Chapter 7

I do not expect the knock at the door. It comes at 7:30 p.m. , Saturday. I have imagined dozens of fictional stories by now. It is all I have to do. When the knock comes— rap-rap-rap-rap , four firm but polite taps—I jump, blink, and stare at the door as if expecting it to burst into flames, or come to life. Regaining my composure, I smooth my skirt over my hips, school my features into a blank mask, and open the door.

"Len. Good evening. Is anything the matter?"

Len's broad, weather-worn face seems hewn from granite and expresses the same measure of emotion. "Good evening, Madame X." A black garment bag hangs over one arm. "This is for you."

I take the bag. "Why? I mean, what is it for?"

"You are to join Mr. Indigo for dinner this evening."

I blink. Swallow. "Join him for dinner? Where?"

"Upstairs. Rhapsody."

"Rhapsody?"

A shrug. "Restaurant, near the top of the building."

"And I'm to join him there? For dinner?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"In public?"

Another shrug. "Dunno, ma'am." Flick of a wrist, revealing a thick black rubber tactical chronograph. "Mr. Indigo expects you in one hour." Len steps through, closes the door, and puts his back to it. "I'll wait here, Madame X. Best go get ready."

I shake all over. I do not know what this is, what is happening. I never join "Mr. Indigo" for dinner. I have dinner here. Alone. Always. This is not how things go. It is out of the norm, not part of the pattern. The warp and weft of my life is a careful dance, choreographed with precision. Aberrations leave me breathless, chest tight, eyes blinking too swiftly. Aberrations are unwelcome.

Dinner at Rhapsody with Mr. Indigo. I don't know what this means; it is semantically null.

I shower, even though I am already clean. I depilate, apply lotion. Lingerie, black lace, French bikini and demi-cups, Agent Provocateur. The dress is magnificent. Deep red, high neckline around my throat, both arms bare, slit up the left side nearly to my hip, open back, Vauthier's signature asymmetry. A runway haute couture piece, probably. Elegant, sexy, dramatic. The dress is enough of a statement on its own, so I opt for simple black high-heeled sandals. Light makeup, a touch around the eyes, stain on the lips, color on my cheeks.

Heart hammering, I step out into the living room, ready in forty minutes. It would not do to keep Mr. Indigo waiting, something tells me.

"Very lovely, Madame X," Len says, but it feels like a formality, part of the charade.

"Thank you."

A nod, an elbow proffered. My lungs are frozen and my heart is in my throat as I take Len's arm, follow him out into the foyer beyond my door: thick ivory carpet, slate walls, abstract paintings, a table with a vase of flowers. A short hallway leading to an emergency stairwell: Caution, emergency exit only, alarm will sound. The elevator doors are polished chrome, mirror-bright. A window near the emergency exit, showing the Manhattan skyline, summer evening sunlight coating gold on glass.

The foyer beyond my condo is smaller than I thought it would be.

A keyhole where the call button would be, a key on a ring from Len's pocket inserted and twisted, withdrawn, and the doors slide open immediately. There are no buttons, only another keyhole with four degrees one could turn it to: G, 13, Rhap., PH —Len inserts the key and twists it to the Rhapsody marker, and then we are in motion. Only there is no sensation of motion, no lift or dip of my stomach. A brief silence, no wait music, and then the doors slide open with a muted ding .

My expectations are dashed. Shattered.

No hushed chatter of a fine dining establishment in full evening swing. No clink of silverware on plates. No laughter.

Not one person in sight.

Not a server, not a patron, not a single chef.

The entire restaurant is empty.

I take a step forward, and immediately the doors slide closed between Len and me, leaving me alone. I feel my heart twist, hammer even faster. My heart rate is surely a medical risk, at this point. Table after table, empty. Two-tops, four-tops, six-tops, all round white-cloth-covered tables with chairs tucked in, napkins folded in elaborate origami shapes, silverware placed just so on either side of the flatware, wineglasses in the upper right corner. Not one light in the restaurant is lit, bathing me in golden shadows of falling dusk streaming in from the thirty-foot-tall panes of glass ringing the entire perimeter of the restaurant, which occupies the entire floor of the building. The kitchen sits at the center, open-plan, so the diners on three sides are able to see the chefs preparing the food, and the tables on the other side, a glimpse of the windows and the skyline. The elevator in front of which I am still standing is one four forming the back wall of the kitchen, and there is a plaque above "my" elevator that proclaims it to be a private lift, with no public access—in place of a call button, there is a keyhole.

A thousand questions are bubbling in my brain. Clearly, my condo is only one of many in this building. Yet the foyer beyond my condo provides access only to the elevator and the emergency stairwell. The square footage of the condo, however, is not sufficient to take up the entire thirteenth floor. Why a private elevator that only goes to four places, and requires a key to access? Does each of my clients get a key? Or is there an elevator attendant?

Why is the restaurant empty?

What am I supposed to do?

A violin plays, soft high strains wavering quietly from off to my left. A cello joins it. Then a viola, and another violin.

I follow the music around the kitchen and discover a breathtaking vision: a single two-person table draped in white, set for two, a bottle of white wine on ice in a marble bucket on a stand beside the table, and a half dozen or so tables have been removed to clear a wide space around it, with thick white candles on five-foot-tall black wrought-iron stands forming a perimeter. The string quartet is off in the shadows a few feet away, two young men and two young women, black tuxedos and modest black dresses.

In the shadows just beyond the ring of candles stands a darker shadow. Tall, elegant, powerful. Hands stuffed casually in charcoal-gray trouser pockets. No tie, topmost button undone to reveal a sliver of flesh. Suit coat, middle button fastened. Crimson kerchief folded in a perfect triangle in the pocket of the coat. Thick black hair swept back and to one side, a single strand loose to drape across a temple. That ghost of amusement on thin lips.

I watch the Adam's apple bob. "X. Thank you for joining me." That voice, like boulders crashing down a canyon wall.

I didn't have a choice, did I? But of course, these words remain lodged in my throat, alongside my heart and my breath. Careful steps in high heels across the wide room. Come to a halt beside the table. I watch long legs take a few short strides, and I'm staring up at a strong, clean-shaven jawline, glittering dark eyes.

"Caleb," I breathe.

"Welcome to Rhapsody."

"You rented out the entire restaurant?" I questioned.

"Not rented so much as ordered them to close it down for the evening."

"You own it, then?"

A rare full smile. "I own the building, and everything in it."

"Oh."

A twitch of a finger, gesturing at my chair. "Sit, please."

I sit, fold my hands on my lap. "Caleb, if I may ask—"

"You may not." Strong fingers lift a butter knife, tap on the wineglass gently, the crystal ringing loudly in the silence. "Let's have the food brought out and then we'll discuss things."

"Very well." I duck my head. Focus on breathing, on slowing my heart rate.

I feel rather than see or hear the presence of someone else. Look up, a man of indeterminate age stands beside the table. He could be thirty-five, he could be fifty. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, young and intelligent eyes, light brown hair, receding hairline.

"Sir, madam. Would you care to see a menu?"

"No, Gerald, that's fine. We'll start with the soup du jour, followed by the house salad. No onions on mine. The filet mignon for me, medium rare. Tell Jean-Luc just this side of rare. Not quite bloody. For the lady, she'll have the salmon. Vegetables and mashed potatoes for the both of us."

Apparently I'm having salmon. I'd have rather had the filet mignon as well, but I hadn't been given a preference and I didn't dare protest. This was abnormal in the extreme, and I wasn't about to have anything else taken away.

"Very good, sir." Gerald lifts the bottle of white wine. "Shall I present this, sir?"

"No, I did choose it myself, after all. Marcos should have set out a bottle of red for us as well. Have that opened to breathe, and serve it with the entrées."

"Very good, sir. Will there be anything else I can do for you at this moment?"

"Yes. Have the quartet play the suite in G major instead of the B minor."

"Of course, sir. Thank you." Gerald bows at the waist, deeply.

He then scurries and weaves between the tables, whispers to the viola player, who holds up a hand, and the other three players let their instruments quaver into silence. A brief meeting of heads, and then they strike up again, a different melody, this time. Returning, Gerald uncorks the wine with elaborate ceremony and pours a measure in each of our glasses, hands me mine first.

I shouldn't be nervous to take a drink, but I am. I drink tea and water, exclusively. I have no memory of drinking anything but tea and water.

What will wine be like, I wonder?

It's the little things; focus on the minor to keep one's self from hyperventilating about the major.

I watch, mimic: forefinger, middle finger, and thumb on the middle of the stem, lift carefully. Take the tiniest of sips. Wet my lips with the cool liquid. Lick my lips. Shock ripples over me. The taste is... like nothing I've ever experienced. Not quite sweet, not quite sour, but a little of both of those things. An explosive flavor bursting on my tongue.

Dark eyes watch me carefully, following every move, following my tongue as I run it along my lips once more. Watch me as I take another sip, an actual sip, this time. A small mouthful. Roll it around my mouth, coolness on my tongue, a starburst of flavor, tingling, sparkling. Light, fruity.

It's so good I could cry. The best thing I've ever tasted.

"Like it?" That deep, rumbling voice, following a long casual sip, the glass replaced on the table, adjusted precisely so.

"Yes," I say, keeping eagerness from my voice. "It's very good."

"I thought you might. It's a Pinot Grigio. Nothing overly fancy, but it will pair very well with the soup and salad."

Obviously, I know nothing of this. Wine pairings, Pinot Grigio, string quartets... this is a foreign world into which I am being suddenly and inexplicably immersed.

"Pinot Grigio." I nod. "It's delicious."

A crinkle around the eyes, a lift of one lip corner. "Don't get too used to it, X; don't want you developing any expensive or unhealthy habits. This is a special occasion, after all."

"It is?" I have no clue what occasion it could be.

Gerald appears, then, bearing a round black tray. Two low, shallow, broad white china bowls, containing a red soup of some kind. "The soup du jour is a creamy gazpacho Andaluz, made using the traditional elements of cucumber, bell peppers, and onions. Fresh, house-baked bread was used to thicken the soup, and it is garnished with a diced medley of the aforementioned vegetables. Chef Jean-Luc is confident there is no gazpacho Andaluz so good this side of the Atlantic Ocean." Gerald rotates my bowl a quarter turn, presents my soup spoon with a grandiose flourish and a bow—not so deep a bow as the one offered to my companion... host... lover... warden....

"Very good, Gerald. Thank you." Some indefinable note in that chasmic voice contains a warning: Get lost, if you know what's good for you.

Gerald is gone in a blink, vanishing into the shadows.

I dip the spoon into the red liquid, lift it delicately to my mouth prepared for heat, unsure of the flavor about to meet my tongue.

"Oh! It's cold," I say, surprised.

"It's a gazpacho." This, amused, not quite condescending. "It's a cold soup. The Andaluz was originally served after the meal, but here in the States it is most frequently served prior, in the English and American tradition."

"Cold soup. It seems... antithetical," I say, and then ladle another spoonful into my mouth.

"Perhaps so, in theory," comes the response, between mouthfuls. "In practice, however, it is quite good. Prepared properly, at least, and Jean-Luc is one of the best chefs in the world."

Despite the surprise of the soup being served cold, it is delicious, creamy and bursting with the ripe flavor of fresh vegetables. I wash it down with a sip of wine, and although I have a vague notion that white wine is supposed to be paired with similarly colored foods, the light, fruity flavor of the wine does indeed offset the cold vegetable soup in a delightful contrast. Neither of us speaks as we finish the soup, and Gerald appears as I am scraping the last smear of red from the bowl. He takes the bowl from me and replaces it with a salad, does the same on the other side of the table.

"Continuing with the Spanish theme, this evening's salad is a simple affair of cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes, lightly flavored with red wine vinegar and olive oil." Once again, Gerald rotates the plate in front of me, bowing, presenting the brightly colorful salad, artfully arranged in geometric shapes.

The wine goes even better with the salad, each bite feeling spritely on my tongue, the wine tingling and coruscating.

More long moments of silence as we eat the salad. My wine goblet is empty for perhaps fifteen seconds in total when Gerald appears yet again from the shadows and refills it.

"Dispense with the formality, Gerald, and pour the rest of the bottle." The command comes quietly and cannot be gainsaid, so firm and confident is the voice.

Total authority. Absolute expectation of obedience, even in so simple a matter as pouring a larger glass of wine than is, apparently, formally acceptable.

"As you wish, sir." Gerald pours the wine into my glass first, twisting the bottle to prevent glugging.

Alternating between the two goblets, Gerald makes sure each of us has exactly the same amount, down to the last drops. Remarkable precision, performed with ritual familiarity.

The salad is finished. The quartet lets a moment of silence pervade, and then they strike up again, in practiced unison. I sip at my wine, savoring each droplet. At last, however, I can contain myself no longer.

"Caleb, you said this was a special occasion, but I must confess, I have no idea—"

"Hush and enjoy the experience. I am aware of your ignorance, and I will enlighten you in my own time. For now, drink your wine. Listen to the music. I handpicked this quartet from among the most promising students at Juilliard. Each of the musicians is among the best in the world at his or her respective instrument."

I am not expected to reply. I lean back, pivot slightly, rest an arm across the back of my chair. Attempt to appear at ease, comfortable. How long passes, I cannot say. Minutes, perhaps. Ten or fifteen. I fight restlessness. Cross my legs, uncross them. Glance at the windows, wishing I could stand and stare down, watch the people, examine the city from each new angle, see new portions of the skyline. I know the view from each of my windows as well as I know the sight of my own hands. A new perspective would be something to enjoy.

Eventually Gerald appears with an already-uncorked bottle of wine. The bottle is darkest red, nearly opaque, and has no label. He pours a thimbleful into a clean glass, too little to really drink. I watch with fascination a ritual clearly familiar to both men, the swirl of the tiny amount of liquid around the bottom of the goblet; inhale through the nose, goblet tipped at an angle, just so. A sip, then. A wetting of the lips, swish around the mouth. A nod. Yet instead of filling that glass, Gerald fills mine first. A strange ceremony, that. Present it to the man for testing and approval, but pour it for the woman first. Inexplicable, to me.

"This is from the estate at Mallorca, yes, Gerald?"

Gerald nods, setting the bottle down with great care. "Correct, sir. Bottled and shipped here for your exclusive reserves. One of a thousand bottles available, I believe, although Marcos would the better man to ask for precise numbers." A gesture at the shadows. "Shall I summon him, sir?"

A minute shake of the head. "No, it's all right. It just has a slightly more pungent bouquet than the last bottle, is all."

"I think, sir, that this bottle is the first of a new batch only recently arrived."

"Ah. That explains it."

Gerald nods, bows. "I believe the main course is ready, sir."

A wave of the hand, a dismissal.

I am puzzled. Overwhelmed. Estate in Mallorca? Exclusive reserves of a thousand, unlabeled bottles of wine? An entire building in the heart of Manhattan?

"Where is Mallorca, Caleb?"

"It's an island in the Mediterranean Sea owned by Spain. I—or rather my family—owns a vineyard there, among other places."

Family? It's hard to think of this man as having a family. Sisters, brothers? Parents?

Gerald appears with a large plate in each hand. Salmon, pinkish-orange, surrounded by grilled vegetables—cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, green bean sprouts—and thick, lumpy mashed potatoes topped by a melting pat of butter.

I have yet to taste the wine, which is ruby in color, the shade of freshly spilled blood. I put the glass to my nose and inhale; the scent is earthy, ripe, pungent, powerful. I try a sip. I have to suppress the urge to cough, to spit it out. I swallow, school my features into the blank mask. I do not like this, not at all. Dry, rolling over my tongue with a dozen shades of decadent flavor.

"Don't like that wine as much, I take it?"

I shake my head. "It's . . . so different."

"Different good, or different bad?"

I am in dangerous and unfamiliar territory. I shrug. "Not like the Pinot Grigio."

A noise in the back of the throat. A laugh, perhaps. If I didn't know better. "You don't like it. You can say so, if that is the case."

I demurely slide the goblet away from me an inch or two. "I would prefer some ice water, I think."

"More of the Pinot, perhaps?" My goblet is tugged closer to the other side of the table.

I shrug, trying not to appear too eager. "That would be wonderful, Caleb. Thank you."

A single finger lifted off the tabletop, a turn of the head. Subtle gestures, made with the knowledge that they will be noticed. Gerald appears, bending close. "Sir?"

"The lady does not find the red suitable to her palate, I'm afraid. She'll have more of the Pinot Grigio. I'll finish this myself, I suppose. No sense wasting it."

"Immediately, sir." Gerald hustles into the shadows and is gone for only a few moments before returning with a single glass of the white wine.

I was expecting more of the uncorking ritual and find myself slightly disappointed that I wouldn't get to see it again. So strange, so lovely, like the waltz of a gourmand. No matter. I drink the wine and enjoy it. Feel it in my blood, buzzing warmly in my skull.

The salmon, of course, is very good. Light, flavorful, pleasurable.

Nothing is said during the course of the meal. The only sound is the quartet playing softly from the shadows, the clink of forks. At long last, both plates are pushed away, and I follow example by covering what I didn't finish with my napkin. Gerald removes the plates, vanishes, and reappears with two plates, each of which contains a single small bowl, in which is... I do not know what it is.

"Chef Jean-Luc offers Flan Almendra, a traditional Spanish dessert for sir and madam, to finish the evening."

"Thank you, Gerald. That will be all."

"Of course, sir. And may I just say what an extraordinary pleasure it was to serve you this evening." Gerald bows deeply and then departs.

Flan turns out to be somewhere between pudding and pie, with a crunchy almond crust. I eat it slowly, savoring it, forcing myself to be demure, a lady, and not devour it as I would wish to, were such barbaric behavior allowed.

Through it all, my brain is whirring. A single question, burning: Why? Why? Why?

I dare not ask.

At long, long last, there is nothing left to eat, and only the last inch of wine remains in my glass. My red was claimed long ago, and the bottle finished. I truly do not know how so much thick, pungent wine can be drunk so swiftly.

"X." The voice, buzzing in my head. In my bones. It's a little loose sounding. "You've been very patient this evening."

I can only shrug. "It has been an enjoyable evening, Caleb. Thank you."

"I've decided today is to be your birthday."

I have no thought in my head, no capacity for rational thought. The pronouncement has left me utterly unhinged. "Wh—what?"

"Since we know nothing of you prior to our... meeting, I decided—rather belatedly, I do admit—that you require a birthday." An easy shrug. "Today is July the second. The exact midpoint of the calendar year."

I try to breathe. Summon words. Thoughts. Emotions. "I—um. Today is my birthday?"

"It is now. Happy Birthday, X."

"How many years would it be?" I can't help asking.

"The doctors, on that day, presumed you—with a high degree of accuracy, they told me—to be nineteen or twenty. That was six years ago, so I'm going to say that today is your twenty-sixth birthday."

Six years. Twenty-six.

Puzzle pieces flit and float and flitter. Gazpacho Andaluz. Spanish red wine. Spanish cucumber salad. Spanish flan.

"Andaluz... Caleb, is that a place in Spain?"

An expression of curiosity. "Andalusia, yes."

"Did you find something out about me? Is that what this about?" I cannot stop the question.

Cannot phrase it any more respectfully or politely. Curiosity flares in me. Hope, too, but just a spark, a fragile, easily extinguished, guttering pinpoint of light.

A pause, a hesitation. Tongue sliding over lips, roll of a shoulder, shifting in the chair. "Yes. A little something, at least. I had your DNA analyzed."

"You did?" I blink, breathe in, wonder if it is normal to feel as if I have been somehow opened, pried apart, what little privacy I have invaded.

"Yes. When you were sleeping, the last time I visited you, I took a piece of your hair from your hairbrush, and swabbed the inside of your cheek. You sleep like the dead to begin with, and you were... very tired. You barely stirred." A self-satisfied glint of the eye, not quite a smirk. "My scientists were able to trace certain markers in your DNA and determine with a surprising degree of accuracy where your ethnic heritage originates."

I am breathless with anticipation—that phrase, it occurs in fiction quite frequently. But in reality, it is not an entirely pleasant sensation. "What— ahem ." I have to start over. "What did your scientists discover?"

A hand, manicured fingernails, trimmed cuticles, large and powerful and graceful, waving at the table. "Can't you guess?"

"Spain?" I suggest.

"Precisely. They are clever fellows, those geneticists. They're still working, comparing markers and whatever else it is they do, trying to narrow it down, get more specific results. They tell me with time they might be able to tell me a specific region of Spain, things like that. But for now, all we know is... you, Madame X, are Spanish." Those eyes, dark, expressive, hard, hungry, raking over me. "You look it, too. I've long thought that might be it. My Spanish beauty."

Clever fellows. Geneticists on the payroll. My scientists. Who has scientists on retainer?

"I would have had Jean-Luc prepare a traditional Spanish main course for us, but I thought that might be laying it on a bit too thick. Spanish food is also very rich, and you are not accustomed to such fare. I wouldn't want to overburden your digestive system as well as your emotions all in one night, you know."

"Yes, I see." My brain supplied relevant-sounding words at the expected moment, but in truth I was numb, dizzy, spinning, and fending off what felt like an anxiety attack.

"Do you need a moment, X?"

I nod.

"Take a moment, then."

I stood up and moved with great relief away from the table, away from the ring of candles, away from the huge and overwhelming presence. Away from the music. Deep into the shadows, to the window. Night had long ago fallen over the city, so now light came from countless yellow and white squares in neat horizontal and vertical rows across the horizon, from streetlamps far below, from red departing taillights and white approaching headlights.

I am Spanish.

I had your DNA analyzed. Such an easy phrase, so easily spoken.

What does it mean to me, to know I am of Spanish origin?

Nothing; everything.

My eyes prick, sting. My lungs ache and I am dizzy, and I realize I have been holding my breath. I blink and breathe. Such wrenching emotion over what? Knowing where in the world my unnamed and unknown ancestors came from? Weakness.

I've decided today is to be your birthday.

Another fact that feels both weighted with meaning and utterly devoid of it as well. A birthday?

A girl with dark hair walks by, dozens of stories below, on the opposite side of the street, holding her mother's hand. It is much too far to see much else. They know their origins. Their family. Their past. A mother's hand to cling to. A daughter to sing sweet songs to. Perhaps a daddy, a husband waiting for them.

"X?" A single letter, spoken in a murmur that would be a whisper for anyone with a smaller voice.

"Caleb." An acknowledgment is all I can manage.

"Are you all right?"

I shrug. "I suppose."

"Which means no, I think." Warm palm on my waist, just above the swell of my hip. "What's wrong?"

"Why?"

"Why what?" True confusion.

"Why have my DNA analyzed? Why tell me? Why give me an arbitrary birthday? Why bring me here for dinner? Why now?"

"It was meant to be—"

"Are you going to give me a Spanish name now too?"

A fraught silence. I interrupted, spoke out of turn. In dark and gritty noir novels, someone would say, Men have died for less , and with the man behind me, it might just be true. It seems possible; I look down at the hand on my waist. It looks capable of violence, of delivering death.

"Your name is Madame X." A harsh rumble in my ear. "Don't you remember?"

"Of course I do." When one possesses only six years' worth of memories, each one is crystalline.

"I brought you to the MOMA, the day they released you from the hospital. All of the museum at your disposal, and you spent the whole time in front of two paintings."

"Van Gogh, Starry Night ," I say.

"And John Singer Sargent's Portrait of Madame X ." Another hand on me, this one lower, below my hip bone, where it becomes thigh. Pulling me backward, taut against a hard chest. "I didn't know what to call you. I tried every name I could think of, and you'd just shake your head. You wouldn't speak. Couldn't really, I guess. Had to roll you around in that wheelchair, remember? Hadn't relearned to walk yet. But you pointed at that painting, the Sargent. So I stopped, and you just stared at it and stared at it."

"It was the expression on her face. It looks blank, at first. She's in profile, so you'd think it might be hard to tell what she's thinking. But if you look closely, you can see something there. Beneath the surface, maybe. And the curve of her arm. It looked strong. She's so delicate, but... that arm, the one touching the table, it's... it looks strong. And I felt weak, so helpless. So to see such a delicate-looking woman with something like strength? It just... spoke to me, somehow. Reassured me. Told me that maybe I could be strong, too."

"And you are."

"Sometimes."

"When you need to be."

"Not now."

"Why?" Breath, wine-laced, from lips at my ear.

"It's all so much to process. I don't know what to think, Caleb."

"You'll figure it out." Teeth on my earlobe. I shiver, tilt head away, close my eyes and hate my weakness, my involuntary chemical reaction. "Come. One more surprise for you, back down in your room."

I was not at all sure I had room within me for more surprises, but I allowed myself to be led away from the window with its mesmerizing view of the city. To the elevator. A key, from a trouser pocket, inserted, twisted to the 13 . Descent, moments of utter silence in which my heartbeat is surely audible.

As I am led into my living room, the first thing I notice is that my books have been replaced on my shelf. Heart leaping with hope, I turn and see that my library is open once more. I am allowed to leave the strong-armed embrace, wander into my library. Sweep my hands over the spines of my dear friends, these many books. My gaze falls on this title, that: The Forge of God ; Wool ; I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings ; Lolita ; Breath, Eyes, Memory ; A Brief History of Time ; Influence: Science and Practice ; American Gods ... everywhere my eyes look, a book that has taught me something invaluable. I could cry from joy at having my library back.

I turn, let a tear show: gratitude emoted. "Thank you, Caleb."

Somehow the distance between doorway and room center has been traversed invisibly, silently, and a thumb trails through the wetness on my cheek. "I think you've learned your lesson now, haven't you?"

"Yes, Caleb."

Deep, long, gusting breaths, swelling that great, powerful chest, eyes raking down my form, eager and hungry and admiring. "My Spanish beauty. My X." There is a note in those words, in the delivery of them... it must be the wine, the alcohol pushing aside some of the granite wall veiling whatever emotions roil behind those eyes, which have always seemed to me the ocular equivalent of Homer's "wine-dark seas."

"Caleb." What else do I say? There is nothing.

"Look in the display case." The words hold a thread of satisfaction. There is a new tome in the case: Tender Is the Night. F. Scott Fitzgerald. "It's a signed first edition, the original 1934 version with the flashbacks."

There are white gloves in the case, of course. I open the case, don the gloves, withdraw the book with shaky breath and steady hands. The inscription, in Fitzgerald's own hand: From one who wishes he could be at 1917s 20th , in that crabbed, looping script, the name below, the curlicue F , the double-bar downstrokes of the twin T s in Scott , the crossbar looping and swooping to merge with the second F that begins Fitzgerald .

"Caleb, it's... it's incredible. Thank you, so much."

"It's your birthday, after all, and birthdays require gifts."

"It's a marvelous gift, Caleb. I shall treasure it." I look up and see that the time for admiring my gift is over with, for now.

Time to show my appreciation.

Some things cannot be rushed.

This night, insatiability comes in the form of my body being slowly unwrapped, inch by inch. The dress unzipped, lowered to bare my lingerie—nostrils flare and eyes go heavy-lidded and hands reach; evidence of my "Spanish beauty"—and then the lingerie is peeled off, tossed aside.

Naked, I wait.

"Undress me, X."

To reveal that body is like unveiling a sculpture by Michelangelo. A study of masculine perfection done in unforgiving marble. Each angle carved with a deeply piercing chisel. My hands work and my eyes devour. My heart resists, twists, beats like a hammer on an anvil. My body, though. God, my body. It knows something my metaphysical heart and cerebral understanding do not: Caleb Indigo was created by an artist for the express purpose of ravishing women.

Specifically, in this moment, this woman.

And I hate my body for it. I tell it to remember the way of things. That this is expected of me. Required. Demanded. I must ; my will does not enter this equation.

And my body? It has a response: I do not care about requirements... all I know is a singular desire: TOUCH ME.

Touch me.

Touch me.

My body says that, as does the body I have now laid bare.

So I obey. I obey my body and the tacit command within the two words so recently spoken: "Undress me."

Touch me , that order implies.

So I touch.

Stroke into life the erection as large and perfect as the rest. Well, it was already fully alive and ready; I merely gave it the attention it was begging for by standing so tall and thick and straight.

Hands go to my shoulders, gently and implacably push me to my knees. I cast my eyes upward and obey. Mouth wide, taste flesh. Lips curled in to sheathe my teeth, hands plunging in a slow rhythm. Watch now. Quick breaths go ragged, hands clutch my hair, voice box utters guttural moans. Taste smokiness, essence leaking.

"Enough. Jesus, X." A curse, more rare still than a smile.

Suddenly, I'm airborne, carried into my room and tossed unceremoniously onto my bed. I scramble backward, knock aside pillows, but I'm too slow. Lip curled in a snarl, eyes feral, hands reaching and gripping my hips. Tugging me roughly, and my heart leaps a mile from chest to throat as hips wedge my thighs apart. Face to face?

I dare not think, dare not even hope. Breathe, cling to broad hard shoulders... exhale sharply as I am pierced.

Movement, face to face.

I can't breathe.

This is a night for firsts, it seems.

I dare to flutter my hips to the rhythm of our sex, dare to keep my eyes open and see. There is turmoil. Desire. Conflict. Heated need. Demand. Fire. Urgency.

And also in me?

I shy away from parsing and enumerating my own emotions. To do so would be to open Pandora's box, and I dare not.

Desperate movement now. Eyes on mine. Unwavering, piercing directness. There is a world in those dark orbs, a whole galaxy a mere mortal such as I cannot fathom.

Close.

So close.

Breath leaves me. Neither of us looks away.

Oh God.

Hands claw and clutch, grip and tug and bruise.

"Fuck. Fuck!" And then total absence. Everything ripped away, heat, presence, breath, body.

The moment is gutted.

"Caleb? Did I do something wrong?"

That huge body stands at the window, silhouetted, erotic male sexuality in shadow, shoulders bowed, head bent, hands wide and high on the frame, hips narrow and trim, buttocks firm and clenched and bubble-round and taut looking, legs like Grecian pillars. Shoulders heaving.

"Over here, X." A command, uttered so low as to be nearly inaudible.

I hear it, though, for I am painfully attuned to every whisper, every breath.

I rise, move tentatively to the window. Touch a shoulder with trembling fingers. "Are you okay? Was it me?"

"Shut up. Stand at the window." So unexpectedly harsh. Almost angry.

At me?

I dare not question again. That tone brooks no argument.

I stand at the window, shaking all over. Turn my head, look over my shoulder. Oh. That face, cast into shadow now, but not the shadows of absent light, rather the shadows of veiled emotion, features smoothed into unfeeling stone. Only the lips slightly pursed and tightened betray the tumult within.

I shake with cold, goose bumps pebbling on my skin.

A foot nudges mine apart, and then arms like boa constrictors snake around my chest, clutch my breast, another around my waist to clutch my hip. Behind me, bent at the knee, a moment to fit that hot thick erection to my opening, and then a hard upward, inward thrust. I gasp, a shrieking exhale of surprise and pain. So hard, so sudden, so rough.

No gentility here, no tenderness. None of the eroticism of only moments ago. This is what I've always known. Roughly thrusting, roughly using. Grunts in my ear.

I stand straight upright and cling to the arms gripping me, slippery with sweat and corded with muscle. Mad, wild thrusts from behind, straight up and down, legs bent wide and far apart.

Finally, when I think surely the moment of climax must be close, I find myself shoved forward so I'm bent double at the waist, hair fisted and jerked so my head snaps backward, a hand gripping my hip crease with bruising force.

Pound, pound, pound.

I whimper, shriek, and then— "Caleb!"

Slow now. Still just as rough and harsh and wild, but slowly.

Uttering that name, it was a plea. A protestation. All I could manage.

I feel the release, the hot gush.

The hands release me, suddenly, and I fall forward, bump up against the window. Opening my eyes, I look out the window and see across the street, an office tower black in the night, all the windows darkened save one, the window opposite my own. A figure in the light, watching.

What a show.

Hands, gentle now, lift me, cradle me, set me on my bed. I fight tears. I ache. My heart aches, my soul. What did I do to deserve so rough and thoughtless a fucking? There was no mutuality in that. No thought for my pleasure.

I let myself drowse, escape into sleep.

But a sound buzzes in my ear, slips through the curtain of unconsciousness. A voice. "I'm sorry, X. You're mine, and only mine. You can't know. I wish you could, but you can't know. You can't know, or you'd—no. You're mine . And I don't share."

Nonsensical words. I know who owns me; that is one mistake I shall not make again.

An apology?

Gods do not offer apologies.