A Penny's Worth (The Cephas Bourdon Series) (18 page)

“Now that’s devotion,” I commented. The picture had so much passion.

“When Christ was sentenced to death, Peter denied that he was associated with him. He regretted the act so much that he spent his entire life making up for it, even in death.”

“I can see why this guy made a masterpiece out of the event.”
Bourdon
. That's where I had heard the name!

“Your last name is Bourdon, too!” I exclaimed in a low voice. "Just like the artist!"
Cephas’
eyes glazed over and a nostalgic look crossed his face.

“Yeah,” he muttered, then his eyes flashed open. “I mean yeah, I
—
”

“Are you related?” I asked.

“Kind of,” he replied nervously. Clapping erupted from the room next door, and the orchestra began playing another song.

“How can you be kind of related to someone?” I asked, bewildered.

Cephas held out his hand.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

“Yes, I would,” I replied, taking his hand. He led me toward the dance floor.

“Your dress is gorgeous, by the way.”

“It's the same one I wore on our date.”

“I know.” We walked briskly onto the dance floor.

“It seems like forever since I kissed you,” he whispered in my ear as he pulled me into a dancing position. We had reached the dance floor rather quickly. I felt goose bumps run up and down my arms at the longing in his voice. We joined the throng of couples, floating across the dance floor in an upbeat waltz. Dancing in silence, I easily followed his cues, twirling and spinning to the music.

“Your dad doesn't seem to like our dancing together.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“He looks very tense.”

“How can you notice that while we're dancing? I can't do both at the same time.”

“Well, that's because following is a new thing for you.”

“Oh, and I suppose you're used to leading a girl along,” came my snide remark. He twirled me away from him and pulled me back, dipping me low to the ground.

“Now, now
—
that doesn't make me seem like much of a gentleman.”

“Perhaps, then, you're not who you profess to be,” I said breathlessly
. H
is face was very near to mine. His furrowed brow highlighted his nervous attitude. He pulled me up and continued leading me across the floor, his frown lifting into a smirk.

“And who might I be instead?” he asked, pulling my body against his. The music had faded to a slower, unfamiliar piece.

“I
—
I don't know
—
I
—
” I felt
Cephas’
abdomen press against mine, the muscles flexing through his navy blue tuxedo. I was suddenly aware of the muscles in his arm I was holding onto, as well as the roughness of his hand. My breath caught in my throat and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward again. He knew what he was doing to me. I stopped dancing and took a stubborn step away from him. He still held my hand captive, so I tugged on it, pulling him off of the dance floor.

“Shall we eat?” I suggested without looking at him, annoyed at his cocky reaction toward my emotions. He smirked and pulled me back into a close dancing position.

“Don’t be mad, love,” he whispered into my ear. “I just love your reaction to my touch
—
you do enjoy it, don’t you?” he asked slyly. That feeling washed over me again and I felt as if my knees might give way beneath me. His voice was so alluring, his warm breath on my ear so tempting!

A sudden fire ignited in my chest, and I felt an unquenchable thirst for his mouth. I leaned my head backward and looked up into his eyes. They were smoldering just as mine, but they held a certain nervous cloudiness I had never before seen. I narrowed my eyes in question, but he only averted his eyes.

“You’re right
—
we should eat,” he more commanded than suggested. We walked over to the table where my dad sat, who stood, offering me a chair.

“Here, pumpkin. Sit by me.” I smiled at him and took the chair he offered. Cephas stood by the table
. H
e pulled out a cell phone suddenly and began typing something on the buttons.

“Would you like to join us, Cephas?” my dad asked without much enthusiasm.

“Actually, I, uh
—
” he flipped his phone shut and stuffed it in his pocket. “I have to leave for a little while, but I'll see you later this evening.”

“Where do you have to go? This is a night of carefree fun,” my dad argued
,
glaring.

“Yeah, and I don't think we're supposed to go anywhere without somebody's permission,” I added. Cephas sighed and pulled out the chair.

“You're right,” he replied. “I should just enjoy myself tonight.” He smiled, though it wasn't a smirk. It seemed somewhat forced. “So, what are we eating tonight?” he asked, placing a napkin on his lap.

“Well, the waiter came by and I ordered for all of us. Steak sound okay?” my dad asked as the waiter walked up, setting steaming platters in front of each of us.

“My favorite,” Cephas smiled. I picked up my fork and knife and began cutting my steak. We sat in silence for a little while.

“Mr. Brickard! How
are
you doing?” Mrs. Puzmer walked up to our table in all her eccentricity, waving her hands wildly. “Don't you just
love
this art museum? So many things to admire, so many masterpieces to behold!” My father stood to greet her, taking her hand graciously.

“Mrs. Puzmer, so good to see you. And thank you for letting me come with your class on such short notice,” he said, all charm.

“I'm sorry, but I really must go,” Cephas whispered to me. I looked at his plate
—
he had hardly touched his food. His hand move to my leg under the table, lingering around the slit on my dress. He looked into my eyes.

“I'm sorry, Em,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. I felt lines wrinkle my forehead, manifesting my confusion.

“For what?” I asked. He stood and buttoned his suit, excused himself from the group with a nod, and walked away. Pulling a cell phone out of his pocket, Cephas began talking and picking up speed as he walked down the hall. I turned back to my food, curiously pushing it around with a fork. My dad sat back down.

“Where did Cephas go?” he asked, picking up his fork and returning a napkin to his lap.

“Oh, uh
—
I don't know.”

“He didn't say where he was going?” he asked, his voice accusing.

“No. It's not like I own him or something,” I countered, rolling my eyes. “He can do whatever he wants.” I set my fork down and stared at nothing while my dad returned to his food. Looking up at me every so often, he quickly finished and wiped his hands on his napkin, then set it on the plate. He sat back in his chair and I smiled slightly.

“You seem like a natural at this,” I commented, trying to forget about
Cephas’
odd behavior.

“At what?” he asked. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water.

“At
—
this,” I gestured to the room surrounding us. “At all of this formal stuff. At home, we sit on the counter while we eat.”

“Well, Em, a long time ago, this is how I lived.”

“Why don't you anymore?”

“Kids change your life,” he replied, setting down the cup he was still holding.

“So you gave up all of the luxury for
—
me?” I asked.

“Ah,” he grunted, wiping his hands once more on his napkin. “I prefer the kitchen counter.” He smiled and stood from his seat.

“C'mon, I'm dying to see the new exhibit,” he told me, offering his hand. I stood without taking it, grabbing my purse from the table.

“Okay, I get it. You're stubborn
—
don't take my hand.” My dad smiled to himself, walking behind me. We left the dining area and walked down a hallway. Red velvet adorned the walls and gold, gaudy molding bordered the ceiling.

“Everything here looks so expensive!” I muttered, running my fingers along the wall. My dad chuckled beside me. “What?” I asked, intrigued.

“Your mother
—
she was always so impressed by expensive things too. I think that's why she first went on a date with me.”

“Why?”

“Well, let's just say my car wasn't like that thing you drive.”

“Which, by the way, I need to talk to you about. I am a girl, and I personally think I would be safer if I had a more dependable car.”

“Oh, really? Your car's not dependable, eh?”
H
e laughed, jingling his hands in his pockets. “What would you like instead?” he asked.

“Well, I would prefer a Lamborghini,” I began, smirking at him.

“Doesn't your boyfriend already have one of those?” he retorted.

“He is
not
my boyfriend!” I argued, hitting him playfully on the arm. My dad stopped walking.

“Would you like to see this exhibit?” he asked, gesturing toward the opening.

“Sure,” I replied, stepping congenially through the opening. The exhibit was deserted.

“I wonder why nobody's in here,” I mused, not really looking for an answer.

“They're probably all enjoying the party,” my dad said. “But this artwork is striking. Come and look at this,” he called, walking toward a painting on the wall. I followed and stood beside him, admiring the painting.

“I think this is called etching,” my dad commented, running his fingers over the nameplate. “Bourdon
—
that name sounds familiar.”

“It's
Cephas’
last name,” I whispered, looking over the artwork again. My eyes ran across the painting; they magnetized toward the lower right corner where Peter's head hung upside down.

“The description over here says that this is the apostle Peter. Attempting to avoid being mistaken as Christ, he opted to be turned upside down when sentenced to crucifixion.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “Now that’s devotion.”

“That's what I said,” I responded.

“When?” he asked, peering over his glasses at me.

“Oh, I uh
—
I saw this picture a little earlier and Cephas told me the story behind it. It's kind of sad, don't you think? A man felt so guilty that he spent his entire life trying to reconcile one bad decision.”

“Oh, it's not that sad,” a deep voice said from behind us. We both turned to see to whom the voice belonged. A man in a suit stood facing us, gun aimed and ready.

And everything went black.

CHAPTER 11

The room was spinning as my eyelids fluttered open. A dark, misty light allowed me to see only a portion of what was going on. Raw cement floor lay beneath my feet and matching cement walls surrounded the small room. I shivered from the cold, though I could not lift my hands to warm my arms
. T
hey were stuck in place. My head was throbbing! Industrial pipes lined the ceiling. I counted the drips from a leaking pipe to calm my forever shattered nerves
—
water landed in a small puddle every three seconds. No other noises penetrated the stale air. I tried to stand but my legs wouldn't budge. What was going on?

“Don't worry, dear: the feeling will return to your legs shortly. You came out of that pretty quickly.”

I turned my head to locate the voice. A man sat on a chair not far from me. His hands hung clasped between his legs, and shiny, black shoes dressed his feet that stood still on the cold, cement floor. I cast my eyes to the right after noticing that I was sitting on a hard chair with no cushion
.
I wasn't tied to it, though. Somebody lay slumped on the ground about fifteen feet away from me.

“Dad?” I called.

“He won't answer you
. H
e reacted a little worse to the tranquilizer than you did.”

“What? What did you do?” I exclaimed, still unable to move anything but my head. My voice was surprisingly loud considering my mind was taken over by absolute fear.

“Calm down,” the deep voice said. He had yet to lift his face forward, but instead stared intently at the ground. A half smile peaked from beneath the shadow of his head. “He'll be awake momentarily.”

I twisted my neck in the other direction; my head throbbed. I winced aloud, then heard a slight shuffle across the room. My eyes shifted to locate the movement. Somebody sat at a desk, suddenly still. His head was shaven and that jawline was undeniable: Cephas. My heart jumped in my chest. Surely he would help! But why was he just sitting there? Perhaps he was shot with a tranquilizer, too. But his hands were moving . . . What was going on? A few other men stood in a group by the door where the only light in the room pooled in a dim circle. One man looked familiar: the Englishman from the elevator. I saw his long sideburns. That's where I had seen him! The restaurant! What was he doing here?