"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

 

Chapter 7 - "Miscast"

A warning blink of the house lights prevented either of us from following up on whatever it was that had started between us. I kept trying to tell myself that was good news as I smiled a counter to his own rueful grin. A tray appeared near my hand for my half-empty glass as mysteriously as a prior one had provided the full ones, and I was quickly making my way back to my seat. At the next intermission I had a mission of some urgency and there was no way that Mr. Kennedy could ‘bump’ into me there. I have to admit, though, that I looked for him at the end of the performance. To no avail. Catching a cab, I rode back to my hotel alone.

I spent the next day, in the daylight of course, running through Central Park. I kept to the main paths and made sure I knew where the nearest police officer was at all times, but SMITE spends so much time keeping fit that I really enjoyed the chance to run for a while. I covered a fair bit of the park over the course of almost three hours. That left me just enough time to get dressed for my first ever Broadway play. I had decided I’d wear a different evening dress of course. It was also black, but it had a sequined bodice that narrowed to a halter top; lots of skin on back, shoulders, and arms - very glam. That dress just demanded that I have my hair and nails done, so a fair part of my ‘getting dressed’ time was spent in the Plaza salon.

The rest of my getting dressed time involved shimmying into gossamer dainties, slithering into that fabulous gown, and drifting a bit of black cobweb around my shoulders that pretended to be a wrap but actually called even more attention to all that skin. By the time I was riding the elevator down to the lobby, I was nicely panicked about being late, trying not to show it. All that emotional energy on the inside, with all the coolly controlled exterior that our instructors could drill into me on the outside, had to be as good as any drug ever made for getting high. I was floating as much as walking when I reached the door and nodded to the doorman to call a cab.

"Going my way?" I heard a voice say. Yes, *that* voice.

"Geez, I’m a Virgo, all right? Enough with the silly lines," I said, turning to see Wilson Kennedy. Again.

"I’ll keep it up until something works," he promised, smiling without a hint of embarrassment.

"This is obviously not a coincidence," I observed dryly.

"Nope," he replied with that same easy grin. "I called in a few favors."

Real subtle, there, buster. Not just rich, but connected as well.

Why don’t you just hang out a sign that says, ‘Big Time Operator Here’? I didn’t say that, of course, but I was starting to get a little concerned, as much with his apparent arrogant self-confidence as with any worry about, well, stalking or something.

He must have seen that concern in expression because he quickly said, "Look, I’m not trying to, ah, force you to spend time with me or anything. But even though you haven’t been particularly, um, welcoming toward my advances, you haven’t flat told me to get lost, either. Do that and I’m history. On the other hand, if you’d like a ride to the play, I just happen to be going that way."

"Why are you bothering?" I asked, feeling a well-trained pout form on my lips.

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" he said with a chuckle. "All that and I already know you’ve got brains and class, too. What’s not to like?"

Indeed. Well, if he found what was hiding inside my shimmery dress he’d have something not to like. But I had to admit I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be? Whoever he was, he was too easy in his wealth to be a predator. I mean, I know that kings and princes can be real creeps despite being fabulously wealthy, but that was as much about power as about money. This guy didn’t need power games, not with women, not with other men. It just showed in the way he smiled at his own compliments, delivered not for advantage but because they were the simple truth. At least to him.

Before I could say anything more, his smile changed to a little boy’s pleading beg and he said, "Please, let me take you to the play."

I’d have probably agreed anyway, but that look was more than I could refuse. I nodded, unable to stop a smile from curving my own lips, and looked back at the doorman. Once again Kennedy had things under control already, though.

"Over here, if you would," he said, motioning to about fifty feet of gleaming limousine.

He held the door for me himself, handing me carefully into the seat, then ran around to where the chauffeur held *his* door. We were on our way so smoothly I didn’t think about how quickly it was as well until I saw a cop holding up traffic for us.

"Goodness, just how many favors do people owe you?" I asked. Then I remembered an earlier speculation. "You’re not one of THE Kennedy’s are you?"

"Good Lord, no!" he said, his smile contradicting the vehemence of his denial. "Hell, I’m a Republican!"

"Oh, too bad," I said sadly. That was for effect. I didn’t really care if he were a Martian. Politics bored me to tears, but that opening was too good to let pass.

"Ah, indeed," he said noncommittally, showing the first crack in the armor of his perfection. I decided I wouldn’t mind playing poker with him. His ‘trouble’ face was so blank that the contrast with his usual energy was like a big sign over his head. A part of me was telling myself not to underestimate him. When I had decided he didn’t need his money to feel powerful - no matter how much he had - that realization had come with the feeling that it was because he had *made* his own money and was sure he could make another fortune if he lost the one he already had.

Those thoughts were some sort of attempt to cover over a louder, more strident part of me was just flat being impressed. This was indeed a big time player and I was way out of my league despite all the training I had received in ‘cool and classy’.

That’s my excuse anyway, for what happened after that. I leaned back more comfortably in the seat and decided to try and find that smile he had lost. "So, Mr. Kennedy-who-is-not-related-to-THE-Kennedys-and-glad-of-it, just who *are* you?"

This time I was the one who spoke again before he could answer. I knew jumping in again sounded too . . . interested, too excited and that I shouldn’t do that. It was a major loss of cool points to blurt out another thought, but I couldn’t help myself. "Unless, you’re not part of . . . another sort of family, are you?"

He laughed - at least I had managed to get his good humor back - and pushed the tip of his nose to the side with his finger. "Ya mean, like, one a da Families? Nah, dat’s my brudder Guido youse is t’inkin’ about."

"I’m sorry," I said, blushing. I really had blown my sophisticated image, but . . . maybe it was worth it. He did have a heavenly smile.

"No," he said, answering my question again, "I’m not connected with anything except a rather specialized investment group. And I’ve been lucky."

"Right," I said, managing to get the fire in my cheeks back under control. I hoped. "The sort of luck that comes from 18 hour days, I’m sure."

"Not any more," he said easily. "Now, tell me about yourself."

"Not much to tell," I said, mentally kicking myself for not preparing a story in advance. I should have known this sort of thing would come up, even if I hadn’t expected to meet this particular person over and over. However, this sort of dissembling had been a big part of the training I *had* received, so I could look calm even as my mind raced. The standard recommendation when caught unprepared was to stick as close to the truth as possible, so . . "I’m actually here on business. My boss sent me to do some research."

"On what?" he asked politely.

"Would you be offended if I begged off from that question?" I asked demurely. "It’s, well, proprietary would be as good a word as any."

He smiled and said, "Not at all." Then he changed the subject. "But I do want to know how you got the name Vanna. That’s too cute to be real."

I chuckled, thanking my instructors once again for providing me with a classy reflex. I had this incredible urge to giggle instead. But my training held as I nodded. "You’re right. That’s not what it says on my birth certificate, but I’ve used the name for so long I can hardly remember the other one." Then I changed the subject, or at least tried to. "So, how did you find out where I would be?"

"Uh, uh," he countered, no apology in his grin. "Not so fast. You’ve played the mysterious society lady very well, but I am not going to be put off that easily. Tell me a bit more about yourself."

"And if I refuse?" I challenged with my own grin. "After all, a lady has to retain *some* air of mystery, or men get bored so quickly."

"I don’t think you’ll bore me . . . not quickly in any event."

"And . . .?"

"And what?" he said, but I knew he knew what I was asking, so I just smiled my amused patience smile and settled a tiny bit further into the corner.

"Okay," he said, nodding the point to me. "I’ll promise to do my best to keep from boring you. To that end, how am I doing so far?"

"Oh, boring you’re not," I answered with a smile I meant to be sort of introspective - as though considering my experience so far - with a sort of examination of him - as though considering his potential for the future at the same time. I don’t know if it worked, but his smile widened and he nodded another point to me.

Right about then we got to the theater. It was no surprise by that time that it was the right one, nor that his ticket was for the seat next to mine. I hadn’t heard of the play before, some sort of mystery set in Seattle called, "For Lisa." You wouldn’t believe what it was about. The playbill talked about this oriental cop who goes undercover to find his lover’s killer and I had visions of some cheesy Charlie Chan thing but, well, I won’t go into it. If you get a chance, go see it. It was anything but cheesy even if the detective really was named ‘Chan’. I think our Sam Gates has a pretty good sense of humor, though, for picking that play to send me to.

When it was over, Kennedy turned to me and said, "Well, uh, Ms. White, have you had dinner?"

"Oh, God," I moaned theatrically, holding the back of one limp hand to my forehead - so sue me, we had just seen my first ever Broadway play - "I have become my mother. ‘Ms. White’ killed Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the spoon."

"From which theatrics," he replied dryly, but with a twinkly little smile dancing in his eyes, "one assumes you do not like to be called Ms. White. So . . . ?"

"Vanna, of course," I said. "And . . . Wilson?"

"Only if you want to walk home," he said. "It’s just Will. And if it’s ever Willy, even by mistake, I’ll have the chauffeur run over you."

"Oh, no," I said firmly. "It would never be ‘by mistake’."

He, Will, laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "Uh, oh. I may have created a monster."

"That’s another play, I think," I replied, looking pensive as though it were a serious issue.

"Probably so," he said, nodding with equal gravity. "Now, to the more important matter. What are you hungry for?"

"Food would be nice," I replied, continuing with a serious tone despite a very silly answer.

"Okay, then that’s what you’ll get," he declared grandly. The limo was waiting at the curb, of course. How could it not be ready? And we whisked silently away to wherever we were going next.

That turned out to be some place that was not in any of the guidebooks; at least, not the ones available to the proletariat. There was this ordinary looking door with small white letters painted on the glass that read, "Jean-Paul", with a shaded bulb bathing the half dozen steps up from the sidewalk in soft light. Will had helped me out of the limo again. I had waited for him, of course. I had to admit (to myself) that I appreciated the attention even aside from the social niceties. The stilts I was wearing, and the somewhat-restrictive cut of the gown made a bit of aid very welcome. That’s the reason I didn’t, ah, mind when he kept his hand on my elbow as we approached the door.

It opened in front of us, revealing the first clue about what sort of place we were entering. That’s not true, actually. It was just the first one I noticed. In any event, the man opening the door wore a white tie and tails, the first outfit I had seen that looked even more expensive than Will’s.

"Good evening, Mr. Kennedy," he said. "Nice of you to visit us again."

"Good evening, William," Will said. For just an instant I had another massive urge to giggle. Maybe I’d be able to remember the name of this . . . whatever he was. "This is Ms. White."

"Very nice to meet you, madam," William said, bowing. But I caught a glimpse of a smirk that was intended for Will. It didn’t make me . . . mad, exactly. But I didn’t like the idea that they thought they were, ah, ahead of me or something. So I decided I’d see if I could convince this pompous pigeon not to take me for granted.

I spoke only to Will, of course, pretending my problem was not at all with the smirker. "Why, darling, you didn’t have to tell him what I did for a living, did you?"

Guys have this competitive thing, you know? Anyway, the current contest was to see who could flush the deepest red, in each case nicely set off by the snowy-white collars of their respective costumes. Will was the first to recover, laughing out loud even as he held up a hand to keep William from the apology he clearly intended to offer. "Score one for the lady, William."

William nodded obediently, but I was gratified to see that his glance was now for me and that it had an interesting combination of respect and assessment. He was trying to decide if my surface joke covered a deeper truth. The best part, though, was that Will was asking himself the same question. You could see it in his eyes. So much for being taken for granted.

We followed the flapping tails of our, ah, greeter past a series of varying size rooms to one that held a single table set for two. That did not mean that it was a small table. Nor could it have been. I think there were fourteen glasses and nineteen pieces of silverware, and even before we started to eat there were at least six pieces of fine china. At each of the two place settings.

William moved to hold my chair for me, but Will was already there. Once I was seated William did the napkin thing for me and then handed me a menu. I didn’t even see where he got it from. Not that it mattered. My French overlapped with what was on the page by about two words. I saw ‘caviar’ and ‘pate’ and ran out of options.

One thing I did notice, though, was that there weren’t any prices.

I knew what that meant.

Will scarcely glanced at his menu, looking instead at me. "What interests you?"

Now why did that make me blush? To cover that up I shrugged with careful nonchalance and said, "Whatever you think is best."

"Good, then let’s go," he said quickly, putting his menu on the table.

Maybe I was lucky. Realizing that his . . . attention had made me blush had me so focused on cooling my cheeks that I was able to keep any surprise out of my voice and gain back a few ‘cool and classy’ points. I just smiled, laid my own menu down, and said, "As you wish."

"I may just hold you to that," Will replied, chuckling even as he nodded his head at my poise. Well, I *was* showing poise, regardless of what I felt on the inside.

But he also picked up the menu again and started in with the patient William. It’s even harder to understand French when it’s spoken than it is to read it, so I had no clue what I was going to get.

I still don’t know what it was. Not that it really mattered. Like a lot of new experiences, some of it was wonderful, some of it was . . . not. I did the wait-until-he-shows-you-which-fork-to-use thing, and he caught me at it, and we both smiled, and it didn’t matter after that.

Despite the fact he was clearly attending other patrons, too, you’d have thought that William was our very own waiter. One of them at least. He was more the conductor than the one playing the tune, though. I never saw him carry a plate, though there was an army who jumped whenever he glanced their way. But unless something was needed - which could include correcting an errant wineglass that had the temerity to actually be only half full - we seemed to be alone.

The first part of the meal was spent discussing the play we had seen. That was only on the surface, though. Under the casual chatting there was a deeper current of building . . . curiosity in Will’s eyes. I noticed, and let him know I noticed with a hint of amusement in my own demurely-lowered eyes. Finally, I ‘won’ that little battle of wills (no pun intended) when he changed the topic.

"At least you called me ‘darling’," he said in what would seem like a massive non sequitur. Unless you’d noticed the undercurrent.

I put a little heat into my smile - okay, a little *more* heat - and said, "I did, didn’t I?"

"You could be, you know," he said next. I knew what he was really talking about. The smirk he wore was very interesting, very complex. It said he felt just a bit guilty at having embarrassed me, even as it showed a hint of arousal in the fascinating possibility that I was indeed some sort of high class - definitely high class - madam. It confessed he didn’t really know that much about me, yet it showed not the least bit of regret for pursuing me. Like I said, complex, yet somehow very clear just the same.

I just nodded, accepting his statement. If he wanted to know if that possibility were true, he was going to have to ask. But I could drop a hint of my own. "A girl has to make a living somehow," I said easily.

I blew it, though. Somehow, despite my attempted ambiguity, he saw right through me and sent a new message with a new grin. And other things, now that I think about it. He reached for his wine and for the first time in quite a while broke eye contact. Topic settled. I was not really a madam. He didn’t need to actually ask. Score one for him.

When he looked up again I nodded in acceptance that he had won the point. And decided I didn’t really want to play poker with him after all. I might think I could read his face, but it was clear he was no slouch at reading others, either.

It’s a shame, really, about the meal I mean. I don’t really remember much about the food, which would seem to be a waste since I can’t imagine what it cost. All I know is that some time later William was pulling my chair back and we were walking back to the outwardly unimpressive door. No check, of course, was ever presented. The limo was idling at the curb and I realized that there was no room to park. Think about that. No one who came to that place was going to have to park their own car, nor need valet service either.

I had been pretty careful to keep my fluid intake under control so I was relaxed but not . . . loose as we rode back to my hotel. I did allow him to provide a little stability, though, in the form of a shoulder to lean on and an arm to steady me. That’s all it was, just stability.

When we reached my room, I handed him the keycard and he worked the lock. Then he stood there, a smile on his lips, a question in a gently arched brow, in the twirling keycard. Message: Do you want me to give this back to you? Or do you want me to keep it as an excuse not to leave?

Like I had any choice. Slowly, showing a regret that was not as artificial as I knew it should be, I reached for the card. His smile didn’t even slip a bit. All that happened is that the question retreated from his eyebrow.

Then a new one replaced the gentle smile on his lips. "Do you have any casual clothes with you?"

"Casual clothes?" I repeated. Stupidly. That question really had caught me by surprise.

"Sure," he confirmed. "Jeans, sneakers, that sort of thing."

"Um, close enough," I said. Damn, first time I’d let an ‘um’ slip out all night.

"I’ll pick you up at ten, tomorrow morning," he declared. "We’ll ‘do lunch.’" I could hear the quotes around the phrase and knew he was poking fun at the ostentatiousness of it, especially in the context of his prior question about casual clothes.

"Um, okay," I said. I’d have kicked myself for yet another ‘um’, but all of the sudden I was too busy for that.

He kissed me. It wasn’t the classic, wrap-his-arms-around-me-so-I-could-pretend-to-want-to-escape-but-not-really-try capture kiss. It was much, much worse than that. He just lifted his hands to cradle my face and *caressed* my lips with his. I had never been kissed more gently, nor more intensely. I couldn’t even have imagined such intensity, and would have denied the possibility it could come packaged in such gentleness.

Until I experienced it.

Jaymi is right.

 

(continued in next part)

 

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SMITE 2 - Pheromone Pharmacopia © 2001 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.