The Italian Vampire - 2

Date: October, 2006
   
      By morning, the howling wind was rattling the windows, although not as much as most windows might rattle judging by the trees tossing themselves right and left outside her window.
      The wind whipped leaves, stripped snow and made itself generally unpleasant. She was chilly, stopped to grab the terry robe off the floor and tied it on tightly.
      She put on her fuzzy slippers, but even they were not stopping her feet from feeling a draft. From where she could not guess, but in this much wind, few houses were impervious to drafts. This one was, under the circumstances, pretty air-tight. Any tighter and it would be dangerous.
      Susan went out of her room and headed right for the kitchen. COffee. She needed coffee.
      Nothing. There was no sign of Drako Lanzoni, or indeed anyone.
      The lights were as they had been, a low hum coming from somewhere indicated a generator was still valiantly running.
      This place, she thought to herself, could run its damn self.
      She looked into the living room, and the attached dining room, a lovely room suited for a formal dinner. Soft colors on the wall, artwork that was not disturbing, and lovely dark wood, in keeping with the living room's dark furniture, all showed taste and elegance.
      It was like a home staged for sale. Everything perfect. And sterile. The art was picture-perfect as if chosen to augment the walls, where light colors on the smooth walls served as a backdrop to the dark furniture. Magazine perfect. Almost too perfect.
      Where was a trace of this man? A dropped sock? A cast off shoe? A discarded sweater? The house looked untouched.
      Where was he?
      She turned and looked down the hall that contained her room. There was a dark door at the end. Closed. If he was sleeping through the howling wind, he was some sleeper. A door to the right showed another room, its door open.
      She looked around this room, found it was another guest room, one as equally well appointed as hers was. Architectural Digest could come in here and photograph to their heart's desire without anyone so much as moving a thing.
      Debating for a moment, she went back to her room and pulled on a fleece set of long pants and zip-up jacket. She put a simple short-sleeved top under the jacket. She also pulled on thick socks. They helped.
      Padding back out of her room, she looked around the kitchen. She found the coffee pot from last night and looked for directions to operate it, a label, a symbol, anything. She was good with machines but this one baffled her. It was, in keeping with everything else, sleek and modern looking, a piece of art, although he kept it hidden behind folding doors. But, after searching through the upper cupboards, she found a French press in a cupboard, and the opened bag of coffee, and in another place, a simple coffee grinder. She made herself a coffee.
      The refrigerator had a dozen eggs, some more bread well wrapped, butter, and slices of ham. Fine. Breakfast. She hunted down a pan and began cooking. She did not make enough for two. He would want fresh food whenever he awoke. She would offer to cook it. It was the least she could do.
      The fire in the grate was low, so while the pan simmered, she checked on it, added some wood, and stirred it alive. She hunted down and found the switch for the heatilator fan and turned it on low. There needed to be something to offset the coolness of the morning and the heat loss from the wind. Crossing her fingers, she hoped that the generator was of sufficient size to manage the constant drain.
      If the thing stopped, she had no idea how she would get it restarted. She didn't even know where the darn thing was.
      Susan went to finish cooking her breakfast and eat it in silence, sitting at the immaculate counter. She wasn't even certain she had seen a radio or TV, but the low flickering kitchen lights said generator, no power, and she doubted any signal could get through. New England storms were like that. Repair crews would be awhile getting out. Generally, they waited until the storm had abated.   Then choose which to fix first.
      Silence was the rule in these storms. You sat, listened to the fire crackle, and hoped your wood held out. Speaking of which, where was that wood coming from?
      She inhaled the slight, very slight, scent of burning wood. It was not unpleasant. Memories of storms during her childhood came floating back.
      The wind, she suspected, was back-blowing smoke down the chimney.
      Soon enough she found an extra blanket in a top shelf in a nearly hidden linen closet, one that had everything folded neatly, perfectly, as unused as it could get. She shook it out, wrapped it over her shoulders.
      Going back to the living room, she curled up with a book and a hot cup of coffee. She would read until he was up. Or came back. She felt a little awkward in a strange impersonal house. She felt like the intruder she was. Hurriedly, she delved into the book and lost herself in the story.
      Getting up later to put more wood on the fire, she made more coffee, as much to hold the cup in her hands as to drink it. She was cold, the clothing she had packed just had not been chosen for this weather. The wind still howled like a wild thing. At one point, she feared a tree would crash right into the house. Then what?
      She went to the closed door down the hall, knocked on it, and got no answer. Turning the knob, she opened the door and looked inside. If he was asleep, fine. She would take a look and enjoy it. If he was up, she would ask what she should make for lunch. If he was dressing, well, she'd decide what to do then.
      The bed was neat and empty.
      Drako made beds? Cooked? Why was he single?
      She looked around the spacious room, found clothing in the closet and in the dresser, and then raided his dresser for a thick luxurious sweater, oversized on her, and black, of course. She took a pair of socks far thicker than her own, ones with anti-skid tape on the bottom. These were supposed to be slipper socks. A memory tingled of her early years and living in these things until they literally fell off her feet. New England in winter. Why everyone with the money fled south. To Florida. It had always been a running joke. And in summer, the rich fled to the Hamptons, to the lakes, to the shore, anywhere but the city.
      She put the slippers on over her own socks and her feet thanked her.
      Leaving the door ajar, she went back over the entire house. Then she found the door going outside. The garage? She peered around the door and found she was looking into an immense garage, with one big, black Ford pickup and its snowplow blade prominently in front. Of course. Other cars, different brands, different sizes, but all of them black, were lined up behind it. She counted six cars. Two of them were oversized phallic symbols. She snorted. Of course they were. It is what sold them. Penises on wheels.
      Somehow the dusty truck seemed more his speed. The other cars looked unused. The Ford truck looked like it had actually been driven, just not recently.
      Susan wandered back inside, found a box of crackers and some block cheese, so much for his not eating dairy, and made herself a snack plate. She wasn't in the mood for much else. Too much coffee needed to pass through her system. She wondered if he had tea bags hidden somewhere.
      Idly, she wondered where in hell he had gone off to. And why had he not left her a note? She had put her dishes into the dishwasher earlier, and noted that there was only the dinner dishes waiting to be washed. He had not had breakfast then. Now he had had no lunch.
      She did not start the machine. The generator still hummed.
      Finding matches in the kitchen, she set them next to the candelabra. Looking around, she found thick column candles, half burned. She lined them up on the mantle. Just in case, she said to herself.
      Putting a larger log on the fire, she returned to her book, fresh coffee in hand.
      By evening, she had finished one novel and was taking a break before starting another. She liked to take a break, think about the story, savor the flavor. She was lonely, she realized. At the B&B, meals were with people. Maids did one's room. Human contact was a step from the door.
      Here, she was alone. And felt it.
      Susan had finally had enough and decided to start checking for food for dinner. The crackers were fine for a snack, but she was hungry and people fighting cold needed to eat. Regularly.
      Coffee was no longer appealing. She was already a little over-coffeed. If she could fine the brandy or the wine, she would have some. Soda did not exist. She wondered about the water. New England water was occasionally gifted with bacteria that could lead to serious illness. It depended on the locale, and she had, still, no idea where she had ended up. She didn't find any bottled water. Not even a filter. She gave up.
      The fire was nicely banked, and she had added a log just one hour ago. There was enough wood for another day and night. It sat nearby, in a recess in the wall of stone, the wood kept inside to dry. Always. One did not put snow-wet wood into the fireplace. One warmed it up and dried it out first. She supposed she would need to go out tomorrow and find the woodpile, assuming that he had one. One needed to replenish a wood pile.
      She glanced outside, and saw the trees still tossing, but less so, and the snow had started up again. Thinner, smaller flakes, not so heavy perhaps, but snow. The sound of howling wind had receded, just when it had receded she did not know. Restless, she went back to the kitchen.
      Standing at the open fridge door, she looked at the insides. Not much. She closed the door and reached for the freezer.
      His hands came from nowhere to slide around her waist, scaring her into an involuntary shriek. He held her firmly in place, kept her still, whispered in her ear.
      "Looking for something?" he purred.
      "Yes. I am hungry." She struggled a little weakly.
      He let her turn around, stepped back and looked her up and down.
      "Looks good on you," he said, smiling, nodding at the oversized black sweater she had taken.
      "You sneak up on a person so. I have never heard you approach."
      "You were busy."
      "Where have you been?"
      At his raised eyebrow, she stammered, "I mean, I missed you. I did not know what to do about lunch, the dishes, the wood for the fire." How inane she sounded. How rude to demand he account to a stranger for his activities in his own house!
      "Ah."
      "And I really am starving."
      "What would you like?"
      You, she thought. Jesus but he looked good, smelled good, and when he had held her for that brief moment, felt good.
      "What have you got?" Inwardly, she winced at the banal conversation.
      He looked into the freezer, out of her sight. "I have steak, chicken, more fish. What do you like?"
      "Chicken sounds good. Shall I cook this time?"
      "What would you make?"
      "You have cheese. Chicken parmesan."
      "I do not eat pasta."
      "You have plenty of bread and more salad." An Italian that did not eat pasta. There ought to be a law about that.
      "All right. You cook. I watch." And he proceeded to sit down at the counter and do nothing but watch.
      She took over, first finding a towel to protect her sweater. He said nothing as she opened drawers and doors and hunted down what she wanted.
       A little self-conscious, she found a pot to simmer the chicken until thawed, and then for 20 minutes more before skinning the chicken breasts. She proceeded to hunt for seasonings, and olive oil and set up her casserole dish. Then she baked the seasoned chicken with slices of cheese on top.
      While it baked, she took out the salad stuff, whipped it with dressing and put it into bowls. She took out the bread, sliced it and put it on a cookie sheet and into the oven with bread. Last, she hunted up dishes, silverware and looked a bit for the wine.
      He chuckled at her frustration, low and sexy. It was the only sound he had made since he had sat down. "I will fetch a new bottle. We finished that one."
      Drako went to the garage but was back fairly quickly. He had two bottles, one a wine she knew, one she did not.
      He poured her glass on her approval. The smell of the baking chicken wafted into the room when she took a peak.
      He had poured his own glass while she was busy with the chicken, and now sat sipping at the dark red liquid. He was long legged casual, and in black again. A different black sweater. Different skin-tight, gut wrenchingly so, black jeans. Same black deerskin slippers. His hair hung long and well-behaved. Hers, she well knew, had a halo of fuzz.
      The dark outside was total, no lights anywhere, and looking closely, she saw that the snow was heavy again. His eyes watched her.
      "It will stop. Soon I think."
      She liked his voice. She had missed it all day. She had felt restless, disoriented, and had hid between the covers of her books. Now he was back, and she reveled in the vibrations of her body when he spoke. Was it human contact? Or was it him. Both, she answered herself.
      Susan served the chicken, the bread, drizzled as before with olive oil and butter.
      She sat down, toasted him with her glass, and sipped her wine. Then she dug into her chicken.
      He smiled, "I will not eat the cheese normally, it is for guests. But I will try your chicken." He took a bite, pronounced it good, and concentrated on his food.
      She had two slices of bread, chunks really, her chicken breast, and her salad. She had finished her first glass of wine.
      Drako had tasted the cheese, but left it on his plate. The rest of dinner was gone. The bread was gone.
      "How do we get supplies?" she asked.
      "I take them out of the storage boxes. I have more food in the garage. It is colder than the refrigerator. I have a packed freezer in the basement."
      "The basement." California did not, as a general rule, have a basement. She had forgotten them. Of course. He had been downstairs? She must have spoken it out load.
      "I was working. I sometimes forget to eat." He flashed his grin. "You were reading all day?"
      "Yes. And drinking too much coffee."
      "I will leave things for your breakfast and lunch. I have soups, and bread. Or sandwiches if you like. Yes? "
      "Whatever you eat will be fine."
      He nodded. He watched her clear the counter, put the dishes into the machine. It was now full. She looked for and found dishwasher soap, and turned the machine on. The low lights flickered.
      Drako was not bothered, just sipped at his wine, which was nearly gone. She had half expected him to tell her not to run it. Evidently he had no problem with the power loss. The kitchen lights were even dimmer.
      She finished her wine, rinsed out the glass.
      He was beside her soon enough with an offer of more wine. Or, he could fix her a cocktail, yes?
      Or, would she like brandy by the fire?
      Well, if he kept purring in her ear like that, brandy by the fire seemed pretty interesting.
      She was feeling sated and mellow, and took the offer of brandy. He had, she saw, a very good bottle of Napoleon brandy. He produced snifters and poured a shot in each.
      On the rug, she inhaled the aroma and took a sip. Powerful. She took another. But the third, she felt the flush hit her cheeks.
      He was sipping his brandy, seated near to her on the rug. Too near.
      If he wasn't going to make a move, she would be pretty disappointed. What happens in New England, stays in New England. He was, she thought, as picture perfect as the house. The house itself, seemed less impersonal. It was him. It reflected what he was. Economy of motion, efficient, effortless. His body radiated heat.
      She sipped more, and felt the flush deepen and felt a little light-headedness. It was powerful brandy. He was sipping his much more slowly. She squinted, trying to focus her eyes.
      His hand was at her back, and she realized her was holding her up. He smiled, a slow seductive smile, and took her glass from her.
      "You have no head for spirits, I think."
      "Ummmmm," she said.
      He pulled her closer and she snuggled into his sweater, inhaled that lovely scent of his, and sighed. His arm was solid, firm behind her.
      The fire crackled.
      Now he was rubbing her shoulders, soothing her, and she felt incredibly sleepy. For someone who had sat around all day, she should not be this tired.
      He was rubbing her ear, his fingers trailed down her cheek. Her skin felt on fire. She tingled.
      Susan looked up at him and he looked down at her. Time froze. She inhaled, a sharp breath, and then his mouth grazed over hers.
      It was brief, almost chaste, and she wondered what she should do.
      He took that decision from her.
      Drako lifted her up from the rug, then turned her and steered her toward her room.
      At the door, gently, he spun her around and kissed her again lightly, caressed her face with his fingers, and when she stepped backward into the room, he broke away and closed the door between them, smiling slightly, almost regretfully.
      Susan almost cried out in frustration.
      She turned, stripped down quickly while she was still standing. She started to reach for her silk nightgown, and then she saw the flannel pajamas and a clean pair of socks on the coverlet. Men's pajamas. His. She put them on.
      Can't get warm one way, get warm another, she told herself and then crawled under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. Outside, the wind was hollowing, almost in rage. She wanted to go out and howl herself.
     
                        ----------------------------------                  Next