Better late than never? I was out of town for a conference over the last week, which threw off my writing and editing schedule.
The next few chapters are some of the heaviest in this story. Buckle up.
Chapter Four
A thin layer of frost covered the roof of the opera house, giving the black asphalt a greyish cast.
Snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals from the clouds to the ground. The night air cooled my breath into misty puffs. It was the second or third snowfall of the season and the flakes were melting as soon as they hit the roof. A sharp gust of wind rattled the flagpoles. Instinctively, I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders before stepping outside.
"We don't have to stay long," Erik said. "I thought you might enjoy the view."
The opera house was on the west side of the downtown core and, from our vantage point on the roof, I could see office and condo towers lit up all around us. Turn-of-the-century brownstones and gothic churches added charm and history to the landscape of glass and steel. Several storeys below us, cars sped through the city's arterial roads, their lights tracking the gridlines of the city streets. To the south, I could see boats in the harbour and a plane landing on the island airport.
I crossed my arms over my chest, bracing myself from the cold, and gingerly stepped out onto the frozen roof. Five more steps brought me to the edge. A hip-high railing prevented me from peering over the edge. By my count, we were eight storeys up from street level.
The breeze caught the tail of my scarf, pulling the fabric across my face. With my vision obscured, I wobbled lightly, heart racing in sudden fear of falling. Quickly, I tucked my scarf back into the neck of my coat and rested my hands against the cold metal railing. I'd lived in the city for years and had looked out from much higher vantage points. This was the highest I'd been without the protection of a glass window. Trying not to betray my fear of heights, I leaned into the railing and fixed my eyes on the view of the harbour.
Erik joined me, taking his place to my left. His mask faced away from me and, from this angle, I was able to study the right half of his face and imagine what he would look like without the covering. Golden eyes, paled skin, thick black hair curling around his neck. He wasn't handsome, exactly. His lips were thin and his cheekbones were sharp, the angles combining into a harsh visage. His eyes were serious, authoritative, giving him the look of a military commander in a classical painting. And he was tall – at least six-foot-three, or a full foot taller than me.
"I don't think I've ever had a business meeting on a rooftop," I said, trying to melt the tension with some teasing.
"This isn't a business meeting, Christine," Erik replied, covering my hand on the railing with his own. "If it was, you would be back at your apartment now after having met in a boardroom with one of my associates. We both know that this night was never intended as a simple meeting."
Touché. I chose to respond to his prod with a conversational volley of my own. "Erik, you haven't been very direct with me."
"I haven't? I bought you a drink last weekend, I sent flowers to your office, and I brought you to the opening night of an opera. Some might say that I've been very direct."
"Erik, I'm engaged!" I was exasperated now.
"But not married."
"And if I was, would you respect that boundary?"
Erik's lips hardened into a scowl. "We could spend all night volleying 'what if' scenarios between us, Christine."
He was staring at me, waiting for a reaction. Guilt and excitement warred within me, twisting my stomach. A part of me wanted to stay, to explore these feelings and test the limits of the attraction between us. Another part of me wanted to be good, to protect what was sane and safe in my life. To run away from this emotional mess of an evening and forget I'd ever stood on this rooftop.
"I love Raoul," I blurted, as if that was the answer to everything.
"Do you?" Erik asked, daring me to repeat the admission. "Does your young man excite you? Does he challenge you? Does he inspire you? Does he make you mad with wanting? I could be those things for you, Christine. And, with time, you could learn to love me."
"I – what?" I stammered, trying to process the meaning of Erik's questions and ...admission? What was this? Had we fallen into an Italian opera? A fairy tale? Normal people didn't confess their love on rooftops. The facts were plain: Erik was a businessman, I was a fundraiser. We shared a keen interest in the arts and in music, but we were professionals. The whole evening – all of Erik's grandiose proclamations and gestures – smelled of a cheap romance novel.
The loyal fiancée in me wanted to defend Raoul, to tell Erik how he'd supported me and stayed with me after the death of my father. How he'd become my partner and my dearest friend. How all of the passion and madness that Erik was promising bound to fade with any partnership.
But the words never came and, in the void where they should have been spoken, Erik kissed me.
I'd expected a rougher, more possessive kiss from a man like Erik. Yet his lips were soft and pliant against mine. I closed my eyes, giving in for just a moment. My cheeks pinked with heat and my stomach fluttered with the dizzy energy of an effervescent dream. Spellbound, I reached up to rest my arm over Erik's shoulder and wound my fingers into the soft waves of his hair. Each strand was thick, coarse, yet the curls slid through my fingertips like satin ribbons.
Touch is an overlooked sensation and, as we stood together on the roof, I wanted to explore, to feel the rub of his mouth over mine, the touch of his tongue along the seam of my lips, the freshness of his cool skin against my blushing cheeks. I was disappointed then when Erik broke the kiss and then, after registering the traitorous emotion, I felt a cold flush of guilt. What would Raoul think? I'd betrayed him. And, worse, I'd wanted to further that betrayal.
"Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk away," he whispered, running his gloved fingers over my cheeks and forehead.
"We can't," I said, spitting out the foul-tasting words.
"Be careful there: 'can't' is very different from 'won't.'"
"We can't," I repeated, whispering now. "I won't say that there isn't a part of me that wants this, but we can't. I have…" I struggled for the correct words to illustrate the finality of the commitment I'd already made. "I have other obligations."
"What about tonight?" Erik asked. "You've already strayed from your obligations. You accepted my invitation, you followed me to this rooftop, and you kissed me back."
"Erik –" I interrupted.
"Let me finish, Christine," he interjected. "We've come this far. Spend the night with me. Anywhere, anything you like. We can walk the streets until the sun comes up. We can find a jazz bar and have too many glasses of wine. We can drive out of the city and have breakfast in a greasy diner. Anything you like."
"It won't change anything, Erik. This will still be wrong." I turned away from him and looked down at the cars and pedestrians moving through the streets.
"But at least we'll have something to justify your need to feel so damned guilty about this," he said, huffing with frustration. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me to face him again. His eyes, warm and solid like ancient amber, were glowing in the moonlight. "I'm grasping at straws here. You've got to give me, no, you've got to give us something."
I'm not an impulsive person. All of my adult life, I've envied people who can come to decisions quickly. People who can act. I've always been slow at coming to decisions; I like to weigh my options and dream up 'what if?' scenarios. I don't have many safety nets and I know what can come of bad decisions. I have a gift for empathy, for seeing all perspectives in a situation. If I went with him, I'd be jeopardizing my relationship with Raoul. My impending marriage. Why had I chosen the word 'impending?' There was something inevitable, something looming about marriage to Raoul. I needed to think, to choose. And the fear of choosing the wrong thing, of not choosing the best option with the best consequence, can be paralyzing.
I froze. The air around me seemed to thicken and time lost its grip on my thoughts, which were becoming slurred in my head. Erik's fingers were clutching my upper arms; I could feel his grip through my coat. It was snowing; I could feel the sharp cold and the warm melt of flakes landing on my nose and cheeks. Below us, someone was honking; the obnoxious blare of a horn punctuating the thrum of traffic below us. I was on the roof of the opera house. With Erik St-Clair. And I was running out of made-up reasons to pretend that this was a business meeting. I pictured Raoul, at his hotel in Berlin, eyelashes turned down in sleep. He would be returning tomorrow; what would I tell him?
I studied Erik, memorizing every detail I could about the right side of his face. A small freckle above his eyebrow and crow's feet at the corners of his eyelids. By my guess, he was well into his thirties. Solid. His hands were firm against my arms and his body beckoned with masculine warmth and strength. I wanted to melt into him, feel his - someone's! - arms wrap around me and take this horrible decision away.
Erik was watching me as intently as I was watching him. With our faces this close, the planes of his features were softer and he lost his aura of command. His mask rose and fell over his left cheek as he breathed. I watched, noting the seconds and matching my breaths to his. Air in. Air out. Breathe. He was vulnerable, waiting beside me. And that vulnerability carried a beauty and a charm to it. Could I make this man happy? Was happiness the right goal to pursue?
Everything about Erik was solid, visceral. I was barely able to conjure Raoul's face in my mind and found that I cared less than I should have. Thoughts of Raoul sparked pressures, demands. My fiancé was gently tugging me away, locking me to the trappings of domestic family life.
Erik was dangerous, unknown, but so very tactile. I wanted to feel his lips on me again, wanted to run back inside, out of the cold night air. And I wanted to forget Raoul, if only for a moment.
Wanting won.
"Let's go," I whispered, reaching to pull his hand off my shoulder. His fingers twitched, as if displeased at being moved, but relaxed when I laced my fingers through his. "I'll go wherever you like."
Erik nodded and pulled out his smartphone to call his driver. While he was instructing the man to bring the car out front, I took one last look out at the city. It was about eleven o'clock and the sun had set hours ago. Lights in the windows of stores, offices, and high-rises cast the streets in a palette of grey and yellow. Three blocks north of us, a massive Christmas tree, wrapped in strands of LED lights, stood in front of city hall. Christmas was in four days. Erik stepped behind me, wrapped his arms around my middle and nuzzled kisses over my cheeks.
Hands clasped together, we rushed back inside, down the stairs, and through the opera house. The faster I moved, the less I thought. The other patrons and audience members had already left, leaving the lobby empty and the passageways blessedly clear. We passed through the building, unnoticed, and Erik led me to the front door and into the passenger side of his car. Erik climbed into the driver's seat and pressed a tip into his driver's gloved hand before leaving the man standing at the curb.
"Did you just take his car?" I asked, wondering aloud.
"The car is mine. David works for me as an assistant and a driver. He's been with me for more than three years and I know that he doesn't live far from here. He'll be able to take a taxi home in no time at all."
"Where are we going then?" I asked, watching Erik's profile as we pulled away from the curb and merged with the city traffic. While I'd given him permission to take us anywhere he liked, I was still curious.
"I have an apartment not far from here," he replied, turning to look at me while we were stopped at a red light. "I have a bottle of port that I brought back from England a month ago. I thought you might enjoy sharing it with me."
I nodded, game to let Erik dictate our next move. The two glasses of wine we'd had during the performance of Don Quichotte had left my thoughts fuzzed at the edges. What was another glass? Erik said little as he maneuvered the car through the city streets. Lulled by the motion of the car and the passing lights of other vehicles, I closed my eyes and waited for us to stop.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I was conscious of was Erik's hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. We were parked in an underground garage. A glance at the dashboard clock showed that I'd only been asleep for about fifteen minutes. Did that put me into REM sleep, deep sleep? I wasn't sure and wondered whether it mattered.
Erik paused, watching me for a moment. Checking on me?
"I haven't changed my mind," I said, reaching over the gearshift to squeeze his hand. The muscles of his fingers were tense underneath the leather of his gloves.
"Good," he said, returning the squeeze and shutting off the ignition.
Again, I thought of Raoul and was conscious of the decision I was making by following Erik out of the car and into the elevator. Erik held my hand through the elevator ride, extinguishing my flicker of guilt with steady conversation on my tastes in music and books.
He'd read many of the same authors I had and we spent several minutes comparing when we'd each read Herman Hesse's Siddhartha . When I'd first read the novel, I was a year into my contract the university and was seriously doubting the twist in my career. Erik, who's read the book when we was much younger, had been more concerned with questions of meaning. What is a meaningful life? Art, he said, is meaning made observable.
My mind was firmly entrenched in the conversation at hand. Unthinking, my feet followed Erik's steps out of the elevator, down a carpeted hallway, and through the painted aluminum door of his apartment. Stepping through the doorway, I took in the furnishings and decorations. A black leather couch long enough for a basketball player to sleep on. Cherry-toned hardwood floors that reflected the light from the floor lamps. Shelves that reached the ceiling were filled with books, records, and CDs. It looked like a cross between an old-world library and a minimalist designer condo. I puzzled over what it meant, what stories his home could tell about the enigmatic man beside me.
"Do you like it?" he asked, his gloved hand lingering on the doorknob.
"It's beautiful," I said, raking my eyes over the paintings on the wall. Clearly, Erik favoured abstract art. The pieces in his living room were a series of geometric shapes and swirls in strong emerald and ochre oil paints. The paintings, like the furniture and the decorations, matched.
"You must have a fantastic decorator," I said, blurting the sentence.
Erik chuckled and wrapped his arm around my waist, his fingers spreading over the fabric of my coat. "Not a decorator, exactly. My assistant, Nadir, arranges my apartments for me. We've worked together for several years and he knows my preferences. I'm glad that you like it," he said. "Does this mean that you'd come back sometime?"
"I don't know how to answer that question," I said, clenching my fingers into a fist. My engagement ring had twisted on my finger and the sapphire now dug into my palm. Damn.
"I apologize. Perhaps, a suggestion then?" Erik said, taking our coats and hanging them in a side closet. "No questions or talk about what happens in the morning. I have my own wishes, of course. But I can refrain from mentioning them."
I nodded. What else could I do? This was all so impulsive and crazy. Could we attach rules to crazy?
I took a step, my heels clacking over the hardwood. Take off your shoes, Christine! I bent down and pushed my thumb into the back of the heel, prying my shoes off one at a time. From my crouching position, Erik seemed to grow several feet. His mask loomed yards above my head and, dizzy, I lost balance and stumbled. A second later, I found myself sitting in a twist with one leg under my bottom and another stretched out, with my dress hitched up to my knees.
"That was embarrassing. And so very awkward," I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burn. "I'm sorry if I scuffed your floor."
"No apologies, Christine," he said, offering a hand to help me up. "Although I may have to rescind my offer of a glass of port if you're not feeling well."
Lightheaded, rushed with spontaneity, yes, but not drunk. I shook my head to indicate that I was all right and accepted his proffered hand. He gave my arm a gentle tug, pulling me into a standing position beside him.
We paused for a moment, standing centimeters apart in the foyer. I felt nervous, like a college freshman on her first serious date. His hand still holding mine, he bent down and kissed me. His lips made the faintest of brushes against mine. He was close – so close that I could smell the wine on his breath and the soap on his neck. His tease of a kiss wasn't enough. Reacting on instinct, I pulled his face down to mine and kissed him back. He groaned, the sound vibrating in his throat.
We parted, panting for breath. My cheeks were warm and my neck felt hot. Mentally, I cursed the wine and the pink flush it gave to my face and neck. On cue, Erik's cool fingers touched the hidden skin behind my right ear and traced a line down my throat and over my collarbone. The brush of cold against hot sent a tingle down my spine. I wondered, for a naughty moment, what it would feel like to have him touch me elsewhere.
"You should come inside," he suggested. "It would be rude for me to keep you standing at the door."
"Oh, yes, thank you," I said, struggling to find the right thing to say in response.
"Would you like to sit down?" he said, gesturing to the couch at the centre of the living area. "I'll fetch that bottle of port. Would you like anything else while I'm in the kitchen?"
"A glass of water, please." The wine had left my tongue feeling thick and heavy in my mouth.
While Erik was gone, I examined the spines of the books and magazines arranged in overlapping piles on the coffee table. Business magazines, two scientific journals, an early Jane Jacobs book, and a leather-bound copy of Milton's Paradise Lost with a creased spine and wrinkled pages.
"Have you read it?" Erik asked, setting a glass of water down on the table next to the book of poems.
"No, I haven't," I admitted. As a music student, I'd seen Milton's poems referenced in dozens of operas, yet I hadn't taken the time to wade through the 17th-century prose on my own. It was the sort of thing that Raoul might have read.
"It's about everything that matters: sin, temptation, God, the Devil, and man in between."
At the word 'temptation,' I winced in discomfort and wondered, again, what I was doing here, in Erik's home, enjoying his kisses and drinking his wine.
"I've upset you," he said, perceptive as ever. "No regrets, Christine. If all was well at home, then you wouldn't have met with me tonight. You're not happy."
It was true, I thought. Raoul was nothing but kind and sweet, and yet I'd found myself wondering if the future he'd planned for us was one I wanted. Whether there might by something else, something more alive. Erik, his eyes the colour of dark honey, was watching me carefully, waiting for me to acknowledge his guess. His forehead wrinkled, nudging his mask ever so slightly. Why did he wear it? I wanted to know. I wanted to know him. Storm cloud that he was, I wanted to bury my head in him and soak up rain, lightning, and thunder. I wanted to ask, to feel, and to kiss his lips a hundred times in an hour.
"I don't want to talk about Raoul." I took a sip of the water, then set the cup down and watched a bead of water run race down the inside of the glass. "I don't. I don't really want to talk at all."
Rapid, heated tableaus. The next moments lit up like flash paper, burning into my memory. We were on the couch together, the bottle of port on the coffee table, uncorked and unpoured. My fingers had been trembling and the zipper on my dress was itching against the skin on my back. Waiting. Fingers in his hair. A throw pillow tumbling to the floor. Blistering kisses. His fingers on my neck, my shoulders, my sides. A tug of a zipper and the tingle of air on uncovered skin.
Gasps for air. His shoulders, his chest. Sinewy and strong. Threaded with scars. Those didn't come from a boardroom. Curls of black chest hair. His lips on my belly, making dotted paths between the freckles on my skin. My fingers gripping the waistband of his pants, knuckles tight. Raw need that I hadn't felt in years.
"Are you sure, Christine?"
I wanted to scream and to kiss and to scratch and to fuck and to sweat. Yes.
Tripping on the roll of dress around my ankles, I followed his lead to his bedroom. The clock on the wall said 2:13 a.m.