It was going to be one of those nights where she could get carried away by the music. Some nights were like that - none of the conversation or rustling or clinking of bottles and glasses ever reached her; totally captured by the piano she could float.
From where he sat in the half-lit embrace of his table, he watched her play, a small smile curving his mouth. It was the last night she would play here, and he'd sat at this same table the three preceding evenings, watching, waiting, pondering. The large-bellied snifter in front him held only a shallow flicker of cognac, a cigarette smoked forgotten in the ashtray next to his right hand. His other hand smoothed over his suit jacket.
He was irresistibly charmed by the idea that she was unknowing. Through narrowed eyes he gazed at the light over her head, images of possible futures running through his swiftly leaping mind. He imagined the curve of her arms stretched over her head, the sweet arch of her slender body, he anticipated the fearful questioning that would light her eyes.
Entranced by her own weaving, she played longer than she had at any other show, moving eagerly from lilt to lament to boisterous exclamations. When she rose from the bench finally, her slim legs were shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction. Beneath the benison of the final applause, her face warmed and opened with shy appreciation; a flush of pleasure mantled her cheeks, she dimpled.
He knew her routine; he'd been studying her for weeks. She went to the bar and got from the smiling bartender a small snifter of liqueur and a steaming cup of black coffee. Her fingers flickered through her small clutch purse and withdrew the gold case that held her slender cigarettes. He was at her side with his lighter before she could worry her own out of the small bag.
"Permit me," was all he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder and cupping the flame between his fingers.
She looked up at him and smiled, her blue eyes still a little dazed and filled with music.
"Thank you," she responded, tilting her coppery head down and drawing the flame close to the tip. Sitting back, she took a long draw from the cigarette, her eyes closed as she stretched slightly and exhaled slowly, head tilted back on her long neck so that the smoke spilled upwards towards the ceiling.
When she looked back at him a moment later, he was smiling at her. "I've enjoyed your shows," he offered, tucking the lighter into his pocket again.
"Thank you," she said with pleasure. "This has been a wonderful place to play . . . such a marvelous piano." Her eyes wandered dreamily over his shoulder, back to the dim black gleam of the Steinway.
He made small talk with her for a few moments then excused himself. He was eager to be prepared. He had been half-afraid that she would sense something, but she was deliciously unaware. He felt as light and deadly and inexorable as steel.
He waited for her in his car, watching through the rearview mirror until she emerged from the club. A thin black coat over her black velvet dress, a creamy scarf drifting over the glinting ripples of her long-spun hair.
As he followed her from the parking lot onto the dark street that led to her hotel, he found himself counting the minutes and the seconds. Everything depended on the car stalling within five miles.
He had no need to worry; only a mile down the dark, late road, he saw her car slowly move to the grassy verge and stop. He drove past, saw her through the window trying to re-start the car, turned his own around and circled back.
"Car trouble?" he said to her through his open window. She unrolled her own and smiled back at him.
"Hello again," she said. "Yes, I can't get it to start."
"Get in and I'll drive you back over to the club," he offered, reaching over to unlock the passenger side door. She looked undecided at the dashboard of her car, then pulled the keys from the ignition and tucked them into her purse before getting out. She opened the door and sat down gratefully on the warm leather seat, pulling the seat belt across her lap and locking it.
"Thank you," she said, settling back and looking over at him. "I'd've hated to walk back."
He put the car in gear and pulled away, smiling slightly and reaching a hand into his breast pocket, where he tapped the contents lightly with a forefinger. He drove on down the road, turning as if to return to the club.
When he drove past the turn, she reacted with surprise. When he pulled into an empty parking lot across the street and stopped, she tried to get out of her seatbelt and out of the car. The seatbelt wouldn't open, nor the door. She turned to look at him with a horrified dawning of suspicion in her eyes, and her glance lighted on the liquid-soaked pad that he was bringing up to her face.
Pinned by the seatbelt and nowhere as near as strong as he, it took only a moment to subdue her. Her breathing lapsed into the slow waves of unconsciousness, her body loosened and tumbled back against the seat. He lowered the windows and drove, breathing slowly until the fresh air replaced the thick fumes and he was alert again. He took a plastic bag and put the pad of soaking cloth into it, along with the empty vial. Before he drove out of the parking lot, the bag was thrown over the side of a dumpster, lost.
Driving, his mind danced from thought to thought. When he was safely onto the Interstate, he relaxed slightly and let his right hand reach over to stroke the glowing hair away from her face. Her skin was soft and warm, slack with sleep, defenseless.
There was a surge of triumphant tenderness through him and he brushed a wayward tendril back from her cheek before turning his attention again to the road. He didn't have much time.
She was still unconscious when he arrived; he heard the garage door slide shut behind him and sighed with relief.
She was tall, but so slim that she felt like nothing in his arms. He carried her carefully into the house, into the room he'd readied for her. He lay her down on the bed and carefully pulled coat and scarf from her, then her shoes, leaving her asleep on top of the covers. Then he pulled her wrists together, cuffed and then chained them to the top of the bed. He stepped back from her and looked, slowly roaming her body with his eyes, wanting that moment when her eyes opened at last. He checked his watch and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him, turning off the lights.
He removed his clothes and put them away on their hangers, sliding his shoes into their appointed places on the closet floor, underclothes neatly tucked into the hamper. From the back of his closet he pulled a long robe, thickly warm and deeply crimson. He slid it on over his naked body, belting it around his waist. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror, savoring the thought of her blinking up at him from the bed.
He poured a few fingers of cognac into a snifter on his way back to her room; lit a cigarette as he moved smoothly down the hallway and put his hand to the doorknob. As he opened the door, he caught the slight sound of a breathless whimper and knew she was awake.
Dazed, confused and stiffly aching from the pull on her shoulders, her body twisted on the bed. She was trying to push herself upright, but her hands were chained down too low; with a half-sob she rolled onto her side and blinked at the light pouring through the doorway.
He watched her, walking slowly into the room, letting her dazzled eyes recover so that she could watch him approach, bring him into focus. He saw her eyes move over him, see the snifter in his hand and the cigarette in the other. He sipped at the cognac and smoked, watching her face blur with fear and anticipation.
She did not speak, but bit back a moan of pain from her arms and stared up at him, blue eyes wide and unblinking.
He set down the drink and reached out to run a proprietary hand over her body, cupping her shoulders before moving to stroke her breasts through the tight velvet of her bodice. Then his fingers glided further, caressing her flanks and the smooth curve of her thighs. She shivered under his fingers, the blue eyes closed tightly and she made a soft sound of protest and tried to pull away.
He stepped back and put the cigarette out. From the pocket of his robe he drew out a slender piece of steel and pressed a button. The silvery blade of the knife erupted into the room, and her eyes sprang open at the sound.
Fixed unwaveringly on it, she watched as he drew closer and closer; saw the hand holding it approach her neck. The tip skittered teasingly over the tight skin, over the pounding throb of her pulse, and across to where a thin strap of velvet caught her dress about her left shoulder. She whimpered as the blade slid under it and sliced. Then the knife danced across her collarbone, teasing slowly over skin pale and quivering. Then the other strap, falling back over another white shoulder.
She lay under his hand, immobile and slack with fear. The knife whispered down the front of her dress, sliding through the thin fabric that fell aside like the peel of ripe fruit, uncurling slowly to reveal her. He drew a deep breath when her full breasts lay free and naked under his fingers, he paused for a moment to fondle them, savoring the warm curve and delicate nipples against his hands. Her body arched in protest and his fingers tightened and twisted slightly. He watched her writhe and heard the gasp that escaped her. Slowly she stilled herself again to him, inexorably he returned to paring away her outer skin.
Over the small swell of belly and down to the valley between her thighs, showing thin and tender white cotton over tight red curls. Slicing away the skirt from her legs, slender in black stockings that ended in lace before a few creamy inches of skin. Open before him, she lay quiescent on the bed, her hair spilling away from her face, her chest moving swiftly. Her teeth bit down at her lower lip, thin streams of silver tracked down from her eyes and soaked into the coverlet. He turned and set the knife down on a far table, retracting the blade with a snick. Her breath was ragged, her feet slid helplessly against the bed.
