Camino del Monte Sol Ch. 7 (with OBTS) -- PG-13

[librarian_7]

Author’s Note: This story is a collaboration between OnceBitTwiceShy and myself for Champagne Challenge #128: Reader/Writer II. OBTS provided the idea of Josef visiting Santa Fe in the 1920’s, and running into…well, you’ll have to read the story. The settings are as accurate as I can make them, having been in Santa Fe myself many times, and also using various resources on the City Different, as they call it, and its inhabitants back in the ‘20s. While I could find no record of a hotel located in Sena Plaza, such a place does exist, and who knows? It could have housed a small hotel at one time. The artists’ colony, and their compound on Camino del Monte Sol, are documented. There will be a thread with a set of pictures and links to places, costumes, cars, posted after most chapters. My thanks to OBTS, not only for the idea, but for her encouragement and input as the story progressed. I don’t own Josef, or any of the historical locations and personages mentioned in the story. Any errors or misrepresentations of fact are mine.


Camino del Monte Sol



VII. El Gato Negro

Stephen sat up slowly and reached for the chain to pull the plug on the tub, letting the melt water from the ice that had formed his bed for the day drain. After stepping out and toweling off, he thought over his options for the evening. In the several nights since the gallery opening, he’d alternated between spending time with the artists’ group and with his freshies. Interestingly enough, but he hadn’t seen or heard anything of Reza since her father had hauled her away.

He’d gone so far as to comment on it to Nash, the night before, but the artist was consumed with discovering the best composition for his new work, and merely dismissed her absence with a rather cavalier “She’ll be back when she can.”

Stephen pondered that a little as he dressed, choosing a light blue shirt with starched white collar and cuffs, pairing it with a dark chalk-striped suit. He thought he might stroll the plaza a bit before dropping in to see the girls. He was just giving his tie a last twitch when the phone rang, and the desk clerk informed him that a message had arrived.

The folded piece of paper he was handed left him wondering. The message itself was clear enough; just a few short lines of invitation. “Do you tango? Meet me at El Gato Negro at 9:30. Reza.”

Properly tipped, the desk clerk gave him detailed directions, and a caution that the neighborhood was not a good one. Stephen shrugged that off, and waited impatiently for the Mercedes to appear from the garage. He frowned up at the sky. There were clouds rising in the west, and a distant promise of rain riding the air, too far away and faint for human senses to feel, but nevertheless, present.

The building housing El Gato Negro was undistinguished, save for the noise and music issuing from within, overcoming the noise of a windy night. Stephen sighed, anticipating an assault on several of his senses. He was not mistaken. The loud music vibrated painfully on sensitive eardrums, and it seemed that everyone not actively dancing was smoking. He could almost feel the harsh rasp of tobacco on his delicate sinuses. Even keeping his breathing shallow enough to provide only the basic illusion of life was almost painful. He knew he’d adjust, shortly. He always did. But it was a deliberate blunting of his senses, what he thought of as his most powerful weapons, and he disliked it.

Then he saw Therésa, and his petty irritation melted away. The last time he’d seen her, he’d thought her resplendent. Tonight, she looked regal. She was sitting alone at a small table, her scarlet lips pursed around her long cigarette holder. Her hair was pulled back into a severe chignon, and over her black on black beaded dress, she’d draped a flaming red Spanish shawl embroidered with an extravagant white and gold geometric design. Reza gave every appearance of detached nonchalance, but as Stephen moved forward through the crowd toward her table, taking off his black fedora, her eyes lit in welcome.

Well, if she’d wanted dramatic, so be it. He tossed his hat negligently onto her table and extended one hand.

“Dance with me,” he said, and it was a command, not a request. He’d timed it right; the musicians were just beginning a new tune. Reza knocked the ash from her cigarette very deliberately, propped the holder against the ash tray and laid her hand in his. He could feel the finest tremble as she rose to glide onto the dance floor with him.

“Now, relax and follow my lead,” he growled into her ear as they went into the close embrace of the Argentine tango, bodies molding together from shoulder to knee. “You like a strong lead, don’t you, Reza?”

She only nodded in reply as she leaned her head against his shoulder, letting his hands cue her movements. Stephen had been in Buenos Aires when the tango was first making its mark, and he’d learned the steps, the controlled movements that could speak so eloquently of passion enchained. He’d been glad to see the resurgance of the dance’s popularity, the last year or so.

He played his part to the hilt, twining his steps with hers in the walk, the sudden reverses and dips that left her gasping and struggling to keep up. He was ice and she was fire, the Spanish shawl becoming a living flame around them.

When the tango ended, they were in embrace, eyes locked together Reza was panting, her lower lip pouted forward, her cheeks rosy with exertion. Stephen held them in pose, even as the other couples on the floor broke into applause for the orchestra. Then he straightened without a word, put his hand at the small of her back, resting easily in that most delicious curve, and guided her to the table.

Reza affixed a fresh cigarette in her holder and allowed him to light it for her, a gold lighter with ornate engraving appearing in his hand. “That was…astonishing,” she said.

He shook his head, with a lopsided smile. “The first time only sets the tone. When we know each other better—when we’ve danced many times, then we can light up the night.”

“And are we destined to dance many times, Stephen?” Reza fluttered her dark lashes at him. “I feel as though I’ve known you for centuries.”

“Trust me, it hasn’t been that long.” He reached out to touch a curl of black hair beside her face. “Destined?” he replied, “Who can say?”

She blew a lazy stream of blue smoke into the atmosphere, to meld with all the rest. “I think you are very much the master of your own destiny, Stephen.”

“And yet, I came here at your summons.”

“You could have chosen not to. You could have stayed away.”

“Could I, princess? I wonder.”

Reza laughed, managing to convey a world of unhappiness in the sound. She put her hand out to cover his fingers lightly, caressing the back of his hand. He found it wildly erotic. “Custom dictates,” she said, “that I say something now about how I’m just a shy, inexperienced, small-town girl, and I have no idea about half the things you say.”

“That would be a lie, now, wouldn’t it, princess.” Again, it was not a question. He paused, but she made no answer, besides a delicate flush staining her cheek. He continued. “I never expected to find you alone here tonight.”

“I try not to do the expected. It’s so—mundane.”

“I can certainly appreciate that.” Another song was ending, the couples on the dance floor drifting in the interval, waiting for the music to begin again. Stephen stood. “Another dance,” he said.

Reza took a deep breath, and flowed up from her seat straight into his arms.

This time, the tempo was a little faster, the steps a little tighter, a little more intricate. They’d found each other’s measure and Reza was confident enough to improvise, dueling him a little for mastery of the floor. He laughed at her, and kept in perfect pace, driving her to more effort. At the end, this time, she found herself all but lying in his arms, staring up into his face, amazed at the sheer strength that held her rock steady, hovering over the floor.

Then he set her lightly on her feet, and took her back to their table. While she repaired her makeup, dusting powder on her face from a gold compact retrieved from her sequined evening bag, she thought of half a dozen conversational gambits, and discarded each as too dull, too unworthy of what she was feeling.

They danced again, and again. She thought she could float in his arms all night. She wished he’d suggest going somewhere—anywhere—where they could finish what the tango started.

But he said nothing.

And every dance made them more of a couple, until she almost thought he must be reading her mind, or she his, to move together so flawlessly.

Finally, he took her back to the table, watching while she toyed with a drink. She’d given up on cigarettes; the dancing had stolen her breath, and she knew they wouldn’t be enjoyable. She was looking away, trying to collect her thoughts, when he spoke to her again.

“Why isn’t Nash here tonight, Reza? And why did you wait three days to contact anyone?’

She shrugged. “If Nash were here, Schuster would be here. And Bakos, and probably Ellis and Mruk. And one of them would start in about pigments, or canvas, and the rest of the evening they’d be talking shop, or philosophy, or anything except dancing.”

“They’re very passionate. About their art.”

Reza’s eyes were bleak. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s just exactly it.”

They fell silent then, for a little, Stephen sipping at his drink, Reza staring at hers. Then she picked it up suddenly and knocked it back in one swallow.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I got your note,” Stephen replied, with deliberate misunderstanding.

“No. Not here, tonight. I mean here, in Santa Fe. With your fancy car, and clothes, and money, and that—that harem of women who all look at you like you’re some kind of demi-god.”

“Only demi?”

She crossed her arms, bringing the Spanish shawl around her. “I was happy, here, with Nash. Even after the opening—”

“What happened, Reza? What did your father do to you?”

Her smile was brittle as glass. “He explained to me—about family and honor. He explained it until I bled.” She looked away. “I won’t be posing nude for Nash for a few weeks, I think.”

His eyes softened, not with pity, but with understanding. “Nash doesn’t need to know. He’s busy painting my—as you say—harem.”

“And what do you do while they pose?”

He shrugged. “Whatever I want. And what I came here for.”

Reza tilted her head coquettishly. “Which you continue to not tell me.”

Stephen nodded acquiescence, accepting the change of subject. “I had several reasons to be here. One is to find a suitable piece of land for a business I hope to start here.”

Reza’s eyes grew interested, her gaze sharper. “What sort of business? What sort of land?”

He grimaced. “Isolated. But accessible. From what I’ve seen so far, somewhere up the slope, into the mountains. I want to build a—a lodge, of sorts. A posada, you’d call it here, I think.”

“Stephen,” Reza said after a moment’s thought, “I may know just the place. Can I take you there? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

Surprised, he nodded. “Certainly.”

“Good. Wear your riding clothes.”

“Riding?”

“You said you wanted isolated.” She laughed. “You do ride, don’t you?”

He twisted his mouth. “Not recently. But I think I can manage.”

Just then, the bandleader called out, “Last dance,” and Stephen stood, offering Reza his hand once more.

It was as though the air had become denser, heavier, and Reza felt that she could float up on it. Stephen pulled her to him, hard, and she met his chest with a shock, and a gasp at the contact. For the first few beats of the music, he stood still, until she was almost ready to struggle in his grasp. Then, deliberately, he began to move, and she was swept away. The steps, alternating in speed, but keeping an insistent rhythm, became the beat of her pulse, the life threading through her veins with the music. She stopped thinking, about the dance, about Stephen, about her life, and fell into a beat where she could make no wrong step, no wrong move. Stephen was feeling the same, letting the music carry him, and the warmth of the woman in his arms. Step, turn, step turn, weaving among the other people as though they were no more than tendrils of smoke in the hot darkness, cutting through them like a knife. He could feel his hunger rising, as the dance intensified. Through the evening, he had not had a problem, remaining in complete control, but this was the last dance, the last chance to let the fire break free and streak across the heavens like lightning in the summer air.

And it did, filling them both with flames, with a knowledge of each other as intimate, as burning, as making love. Stephen found his mouth against Reza’s throat, feeling the pound of her pulse like a captive bird against his tongue. He fought to control his response, to keep his fangs hidden, but he knew it would be a losing battle.

Riding the lightning of his own desires, he was saved by the lightning without. A harsh crack, followed by a loud rumble, and the lights went out in the club. Someone threw open the door, and a ferocious gust of wind and rain blew in, the noise of hail suddenly hitting the corrugated tin roof of the flimsy building cacaphonous. The dancers didn’t panic, surprisingly, and men began holding up lighters in a makeshift illumination, while a manager assured the crowd from the stage that all would be well.

Speechless—it would have been impossible to converse over the noise of the hailstorm anyway—Stephen and Reza regained their table. He was impatient to leave, now, though, and shouted over the tumult. “Do you have your car?”

“Yes. You?” she returned.

He could tell from the changing sound that the storm would be some time in blowing itself out. “Fold up your shawl. You can shield it under my jacket.” He shrugged off his suit coat and slung it around her shoulders. It wouldn’t keep the rain off for long, but it was better than nothing. And if his hands lingered a little as he pulled the lapels of the jacket together over her dress, that was all right, too.

Her shoes and stockings were probably ruined, she reflected, by the time he got her out to the two-seater Packard her father had given her the year before, when she turned twenty-one. She expected Stephen to jump in beside her, but he gave her an odd look from those fearfully intense brown eyes of his, and merely said, “Tomorrow,” before he vanished into the rain, his blue shirt dark with the downpour. She was almost aching with unreleased passion.

“Indeed, Stephen,” Reza said, watching the rainwater sheet down her windshield as she started the Packard. “Tomorrow.”

[francis]

Great atmosphere in that bar. I love tango.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHLVP9jP ... re=related

[tucutecats]

Oh, to dance the tango with Stephen (Joseph),delicious!!!!!!

[librarian_7]

francis, thanks so much for the link! I went and got interested in watching some of the other clips suggested from that one...
great stuff!

Lucky

[eris]

Now I have the Tango Roxanne scene from Moulin Rouge in my head.

[jen]

This is delicious.

Reza is somewhat subdued, chastised as her father intended but she is still there with Stephen.

Intriguing. I wonder about the property she is going to show Stephen.

And I can't help but think what a perfect vampire Reza would make.

Just sayin

Jenna

[darkstarrising]

Wow! Just wow!!!

I'm breathless myself, not just from the tango, but from the passion it has ignited in the two dancers...

Your descriptions of the intimacy of the dance and how it grows during the night is wonderful, put this passage in particular is just masterful:

It was as though the air had become denser, heavier, and Reza felt that she could float up on it. Stephen pulled her to him, hard, and she met his chest with a shock, and a gasp at the contact. For the first few beats of the music, he stood still, until she was almost ready to struggle in his grasp. Then, deliberately, he began to move, and she was swept away. The steps, alternating in speed, but keeping an insistent rhythm, became the beat of her pulse, the life threading through her veins with the music. She stopped thinking, about the dance, about Stephen, about her life, and fell into a beat where she could make no wrong step, no wrong move. Stephen was feeling the same, letting the music carry him, and the warmth of the woman in his arms. Step, turn, step turn, weaving among the other people as though they were no more than tendrils of smoke in the hot darkness, cutting through them like a knife. He could feel his hunger rising, as the dance intensified. Through the evening, he had not had a problem, remaining in complete control, but this was the last dance, the last chance to let the fire break free and streak across the heavens like lightning in the summer air.

And it did, filling them both with flames, with a knowledge of each other as intimate, as burning, as making love. Stephen found his mouth against Reza’s throat, feeling the pound of her pulse like a captive bird against his tongue. He fought to control his response, to keep his fangs hidden, but he knew it would be a losing battle.

Here you have described the passion of the dance and its effect on those who attempt it. Reza has been falling under Steven's spell all evening, with each dance, her desire building. Steven, for all his control, is slipping as well, but flees into the night....I can almost feel Reza's frustration.

Ah, but the image of Stephen on horseback, alone with Reza, gives me hope Reza won't be frustrated for long.

[cassysj]

I'm lost in that Tango! Stephen and Reza make me feel very warm.

[allegrita]

Mmmmm... there's something about the tango. I love the way their feelings were intensified with each dance, as they grew to know each other's steps, each other's bodies. And oh man, the idea of tangoing with someone that strong is... mmmmmmm....

Reza is hooked. And it looks like so is Stephen. much to his shock. I'm very interested in finding out what happens when they go riding to look at whatever the property is...

[librarian_7]

I loved writing this chapter. While I've written Josef tangoing before, this one was interesting to me, because his partner was relatively unknown to him.

Reza as a vamp, jen? Hmmmmmmm. Interesting.

As for that horseback ride, well, we'll see...

Lucky

[RangerCM]

It appears the Tango continues even after the music stops.