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After Amy had left, Frank stayed, completely mesmerized by the chanteuse with the whiskey colored eyes. She sang a few more songs, then took a break. As he got up, he found out that he wasn't the only man in the place that wanted her attentions. Softly he chuckled and sat back down, watching as the majority of the men pushed and shoved their way back towards the private rooms in the back of the club.
"Sir."
Frank startled slightly and looked up to see the emcee of the club standing next to him. "Yes?"
"Miss Fiona sent me to bring you back to her dressing room. If you follow me, I will take you through the back way and out of the crowd."
Fiona asked for Frank to be brought back to her? She had seen him in the crowd. The next question on his mind was what did she want? He wasn't the kind to play groupie. Silently Frank followed the emcee through the liquor storage room and into the back offices.
"Through there." the man said, pointing through another door. "Down the hall and it's the first door on the left."
Frank nodded and followed the directions. Knocking softly on the door, Frank twisted the knob and peeked inside carefully. He saw Fiona lying back on the red velvet sofa, her heels kicked off onto the floor and her feet propped up on the arm of the sofa. Her eyes were closed and her head was laid back on the thick cushions. "You asked to see me, Ma'am?"
"You must be the attractive man who's date walked out on him." came the reply. Her voice was soft, accented much like his own. "I am sorry she left you here." Fiona smiled and lifted her head up. She smiled just as softly as she spoke, the smile seeming as if the woman behind it knew everything about everyone and anything. "Help yourself to some scotch or whatever you like. You look like a scotch person. Have a seat. I won't bite as long as you tell me your name."
"Frank, Frank Donovan."
"A good Irish name, Mr. Donovan. Fiona Hastings. Have a seat." She waited until he did, then she sat up and faced him, sipping at the glass of water on the low coffee table between them. "You look uneasy, like you're waiting for me to attack you or something."
"I am curious as to why you had me brought back here." Frank relaxed a bit and sat back in the matching red velvet sofa.
"To apologize. For your date, that is. Were you two serious?"
"No, not really. I thought she knew that."
"Apparently she did not. Again, I am sorry... that she left you. However, I am glad too."
"You are?"
"Yes, Mr. Donovan. That means that I get to share your company for a short while." She smiled that smile again and they talked for what seemed like hours. In reality it was only 20 minutes before the emcee knocked on the door and suggested that Fiona get ready for her second set. She sighed softly, a bit sorrowfully and stood up. She slid her shoes on easily and reached for the sheer silk scarf that draped over the end of the sofa Frank sat on. He stood up, freeing the scarf as she pulled it gently from him.
Despite his inner wishes, he felt himself intoxicated by her. It wasn't the scotch; he'd only had one sip of it. It was more than that; just being near her was like inhaling a narcotic. She had a spicy scent about her, a heavy sweet spicy scent that reminded him of the opium dens of the Far East. Fiona looked up at him as he took the scarf from her fingers and laid it gently across her throat to flow gracefully down her shoulders. They were a breath apart when another knock at the door broke the moment. She blushed lightly and excused herself and walked to the door. Pausing for a moment, she turned around.
"If you wish... I will not object if you were here when I am finished singing." she said softly before she walked out to the crowd.
Frank stared at the picture in a small brushed-silver frame that sat on the dark leather trunk in front of him.. Lovely Fiona... It had been a publicity photo that he'd had shrunk down to fit in his wallet. She always smiled as if she knew the secrets of the universe. She smiled that smile the first time he met her.
Frank sighed. If he'd been smart, he would have walked out then and there. 'Chanteuse' he thought to himself. 'My poor Chanteuse.' He stood, leaving the glass of wine on the trunk in front of the photo. He dreaded sleep. Dreams would come with full senses to them. He'd be able to smell the dampness in the air, her perfume, hear the small sensual noises that he created in Fiona… and see the emptiness in her eyes.
Rain pattered the windowpane in his bedroom as he lay back on the bed still fully clothed. He stared at the ceiling, his arms flung wide as if in crucifixion. Maybe if he thought about it hard enough, or distracted himself long enough, the dreams wouldn't come tonight.
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