Sleeping Beauty and the Demon (6 page)

“I’m having dinner downtown,” Rose replied curtly. She pulled the lace curtains aside to see if the taxi Drago promised to send had arrived.

“Dinner? With who? Patrick, I hope.”

“No,” she murmured quietly.

Patrick was the son of impoverished Irish immigrants who had struggled to open a tiny bakery in the city’s Lower East Side. He could never afford to take Rose to Rockwell’s on his modest policeman’s salary.

“Pardon me?” Anthony came to stand beside her.

She glanced into his look of disapproval and cleared her throat. “I said, I’m meeting someone for dinner and it isn’t Patrick.”

“You aren’t meeting that
illusionist
, are you?”

Her chin dropped. “How did you know?”

Anthony raised his bulky shoulders. “The way you gushed on about him two nights ago was sickening. Then you proceeded to break my best friend’s heart by turning your nose up at his birthday gift.”

“I did no such thing!”

“What’s gotten into you, Rose?”

“Nothing,” she retorted. She didn’t dare tell Anthony that she feared she’d been hypnotized by Drago. Nor did she think it wise to tell him that she had felt the world shift beneath her feet when Drago touched her yesterday. “It isn’t any of your business who I have dinner with.”

He studied her with defiance. Then he began to climb the stairs. “Patrick is courting you, despite your curse,” he called down to her. “You should consider yourself lucky, instead of consorting with other men.”

“Consorting?” she yelled up the stairwell. “Dragomir Starkov and I are just having dinner.”

“The flame might burn out on Patrick’s patience, you know,” Anthony said over his shoulder.

“Some brother you are!” she shouted.

“
Adoptive
brother,” he cried before he disappeared from sight.

Rose murmured something unladylike under her breath. As she continued to wait for the taxi, her nerves tingled. Her association with Drago was driving
everyone
to the edge.

Was she mad to continue on with him? She probably was, but she’d be damned if she’d let Anthony spoil a night she had been looking forward to all day.

CHAPTER 8

A
quarter of an hour later, Rose accepted a chair from Drago inside the hushed atmosphere of Rockwell’s. Settling in her seat, she noticed a red rose on her plate. Drago took the chair opposite hers while she brought the flower to her nose.

“Another rose for a Rose,” he said charmingly. “I couldn’t resist.”

Her face heated.

He smiled at the sight of the Egyptian amulet around her neck. “It looks stunning on you.”

“This is the first time I’m not keeping it hidden.” She continued to blush.

“You’re embarrassed.” He observed. “Don’t you enjoy being fussed over, Rose?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You do,” he said as his eyes glimmered like a moonlit ocean.

She looked away.

Impeccably dressed and unbearably handsome, Drago wouldn’t stop staring at her. Then, he reached across the tiny table and clasped her hand. Unlike Patrick’s nervous touch, his was solid—and completely electrifying.

Rose took a quick intake of breath as he raised her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

If she wasn’t careful, this man could seduce her into doing very wicked things.

“A woman as lovely as you should think more highly of herself,” he said.

“I’m hardly beautiful,” she protested.

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m so tall. I was teased about it as a child.”

He shook his head. “You’re
statuesque
. There. You see? Magic is all about how something is presented.”

Statuesque.
She liked it.

Withdrawing her hand as inconspicuously as possible, Rose perused the menu. Then she stole a glance over it, into Drago’s cyan eyes. “You have me at a slight disadvantage.”

“Oh?”

“You know my birthday, but I don’t know yours.”

He settled back in his chair and sighed. It was obvious that he didn’t like to talk about himself. “I was born on July twenty-fourth.”

“Ah, what a coincidence! The birthday of my favorite author.”

“Alexandre Dumas?”

“You enjoy his novels, too?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

They smiled at one another and discussed the genius of Dumas as they waited for the escargot to arrive. Drago explained that his fascination with
The Count of Monte Cristo
lay in the fact that its lead character, Edmond Dantès, walked among old acquaintances completely unrecognized after many years of incarceration.

“By changing his physical appearance and social status he was able to fool everyone,” Drago said enthusiastically. “Dantès was an understated magician. Yet he couldn’t deceive the greatest love of his life, Mércèdes. It shows that true love can transcend the test of time. Don’t you agree?”

“Only if both participants are willing,” Rose countered wisely.

Drago didn’t seem pleased with her response.

She was grateful when the waiter appeared with the delicious-smelling snails. Famished, she began to eat, but noticed that her companion consumed nothing. “Aren’t you hungry?”

The illusionist shook his head. “My performances usually start at this time and I’m accustomed to eating very little before them.” He watched her devour her appetizer, then smiled at her empty plate. “Tell me, my charming Miss Carlisle, how is it a suitor hasn’t snatched you up by now? Is there no one in your life?”

At first, the question seemed intolerably bold, but then again, they’d skipped over many polite formalities. “As a matter of fact,” she replied as she dabbed her mouth with her napkin, “there is someone in my life. His name is Patrick O’Leary.”

Wearing a curious expression, Drago rested both elbows on the edge of the tablecloth. “And what does this Patrick fellow do for a living?”

“He’s a police officer.”

Drago seemed impressed. “An honorable profession; there’s no denying that.”

Rose took a sip of the full-bodied wine. She was unaccustomed to drinking alcohol, so her head felt light very quickly. “Patrick is extremely proud of his work. He was recently put on the Coney Island murder case. In case you haven’t heard, women have been attacked there three years in a row . . . on the same night.”

Drago’s expression remained stoic. “Yes, I read about it in the papers. Those poor girls. Assaulted by someone—or something. Do the police have any leads?”

“No,” Rose glanced down. “But they don’t think the murders were theft-related because there’s never anything missing from the girls’ handbags.”

“The police are probably right,” Drago said as he sat back in his chair. “I often wonder, is it difficult being involved with an officer of the law? What I mean to say is: don’t you worry?”

She shook her head. “Patrick and I are not really
that
involved.”

Drago cracked a smile.

The waiter arrived with Rose’s lobster bisque—which looked just as delicious as the escargot. She took several spoonfuls before she turned the conversation back to Drago. He was drinking in her every move.

“When I asked you earlier about your birthday,” she persisted, “I was hoping you’d divulge the year you were born.”

“My, my. You are an upfront young woman, aren’t you?”

She felt her cheeks grow hot again. “You said that before. Is bluntness something you disapprove of?”

“Not at all. And to answer your question, I am thirty years old.”

Her eyes must have grown wide because her dinner companion threw his head back in laughter. To Rose it was a magnificent sound—and when his strong features softened in the moment, she felt herself being pulled beneath his seductive canopy like a helpless animal.

“Does thirty seem very old to you?”

“No,” she lied. He
was
the oldest man she’d ever associated with, but she wouldn’t dream of making him feel self-conscious.

After a brief pause, Drago sipped his wine. “I don’t mean to appear mysterious, but I believe a magician cannot help the fact. I came to America three years ago—and began performing in a side show in Coney Island’s Bowery.”

Rose made a face and he laughed again. “I know. It’s a horrible place. Thank heavens an agent spotted me and brought me to the Sunshine Theatre. The rest is history, as you Americans say.”

It was Rose’s turn to laugh. “We ‘Americans’ must seem uncultured to a refined European such as yourself.”

“I’m European, but my beginnings were hardly refined. My parents were farmers and I helped tend to their fields for many years.”

Rose’s heart skipped a beat. This dashing, well-dressed illusionist seemed a far cry from a rustic plowboy.

“Does the fact that I come from nothing alarm you?”

“No,” she said firmly.

“I must say, America amuses me,” Drago drawled, his lips glossy from the deep Merlot. “The people of this country have a unique zest for life I find contagious.”

Rose finished her fillet of sole. After she refused dessert, she and Drago waited for the waiter to deliver the bill. Drago leaned in to the flickering candlelight. “Tell me, did you find your last birthday gift?”

Her expression brightened. “Yes. However did you manage to get the key and the box all the way to my doorstep? Did you send it ahead with someone?”

Drago made a
tsk
ing sound.

“I know. A magician never reveals his secrets.” Rose pouted. “But you promised to let me in on one of your secrets if I agreed to have dinner with you. You’re not going back on your word, are you?”

“I always keep my promises, Rose. In order that I may do so, you must accompany me to my workshop. Are you willing to be alone with me for a few moments in the basement of the Sunshine Theater?”

Caution escalated inside her. Only Anthony knew she was at dinner with Drago. What if dark secrets lay in wait for her there?

His eyes twinkled. “I can assure you it’s perfectly safe. I won’t turn you into some wild animal—or make you disappear. For very long, anyway.”

Against her better judgment, Rose agreed to accompany him. Obviously pleased, Drago settled the bill and stretched a hand in her direction. She accepted it, and as they exited the restaurant with all eyes on them, excitement barraged her.

CHAPTER 9

D
rago emerged from the cab in front of the Sunshine Theater with Rose on his arm. His regret at having to lie to her about his age was quickly replaced by his delight at being alone with her.

Nerves humming, he unlocked a side door and led her down a narrow flight of stairs—to a shadowed basement with a low ceiling. Once he illuminated the gaslights, he watched her take in his sea of props with awe. Wooden boxes of all shapes and sizes awaited their next chance to be onstage, while a slew of draped birdcages littered the room.

Rose maneuvered around several card tables, brushing her fingertips over their felt-covered tops. “Do you spend much time in here?”

“I come here every day—right before my show,” he replied. “It’s important to perfect my illusions down to the last detail.”

As he watched her, Drago considered how sophisticated she’d become since he’d first seen her in his vision. Gone was her girlish lack of confidence. Now, her seemly neck and womanly curves lent her a timeless beauty.

She stopped in front of one of Drago’s works in progress and questioned the piece with her violet eyes.

“I know it looks daunting,” he said, “but it’s really about illusion.”

She looked uneasy anyway. “It’s a guillotine.”

“It is—and I promised to show you how one of my illusions is done, didn’t I?” Removing his jacket, he joined her in front of it.

She held her breath, then said, “Perhaps you can show me something that doesn’t involve chopping someone’s head off.”

He smiled as her eyes flashed a host of emotions his way: fear, doubt, and above all, interest. She flicked a pink tongue over her dry lips and Drago felt a pang of arousal.

“Wise choice,” he replied. “This illusion isn’t perfected yet.”

Exhaling with relief, Rose continued to meander around the dimly-lit workshop. As she moved, Drago decided it was time for him to reveal a bit more about himself and his strange existence. “In my eyes, magic is the crossing of a special boundary—the boundary between reality and illusion. It’s the closest thing we have on Earth to another dimension.”

She stopped. “Can magic re-direct someone’s fate?”

“Perhaps,” he replied cautiously.

“In that case, maybe there’s something you can help me with.” Color rose in her fair cheeks. “But first, I want to know if the talk about your being in league with demons and supernatural forces is true.”

“What do you think?” As he spoke, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and unfastened his tab collar. Rose, too, was forced to remove her wrap due to the stifling summer heat. When she leaned back against a large wooden cabinet, Drago walked toward her and pinned her against the structure by stepping in close and leaning over her.

He sucked in a breath, entranced by her beauty. Beneath the glow of the gaslights, her lily-white shoulders shimmered and the soft rise and fall of her creamy cleavage captivated him. He eyed the Egyptian amulet that rested in the cavity between her breasts—and it was all he could do to resist pulling her into his arms for a passionate kiss.

“Frankly, I don’t know what to believe,” she said in a whisper.

He took her hand.

“I’ve seen your illusions first-hand,” she added, “and I’m more confused than ever.”

“Confused? Perhaps I’ll show you something to clear your mind.”

She seemed relieved.

He took a step back. “When a magician performs a trick he suggests something extraordinary to his audience. Take for instance, the infamous ‘bullet catch’ trick.”

Dropping her hand, he reached over to a small table and retrieved a velvet bag from its ledge. By loosening one of its drawstrings, he opened the cinched bag and removed a gleaming silver pistol.

Rose gulped. “Is that a real gun?”

“It’s very real.” Drago stroked the metal of the firearm. “Would you like to examine it?”