Dreamveil (20 page)

“I’m not now, not after that.” She fiddled with one of her gloves. “Sorry I ran out on you. I just felt like I couldn’t breathe in that place.”

He kept an eye on the group of teenagers watching them as he took out his mobile and called for a cab. “We will try Broadway next time.”

She sat back against the hard slats of the bench. “There’s going to be a next time?”

“Many, I hope.” He took out his handkerchief, but instead of offering it to her went about drying her tears himself. Oddly, his fiercely independent Rowan didn’t resist. “But no more tragedies. A comedy, perhaps. Neil Simon.”

“Do you think Butterfly wanted to kill her kid, and just didn’t have the spine to do it?” she asked him suddenly.

He considered her question even as he wondered what had provoked it. “She is a passionate character, and her love for Pinkerton drove her to suicide. But her mother’s-love for her child would not have permitted her to harm the boy.”

“Mother’s-love.” She made a contemptuous sound. “I wish I believed in that.”

“Your mother must have had her reasons for abandoning you, Rowan. She may have been very young, or had no means to support you. She was probably very frightened.”

“Let’s say she wasn’t young,” Rowan countered. “And she had all the means in the world to support me. What if something else frightened her? Something about me. What if she thought I was evil?” She added, “What if she was right?”

“Do you remember your mother?”

“My birth mom?” She shook her head.

“Then how can you ask these questions?”

“Never mind.” She stood and looked at each end of the street. “Where is that damn cab? Maybe we should walk back to the Met.”

Dansant saw that the group of boys had now drifted from their corner across the street and were moving toward them. They moved casually enough, talking among themselves, but apparently with a definite purpose as they drew closer to the bus stop. “I think that would be wise.”

Unfortunately the narrow tailoring of Rowan’s gown didn’t allow her to take her customary long strides, and halfway back to Lincoln Center the group of teenagers caught up with them. Several passed Dansant, and then stopped and turned, sandwiching him and Rowan in the middle of their group.

“You got a dollar, pop?” one standing in the middle asked.

“Nice threads,” another one said, this time to Rowan. He reached out to touch her sleeve, and she shifted away. “Aw, she don’t like me.”

Dansant kept his gaze on the one in the middle. “Let us pass.”

“Pass what? Go?” The boy grinned and held out a hand. “That’ll cost you a wallet, pal.”

Another boy came up behind Rowan and tucked his face over her shoulder. “You for sale, baby, or just for rent?”

“Patrol cars come by here every ten minutes after a performance,” she informed the group at large. “Last one I saw was nine minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, those cops, they go for coffee at midnight,” the one in the middle told her. “They won’t be back on the beat for a half hour.”

The one behind Rowan snickered. “Plenty of time for us to get to know each other.” He grabbed at her chest from behind, and she drove her elbow into his ribs, whirling around at the same time. He roared with pain, grabbing his midsection with one arm before he lashed out at her with the other, punching her in the face. Her head snapped back, and she rocked on her feet, but stayed upright.

“Rowan.” Dansant saw blood streaming from her nose, and felt the fury spread out inside him.

“I’m okay,” she said, curling her fists and moving to stand with her back to his.

The other boys laughed, and Dansant removed his wallet, holding it out. When the leader of the group tried to take it, he grabbed his wrist with his other hand. “You and your friends don’t want to harm us.”

The boy’s eyes darkened. “No, we don’t want to do that.”

He sent out his influence in a wide arc, encompassing the group. “You should forget about this and go back to your place on the corner.”

“Yeah. We should.” The boy’s voice sounded dreamy. “Come on, guys.”

The other boys followed their leader, and walked out into the street. They stopped only for a car whose driver hit the horn loud and long.

Dansant turned to Rowan, who was pressing her nose between her fingers. “Let me see.” He cradled her face.

“I don’t think it’s broken.” She held still as he used his handkerchief, this time to mop up the blood on her mouth and chin. “How did you do that? How did you make them go away like that?”

The blow to her face had prevented her from falling under his influence, or she might have gone with them. “I asked politely.”

She took her hand from her face. “There were ten of them and two of us. Under the circumstances, asking politely doesn’t work.”

“It did tonight.”

“Dansant, don’t snow me. You hypnotized them or something. All of them.” She rubbed her arms. “I could feel it.”

He seized on what she had said as an explanation. “The power of suggestion can be quite effective, even on large groups.” A cab stopped at the curb, and he put his arm around her. “Now I suggest we leave.”

As before, Rowan refused to go to the hospital, dismissing her injury as minor. He considered taking her back to his apartment for the night, but his living situation would raise too many questions. He directed the cabdriver to the restaurant, where he paid him before he escorted Rowan inside.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” she told him as she went to the rinsing sink and splashed her face with cold water to remove the last traces of blood. “I’ve been popped in the nose plenty of times.”

He felt a surge of relief as the scent of her blood vanished. “This is not how I envisioned the end of our evening together.”

She dried her mouth with a paper towel. “Just what were you envisioning, Jean-Marc? A private tour of my apartment?”

If only he had the time. “I have already seen it.”

“You know what I mean.” She threw away the crumpled towel and removed her hat, shaking her curls loose around her face. “You took me to the opera, which I could never afford to do on my own. You chased off those kids, and probably saved me from being gang-raped. You’ve definitely earned it. I’m willing.”

“You are angry and hurt, and I think I am leaving.” He went to her and kissed her brow. “Thank you for a mostly lovely evening.”

“Wait.” She put her hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Of course you didn’t.” He pulled her close, holding her as long as he dared before releasing her. “Good night, Rowan.”

Dansant walked to the end of the block before he realized he had left his coat back at the restaurant. Not wishing to disturb his young tenant, he let himself in through the front of the building, where he heard some clattering from the kitchen.

Dansant went to the pickup window, through which he saw Rowan at Lonzo’s station. She was dicing up a conglomeration of ingredients: zucchini, tomatoes, celery, carrots, new potatoes, garlic, parsley, and fresh thyme. Her hands flew, and her chopping blade made short work of the raw vegetables and herbs. Fascinated, he stood and watched her carry the board over to a deep skillet on one of the cooktop ranges. She took down a squeeze bottle of olive oil from Vince’s speed rack, laced the bottom of the skillet with the golden liquid, and then swept the diced bits from the board into the pan. As she worked the pan, flipping the vegetables with expert rolls of her wrist, she added some scallops, chunks of bass, shrimp, and a squeeze of lemon.

She cooked so rapidly and proficiently that Dansant hardly knew what to make of it. This was not the bedraggled young woman he had hired out of sympathy; Rowan was an experienced chef. Quite experienced, judging by the delicious scent of the meal she was preparing.

“It’s stir-fry, Dansant,” he heard her say as she brought the pan over to the long table where they had their family meal every night. “My own recipe, if you want to risk it.”

He went through the swinging doors and stood beside the table. She filled two shallow bowls and handed one to him. “How long have you been cooking?”

“Like this?” She tilted her head to consider the air above his. “I don’t know. Five, six years.”

He lifted the bowl to his face and breathed in before inspecting the contents. “I know this.”

“When you made it,” she said, “it was
pot-au-feu de fruits de mer
.”

“Which I stewed,” he pointed out. “In a pot.”

“I didn’t feel like waiting.” She retrieved a couple of spoons from the drying rack.

“Rowan, you cannot stir-fry
pot-au-feu
.”

“You said
au-feu
meant ‘on the fire.’ That made me think of trying it as a stir-fry.” Her expression changed. “I only borrowed some of the leftover bass, and I bought the rest of the ingredients with my own money. You did say I could use the kitchen after closing.”

He set the bowl down. “You did not add clams, mussels, or squid.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t have enough money for them. Maybe next time. Oh, and I didn’t make any of that aïoli for that either. I don’t like garlic in my mayonnaise or mayonnaise in my stir-fry. Chinese five-spice is more my style.”

Dansant didn’t know whether to applaud or shake her. “Why didn’t you tell me you could cook like this?”

“Would you have believed me?” Before he could reply, she said, “Look, I’m not formally trained. I’ve read a lot of cookbooks, watched a lot of cooking shows on TV, and just . . . practiced. Kind of like Rachael Ray on a much, much smaller budget.”

“You did not learn to do this from a cookbook.”

“That’s why I watch Food Network.” She sat down. “This is not as good cold. I speak from experience.”

He glanced at the wall clock, and saw that his time was almost up. “I cannot stay to share your meal. Rowan, when Lonzo comes in tonight, you will give him a message for me.”

“Sure.” She hunched her shoulders and took a sullen bite of her food. “What do you want me to tell him?”

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m promoting you to sous-chef.”

She stopped chewing, and then swallowed with difficulty. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“On the basis of what? Watching me throw together one meal? You just said you can’t stir-fry a stew.” She made a dismissive gesture. “You’re crazy.”

He bent down. “One wolf recognizes another, Rowan. I always thought there was something familiar about you. Now I know what it is.”

“You can’t do this to me.” She rested her forehead against her hand. “I just got these guys used to having me around the kitchen. They’ll never go for it, not in a million years.”

“They will do as they’re told.” He gestured toward her meal. “Eat. You’re too thin as it is. I will handle the rest.”

She stared at the bowl, and then him before she rose, carried the food over to the trash bin, and dumped it inside.

“Rowan.”

“I don’t need you to
handle
things for me,” she said as she turned to face him. “I’m not a kid, I’m not your girlfriend, I’m your employee.”

“And tomorrow night you will be my sous-chef, or you will find another place of employment,” he snapped back. He immediately felt sorry for issuing the threat, but from the look on her face it was too late to apologize. “Unless you are too afraid. Then you may continue fetching and carrying for the cooks until your debt to me is repaid.”

“You want a sous-chef?” She carried the dishes over to the washer and dropped them into the empty racks. “You got one.” She went to the stairs and ran up them out of sight.

Dansant was weary of trying to fathom Rowan’s moods while fighting back his own unfulfilled desires. Silently he climbed the stairs, but when he reached the door of her apartment he heard a low, soft sound coming from behind it. It took a moment for him to recognize it: She was weeping again.

Tonight a death scene from an opera had reduced her to tears, but then she had been struck in the face and made to bleed and had not uttered so much as a whimper. Now after having a simple argument, she wept as if her heart were breaking. Dansant didn’t understand her as much as he wanted to believe he did.