Love's Golden Spell. William Maltese

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СКАЧАТЬ bridge. Christopher had probably not forgotten or forgiven the daughter of a man his father hired, used, and fired. And that was her fault. She had left him, had refused to answer his letters, not vice versa.

      She had been only thirteen, after all, and needed desperately to blame someone. She had blamed him—herself, too. She and Christopher had chalked up too much happiness, and her father was the forfeit. Years later, of course, she realized the extent to which big business and politics were linked—business and politics concerning gold and Vincent Van Hoon’s desire to control it—neither of which had anything to do with two adolescents enjoying each other’s company. By then, though, it was too late to go back. It was too late to go back now.

      “Koeksisters,” Christopher said, startling her out of her reverie. Most of the dishes were cleared. She looked at him, embarrassed and confused.

      “Are you all right?” he asked, sounding and looking genuinely concerned. Perhaps he was afraid she was suffering a delayed reaction from heatstroke.

      “I’m fine,” she said. It was a lie. She wasn’t fine. She was hoarding memories as if they were priceless treasures. But revealing them to Christopher risked exposing them as nothing more than cheap imitations. “You were saying something about your sisters.” He didn’t have sisters. She knew that. She knew all about him. He neither knew nor cared about her.

      “Koeksisters,” he repeated, watching her more closely. “It translates ‘cake sisters,’” he said, no doubt encouraged by the focusing of her eyes. “Braided dough, deep fried, and then chilled in syrup of water, sugar, cream of tartar, ginger, cinnamon and glycerine.”

      “Oh?” She laughed, picking up her fork and stabbing the pastry with apparent relish. “Delicious!”

      They were served a chilled South African Riesling from a vineyard outside of Stellenbosch.

      “South African wines were at their best in the nineteenth century,” Christopher said. “They enjoyed a vogue in England and France that no other non-European wines have matched, not even your superb American vintages. However, something happened to that quality that has wine experts guessing—rather like Falernian, the most celebrated of ancient Roman wines. Praised by Pliny and Horace as being ‘immortal,’ Falernian was uncorked to rave reviews for centuries. Today, those same hillsides are yielding wine that, while good, is by no means extraordinary and definitely not immortal.” He pushed back his chair, and Ashanti appeared to assist Janet with hers. “But I promised you more than supper and wine trivia didn’t I?” Christopher said. He started to take her arm, disappointing her, perversely, when he didn’t follow through.

      They walked through several rooms, each emphasizing the house’s largeness. The Van Hoons had come a long way since Petre Van Hoon arrived from the Netherlands with his few personal possessions. The founder of the Van Hoon dynasty had lived in a mud shelter like the local natives. This house, with its silk-covered walls, gilded cornices, antique furniture and crystal chandeliers completely overshadowed those humbler beginnings, the opulence further widening the gap between Janet and Christopher. These Chinese porcelains, Japanese bronzes, Persian rugs, and Louis Quinze pieces could attract the wealthiest and most beautiful of women.

      The Ivory Room was in the basement, reached by a curving flight of stairs behind a Gobelin tapestry. The narrowness of the stairs brought Janet and Christopher into constant contact, but neither made the move to descend single file. Janet reached the bottom feeling breathless, and not just because of the exercise.

      “It’s only a bit farther,” he said. His smile flashed white in the dim lighting. It was a perfect spot for him to take advantage, but he didn’t. Janet was disappointed, since she had decided how to handle it: not with fighting but with a bored acceptance—up to a point.

      They stopped in front of a massive door that was too large to open into the narrow corridor. Christopher unlocked it and put his shoulder to it. It moved sideways, showing blackness in the space beyond.

      “Here, give me your hand,” he instructed.

      She hesitated, embarrassed for doing so. If he were going to attempt something, he wouldn’t ask for her hand. He’d take it. “It’s dark in there,” she said, stating the obvious.

      “Which should make you feel particularly safe,” he said. She didn’t see how. He laughed. “I prefer my lovemaking with the lights on. I don’t know about you, but I like to see what’s going on.” He reached for her hand. She didn’t give it to him, but she didn’t resist, either. There was a comforting familiarity to his fingers closing around hers. She trusted her intuition and followed him through the opening.

      Déjà vu: the caves of the Molapong Valley where she, with far less hesitation, had entrusted herself to the safekeeping of a younger Christopher Van Hoon.

      He slid the door closed behind them, excluding all light. Being so close to him made her heart flutter. She gasped when his supportive fingers slipped free, leaving her helplessly adrift. “Christopher?” she asked the darkness.

      The lights came on. He was amusing himself at her expense. He could have reached the switch from the outside. At Molapong, he had worn the same expression after telling her they were lost and then, magically, leading her to safety.

      “Are you having fun?” she asked sarcastically. Her question was superfluous. Of course he was having fun! They were in an empty room with cement ceiling, walls and floors. This was a joke!

      “Now don’t get your tail in a knot,” he said, mirth bubbling over with each word. “Everything in this world has its price. My amusement is certainly cheap enough for what you’re getting out of the bargain.

      “Yes, I suppose so,” Janet said, an expansive wave of her arm encompassing the room. “I certainly don’t get to see the likes of this every day, do I?”

      “Ye of so little faith!” he condemned, and laughed as he had laughed at Molapong. The strain in his face dissolved, unmasking a Christopher years younger. His eyes twinkled. His dimples sank deeper as his smile widened. She wanted to touch his cheeks with her fingertips and explore those indentations.

      She was distracted by the grating of metal against metal. One whole wall was moving. Janet watched, fascinated. She had been on the verge of saying something stupid. Had he waited one minute longer before pressing the button, he would have heard her confessing everything.

      She was walking a fine line: on one side her loyalty to her dead father and to her dead husband; on the other her desire to salvage something for herself before it became too late. The thing she kept forgetting was that Christopher didn’t offer salvation. He hadn’t understood the girl turning away from him. He wouldn’t understand the woman coming back.

      She focused on the macabre reality of the room beyond the wall. On all sides, stacked in niches and on special supports designed to store them, one on top of the other, were thousands of elephant tusks. She was staggered by the sheer number. She had no idea what the collection was worth. Never in her wildest imagination had she thought to see this much ivory in one place.

      She turned accusingly on Christopher, aware deep down that the tragedy behind this grisly collection was only one of her excuses for coming to Africa.

      “How many elephants did you kill to give the Van Hoon empire this?” she asked, her voice trembling. He had hunted with Vincent before he met her. He had proudly shown her a gazelle killed on an afternoon hunt with his father. She had taken one look at the lifeless delicate animal, and been sick to her stomach. He’d promised he wouldn’t kill another. His father, furious at such СКАЧАТЬ