Love in the Vineyard (The Tavonesi Series Book 7) (6 page)

“Then tonight is your lucky night.”

He put a hand to her waist and with his other hand, he lifted her hand to rest on his shoulder. “Let the world melt away and let me lead.”

He couldn’t know how much she would like to do exactly that.

Yet Natasha’s fears of giving over to the sensations jolting through her at his touch were stronger than her impulse to let go and enjoy the evening, the moment and the man. Her lucky night, he’d said. She didn’t want to think about luck. She’d had the dream again the previous night—always the same sequence of events, always the same words. It wasn’t right. Surely her mother wouldn’t mock her from the grave.

But the man’s firm leading caught her up, and soon she was twirling and dipping and dancing and laughing.

Until the music ended.

And Natasha snapped back into the room.

She stepped away from his hold. A rush of coolness swept between them as if someone had opened a door or a window, but there was neither in sight. He dipped his head toward hers and she panicked, thinking he was going to kiss her.

“One more?” he asked, smiling. “And then we should get something to drink.”

Relieved that all he wanted was a dance, she nodded.

But then the DJ cued a slow song, a song she’d never heard before. As his hand slipped to her back and down to her waist and he drew her close, her heart rumbled a beat far faster than the slow tempo of the lovely ballad.

He ran his other hand along her arm until his fingertips met hers. He twined his fingers in hers, then lifted their joined hands and rested them against his chest. Through the edge of her palm, she felt his heart beating, keeping time with hers, keeping a tempo that had nothing to do with the DJ or the party or the place. She tilted her head back and caught him smiling down at her as he swayed and drew her into the first slow steps of the dance. The music played not only around her but through her, melding with the beat of his heart against her palm and the feel of his other hand at her back, guiding her, meeting her, caressing her.

And she let go. Surrendered to the pulse of energy flowing in her. And danced with the mysterious man with the beguiling smile.

When the music stopped, she felt like a woman waking from a delicious dream. But within seconds her thoughts rushed in, calling her defenses back into place like sentinels that had waited at the ready, unhappy to have been dismissed for even the briefest of moments.

“Let’s get some air,” he said. “There’s a terrace just outside the back of this tent.”

Air. Yes, air would help her return to her senses.

He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to her.

The night had turned cool, the perfect drop in temperature that would lead to this season’s best grapes. The fog hadn’t yet come in, but there was a distinct chill in the evening air.

He whisked off the black doublet he wore and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said, finding her voice.

Several couples were seated near heaters at small tables lit by candlelight. Their mingled voices and laughter rippled into Natasha. Had she ever really had fun? She couldn’t remember.

“The stars are especially bright tonight. No moon,” he said.

She looked up, but he wasn’t looking at the stars. He was looking at her.

“Tell me something about you,” he said softly.

“We’re not supposed to exchange information,” she answered.

“Only identifying information is off limits. Tell me about something you love.”

Under normal circumstances she would’ve said Tyler. She sorted through possible responses and found she wanted to answer. Wanted to share some part of her with this mysterious man. But not without a reciprocal exchange.

“If I do, then after, you tell me something. One thing that you love.”

“With pleasure.”

His accent perhaps explained his rather formal English. She liked the way he spoke, the way his words wound together in unusual patterns and his accent made the words stand out, familiar yet not familiar. For so many years she’d honed her ability to listen, to see, to use her senses to make up for her struggles with written words. She was reaping the reward for honing those senses tonight. With this man in this magical setting.

She hugged her elbows close to her chest. “I love plants, everything about them. Their beauty. Tenacity. Fragility. They speak my language.”

He raised a brow, barely visible above his black mask. “Then we have more in common than loving to dance.”

“I didn’t say I loved to dance,” she said, glad that it was dark and he couldn’t see the heat creep into her cheeks.

“You didn’t have to.”

If she’d known how intimate dancing with him would feel, would she have agreed to dance? Already she felt that she’d stepped into a world with signs and signals she couldn’t read. With sensations that tumbled her thoughts and teased at her carefully held boundaries. But perhaps she was like a prisoner kept too long in a dark cell. She longed for color. For song and dance and laughter. To surrender, if only for a moment.

If only there wouldn’t be consequences.

But there were. There always would be.

“Tasha, I’d like to take you somewhere. Somewhere special to me. I think you’d love this place I have in mind.”

She froze in place. Her breath caught, and she must’ve stiffened, for he stepped away from her as if to give her breathing room. As if to make her feel safe.

“Not now. I mean on a date. To the Asian Botanical Gardens.” He tilted his head and his eyes glittered in the glow shed by hundreds of white lights strung in the nearby trees. “But perhaps you’ve already visited?”

She’d love to visit a botanical garden, Asian, American or any kind. She hadn’t known there was such a place nearby. But she wasn’t ready to open herself to all that an outing with him would likely entail. Not yet. Maybe never would be if the trauma counselor she’d met with before Tyler’s birth was right. And it wasn’t just that she wasn’t ready. She would never be in the league that this man played in. She shouldn’t even be here with him now. He was in his element. She certainly wasn’t.

“I’m not dating right now,” she said, marshaling her voice and willing it not to hitch with the tension building in her chest. “I’m taking a break.”

Right. A six-year break. Ten, if she were to be honest. The guy she’d dated three times six years ago didn’t really count.

Behind the mask, Dumas’s eyes narrowed.

“Shall we wager? Red, you agree to go on a date with me. Black, no date. I prefer roulette unless you prefer dice?”

He couldn’t know the terror his easy offer of a bet unleashed in her.

“No.” She said the word louder than she’d intended, and several of the people around them looked up. “I mean, thank you, but no,” she said softly. “I don’t gamble.”

Not anymore. She’d never wager on anything, not ever again.

A series of chimes rang out from inside the tent.

“It’s almost time for the unmasking,” he said. “Let’s go in. I’ve a keen interest in the auction that will follow.”

“I have to go.”

“But it’s ten minutes to midnight. At least stay for the unmasking.”

“I prefer my anonymity,” she said honestly.

“Oddly, I’m enjoying mine as well. We could go on an anonymous date. To the botanical gardens—they’re close by in Kenwood. We can let the plants do the talking.”

Another set of chimes rang out from the tent.

“At least give me your number so I can call you.”

“I don’t have a pen.”

“I do.” He pulled an expensive pen from his pocket.

“No paper,” she said, as if that would protect her. Oddly enough, she wanted to give him her number. But the thought of trying to write down the numbers chilled her blood.

“Who needs paper?” He rolled up the lace cuff of his costume and flattened his palm. Then he grinned. “Better yet…” He pulled out his phone, swiped at it and then tapped in a code. Then he held it out to her.

She waved her hand, signaling for him to type in the number.

Slowly she repeated the carefully memorized numbers. She was never certain if it was forty-seven or seventy-four, but she took a guess. She’d bought the disposable cellphone at the drugstore and intended to use it only in case of an emergency involving Tyler. Just repeating her own phone number was a sort of roulette, a daily game that was neither welcome nor pleasant.

The chimes sounded again.

“Five minutes. You sure you can’t stay?”

She was already surveying the shortest route to her car.

“No, but thank you. For the dance. The dances. For everything.”

At that, she turned and fled down the lighted path to the parking area. Glancing over her shoulder, she was relieved he didn’t follow. Maybe he was a gentleman, maybe he wasn’t. One thing was certain, he swam in waters she’d never belong in and through currents she’d never master.

If he called, she wouldn’t see him.

But she’d have her memories of the evening and that would be enough. It had to be.

Natasha braced her hands against the little counter that served as breakfast bar, dining table and desk in the room she and Tyler shared at Inspire. And she stared at the health insurance forms one more time. The words began to spin into the lacy web that within seconds would congeal into a black mass and slide down the page.

Disorientation
.

That was what the social worker had called it when she’d tried to help Natasha just after Tyler was born. An automatic, involuntary response to confusion with symbols and words. The severity of her disorientation varied day by day, minute by minute. On a good day she could make out phrases, sometimes do simple math. On a bad day, nothing registered. On those days, she’d learned to be very clever at making sure no one would notice her struggle, that no one would guess about her disability. So they wouldn’t judge her. Or worse, pity her. Judgment she’d learned to handle, but pity?

She took a breath and tried to clear her mind. The more she stressed, the faster the symbols and words would scramble.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

With an inhale, she relaxed her forehead and tried to follow the path of her breath, tried to practice the exercise the trauma counselor had taught her that could sometimes calm her racing, warring thoughts.

But her thoughts wouldn’t calm.

Today wasn’t one of the good days, one of those days that normal people took for granted. A day when simple tasks like reading and writing would be easy.

She’d have to ask for help with the forms.

And she’d run off from the party the night before still wearing the man’s jacket. She’d have to find a way to return it.

Worse, she’d forgotten her cape. Her throat tightened as she visualized slinking back to the scene of the party to retrieve it.

But what nagged at her was that Tyler had gone off with a friend from school to play ball at a park two blocks from Inspire.

She unplugged the cheap cellphone from its charging cord.

She shouldn’t worry so much about Tyler. The neighborhood surrounding Inspire was safe. No gangs.

But maybe that was what mothers, real mothers, did—worried about the safety and happiness of their children. Had her mother worried over her in those brief five years they’d had together? Her foster parents sure couldn’t have cared less what she’d done or where she went off to. All they cared about were the checks that came in every month from social services.

She folded the velvet gown and mask. And then gathered up the man’s jacket. She held the soft wool to her face and inhaled. His scent, along with her memories of the evening, flooded her.

She recalled the lively energy of the party, the beautiful costumes and more beautiful people, the dances. The
man
.

A sigh escaped her as she folded the jacket and stacked it on top of the gown Mary had loaned her. It had been a wondrous, beautiful night. A night she would remember. And she’d best leave it at that. If the man called, she’d tell him she was too busy to go to a garden.

But he wouldn’t call. In the light of day, he probably felt as foolish as she did.