wrong. Someone's following us or something..." "I know," he said, calmly, looking at her with a flicker of interest in his eyes she hadn't seen before. "It's okay, just stay close to me alright?" She nodded, cold sweat prickling her back. She could feel something out there, watching them. Trees overgrew the path, encroaching onto its even surface - pools of darkness that could conceal anything. She closed her other hand on Nick's, gripping him anxiously, eyes darting about. She gasped, jumping, clutching Nick's hand with sudden fear. She could have sworn that the path ahead was empty - she only looked just a second ago. Now when she looked back what she thought was just the shape of the branches, the silhouette of a distant bridge had become a figure, standing in the centre of the path just ahead of them. It was as if it had coalesced from the shadows, the foliage. Nick squeezed her hand, holding her tightly. It was staring at them, its eyes twin points of light in the darkness beneath its brimmed hat. It wore a bulky overcoat, long to its knees, and Dorien knew, just knew - somewhere on a visceral level, somewhere where instinct overcame rationality - that whatever it was, it wasn't human. She felt the hairs standing up on her neck - a fear so sudden, so intense it was a physical shock twisting at her stomach. A profound silence - absolute, unnatural - seemed to crawl over them, covering them like a shroud. All the small noises she had taken for granted were stilled: the sighing of the breeze, the hiss of the leaves, the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth, the distant sound of traffic - things she hadn't noticed until they were no longer there. She had to fight not to run - her body was screaming at her to get as far away from the thing in front of them as she could - only Nick's hand in hers held her in place. For a while that was how things remained, Nick and the figure still and quiet, the silence heavy like a leaden weight. Finally the figure spoke, its voice sibilant, hoarse, lacking inflection: "The Keeper would know which way you vote." For a moment longer Nick stared at it, unmoving, his body taut against hers. "The Keeper knows that I vote as I always have. I vote to maintain the seal." She could hear the tension in his voice. Again the silence fell, stretching, brittle - so brittle that Dorien expected it to break into shrieking or screaming at any second. She pressed herself against him, seeking refuge in his nearness. Her movement seemed to draw the figure's attention, it's gaze passed over her and it was as if a freezing wind had touched her - a wind so cold she gasped, gulped breath with shock. Goosebumps shivered over her skin. She almost squealed in fright. Again the voice. "I shall convey your message." Nick made no response, but she could feel the tension in his body vibrating through hers. She blinked. The figure was gone. One moment it stood before them on the path, as real as Nick beside her, in the next breath all that remained were shadows, a play of light and dark that possessed the vague shape of a man in a coat. "Oh, My God," she whispered, shaking. For a moment Nick stood absolutely still, then the tension seemed to drain from him. Gradually the sounds returned, louder now after their absence. Feeling her shivering, he draped his still warm jacket over her and looped his arm about her shoulders. Still tense she snuggled in close, her body weak, shaky with the after effects of adrenaline. "Is your place close?" she said. "Just the other side of the park." ****** Dorien stood at the wide window, staring thoughtfully out into the night. Nick's apartment bordered the park, the view from the tall windows down onto the spot where the figure had stood. From the kitchen behind her she could hear sizzling, the sound of the fan in the hob's hood, Nick moving around. The apartment was filled with the smells of cooking. Even now, some hours later she remained tense, nervous, unsettled. She sipped her gin and tonic, ice clinking. Nick, by contrast, seemed unaffected - as if the incident had been dismissed from his mind. She shivered uneasily. With a last look from the window she turned and walked through to the kitchen. "Hi. How's dinner coming?" He smiled a reply. For a while she stood, watching him move around the small space with his easy, sure grace. There was something comforting in watching him cook, in watching such a mundane activity - so commonplace after the strange encounter in the park. So far she hadn't felt able to broach it with him, it was too fresh, too raw, and she was frightened that she wasn't going to like what he said. Instead she said: "So is this a rental or do you own it?" "No, it's mine - I bought it a few years back." He looked about the room as if it was the first time he'd seen it, sipped red wine from a glass, meat sizzling on the hob before him. "I like the view over the park and it was a bit of a bargain. The last owner wanted something bigger and he was wealthy enough not to care a lot about how much he lost on it." She smiled. "How much did you pay?" For a moment he didn't answer, stirring the food. "Money is vulgar; let's not talk about money." "Alright." She sipped her drink, banked her courage. "What about that thing in the park, then?" she said, watching him closely. Nick didn't answer. The meat sizzled. The silence lengthened. Finally he lifted his eyes, looked at her, sighed. "Some things are best discussed in daylight," he said at last. For a moment she was tempted to protest, to push the issue, to make him answer her; but something in the way he said it stopped her. She glanced about, conscious of the night pressing silently against the apartment's windows, the yawning darkness of the park just below. She rubbed her shoulders as if chilled. "Okay. What do you want to talk about?" He grinned, flicked the hob off. "You, of course." She grimaced. "I'm not that interesting...and I know next to nothing about you." "How about we eat first, then?" he said, pouring hot pasta into two bowls. They sat in the living room, sharing the sofa and a low coffee table, ignoring the dining table in the room's far corner. Behind them the wall was hung with a large painting - a dark landscape of some unfamiliar country; on it, painted at a distance, stood a white stone croft, lonely against the dark sky. The apartment, a penthouse suite with upward of ten rooms, was achingly fashionable - all wooden flooring, glass, leather and hidden lighting - built to maximise its dramatic views over the park, but there was something impersonal about it - as if it had been decorated by someone else. No pictures of him, or Ivan, or anyone else, she noticed. "Mm. This is good," she said, around mouthfuls, conscious of his leg pressed warmly against hers. "Pietro gave me the recipe," he said, his voice light. "Told me it never fails when trying to seduce the ladies." She smiled briefly, then looked at him seriously. "Is that what you're doing - seducing me?" Her words brought a new tension to the room, lent a weight to the silence that hadn't been there before. She felt nervous all of a sudden. For a while he stared back, his grey eyes dark in the shadows. A Fall of Night "If you have to ask, I guess I'm not doing that well," he said quietly. She blushed, suddenly shy. "You're doing fine." He stared at her. She swallowed. His leg really was very warm and he was so close beside her - close and beautiful and sexy. His eyes were intense, like hot coals on her skin. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, every moment etched precisely in her mind. She fancied that she could almost hear her own heart it was beating so hard. "Nick..." she breathed. He took the pasta bowl from her, setting it down on the table. Nervously she plucked at her dress, smoothing it over her thighs, her palms damp. "Nick, I've, uh, never... I'm a -" "Shhh, I know," he said. "I'm your first." "Oh." He kissed her, his lips warm and soft on hers. "Oh," she said again. "I'll be gentle. I promise," he breathed. Then she was clinging to him, her lips pressed against his, breathing the scent of his skin, feeling the play of his muscles beneath his shirt. Every nerve in her body seemed to be tingling, as if she had not blood but electricity running through her veins. She felt his tongue against her lips, in her mouth - his arms around her, holding her. His hands found her head, twined in her hair, pulling her against him - his tongue deep in her mouth. She gasped, leaning into him, seeking his caress, desperate for the feel of him. Without knowing how, she found herself lying back on the sofa, his mouth on her neck - hot and soft and gentle. Her skin tingled, felt hyper-sensitive - his every touch burning along her skin, making her desperate for more. "Oh God," she groaned. Everything felt unfamiliar - the strength of the sensations overwhelming, disorientating her. His hand was hot on her leg, stroking her through her stockings - she pressed herself against it, gasping with the feeling - then he was pushing her dress up to expose her panties, her suspenders, her hips rising to meet his touch. She felt hot, hot and sweaty and excited and... Oh God Nick, what are you doing to me? Her body was chasing his hand, craving his caress with a fearful, helpless passion. Her legs opened to his touch, his hand brushing her skin, slipping over the top of her stockings to touch the bare flesh at the top of her thighs - she jumped, gasping, burning with his touch. "Nick..." she whispered. She couldn't seem to catch her breath, it felt so good. "Condom..." He kissed her again, his tongue deep in her mouth, his lips frantic on hers. For a second their teeth clacked together and he withdrew slightly, breathing hard. "Later... Trust me..." His mouth dropped to her neck, nibbling, stroking her with his tongue - kissing a line like fire along her neck to her naked shoulders. She groaned, her body on fire. Then he was slipping down her body. Oh fuck. His head was between her legs, her hands clutching at his hair. She felt his tongue lick along the damp skin above her stockings, heard herself gasp in pleasure. "Oh God, Nick..." His mouth was on her panties, his breath hot. Fuck, she was so wet. Bizarrely she wondered if she should be embarrassed. Then she felt his mouth pressing into the thin fabric covering her cunt and she forgot everything else. When he pulled her panties down she willingly lifted her hips, groaning with the sudden feel of his breath on her moist flesh. For a while he teased her - kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs, kissing the sodden flesh of her labia, breathing softly on her partly opened lips - then it seemed that the hunger that burned her tormented him too. Hastily, almost roughly, he lifted her legs, placing them over his shoulders. With a groan of passion his tongue forced itself into her flesh. She gasped, her body convulsing, pleasure lancing through her. In seconds she was whimpering, small sounds of pleasure, of lust, forced from her. Unbidden her hips were jerking, pressing against him - chasing his tongue - twisting beneath him. His tongue seemed to be everywhere - inside her, sliding wetly between her lips, stroking her clit so that she moaned and jumped. Her body seemed to have taken on a life of its own, her hips writhing, her hands clutching uselessly at his too short hair. With a long groan she came, her body shuddering at the intensity of the feeling. "Oh, my fucking God!" she said, gasping, her chest heaving. His tongue didn't stop. Oh fuck. She felt helpless in the face of her passion, her body writhing and gasping at his behest, under his control. The second climax was better than the first. It took longer - his tongue less frantic, her body less anxious - and it was gentler; but she was more present in the moment, able to feel him in her flesh, able to feel the pleasure of just having him there. By the time he lifted himself from between her legs - kissing her with the taste of herself rich in his mouth - she felt drunk, intoxicated, befuddled. Without apparent effort he scooped her up, carried her into the bedroom. She clung to him, both helpless and willing, until he laid her on the bed. Unnoticed, somewhere between her first climax and the bedroom, the clock had struck midnight and Valentine's Day had begun. In the shadowed light of the city's sleeping skyscrapers he undressed for her, the sculpted muscle of his body concealed and revealed in equal measure by the weak light through the windows. She stared fascinated. His body was marked by a twisting tattoo of exotic design - a dark, limbed serpent crawling over his skin. It started on his left thigh, coiling over his hips, twisting over his back and down onto his right shoulder, onto his chest. It lent him a savage air. When he was naked, his cock erect between them, he drew her from the bed to stand before him, placing her so close his breath brushed her face. For a moment she was nervous, standing awkwardly, overly conscious of her hands at her side, afraid to either touch him or not to touch him. Gradually fascination overcame her and she reached out to him, the tips of her fingers tracing the line of his tattoo - caressing the curve of his thigh, stroking over his torso, his skin soft and hard and hot. When she reached his neck he caught her hand, kissing it softly, his fingers stroking her in turn. He undressed her slowly, his strong hands soft and careful. Fingers little more than a whisper on her skin he slipped her dress from her shoulders to puddle on the floor at her feet, unfastening her bra to free her breasts with accomplished ease - her nipples already achingly hard. As she had done, his eyes drank in her body - his gaze tracing the line of her long legs, her firm belly, the curve of her breasts. When his hot mouth engulfed her nipple she gasped again, felt weak at the knees - her hands clutching for him. For a moment he held her, supporting her gently at the elbow, their bodies so close she could feel his warmth seeping into her. Then he guided her to the bed, lowered her back onto it. Unbidden, she scooted herself into the middle, lying with her legs open, feeling a little anxious for the first time. Nick knelt above her, his hands caressing her, his eyes hungry on her spread body. She beckoned him, drew him down, kissed his lips, tasting herself again. She wanted him and she wanted him to see that - to see it in her body, in the way she was with him - because she was afraid to say it, afraid to speak in case she said something to spoil it, to spoil how good she felt right then. When their lips finally parted she read it in his eyes and the last of her nerves disappeared. He reached into his bedside table, returned with a condom. She giggled a little as he pulled the packet open. "You think it's funny - you do it..." he said breathlessly. "Okay..." Her voice was hoarse. He handed her the condom, slick and rubbery. For a second she looked at him, excited and nervous in equal measure. His cock stood waiting. Slowly she bent down, condom in hand, then - impish - she kissed the end, her lips caressing the tip for just the briefest moment, her dark eyes staring widely at him. She slipped the condom onto his warm skin, rolling it gently from the pinched tip, felt him jump. "Sorry," she said. "Don't be - you didn't hurt me..." He was grinning at her, his eyes dark. For a moment she held his cock, smoothing the condom with her hand, watching him. Lust burnt in his dark eyes, fuelled her own arousal - the molten rush of her body, liquid between her legs. "Oh fuck," she whispered. She lay back, opening her legs beneath him, a smile that was as much lust as shyness playing around her lips. For a moment he stroked her legs, caressing the silk of her stockings. "We'll go slow, okay?" She nodded, unable to speak. Gently, almost tentatively, he slipped the end of his cock into her. She gasped slightly as he entered her body, reaching out to hold his forearm - a small gesture of reassurance. For a second he paused, holding her hand softly, then he gradually pushed himself further inside her. She felt him filling her, a strange intoxicating mix of pleasure, of tightness, of flooding, liquid warmth - his progress slow, sure, assured. She had expected pain, resistance, had partially braced for it, and was surprised when there was none. Finally she felt his hips meet hers, his cock buried completely inside her and she smiled up at him - a shy, satisfied smile. He started to move, withdrawing slightly then sliding back into her slick flesh. Her eyes drifted closed, her mind focused entirely on the feel of him in her body. She moaned gently. "Mm. That feels nice..." With a low gasp of his own, he folded himself over her, kissing her gently, then passionately. Instinctively she clutched him to her, her legs embracing him as much as her arms. Together the rhythm of their bodies changed, the tempo of their fucking increasing as they became more confident in one another. "Oh, Nick..." she gasped, breaking off into a small moan. She stared into his eyes, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the muscles of his back, luxuriating in the feel of his cock deep inside her. Her body was slick with sweat where their skin touched. Flickers, a candle flame of pleasure, spreading from her cunt, the feel of him thrusting into her. They were both breathing heavily, his tongue flicking in her mouth, the wet sounds of their fucking loud in the silence of his apartment. "Oh, fuck..." she moaned, feeling her climax kindling. It felt so good, his cock hard, hot, inside her, the feel of his body against hers. She breathed his scent, licked salty sweat from the soft skin of his neck, all the time that feeling of possession and absence - his cock in her body - driving her, making her moan and gasp and groan and wish that he would never stop. His tongue was licking her ear, soft, ticklish - a hellish counterpoint to the hardness inside her. Oh, fuck Nick, do you know what you're doing to me? She held him, gripping his body with frantic strength as he fucked her, pressing herself to him - feeling his body with every inch of her own. His hand was on her thigh, stroking her flesh, caressing the curve of her hip, the touch of his fingers molten on her skin - dear fuck, her body felt like it was on fire - she wanted him, wanted him deeper inside her. Gasping with lust, she drove her hips against him, ground herself onto him. Oh, fuck, she was going to come again. Not fair. Not fair. Too soon. She wanted this to last... Oh, God! She grabbed his face, pulling his mouth to hers, her tongue frantic in his mouth. "Oh, sweet fuck, Nick, I'm cumming..." she breathed, her lips on his - heard him groan in response, his body thrusting between her legs. She came writhing against him, her body slick with sweat, the room echoing to her cries - earthy sounds of fulfillment, of passion, of release - his own climax coming just seconds later. He held her, crushing her to him as her climax peaked - her body spasming, crushing him between her thighs, small aftershocks of pleasure following, making her moan gently, contentedly. Then his body relaxed, draping heavily over her - as satiated, as spent as hers was - and she laid her head in the nape of his neck, her breath hot on his skin, her arms around his back, his cock soft inside her. "Oh, God, Nick... Oh my fucking God!" she said huskily, when at last she could speak, her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. He kissed her neck gently and slid off her, his cock sliding slickly from her body as he lay down next to her, his arm flung back above his head. She shuffled over, laying her head on his chest, wrapping herself around him. The sex had left her exhausted, her limbs rubbery. After a while she clutched him a little harder, kissed his chest, whispered, "Thank you. For being so gentle. I didn't think it could ever feel so good the first time." He squeezed her and she snuggled against him, feeling him stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head. She was content to lie still, listening to his breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall, his arms warm about her. "Will you stay tonight?" he said eventually, stroking her back. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide, nodded against him. "I have a tee shirt you could use if you like." "Okay," she said, watching as he moved to remove the condom from his now flaccid cock. She stopped him, her hand on his cock. She felt him twitch, grinned. "I'll do that, it's okay." "You sure?" She slid it from him, pinching the end, capturing his semen; smiled at him. "Okay, I'll get the tee shirt then." It was the work of moments to tie it and wrap the condom in a tissue, placing it in her purse. She flushed the toilet after to cover her duplicity. When she returned to the room Nick was in bed, the tee shirt next to him. Smiling she removed her stockings, pulled his tee shirt on and climbed into bed, snuggling against him. In moments she was asleep. ****** Dorien was still asleep when he woke. It was early, the first weak light of dawn misty through the apartment's large windows. In the aftermath of sex he'd forgotten to close the blinds. He managed to extricate himself without waking her. For a while he watched her sleep, admiring her flawless skin, the soft sheen of her hair. He couldn't remember the last time someone had shared his bed. It was a somber thought and he shrugged it off, pulling the blinds closed carefully. The rose he had bought for her lay discarded on the bedside table. Taking care not to wake her, he laid it down next to her on the bed, where he had slept. It looked pretty - red against the white pillow. Pretty but not perfect. With a small smile on his lips he reached down, touched the flower gently with the tip of one finger. When he withdrew it was a perfect sable black, its petals just opening. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt from the room, folding them over his arm, but made no attempt to dress. Instead he padded naked into the lounge, closing the door quietly behind him. From the window the park lay below him like a wound in the flesh of the city, a green scar stretching away into the distance. Gazing at it now in the early, watery light of dawn he was struck again by its beauty. From this height it was a place of serenity, a place of mystery - distance blurring the fine detail, making an impressionist landscape of it. Normally, the sight of it would have been enough to bring him peace. But not today. There was no escaping how he felt, his unease seemed to be dogging his steps. It was as if something was ending, something he'd taken for granted for far too long. Perhaps this thing with Dorien was a mistake? He was used to being alone, had tried to convinced himself that he was happy alone. He laughed at that - she was showing that to be the worst kind of lie. Was she the source of his unsettled feelings? There were too many things going on here for it to be a coincidence. Then there was the visit from the wraith in the park last night - its appearance unsettling if not unexpected. What did that foreshadow? Unconsciously his eyes drifted to the landscape hung above the sofa. For a long while he looked at it, picking at the subtleties in its strokes, the shadows of its rolling moorland. The lone croft. On days like these he almost fancied that he could see her face in its black window, as if she'd painted herself in some secret way, hidden but real. For a while he could almost imagine her look, the tears she must have been crying. It gave him neither ease nor answer. Sighing, he dressed, making do without underwear for the time being. The apartment had at least two bathrooms other than the en-suite he used regularly but he needed coffee more than a shower and he didn't want Dorien to wake to an apparently empty building. There was a ritual to making a cappuccino, he reflected. Something Pietro had mentioned on more than one occasion. The selection of the grounds, the heating of the water, pumping it through the coffee to produce the espresso. One third steamed milk, one third foam - sweet and smooth. A hint of chocolate. Warm, not hot, and never after eleven in the morning. It was a ritual in which he found comfort if not peace, as familiar to him now as shaving was to most men. When Dorien finally emerged, he was on his second, bright sunlight streaming through the wide windows, and part way through the daily paper. "Uh, hi," she said, running her hand through her unruly dark hair, lifting it from her forehead. She looked shy, a little unsure of herself, the black rose held daintily in her off hand. For a moment she glanced at it, half held it up - blushed a little. "Thanks... It's beautiful." The tee-shirt was far too big for her, baggy, shapeless, short and very, very sexy. He smiled. "You're welcome... And good morning." He folded the paper, put it aside. "Breakfast? Cappuccino?" "Uh, what are you having?" "Croissants. Jam. Butter. Strong coffee." "Mm. Sounds good." She sat at a stool on the breakfast bar, watching as he gathered it together. The croissants were still warm, courtesy of Pietro's. He made the cappuccino for her from scratch. He watched her intently, a small smile on his lips. "Do you have a passport?" he said, as she sipped it. "What? Uh, yes." Foam on her upper lip. "Good," he said. "I'm going to Venice tomorrow evening, coming back Wednesday. Would you like to come with me?" She pretended to think about it for a second. "Are you kidding? I'd love to." He smiled warmly and she felt her heart skip. "Excellent. My treat." She sat up. "No, that's not fair... I can pay my half." He raised an eyebrow, looked at her mock serious. "I thought you were a student? Doesn't that mean struggling to make ends meet? Always short of money?" he said, smiling. "If it'll make you feel any better, think of it as my gift to you for Valentine's." For a second he thought she looked guilty, shamefaced, then she laughed and said, "Okay, you win. Didn't you say that talking about money was vulgar?" "I did. And it is." "Has Venice got anything to do with what happened in the park last night?" For a moment he paused - croissant halfway to his mouth - then he continued, chewing it slowly, face pensive. This wasn't something he wanted to discuss. Not this morning, not feeling on edge the way he did. She watched him carefully, saw the indecision on his face. "What was that thing, Nick?" He chewed his croissant. Sipped his coffee. "How did you know it was stalking us?" She thought about that for a while. "I didn't really... I just felt kind of tense, anxious. I had a feeling like I was being watched." He nodded, thoughtful. "And you were a virgin, before last night?" She blushed, nodded, a small smile touching her lips as she recalled. "Why does that matter?"