Island Tango (Silver Goddess Series, Book One) (3 page)

That night, satiated from her home cooked meal, Herculea lay in her queen sized bed and wrapped herself in the cool Egyptian cotton sheets.  She stared at her cell phone on the mahogany nightstand.  She still hadn’t returned Pedro’s call, and an inexplicable pull inside of her told her to just turn off the lights and sink into a much needed slumber.  Instead, she reached for the phone and retrieved Pedro’s number from the call log.  In seconds, his line was ringing.

“
Buenas noches
, Herculea.”

“
Buenas noches
, Pedro.  I’m returning your call.”

“Yes,
good
. 
So,
tango
on Thursday evening?”

A potent image of Pedro’s face, framed by a rugged 5 o’clock shadow, sizzled in her mind for a moment before she replied, “Yes, Thursday sounds good.  Where should I meet you?”

“Meet me?” He sounded momentarily insulted.  “I am a gentleman, and I will pick you up, of course.  Just text me your address after we hang up.”

His voice was authoritative, but Herculea had a strict first date policy that meant she never let the man pick her up at her apartment.  Her rule had safety reasons, but also personal ones.  In her twenties and thirties, she had lost count of how many duds she had endured a seemingly interminable evening with.  It was comforting to know that she could make a quick escape in her own car, on her own terms, and in her own time.  Her gut instinct told her to refuse Pedro’s insistence, even if it insulted him.  But she also felt intuitively that this date would be anything but a “dud
.” S
he would probably have to force herself not to succumb to his powerful charms.

“OK, Pedro.  Pick me up at 7?  And I’ll text the address.”

“
Bien.
 
Good night,
Herculea.”

Before she could say good night, he had hung up.  What an odd first phone conversation, she thought.
She still knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was from Argentina and had a penchant for the tango.
Exhausted from the day, her thoughts slowed
as she snuggled against her pillows and allowed sleep to gently envelop her.

Chapter 2

The evening carried a certain pulsation in its wake as a chilly spring breeze wafted through the open window.  A pale slice of moon edged into prominence as the sun plunged into hiding beneath silver-gray clouds.  From her cozy bedroom, Herculea watched the majestic scene unfold in the sky as she did nearly every night.  How she longed to have someone to share this thrilling beauty with.

Soon, Pedro would be at her doorstep, she mused, as a shiver coursed through her body.  But it was just a date, she reminded herself, and she may be destined to spend many more solitary evenings watching the moon rise.

In the background, a recording of Spanish guitar rhythms floated through the room and out into the night.  Involuntarily, Herculea tapped her foot in synch to the music, as she envisioned herself taut against Pedro’s long torso as they indulged in the seductive tango.  Ballroom dancing had many faces: the fox trot, the waltz.  But the tango was the most powerful dance of them all.  Complex and compelling, the tango had to burn in someone’s blood.  The tango needed to pulsate as its own heartbeat through a dancer.  Certainly, it required technical skill, but Herculea believed it was the natural sensuality and soul of the dancer that made the tango
riveting
. 
Yes, the tango was
“el ritmo de la vida.”

Distantly, a knock sounded at her door, nearly drowned out by the Spanish guitars.  Herculea jumped up and glanced at
the clock.  It was just after seven o’clock
, and Pedro was surprisingly punctual.  She gave herself a harsh appraisal in the mirror, frowning at the haircut she had been daring enough to get just that afternoon.  She had requested side swept bangs, the sexy kind that fall gracefully over one eye, but the inexperienced stylist had chopped her bangs to just above her eyebrows.  She tried to
brush
the plastered bangs away from her forehead, but they wouldn’t budge.  The shoulder length style made her look years younger, she thought, so it couldn’t be all bad.  Hurriedly, she tossed on her
black
wraparound sweater over a
red lace
dress,
grabbed
her evening bag, and
met
Pedro at the door.

His eyes were even more intense than she
recalled
. 
I
nvisible flames
flickered
in the air between them.  Herculea held her breath as Pedro appreciatively surveyed her curves, snug inside her provocative
red
dress that offered a taste of cleavage and more than an eyeful of shapely hips and thighs.  He didn’t seem to notice her ridiculous haircut,
and it was certainly not his hai
r she was looking at either.

His charcoal gray suit looked custom designed, and the jacket emphasized
a
fortress-like chest and
an
impossibly broad expanse of shoulders.  The five o’clock shadow
was still there,
and Herculea wondered if it was always there.  Pedro was exquisitely masculine, and perhaps he had a beard even if he had just shaved.

Without saying a word, Pedro lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it.  Herculea indignantly realized that her knees were going slightly weak.  How was she going to tango with this devastating man?  Before she could let another concern invade her mind, Pedro finally spoke, releasing her hand, but holding her gaze.

“You look so beautiful.  I am honored to take you
out
tonight.”

“
Gracias
.”

She accepted his compliment simply and allowed him to lead her to his car.  Automatically, he opened the door for her and waited until she was inside before shutting it.  Herculea basked in his chivalry, a quality she found severely lacking in virtually every man she encountered, except perhaps Kent.  As an Englishman, Kent had been raised in a country famous for its civility and manners.  The way Pedro was acting, though, was almost reminiscent of an earlier era.  For an inexplicable moment, Herculea felt as though she had been transported from the twenty first century.

This notion evaporated instantly as Pedro ignited the engine and guided the car into reverse, pulling out onto the busy road lined with traffic and street lights.  Herculea sat quietly with her legs crossed in an instinctively protective position as Pedro continued his heated assault on her with just his eyes.  Those eyes contained such unusual power, she thought.  His pitch
black
eyes beheld a slightly animalistic glimmer framed by something even more hypnotic, a quality she could not easily describe.  She had written a
two hundred
page
dissertation on Amazonian rituals to obtain her doctoral degree, but Herculea doubted she could manage to put together one coherent sentence about the man’s entrancing eyes.

She turned to catch a glimpse of his angular profile and was again struck by the near perfection of his features.  She wondered how old he could be.  He lo
oked somewhere in his early forties
perhaps, but his age, like his eyes, seemed to defy clear explanation.

“You are very quiet, Herculea.  I hope that is not because you are tired?” He furrowed his brow with questioning concern.

“No, not at all.” She said quickly.

“Good. Because you will need plenty of energy for tonight.” He winked naughtily at her
,
and she widened her eyes, startled.  He continued, chuckling, “First we are going to tango.  We will work up a fierce appetite before I take you to dinner.”

Pedro was certainly a confident man, but his self-assurance bordered on arrogance.  She was hungry and hadn’t expected this
strange
order of events.  Dinner and dancing, isn’t that how it usually went?  It hadn’t been that long since her last romance for her to forget such a basic idea.  She hoped the only appetite he was talking about was one for a meal.  While her body could easily fall prey to his predatory charms this very night, her mind could not be coerced into acting so rashly.  Suddenly, Herculea realized that after one encounter at the gym, a phone conversation, and the beginning of a date, she
still
knew nothing about
Pedro.  What kind of job did he have?  Wh
at part of San Francisco did he
live in?  She parted her lips to launch an inquiry when he suddenly spoke again.

“Here we are.” He announced in his richly toned Argentinian accent.

Herculea looked up and saw a palatial building in front of them.  Sitting on an enormous propert
y dotted with trees strung with
lights, the building was enrobed in soft pastel colors.  It looked like a magical place, and she was sure it must be on the outskirts of San Francisco.  She had never seen anything like it in the city.  Before she could say anything, Pedro was opening the passenger door and escorting her out of the car in his gentlemanly yet overtly flirtatious way.  She allowed him to lead her by the hand to the
ostentatious
gold inlaid entrance, situated just beyond a marble pathway.

Inside, to the right was a dining room draped in expensive crystal chandeliers, and to the left was a ballroom f
illed with couples dancing and
a live band
on stage
.

“What a beautiful place.” She breathed in amazement.  “Where are we?”

“We are here.” Pedro replied cryptically, encircling her waist with his vice-like arm and strolling with her towards the ballroom.  “Are you ready to tango, Herculea?”

His words were barely audible over the vibrating sounds emanating from the musicians, and she merely nodded her head, feeling slightly shaky. 
He enrobed her in his powerful arms, gliding onto the center of the dance floor with a commanding hand pressed against the small of her back. 
He was an excellent dancer, and she let him lead.  As they moved in
instinctive
rhythm with the music, his eyes never left hers.
  Elegantly, he dipped her, maintaining the pulsating contact of their bodies.  She felt both delicate and sultry as her red lace skirt swayed with the music, and her scarlet high heels tapped alongside Pedro’s large black dress shoes.

Hours later, bathed in sweat and sore from head to toe, they finally sat down to dinner. 
Pedro ordered a bottle of Chilean wine without consulting Herculea.  He also ordered a selection of appetizers before she had a chance to look at the menu.

“I promise you will love everything.” He winked at her.

She shut her menu and gave him a tight smile.  This
sort of domineering treatment wa
s not what she was used to.

“Do you travel much?” She asked, trying to get him to share any bit of information about his life.

“All the time.” He replied tersely.  “You?”

Ignoring his curt reply, Herculea said, “Yes.  Actually, next week I’m going to Brazil for work.”

“What will you do in Brazil?” Pedro asked with mild interest.

“A colleague and I are going to
do research for an article on c
apoeira.”

“How
boring.
  I know something more exciting you could do in Brazil.”
His eyes blazed mischievously.

“Let me guess.  Dance the samba?” Herculea retorted sarcastically.

“No.” Pedro replied without humor.  “No.  You said you are a cultural anthropologist, right?  And you like to do research.  Well, I think you should research the Silver Goddess.”

“I’m sorry.  The what?” Herculea asked.

“The Silver Goddess is immortal and lives on the Island of Vinova.  No mortal person has ever gone to her island.  She is a very private person.”

As Pedro spoke, Herculea wondered if he had already had a glass of wine earlier in the evening.  He was spewing madness, and she wasn’t amused.

“I don’t know why you’re telling me such a crazy story, but---“

Pedro cut her off.  “It’s not a story.  Not a legend.  It’s the truth.  The Silver Goddess drank an elixir that gave her eternal life. 
A special blend of herbs and spices---and red wine. 
It’s all written in a book called
The Immortality Abyss
.  You could be the first to research and write about her.”

The last part of Pedro’s monologue intrigued Herculea.  For her entire career, she had wanted to publish her own book.  What if Pedro were telling the truth?  It couldn’t hurt to
at least investigate the possible existence of the Silver Goddess.  In fact, it could be the career opportunity every young researcher hopes for.

After dinner, Pedro led Herculea by the hand into the parking lot.  Together, they strolled over a foot bridge leading to a romantic gazebo.  He sat down on the bench and brazenly pulled her onto his lap.