Idle Hands
by Lionel

chapter 8

“Your father was very fond of the opera, was he?”

It was close to midnight and Lorenzo was fuming as he steered Alexis brusquely across the lobby of their hotel. Their goodbye to Victor and his wife on the sidewalk outside had turned unexpectedly fraught and revelatory when Victor presented Alexis with a gift, a digital audio transfer of her mother’s performance of the opera they had just seen, dropping an unknowing bombshell that ruptured the pleasant crescendo of their evening of porcini and Puccini.

“Bit of an understatement, wasn’t it?” Lorenzo continued to jab. “Did you even consider mentioning that your mother was an opera singer?”

Alexis cringed inwardly at the accusation carried by Lorenzo’s clipped cadence, but she allowed no outward show of apology or remorse to appear on her face. She really hadn’t been trying to embarrass him, at least not consciously. It just wasn’t any of his damn business. She had mentioned her mother to Victor only in passing earlier that week, not counting on his resourcefulness or generosity or the well-meaning gift that had exposed the hollow core of their marriage for all to see. Lorenzo had been unable to contain his surprise at Victor's mention of her mother's singing, and she had been far too affected to help him cover his gaffe. As she stood there on the sidewalk, quite literally speechless, overcome with sudden emotion and gratitude, Lorenzo had struggled to account for his ignorance of this most basic fact of his wife's heritage. She'd barely noticed, but could only assume he'd failed miserably. Even now, she was only half present in the lobby with him; the rest of her was still transfixed by the gift clenched in her hand.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” she said quietly, avoiding his furious gaze.

“You don’t like talking to me about it,” Lorenzo corrected. “Obviously you felt comfortable mentioning it to Victor.”

They reached the elevator bank, and Lorenzo pounded his fist against the call button. She was like some damn shape-shifting siren, appearing as the woman he wanted her to be, drawing him close only to reveal her true face and smack the hell out of him. The immediate affront was infuriating, but he felt too the rub of the abandoned path he couldn’t admit to missing.

“You made me look like a fool, Alexis. What kind of husband doesn’t know that about his wife?”

Her eyes focused on him finally, and a nasty glimmer of a smile moved over her face. “The kind of husband who blackmails his wife into marrying him?”

Lorenzo laughed bitterly. “So that bit of embarrassment was payback?”

The elevator doors opened, and though Lorenzo’s grip on her arm was uncomfortably firm, Alexis didn’t fight his lead as he guided her onto the elevator. Her own anger simmered, threatened to bubble over along with several other tempestuous emotions – what the hell right did he have to be angry, after everything he had done? -- and she didn’t want to get into it, not now. She just wanted to get to the room, find a place to be alone.

“No,” she said as the doors closed. “I just don’t like to talk about it.”

“Why not?” he prodded.

Her head turned away. “Because it leads to questions I’d rather not answer.”

“Then why did you tell Victor?”

She sighed heavily. Why wouldn’t he leave it alone? “Because I don’t really know him,” she answered tightly. The elevator slowed, and the doors opened on the top floor. “Because I could mention that my mother was an opera singer and leave it at that. Because I wouldn’t have to deal with his questions every damn day!” Her voice escaped her control as she stormed down the hall, leaving Lorenzo to trail behind her.

At the door to their suite she stopped, waiting for him to unlock it, but she kept her eyes fastened to the carpet as if to hide her fury from his view. Her shoulders heaved, her fingers were white where she gripped the CD in her hand, and her breaths came in heavy, increasingly unsteady drags. She seemed on the verge of imploding, and Lorenzo tried to modulate his own anger.

“Obviously this upsets you,” he observed, keeping one eye on her as he slid the key card through the lock. “Your mother is dead?”

“Brilliant deduction,” she muttered, pushing into the room ahead of him. She peeled off her coat as if it were strangling her and discarded it on the nearest chair, never letting go of the CD in her hand.

“When? What happened?” Lorenzo asked as gently as he could. But she ignored his questions and headed for the bathroom without a backward glance. “Alexis!” She still didn’t pause, and Lorenzo threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation lost on its target. “Why won’t you talk to me?” he yelled after her retreating form. “Why are you going to make me drag this out of you?”

She finally turned around at the entrance to the bathroom and leveled him with a withering gaze. “Because you’re not my friend.”

*****

The evening had gone smoothly until the final goodbyes. Dinner was a simple, warm, wine-kissed affair with Victor and his wife and one other couple at a small Italian restaurant tucked away on West 52nd. Victor was a gracious host and good company, yet another powerful man whose charm made a decent person want to forget his unsavory dealings. It took no effort at all for Alexis to appear to be engaged and enjoying herself, and even the performance of besotted newlywed came easily, welcomed as she felt by the group’s laughter and light-hearted discussion and rising anticipation of the performance ahead. As always she was well conscious of the eyes upon them and played up her role accordingly, but there was something else there as well this evening, something alive in every touch and smile passed between her and her fake husband, and when their eyes chanced to meet, a quiet connection in the din, it was with a certain uncharacteristic giddiness and a shared understanding of the path they were following tonight, even if they hadn’t quite committed to the destination.

When dinner ended and they tumbled out of the warm restaurant into the winter night, Alexis turned instinctively to Lorenzo, seeking refuge from the initial burst of cold air in his welcoming arms. She wore a copper silk satin gown beneath her cloak, long and elegant with a sweetheart neck and straps and criss-cross lacing across her lower back, all leaving an abundance of bare skin, but despite that and the height of her heels she declined the offer of a waiting limousine. The night air was invigorating, and along with the chill came some very pleasant warming opportunities. She folded herself in to Lorenzo’s embrace and pressed her lips to his neck, letting his body warm hers until her shivers subsided. Roleplay, reality? The line was hopelessly blurred. He really was warm, and his body really was inviting, and when she tipped her head up for a kiss, the brief soft heat of his lips against hers really did send tingles dancing down her spine. She let the feeling run through her, and then laughed it off lightly and pulled away, tugging at his coat lapel and urging him on in her eagerness to get to the show. Lorenzo offered his arm, and she leaned into him easily, for support and protection, on the brisk walk to the opera house several blocks away.

“You’ve done this many times,” Lorenzo observed. “Dinner, the opera, men in tuxes?” He shortened his stride, letting them fall behind the others.

Alexis reluctantly slowed her pace to match his. “I’ve done this many times,” she confirmed.

“When you lived in New York?”

“And when I didn’t.”

“With anyone in particular?”

Alexis smiled at his coy inquiry. “Sometimes with my brother, but otherwise no, no one in particular.”

“And tonight? How does it rate?”

She wanted to laugh at his line of questioning, but she attempted a look of serious consideration. “Too soon to say, I think.”

“But you’re enjoying yourself, so far?”

Alexis nodded. “I’m enjoying myself.”

Lorenzo fought back a satisfied smile. “All things considered, of course. I realize the company and the circumstances are far from ideal, but I hope my presence isn’t too much of a damper on an otherwise pleasant evening.”

Alexis lifted an amused eyebrow at his attempt at self-deprecation. “I’m enjoying myself, Lorenzo,” she repeated.

“Good,” Lorenzo nodded. “I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“That’s new.”

Lorenzo drew back slightly at the reminder of their truth, but her tone wasn’t harsh, simply factual, and her smile hadn’t faded. “Things change," he submitted.

“Yes, they do.” She acknowledged it in the same pleasant way she might have agreed that yes, indeed, the sun does come up every morning.

“It can be like this.”

She glanced at him curiously. “What can?”

“We can. Us. You can enjoy yourself with me, Alexis. I want you to recognize that.”

Alexis shrugged lightly. “Okay.”

“Do you admit it?” he pressed.

“I thought I already did.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly unsatisfied, but he let it go. “Dinner was excellent, I thought.”

“Mm-hmm."

“And I thought the restaurant was charming. Polished, but intimate. Warm.”

“Definitely warm,” she agreed. The thought of the literal warmth of the restaurant momentarily chilled her, alerting her otherwise distracted senses to the coolness of the air by contrast, and she nodded briskly, letting her muscles tense and release in a little shiver that was satisfying and fortifying at once.

Lorenzo saw the shiver and frowned. “Are you warm enough?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your cheeks are red.”

“That's probably the wine. The air feels nice.”

They paused at a street crossing, and Lorenzo released her arm long enough to remove his gloves and stuff them in his pocket. Then he took her hand in his and tugged at each finger of her left glove, carefully peeling away the leather. She wasn’t certain why she didn’t object, but there was something nice about letting him dominate. He covered her bare hand with his own, skin against skin, and they set off again.

"Tell me about Turandot," he commanded.

Alexis laughed inexplicably. “Definitely not warm.”

“Excuse me?”

“The ice that burns. Turandot.”

Lorenzo still gave her a questioning look.

“Turandot is a Chinese princess,” she explained, “the original ice queen. Beautiful, cold and cruel. It’s the law of the land that any royal prince who wishes to marry her has to answer three riddles; failing, he dies.”

“The decree of a Freudian father?” Lorenzo guessed.

“No, Turandot’s own decree, actually. It’s her homage to an ancestor raped and murdered by the Taters. Turandot will remain pure so that her ancestress’s purity will be reborn in her. ‘Pure as jade, cold as ice.’ But then an unknown man arrives in the city. Calaf, son of the deposed Tater king. He’s reunited with his father and his father’s loyal servant, Liu, at the same time as Turandot is disposing of her latest suitor and displaying his head on the city wall. Calaf witnesses all of it, yet he is beguiled by Turandot’s beauty, and despite his father, Liu and Turandot herself all trying to dissuade him, he insists on setting himself to the challenge of her riddles. Of course he succeeds where all others have failed, and by law he wins the hand of Turandot in marriage. And then the fun begins. Torture, suicide, wailing. All the good stuff.”

Lorenzo laughed. “I can see why it’s a favorite of yours.”

Alexis rolled her eyes as they came to a stop at another street crossing. “I never said it was a favorite.”

“But it is, isn’t it?”

“Well, not if you’re going to draw some conclusion from that.” Pretending to be annoyed, she drew away from him in a huff, but she didn’t try very hard to free her hand. He pulled her back to him, closer than before, slipping his hand around her waist, and they both smiled.

“Okay,” Lorenzo conceded. “No metaphor, no symbolism, no deep dark insight into the psyche of Alexis Davis. Just a story.”

“Just a story,” she agreed. “Funny enough, my evil stepmother always had a soft spot for Turandot. Helena wasn’t exactly a fan of opera – my father’s fondness made her seethe for various reasons – but that one she liked, even played. The cruel queen dispatching of all those handsome young suitors? Quite a turn on.”

“Pretty warped.”

“Mm-hmm. You don’t know the half of it.”

She slipped out from the intimate embrace and took a half step away, but offered him her hand again as they set off across the street. Lorenzo frowned at the separation.

“So, tell me what riddles have to be solved to break through the ice queen’s cold heart?”

Alexis threw him a sidelong glance, and caught his meaningful smirk. "I don't know."

"Come on. Puccini.”

“Okay. What is born each night and dies each dawn?” Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t answer. “Hope,” she supplied. “What flickers red and warm, yet is not fire? Blood. And finally, what is like ice but burns?”

“Turandot.”

“Yes. And Turandot is appalled that Calaf has succeeded. She begs her father not to give her to this stranger, but he insists. She tells Calaf: 'I will never be yours! It is not my will! Do you wish me in your arms by force, cold and unwilling?’ And he responds, ‘No, proud princess, I want your love to be ardent!’ And he gives her another chance: if she can discover his name by sunrise, he will die.”

“Very generous of him.”

“Yes. And Turandot threatens the people that no one will sleep until she knows this prince’s name. Calaf’s father and Liu are brought to her, and Liu declares herself the only one who knows the unknown prince’s name. Turandot orders her tortured.”

“Warming up nicely, isn’t she?”

“Liu holds up well, and Turandot asks her what her secret its. Liu answers, ‘My secret is love.’ But Liu is afraid that she might give up Calaf’s name and cost him his life, so she stabs herself, and his secret is safe.”

The crowd swelled around them as they waited to cross Broadway. Alexis waited until they were moving again to continue.

“The sun is about to rise, Calaf will soon win, and Turandot is beside herself. Calaf kisses her, forces it on her, and lo and behold she feels passion. She’s stunned and ashamed. He gives her yet another chance. He goes ahead and tells her his name, putting his life in her hands. The sun rises. She declares herself lost to him. The end.”

She grew quiet as they approached their destination, and Lorenzo smiled at the way her pace increased and her eyes brightened when they crossed the Lincoln Center plaza. She was glowing, vividly alive, utterly transformed from the hostile and condescending woman he had married. With her bare hand in his he could feel the way her blood raced, and when she threw him a playfully flirtatious sideways glance and tightened her bare fingers around his, it set a lit match to his veins. He pulled her to the side, leading her out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and around the concrete corner of the building. No one was watching; no one cared. Just a man and his wife, alone in a crowd.

He hesitated a moment and she looked at him quizzically, wondering why they weren’t moving. He pulled her closer, and his eyes fell to her lips, which parted slightly in realization, utterance abandoned. When she didn’t run away, he went ahead and kissed her, starting slow, building momentum. She didn’t escalate, but she didn’t push him away either, and there was something new there, an openness to the kiss and its effects. She let him kiss her, she let him dig his fingers deep in her hair and press her body up against the concrete wall, and when they separated and matched gazes she was breathing hard and unsettled. She looked undecided whether to slap him or kiss him again, but she did neither. Her spirits were too high to be thrown by his forwardness, and she flashed him a quick smile, her eyes still lit, as she slipped from his embrace without comment, gave his hand a tug and moved them toward the entrance again.

They found Victor and the others in the lobby and slowly made their way upstairs, and once everyone was settled into Victor’s box, chatting idly and anticipating the curtain’s rise, Lorenzo turned his attention back to his wife.

“Still enjoying yourself?”

Alexis nodded. “Mmm. Still enjoying myself.”

“Good. Warm enough?” He ran his fingers lightly down her bare arm, only partially covered by the silk throw draped over her shoulders.

She shivered in spite of herself. “Warm enough.”

The lights dimmed and Alexis turned her eyes to the stage, but as she settled in her seat she recrossed her legs and her dress fell open at the slit that ran high up the side, exposing her leg and claiming all of Lorenzo’s attention. He leaned in close, casually brushing her dress flat against her thigh, and whispered in her ear. “So how long is this thing going to take?”

She cast her eyes to him, a small smile curving her lips. “Oh, hours and hours,” she responded sweetly, and beneath the swelling music she heard Lorenzo’s groan.

She tried to turn her attention back to the stage, but his lips were at her ear again, warm and ticklish. "And then?" he pressed, his voice a guttural caress she could barely interpret.

She turned her head another inch and found herself pinned by his gaze, blue eyes steamy and hooded in the dim light. His lips were temptingly close, so close she could feel his breath warm her face, and she couldn’t help but brush them with hers. It was less a kiss than a touch, the closing of a connection that allowed electricity to flow, surprising her with a tangy and intoxicating warmth. She lingered longer than she meant to, drinking it in, letting it saturate her, and when she pulled back it was like unhooking herself from an IV drip of phenylethylamine.

“We’ll see,” she exhaled slowly.

The curtain rose to a city square in Peking, and the music and words and costumes filled the theater, claiming the bulk of Alexis's attention and something less of Lorenzo's. He attended primarily to her as the action proceeded on stage, taking advantage of her fractured attention to press his case. She said nothing about the occasional incursions of his hands into territory not generally open to fake husbands, and she made no move to dissuade him. She allowed him his subtle seduction, and she made no pretense of being unaffected, but mostly she watched him thoughtfully, as if every nerve was alive to his touch and she was paying very careful attention to her own reactions to him. There was a decision to be made, and he did his best to present a compelling argument. Finally she leaned over and murmured in his ear. “You should pay more attention to the performance.” Feeling reprimanded, Lorenzo drew back, but Alexis gave him a small smile and offered her hand before returning her attention to the stage.

As the curtain fell for the last time and applause gradually gave way to milling about and gathering of belongings, Lorenzo slipped his arm around her waist from behind and pressed a light kiss to the curve of her neck. She leaned back into him and tilted her head to the side just a bit, her eyes closing as he kissed her again and then murmured in her ear. "And they lived happily ever after."

She lifted her head at his words and turned to face him. "You think it's a happy ending?" she asked.

Lorenzo shrugged. "All things considered. They’re in love, they’ll be married. It’ll probably end in a few years with broken vases and fighting over who gets the imperial chariot, but for now they’re happy.”

“I think it’s sad.”

“Because of the slave girl?”

“In part. Liu is dead. She loved Calaf, too, and died to protect him. She was loyal, all because he smiled on her once.”

“And her fate is sad. But she’s incidental. The story’s about Turandot.”

Alexis frowned but didn’t respond, and she turned her attention to Victor, who stood ready to usher them from the box. “Victor, thank you for a wonderful evening. That was truly special.”

Victor’s eyes crinkled in appreciation. “It was a treat for me to share it with you, my dear. Shall we prolong the evening a little longer? Some coffee, dessert perhaps? A little post-opera deconstruction?”

Alexis felt Lorenzo’s faint recoil behind her at the unexpected offer and the prospect of further delay. “That would be lovely,” she smiled, squeezing Lorenzo’s hand, her taunting undertone audible only to him.

“—if it weren’t so late,” Lorenzo interrupted boldly. “We appreciate the invitation, Victor, but it’s been a long day. My wife won’t say it, but I know she can’t wait to fall into bed.” He wore a sly grin, not the least affected by the sharp elbow jabbing him in the ribs, and Victor nodded genially.

“Understood,” he smiled. “Then we’ll see you to your hotel at once.”

On the way out of the theater, Alexis and Lorenzo again fell behind the others, letting the exiting crowd pour ahead of them.

“Puccini died before he finished Turandot,” Alexis pointed out, continuing their earlier conversation. “For him, it ended with Liu’s death.”

“Purely an accident. It was finished just as he intended, with Turandot. The prince proves himself a worthy suitor and breaks through to the ice queen’s cold, cold heart.”

“He forces himself on her.”

“He kisses her and awakens her passion, Alexis.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

Lorenzo gave her a crooked grin. “Have you ever had really great sex?”

Alexis blushed slightly, annoyingly. “Yes, I have, thank you.”

“Yes, it’s a good thing. Turandot learns to love like the rest of us and stops beheading every man who wants to take her to bed.” Lorenzo smiled ruefully. “I rather envy Calaf.”

“She breaks her promise. She’d sworn never to marry.”

“She’d sworn never to be possessed by a man. All out of revenge for some ancestor raped and murdered how long ago?”

“However ridiculous, it’s her promise, and she’s forced to break it, just because he’s clever and her father likes him and he can kiss. The moon goddess defeated by the sun god yet again, defeated by her passion.”

They reached Victor’s waiting limousine, but Lorenzo held Alexis back from getting in just yet. “Passion is good,” he asserted.

Alexis shrugged. “It can be.”

“She’s not forced to do anything in the end. Calaf gives her a choice. He doesn’t have to, but he does. Twice. He tells her his name. She chooses to marry him freely."

"And that's what makes it a happy ending?"

Lorenzo nodded. "Reasonably happy, yes."

The light of victory flashed in Alexis’s eyes, though she tried to quell it, and she smiled in satisfaction as she slid into the limousine. “You were paying attention.”

*****

The sound of the bathroom door slamming shut reverberated through the hotel suite, rattling the glass bottles in the living room mini-bar and releasing Lorenzo’s tenuous rein on his anger. He threw off his coat and stalked into the bedroom and the entrance to Alexis’s chosen retreat. The water was running in the bathroom and he didn’t know if she could hear him, but he vented at the closed door anyway.

“Okay, I get it now, Alexis,” he spat out bitterly. “I get that you hate me. I get that this is all a painful performance for you. Every touch, every kiss. I get that you’re looking for any chance you can find to stick it to me. Fine. Congratulations. A point for you tonight. Ten points for you. You nailed me good.”

“Good!” came a muffled shout.

He banged his forehead lightly against the door. “I can’t even blame you. It’s a shitty thing I did to you. I thought we could get past that. I was an idiot. I was an idiot to think there was something else going on here. Of course you can’t wait to be free of me. It’s not going to happen though. You’re my wife, and I am never letting you go. I’ll see you miserable to the grave.”

“Go away!”

Inside the bathroom, shaking in her elegant dress and expensive shoes, Alexis stood bent over the sink, letting the cold water run through her fingers and over the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrists. She felt out of breath, even though she wasn’t breathing hard at all. She felt like she was sobbing, but her face was dry. She had fought her emotions the whole way up to the room, but they had overwhelmed her when he just kept pushing, and she had barely made it inside the bathroom before they tumbled over. Now she was drowning in them. Where was her control? Outside the door, somewhere in the hotel suite, Lorenzo was making angry noises of his own, slamming doors and throwing shoes, and his emotions fed her own.

Alexis pulled a thick white cotton washcloth from a shelf and wet it under the running water. She unfolded the cloth and pressed her face into the cold, wet embrace. Where were these feelings coming from? It must have been some chemical in her blood, maybe adrenaline, that made her feel this way, that made her want to run away. Run away or fight. She wanted to be alone, she desperately wanted some space, so she could catch her breath, think, feel, so she could sit down in peace and listen to her mother sing, absorb the voice, feel her presence and absence, sink into the pain that was always there, pulling her under. But he wouldn’t leave her alone. He was always there, in her bed, across the table, in her dreams. She wanted to tear into him, lash out, hurt him, scream, hit him. Maybe then he would leave her alone and she could have some space. Maybe then she could breathe. She’d been holding it in so long. Not fleeing, not fighting. She was suffocating. Drowning. She needed air, not water.

*****

Lorenzo paced back and forth, up and down, across the room and around it. He’d already thrown what there was to throw, slammed what there was to slam. There wasn’t anything left to do until she came out for the next round. He'd taken off his jacket and tie, unbuttoned his shirt, but he couldn’t very well get undressed. It would put him at a disadvantage for round two. He considered leaving the room, going for a walk, putting some space between them until they both cooled down, but he still had anger to burn. And he didn’t want to let her out of the ring. He wanted round two.

In months of sparring with his reluctant wife, Lorenzo had developed an appreciation for the occasional curveball she threw him and the thrill of being forced to think fast on his feet to maintain the central illusion of their marriage, but what had happened tonight went beyond her usual nasty play. It wasn’t just that she’d set him up to expose his ignorance of her family, but the timing. He thought they were past the antagonistic games; he thought they were enjoying a pleasant evening as husband and wife, an evening with all manner of promise, and his guard was down. Yet all the while she was taking dead aim. He felt sucker punched, and bitterly embarrassed by her cold skill in setting him up.

And it was dangerous. That’s what made him angriest. Few things raised his ire like being caught off guard, and to be caught off guard in front of a man like Victor Garrido, whether over matters personal or professional, was more than just embarrassing and annoying. It was a sign of weakness, a failure, undermining the man’s confidence in Lorenzo’s powers of control, the tight focus on management and preparation that was essential not only to maintaining a reputation for efficiency and minimal collateral damage but also to creating an aura of untouchability about himself and his family that dissuaded interference. It was bad business, and in front of a lesser ally than Garrido the consequences could have been deadly. She claimed safety was her top concern, she insisted on scrutinizing every last detail of his security arrangements, she’d rewritten half of his procedures, and then she went out of her way to undercut him. And why? Childish petulance? It wasn’t like her; she was usually more clear-headed than that. He’d admired that about her from the beginning.

Shaking his head, Lorenzo walked over to the desk in the living room, picked up the phone and made a call. “Antonio. I need to know everything there is to know about an opera singer named Kristin Bergman. As soon as you can.”

He didn’t hear Alexis come out of the bathroom. He didn’t realize she was there until he hung up the phone and turned around to find her staring daggers at him.

“Leave it alone," she demanded coldly. He’d never seen her eyes so dark, almost dead, or so murderous. He’d never seen her so close to the edge.

“Why?” he challenged, his voice gentler.

“Because it’s none of your goddamn business!”

He stood there watching her as she stormed across the room, dragging the down comforter from the bed, and headed out to the balcony. She slammed the sliding door closed, but after a moment’s hesitation he followed her outside. She was standing at the railing with the white comforter wrapped around her from neck to knee. The night was crisp and clear, and from thirty-eight stories up the view to the south was spectacular, from the neon haze of Times Square and the Christmas lights adorning the Empire State Building to the ethereal glow of the city's bridges arching over dark waters in the distance. But it was cold, twenty degrees and dropping, and she belonged inside.

"You're going to freeze out here, Alexis."

She turned around to find him standing in the doorway, and she heaved angrily, her steaming fury at his intrusion animated by the vapor of her breath. The comforter slipped to the bend of her elbows, baring her shoulders, but she ignored it defiantly.

"If I do it will be my choice. My choice!"

“You’re being ridiculous,” he chastised. “Yet again.” He stepped toward her with some arrogant notion of forcing her inside, but she drew back protectively.

"I'd advise you to stay the hell away from me,” she snarled, lashing at him with the resentful ferocity of a cornered cat. “Balconies and Alcazars don’t mix." The unexpectedly vicious strike sliced through his gut, stopping Lorenzo mid-step, and Alexis’s eyes flickered as if she’d realized through her fury what she’d said. She hiccupped slightly. “Sorry.”

But Lorenzo just shook his head, stunned by the easy flare of mortal hatred between them. Retreating blindly, he withdrew back inside the room, closing the sliding door behind him carefully and definitively as if sealing himself in a cage. He didn’t trust himself to be out there with her when her anger was so high and his own emotions were raging. It was a wiser choice than the one his brother had made with this woman on another balcony in another town. Maybe a walk around the hotel would be nice after all.

*****

Outside, Alexis collapsed onto the balcony floor, her chest heaving, her freeflowing grief and anger too overwhelming to leave room for remorse. She was relieved Lorenzo left. She didn’t trust herself not to provoke him further, to sink her knife in again. She’d enjoyed it too much, that wounded look in his eyes; his blood tasted warm and sweet and metallic in her mouth. She could develop a taste for it so easily.

She didn’t really want him dead. But she wanted to kill him. She was furious with him, unexpectedly furious, and it frightened her. Somehow unleashed by the confluence of Puccini’s opera and Victor’s gift and Lorenzo’s upset, all her well-earned anger was surging inside her, overwhelming the jetties she’d constructed in her head. The jetties were well-made, woman-made, and had held out the raging waters for a respectable length of time, but they were no match for the natural forces that assaulted them now. It was a highly imperfect storm. All her months of anger at Lorenzo – for locking her into this marriage, controlling her every move, and then daring to be annoyed with her for not sharing her soul with him – were feeding off a lifetime of anger at Helena – a child’s hot teary fury for denying her a mother, a childhood, love. She was angry at herself, too, for sabotaging the evening, for attempting romance, thinking she could pull it off, and then being paralyzed by her anger so that she set him up, however passively. And then she was angry with him all over again because the evening was a mirage, the idea of romance ludicrous, the whole impossible predicament his fault, and he’d been such an unbelievable jerk that he’d made it impossible for her to have sex tonight and keep her self-respect.

Her anger warmed her and she didn’t feel the cold, but when Lorenzo eased himself back out on the balcony later, after his anger had been overtaken by concern, he found her huddled on the ground, knees clenched to her chest like a child, shaking. Violent shivers racked her body, shivers she couldn’t feel through the hot tears that seared her skin, and Lorenzo’s stomach clenched with guilt. If he knew her better – if he knew that she burrowed in her sorrow and iced her wounds, if he knew she withdrew so deeply into her pain that she’d let herself freeze – he wouldn’t have left her alone so long. He had gone for a walk to cool down, assuming she would come in on her own, but he didn’t know his wife very well at all.

He moved up behind her, as quietly as he could, trying hard not to disturb the gravel that covered the floor of the balcony. He knew there was little chance she’d respond to a suggestion or order from him, but he was getting her inside now. She was crazy and stubborn and deserved to freeze, but he’d have a hell of a time explaining a frozen wife.

He crouched and quickly wrapped his arms around her all at once, securing her comforter and all. She yelped in surprise and pulled away instinctively, struggling against his hold, but he had her firmly around the waist and she was weak with cold and exhaustion.

"Shhh," he urged, refusing to loosen his arms.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, shocked by the helpless position she suddenly found herself in.

"What you won't do yourself," he muttered as he dragged her to her feet.

"Let me go!"

She twisted violently in his arms, making him lurch toward the railing, and he saw the terror in her eyes at his inadvertent step. For an instant he felt satisfied and powerful, even vengeful, and he had the cruel urge to drag her to the edge. All his months of torment and she'd been almost untouchable, but now she was shaking in his arms, at his mercy, faced with the debt she had incurred and never paid. But her hair smelled like lavender and honey, just like his bathroom.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Alexis,” he said firmly, but he didn’t let her go. “I swear to you, I’m not going to hurt you.” There was something distant about her distress, and he sensed she was trapped in the past, not just afraid of him but reliving that night with Luis. He poured all the sincerity he could muster into his voice, and he was relieved when her terror seemed to abate and she rejoined him in the present, but she still fought against his hold.

“Then let me go,” she begged.

“I can’t do that. I've got to get you inside before you freeze.”

“Please, Lorenzo.” She looked up over her shoulder at him, engaging his gaze, and her voice was suddenly lower and softer, quietly pleading, giving the illusion of calm. “Let me go. Give me a choice. I know you don’t have to. Do it anyway.”

He swallowed hard. “Not yet.”

Her false calm shattered at his refusal and she fought him again. He dragged her inside and deposited her on the bed, but as soon as he released her she kicked off her cocoon and came after him, fists flailing, pounding his chest, his face, whatever she could find. He tried to deflect the attack, but it was more than display; she was serious about hurting him, using her whole body, knees and elbows, too, in her desperate struggle, grunting in satisfaction when she landed a blow. Finally he caught her fists, but not before the diamond on her hand tore across his cheek, drawing blood. Swearing loudly, he wrestled her onto her back, and she cried as his strength and position won out.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

He pinned her hands above her head and lay on top of her none too gently, using his weight to calm her thrashing. “I know,” he muttered. His cheek pressed against hers, keeping her head still, and the perfume that she dabbed behind her ear much earlier, when the night still held promise, made him a little dizzy. It was all a tease.

After a final burst of sobbing struggle, she gave up fighting him. Her body went limp beneath him, surrendering utterly to his greater strength, and Lorenzo felt a grim satisfaction, a little thrill of conquest. The gash in his cheek was like fire, and his thigh ached where she’d caught him with her knee, but victory was his.

chapter 9