I don't own anything. None of us does.
As we entered, I noticed that the restaurant was not crowded. While Edward introduced himself to the magisterial maître d', I looked around. There seemed to be a mist that embodied the air inside that room and a storm of sparkling crystal chandeliers emitted a soothing and somewhat eerie glow like the moonlight. There was of course, comforting piano music. The view of the water and the city lights combined to achieve an inviting and pleasant atmosphere and I felt a sudden sting of nostalgia.
In the past, evenings like this had been the foreplay to passionate, amazing nights of lovemaking, and having dinner out was only an alleged reason to play our secret seduction game, in which half words or entire sentences carried simultaneously one meaning for the outside world and another, conspiratorial one for us as lovers. Little gestures, brief glances, well or not-so-well-hidden insinuations, apparently inoffensive remarks made in a casual tone or with flawless graciousness were all adding to the erotic tension that was steadily building during our exchange.
Questions, observations like "How is your appetite this evening?", "This is not the only flavor I can sense at our table...", "You look famished..." or "I am barely in control of my hunger..." spoken openly or in a soft voice, interweaved in our conversation sent shivers up my spine each and every time.
Edward sometimes intentionally prolonged such evenings, invoking a variety of on-the-spot invented pretexts, only to enjoy himself seeing my exasperation, my edginess poorly concealed in my pleading looks. "Teaching me patience..." he used to say. "Anticipation is nine tenths of the pleasure..." he would quote from one of my favorite movies, wearing that smile of his, like a boy about to do mischief. "This minor delay will only augment your impending retribution, love..." he'd whisperingly tease me as I would writhe under his amused, collected perusal, suffocating with impetuous yet subdued desire, still attentive not to let any of my real condition transpire into my appearance. At least, not to third parties. As a consequence, we sometimes did not make it to the bedroom. Sometimes we did not make it inside the house. And that always would be just the appetizer before a sophisticated, highly developed main course.
It was our private game; I had been trying to keep up with him, to be a worthy opponent, to resist his challenge, not to give in to his inhuman seduction power but it was a game lost in advance. Very similar to the one we were evidently playing tonight. Still, the difference lay in the result and tonight that would be a much-dreaded confrontation. The ghastly thought raised goose bumps on my skin and I shook my head trying to chase it away.
Apparently my flashback had lasted only a few seconds because Edward was still involved in his discussion with the maître d', reminding him his requirements for the evening. A quiet table for two. A simple request, but he expressed it along with some sincere and credible compliments for the restaurant and the imposing maître d' instantly blossomed in the presence of the little praise. Edward told him that he deliberately chose his restaurant as the venue for the evening because he heard that people were impressed with the quality of the food and the service. I watched in awe how, by being well mannered, confident and outgoing, Edward played that rigid man into eating out of the palm of his hand. He could do that ever so easily.
"If I may say so, sir, you do look like a man accustomed to receiving good service, and I really hope you and the Mrs. will enjoy each other's company completely and without distraction." His words hit home, at least where I was concerned. "Allow me to escort you to your table."
He led the way towards a large window behind the piano where a small table was set, partially hidden from the rest of the room by a large marble column.
"Here it is. There is a little dance floor over there," - he indicated with his hand a small round platform near the piano, - "...in case the madam would like to dance later on. And of course, there is also this spectacular view," he added while pulling a chair back for me to sit down. I thanked him with a smile and a nod and seated. We had everything: privacy, music, indirect light and a wonderful outlook. It was painfully perfect.
"Shall we order?" Edward glanced up at one of the waiters who hurried over with the menus. When he approached our table, Edward looked him in the eye, smiled and asked how he was doing. When intended, his smile was undeniably lethal and worked like a charm on both men and women. Again, Edward's little display of politeness won that waiter's heart forever but there was no surprise to me in such a scene. I was exceptionally grateful for the male waiter. I could not stand even the idea of a beautiful, surely blonde woman, drooling all over the table, so eager and anxious to fulfill every single one of my husband's demands. Edward requested to hear his recommendations, asked questions about the food and wine, and thanked him for his help, saying that we needed a moment to decide.
After he had gone, Edward turned his attention back to me. I was prepared and I quickly put back in place my Audrey smile. He measured me silently again, with eyes as frozen as black ice. My vague smile died away.
"Is everything to your liking, my dear?" he asked me with fake concern. "You must be feeling Mr. Black's absence as a sour deprivation and I have to do my best to be a commendable substitute. For starters, I hope this place meets your requirements..."
I waited for a heartbeat for his stinging comment to fade away.
"Yes, Edward, I like it. It is wonderful here," I replied softly. That rapid shift from absolute courteousness to strangers to unbelievable meanness towards me paralyzed my thinking process. "Why are you doing this, Edward, why? Why are you so unkind?" I wondered in silence.
The study of the menu gave me a chance to readjust my focus so I opened mine absently, affording only the briefest glance at the selections. I chose instead to study furtively my escort, contemplating the lines of his face, trying to no avail to read his thoughts. He was so handsome, I uselessly noticed. I probably should have been used to that by now — but I wasn't. Still, his physical appearance only to some extent had to do with my undying attraction to him. Observing Edward, one registered far more in regards to his manner than his looks.
"Something the matter, my dear?" he interrupted my thoughts without looking at me, apparently very interested in what that restaurant had to offer. Before I could form a reply to the sudden question, he continued matter-of-factly.
"You are barely paying any attention to your menu. Have you already decided what you are going to have? Hmmm... On the other hand, perhaps you are familiar with this place, although I would have thought that is rather out of Mr. Black's league."
Arrogance again.
"I have never gone out with Jack, Edward," I hurriedly jumped to establish the truth.
"Besides tonight, did you mean?" he inquired sardonically. I breathed deeply and steadied my temper. "Behave... You must behave, Bella..."
"Technically, tonight I'm having dinner with you, Edward. And to establish facts, I've never been in this restaurant before, I didn't spend any evening out in company of other men and I am not checking out my menu because I was hoping that you would order for me."
He gave me an inquisitive look. I thought I'd seen one of his eyebrows slightly arching. Surprise? Disbelief? I wished I knew what he was thinking, God, I wished that so badly. Still, nothing more surfaced on his stark features.
"Very well, then," he concluded, closing up his menu. "Let that be so."
A single look in the waiter's direction was enough. Instants later, he was near us, ready to take the order. The staff really went out of their way to accommodate your needs here. Or was that true only for charismatic clients like my husband?
"We've made up our minds. My companion would like to try your magnificent, I'm sure, Grilled Beef rib-eye accompanied by a salad at your choice."
"And for you, sir?"
"Nothing for me, thank you."
"Are you sure, sir? I mean, as I told you before, tonight we have a wonderful..."
"I'm pretty sure, thank you." Edward quickly disrupted the waiter effusion with his dry remark but his following dashing smile whipped all of that much-too-eager-to-please little man worries away.
"Shall I bring you something from the bar?"
"Yes, please. A gin and tonic for the lady and a double scotch for me." He indicated to the waiter his favorite brand.
"Very well, sir. Let me know if you change your mind."
"Certainly," Edward replied pleasantly, handing him back the menus.
I witnessed the little exchange in mild astonishment. His choice for hard liquor instead of an eclectic, ridiculously expensive wine. His refusal to eat.
"What is it, Isabella? He asked in an impartial tone after a brief glance at me. "Why are you wearing that innocent, disorientated deer look on your face?" His expression held evident curiosity.
"Aren't you going to eat? I was under the impression you were interested in local cuisine and..."
"My appetite is rather dour this evening," he cut me off with a hint of impatience. "Besides, I'm not here to eat..." he added resolutely.
"Why are you here, then, Edward?" I inquired softly, risking a furtive look at him.
"Why, Isabella, I imagined that to be evident! I'm here to offer you an unforgettable, magical, outstanding evening, the kind that Mr. Black would have given you, in more ways than one, I'm sure."
I noted the emphasis placed on the plural aspect of the way Jake presumably might have entertained me.
"But I don't seem to be doing such a great job, after all... Isabella you appear to be uncomfortable, fatigued, stressed...do I need to continue? Am I doing this to you?" he asked after a little pause. He sounded bitterly amused.
I turned my eyes away from him, clenching my teeth against all the wild accusations I was tempted to spew back at him. Luckily, our beverages arrived and I took a long, greedy sip from mine. I used to like the gin but I rarely drank it anymore since I had grown accustomed with Edward's fine taste in wine. Again, another odd pick. I suspected every of those seemingly strange actions of his to be just assessments of my state of mind. He had been provoking me from the first minute of his arrival.
I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I asked, pointing at my glass. He stifled a sneering laugh, already emptying his.
"Why would I want to do that?" Never a straight answer to a direct question.
"To humiliate me some more..." I answered caustically. "You seem to have developed a hobby recently. And you're very good at doing it. As you are at everything else... " My voice trailed off.
He raised his glass a little, signaling to the distanced waiter that he needed a refill.
"I'm not interested in doing that," he evenly replied. "It is rather juvenile and uncreative." Again, a fruitless exchange.
"You could have fooled me..."
The waiter reappeared shortly bringing his second drink and my food; the plates looked wonderful. Although I did not feel the need to eat, I absentmindedly took a bite, welcoming the few extra moments to think. We were like two adversaries circling around inside of an imaginary fight ring, weighing each other's mind, carefully considering the best way to strike. None of us would give up his position, not until a soft spot would reveal itself. His state of anger, however controlled, apparently was his weakness. Still, his weapons were better and my defense ineffectual. I started playing with my fork and wondered when it would be suitable to start questioning him. Would he deny his affair? Would he try to convince me that all that happened was an ephemeral event? An incident? A momentary lapse of reason?
"Aren't you hungry this evening Isabella? You don't appear to be... Perhaps if we danced, your appetite might improve."
I honestly feared my reaction; exposing myself to the predictable effects of his propinquity might not be the brightest idea since my treacherous body never failed to respond to his in an apparently un-stealthy way. He would see right through me.
"I don't feel like dancing, Edward..." I tried an unskillful evasive maneuver.
"Come on, Isabella, humor me... After all, we must check all those little boxes. I'm sure you'd have accepted a similar invitation from Mr. Black."
"You seem to be very confident about your extensive knowledge of my being, Edward..."
"The opposite would be unacceptable, my dear. If one doesn't know one's spouse like the back of the hand, then who would?"
"Who, indeed..." I responded wryly. His irony had a double-cut he seemed unaware of.
Fluidly, he rose and held out his hand. He let loose the full force of his eyes against me, unequivocally dazzling, up to the moment where I sensed a familiar, yet dangerous vertigo.
"Dance with me, Isabella..." His voice was a hypnotic, luring, irresistible beckoning. He did not let go of my eyes until pressed by his flaming look I consented to his request. I took a deep breath and stood up. I met my husband's challenging gaze as steadily as possible then paused a moment to smooth my skirt over my hips with trembling hands before preceding him towards the empty, intimidating dance floor. He followed close behind me, whispering 'Very good'.
Seconds later, I was in his arms, slowly swaying to the music. A head above me, he surveyed the room with sharp, dark eyes.
"Every man in here is watching you," he said quietly, passing his fingers ever so gently over my back as other men's eyes might have. "And why not? You look breathtaking tonight," he gently murmured.
That unexpected admiring comment sounded sincere and I was elated by his sudden grace; I felt a strange surge of pleasure that warmed me up, heated my blood, like a shot of heroin in my veins. He was impossibly close, but still his body came just short of touching mine. Every single one of my senses was overwhelmed by his proximity. His smell - cologne mixing with his unique, unmistakable male scent -, which made my head spin, the rumbling of his voice in his chest, the feeling of the fine wool of which his suit was made, the flexing of his back muscles under his jacket... His velvety, smooth voice near my temple...his sweet breath on my tongue as I greedily inhaled... The sight of him sitting closer to me than I have allowed myself to hope lately... His eyes, in that deep shade of green measuring me in amused satire. His ever-taut jaw. His fully lips so close to mine, so close, that a simple raise on tiptoes would suffice to cover that small, excruciating distance. So tempting...
I did not believe it to be possible but somehow I managed to restrain myself from doing exactly that. Instead, an unintended, vivid remembrance of one of his kisses invaded my mind and in merely seconds that became more than I could stand. My knees were already weak, but now I was beginning to shake and I could feel my arms and hands trembling on his shoulders. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on his chest, suddenly too tired and weak to pretend anymore. I felt fragile, as if I were made of cracked glass, as if my translucent bones, my crystal skull, my disintegrating flesh were in danger of falling apart at the tiniest shove. I wished I could uphold that posture forever, secretly drinking him in, feeling him, adoring him. Nevertheless, much too soon, he stopped dancing altogether and stepped back. I was sure he could sense in the subtle quivering of my body.
"What is it, Isabella?" he asked me alarmed. His voiced held nothing but genuine concern. No sarcasm. No derision. At least it seemed so. Encouraged by his tone, I forced my head up and looked at him. I could feel tears starting to form in my eyes. I felt this urge to be honest, to throw away my stupid, useless Venetian mask.
"Are you feeling sick? Do you wish to retire for the evening?" he asked me again solicitously. His voice was warm and low in pitch and floated around me like a caress.
"No, Edward. Is nothing like that," I finally answered in a little voice, attempting to form a smile. I wistfully looked at him and confessed in a whisper: "I am simply intoxicated by your presence..."
In a flash, he froze; his face turned to stone and his jaw tightened. I did not foresee such an outcome and I was perplexed by his non-verbal response. He took another step back, distancing further from me.
"Aren't you changing sides rather quickly, Isabella? He managed to utter between clenched teeth. "I mean, a few hours ago, was it or wasn't Mr. Black sufficient to get you into the same...inebriated state?"
Contempt flashed across his face and something else. Hate, disparagement I have come to expect, but sadness?
He grabbed my wrist and almost dragged me back to the table. Luckily, our corner was poorly lit and no one seemed to pay us any attention. Once seated, he hastily signaled the waiter, who materialized from the thin air near our table in a beat.
"Would you care to see our set of choices for sweets, sir?"
"Thank you, no."
"Coffee, perhaps?"
"It's rather late for coffee..." Edward answered bluntly.
The waiter appeared to be confused about Edward's sudden change into this gloomy, monosyllabic patron but however shocked, that did not come across his pleasant tone.
"Shall I prepare your check then?"
"That will be fine."
I did my best to hide my apprehension at his abrupt desire to cut the evening short, but like everything else, it did not fail to escape his notice.
"I have other plans for dessert...," he said simply yet ominously, watching me intently. I instantly recognized one of his innuendos used back home; my mouth went dry and I suddenly needed to swallow the lump in my throat. No pointed look, no fleeting touch, not even an attempt at a more seductive timbre; only his eyes, dark and merciless, boring into mine. Still, my body reacted and a well-trained, spontaneous reflex stepped in; I felt my cheeks flush and my breathing quicken. He played me as skillfully as ever.
The waiter was quick. Edward thanked him for the excellent service and sent his compliments to the chef. It was understood that he also left him a lavish tip. It was not long at all before Edward was standing behind me, pulling out my chair. He followed closely as we exited the restaurant, his hand resting again lightly at the base of my spine, irradiating that delicious, forbidden heat again. He held the door for me, his cold smile polite but his eyes mocking.
I headed for the parking outside, but I suddenly felt his hand grabbing my elbow, as he diverted my course towards an elevator.
"Where are we going, Edward?"
"Up, to my room, isn't that obvious, Isabella?" His voice was unyielding, steely, and cold. He did not even turn his head to look at me and a wave of dread began to knot my stomach. Panic seized me and I stubbornly stopped on the spot, refusing to go any further.
"But Angela is expecting me..." I whined, trying to prevent him from pulling me ahead.
He stopped abruptly and I could tell he was openly enraged by now. I never-ever saw him in such a state. I was frightened, in earnest; the hair on my forearms rose and pressed against my sleeves.
"Ms. Weber is well informed about your whereabouts, Isabella... Hadn't I done that, she would still have not expected you back tonight, my dear, because it is only an indication of common sense for a woman to share her husband's hotel room instead of her friend's tiny apartment. I have no more to say on the matter and I will not hear anything else from you. We have more important things to talk about. Now, start moving, please, and stop being difficult. Is not like you to create a scene in a hotel lobby and I will not tolerate one. It seems that I might just reach the limits of my patience this evening. I'm sure you can perceive that."
He was glaring down at me, his pitch-black eyes full of vehemence. I lowered my eyes and struggled, for a thousandth time that evening, to swallow my tears.
"After you, Isabella..." He indicated the awaiting elevator. "I'm dying to be finally alone with you," he muttered under his breath as I reluctantly passed by him to step inside.
I heard him growl before the doors of the elevator were fully closed and he next grabbed my wrist and bent it backwards forcing me to turn and look at him. What I saw was his face twisted in unleashed, devastating rage. His hand shot out and grabbed hold of my hair, pulling my head back.
"What kind of wicked game are you playing, Isabella? He grimaced, sucking air between his teeth. "Why are you looking at me with this bewildered expression that drove me insane all evening?"
He twisted my hair more tightly around his fingers, disrupting my French twist and jerked me back even further. Again, his lips were merely inches from mine.
"I've had this question on my tongue all day long and I cannot hold it anymore. Why did you leave me?" he growled between gritted teeth, his shoulders quivering in not so carefully controlled anger. I knew the power hidden in the muscles underneath that finely tailored jacket. I stared at him riveted by shock. He released a string of surprisingly colorful expletives, pulling my hair so hard that it hurt and an instinctive whimper of pain escaped my lips. With a roaring struggle for breath, as if all the air were being squeezed from his lungs, he bellowed again, his other fist forcefully hitting the elevator wall just above my head.
"Damn you, woman, answer me! Why did you leave me?"
My heart did a somersault only to resume immediately an irregular rhythm. My ears started to ring and the much-too-familiar weakness and nausea hit again; I felt suddenly very warm, yet cold and clammy sweat appeared on the surface of my skin. However, I had no time to complain about such little grievance because I was slipping, slipping into invading blackness so perfect, it was like the universe before creation. Whether I was falling back into non-existence or deep into the hell's blackest hole, among the damned, it was of no relevance. As long as that put an end to my torment, I gladly abandoned myself to that tender, tentacular embrace.
Thanks for reading.
