Ice And Flame

By Celestia

Chapter 2

Rigo breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of her, as he always did when he had the opportunity to come this close. Bree was holding her hair up off of her neck so that he could fasten on the necklace, presenting that slender column to him in complete trust. Her delicate perfume teased his nose with the combined scents of Diavolo, the fresh fragrance of shampoo, and her own warm bouquet.

He was relieved that the other offices were empty and they were alone. It was just after six and as usual most of the Royal Ontario Museum employees, at least the ones on this floor, had left for the evening. No one would walk in and see the Associate Curator’s assistant helping her with a necklace – a task that was definitely not in his job description. No one would see him sweat.

From the moment Rigo had met Bree he had known there was something very different about her. As he had prepared for this trip, fleeing from his native Buenos Aires to start anew in Toronto, Sister Teresa Maria had told him about her goddaughter, Gabriella Santiago. Bree was to be his first contact in his new life, the old nun had advised him. She would guide him and help him settle into this strange new world far north of his homeland.

Even though Interpol’s Witness Protection Program had provided him with all the documentation he had needed and money to help him get settled, Rigo believed the old nun knew things about the future which others could only speculate. Her advice, when he was wise enough to take her counsel seriously, had saved him trouble on many occasions. If Sister had told him to meet Bree and let her guide him, then that’s exactly what he would do.

As fate and good fortune would have it, Sister’s word was as golden to Bree as it was to himself. Rigo had trusted the nun to keep his secrets to her grave. In good faith, she had told Bree little more than that he needed a friend.

As he carefully slipped the silver necklace over Bree’s head, Rigo fought the urge to enfold his face in her long honey blonde waves. His lips fairly tingled with the desire to press them to the smooth skin of her neck, imagining her warm softness.

But that kind of behavior wouldn’t have been appropriate. Bree was his boss and he’d read the Employee Manual -- he wanted to keep his job. Romantic relationships and/or dating was strictly taboo between employees.

If not for this job how else would he be able to spend hours every day in the company of the woman who made his flesh prickle with excitement whenever his hand accidentally brushed against hers. He longed to trail kisses from one delicate lobe to a tender spot at the back of her neck.

That’s when he noticed the small image a few inches beneath her hairline.

“Is that a tattoo?” He fastened the clasp of the necklace and let it fall to her neck, then lightly touched the pattern of a full moon with wavy lines beneath it, like water.

Bree turned slightly, letting her hair fall down onto her shoulders, silky strands caressing his hand just before he moved away.

“Yes,” she said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “Silly isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” he said softly as he returned to the front of her desk. “Just an interesting place to put it.”

“College girls do crazy things when they drink too many jell-o shots.”

He chuckled.

Bree picked up the Saint Michael pendant from her chest and examined it. “Thanks.” She looked up and smiled, warming his heart.

He smiled back. “My pleasure. May you wear it in good health.”

Later Rigo rode the crowded bus back to his one-room flat situated halfway between his job at the museum and Bree’s condo on Lake Ontario. His thoughts, as usual, were on Bree.

He had nothing to offer a woman like her. She deserved the good things in life, a solid marriage to a good man, a fine home, financial security, and the love of her own children. If there was anything he could do to help her find that, it would be satisfaction enough.

He was nothing. He was nobody. A man without an identity, hiding his past, his future negligible.

His purpose was clear, entrusted by Sister to ‘Watch over Gabriella’. The old nun was a second mother to him, practically raising him herself after his own mother had died when he was barely old enough to remember.

What good was love? Linda, his estranged wife, always hovered in the background like ghost haunting his memories of what that had meant -- pain, despair, heartache, humiliation. Once in this life was enough for any man.

And if that wasn’t enough, his new witness protection identity could be uncovered eventually. The drug lord he had testified against in Buenos Aires was still powerful, even behind bars, and Rigo knew that any day he could end up taking a silent bullet to his brain as he slept.

Each morning he gave thanks for one more day.

~~~~~~

A cold Saturday morning…

Bree dropped the magnifying glass onto her desk blotter, removed her glasses, and rubbed her burning eyes. She opened them and blinked until her watch came into focus. Nine a.m. and I’ve been staring at this crazy book for hours with little to show for it.

She stood up and stretched her back, shoulders, and her aching neck. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever been so drawn to an artifact that had so few clues to open its secrets.

But enough mental exercise. She needed to move or she’d feel sluggish and restless for the rest of the day. Bree pulled on her fur-lined boots and bundled into a sweater vest, then carried her coat and hat with her. Just inside the main doors of the museum, Bree put on her hat, scarf, and gloves, and headed out into the cold, determined to think warm thoughts until she got to the subway.

She wasn’t sure why, but she had an urge to visit the Garden District and find Penelope Prud'homme’s shop. The recently murdered woman’s small store would surely be closed, but she wanted to at least walk by and peer into the windows.

The elaborately carved front door of the herbalist’s shop was locked and taped over with bright yellow police ribbon instructing the curious to keep away. The display windows, however, seemed undisturbed as though the proprietress were still in business. A thick velvet curtain hung behind wide glass shelves, blocking any view of the interior of the shop, but several items on display caught Bree’s attention.

The first was an incense burner in the shape of one of the hieroglyphs in the mysterious book which she had securely replaced in her office safe before leaving the museum. Another repetition of the same pattern was painted in deep red on a set of books regarding the spiritual life of plants. Bree quirked an eyebrow at that one.

Several other items carried at least one of the book’s hieroglyphs in the form of a background pattern. Bags of assorted exotic seeds, small hand-made herb pots, calendars, pamphlets, scarves, carved wooden pipes and wood-beaded jewelry filled the shelves.

Somebody in Toronto knew what that strange alphabet meant, likely others in the herbal community and those who crafted these items. She wondered if the police had noticed it, but decided that was doubtful since they didn’t know about the strange book she had found in the museum and its unusual hieroglyphs.

If she asked questions of the Toronto Police Service, they would want to know why she was interested, and she wasn’t about to turn over that book as evidence. It was possible that it contained valuable knowledge that could be lost forever, filed away in a bureaucratic warehouse to rot from mold and paper-eating insects.

In a small spiral notebook, Bree sketched each item and made special notations of the patterns that resembled hieroglyphs like those in the book. She stopped frequently to rub the cold from her hands. What she would do with these sketches she didn’t know. She only knew that she felt compelled to record them.

Cold and tired, Bree headed for the nearest coffee shop for some heat and something to warm her blood. Then she remembered that she needed to shop for something new to wear to a dinner party next weekend.

While sipping her cappuccino, taking care not to burn her tongue, she considered which local store might have something fun and yet professional to wear. With luck there might even be an interesting new prospect at the party. Someone discreet and smoldering with barely restrained passion, she hoped, smiling to herself.

A creepy feeling crawled up her spine. Someone was watching her. Bree turned to glance over her left shoulder. A dark-eyed man in a corner of the shop, several tables away, was blatantly staring. She glared back. He didn’t blink.

The last thing she needed was a stalker following her around while she was shopping. Trying on clothes was enough of a chore -- she’d rather read the latest theories on Mayan royal dynastic progression. She didn’t need this added aggravation.

Bree picked up a newspaper someone had left on her table, curved it around her hand, and flipped him a bird that only he could see. Then she gave him her toughest kiss-my-ass look. The stranger only smiled knowingly, bowed his head with an aristocratic nod, and went back to reading his Russian-language magazine.

Not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered, Bree casually finished reading the entertainment section of The Toronto Star which she had used to shield her signal of defiance, and drank the rest of her coffee.

Returning late that afternoon to her two-bedroom condo in the opulent Queen’s Quay district, her arms aching from carrying bags, her feet aching from all the walking, Bree collapsed onto her sofa. It had been an unusually successful hunt and she was pleased with her finds.

She kicked off her boots and lay on her open coat, wishing a handsome butler would come and put her things away, bring her a large snifter of brandy and rub her feet.

Then, for the twentieth time since she’d seen him this morning, the face of the dark-eyed man in the coffee shop crept into her thoughts.

An hour later, Bree awoke half sitting, half lying on the sofa with her coat still beneath her. Her sleep cycle was completely screwed up lately due to the frequent nightmares. On the other hand, she felt rested and it was only eight o’clock.

She decided to call Cathy-The-Party-Princess and find out which club the usual group would be meeting tonight. She still had plenty of time to shower and primp and put on some of her new purchases, and she really needed a night out.

The Lüb was loud and crowded, with DJs spinning on each floor and a varied crowd that was a mingle of both gay and straight. ‘Hetero-friendly’ as it was jokingly called by Bree’s gay friends. Tonight, however, Bree was out with three straight girlfriends who, for the moment, were sitting together at a round table near the bar enjoying their third round of drinks.

"Check him out, by the bar.” Cathy said, stirring her appletini, her wide mouth grinning broadly. “Tall, dark and smouldering."

Bree twisted her neck for a quick look behind her. She saw the man in question leaning against the bar, discussing with the bartender a clear liquid that he held up in a glass.

"Think he’s gay?” Lora wondered aloud.

“Nah, I'll bet he's European,” Bailey said with a wink. “Look at the cut of that suit."

Bree nearly snorted her Absolut Wonder.

“He’s looking over here,” Lora giggled.

“Loralei Brunel, stop it. You act like a sixth grader when you’re smashed.”

“You’re the one who always complains I’m too serious,” Lora protested, giving Bree a light poke in the arm. “How about you loosen up?” She teased back.

“Now there’s a fresh face.” Cathy gushed, sloshing Bree’s drink accidentally with her elbow.

“Hey, I’d like to drink this, not wear it.” Bree blotted a paper napkin over the wet spot on her slinky white dress. Then she turned for another look at the bar. A long-haired biker-type was talking to the man in the suit.

“Cathy always likes the bad boys,” Bailey quipped.

Cathy hiccuped, delicately covering her mouth with a highly-manicured hand. She pushed away from the table announcing merrily, “I think I’ll just go up to the bar to freshen my drink. Don’t wait up for me."

Bailey shook her head. “Here goes another train wreck.”

They turned toward the bar to watch. It was only then, as her friend Cathy walked up and squeezed her little-red-dressed self between biker boy and a couple of co-eds, that Bree noted something vaguely familiar about the man in the suit.

~~~~~~

Across the room, a dark-haired man in a crisp black shirt sipped slowly on a rum and Coke, his deep brown eyes focused unwaveringly on the woman in the white off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. Bree looked lovely with her hair up that way, Rigo mused, deciding that his obligation to Sister definitely had its perks.

He had considered speaking to her and introducing himself to her friends. He had even fantasized about a slow dance or two. What would it be like, he wondered, to hold her in his arms, dancing to the sensual beat of a smooth rumba. He sighed deeply. In your dreams, Carlos. Then reminded himself that wasn’t even his name anymore.

He took another small sip, drinking slowly to make it last longer, intending to stay clearheaded so as not to lose sight of Bree in this crowded club. It was good to see her having some fun for a change. She spent entirely too much time working.

~~~~~~

“Who sent you?” the man in the European suit demanded with a slight accent.

“Don’t worry, “the biker replied with considerable sarcasm. “Unless you were born a woman, you’re not my target, tovarishch.”

“No, I was not, but I have many enemies. What am I to expect when I run into the berserker who burned down the Disco Krylov if not a hit, eh?”

Bree was close enough to hear some of the conversation going on between the two men behind her at the bar. She listened with her back to them, enjoying her drink and watching with amusement the faces of Lora and Bailey. They were quietly grinning, their attentions focused on Cathy.

The biker huffed. “Look, I didn’t start that fire. So if we’re not going to throw down what do you say we just go our separate ways, Chekhov?”

“I am no relation to the great author. I am Ari. Ari Petrovic.”

“Shepherd.”

“Well, tovarishch Shepherd,” the European said, “until we meet again. I see a potential new friend whose acquaintance I would like to make.”

The biker paused, then replied, “Yeah, don’t blame ya, pal. Good luck with her, or should I wish you a good hunt?”

“Good hunting to you, too, Shepherd.”

Bree turned for another peek just in time to see Cathy accidentally jostle the biker a little harder than she’d intended. The man turned on her and growled but it was not a ‘come hither’ kind of sound. He was annoyed. Lora and Bailey fizzed with laughter.

An embarrassed-looking Cathy returned to the table, her tail humbly tucked. She plopped down her empty glass and slid into her chair.

“You should have seen your face,” Lora laughed.

Bailey chuckled. “You looked like you were about to pee your panties.”

The experience had apparently sobered her a bit. Cathy picked up her empty glass, tossed down one last trickle, and then twirled the tumbler between her hands as she gazed down at it absently. “Maybe he just doesn’t like blondes,” she mumbled.

Their waiter returned, a short little fellow with spiked hair and a nose ring. He carried a tray with a large glass bottle and five clean glasses.

“Ladies, you’re about to be graced with our very best vodka from a gentleman at the bar.”

The waiter placed the stately square-shaped container on the center of their table and set an empty glass before Bree and each of her friends, with one extra glass left over.

Jewel of Russia was imprinted on the beautiful black and gold label. Bree was so enthralled by the pretty painting of a czar’s palace on the front of the bottle that she temporarily forgot the usual obligations that come with accepting free booze from strangers.

Russia? She stiffened as realization hit. No, not the man from the coffee shop! It was probably only coincidental that the man she’d seen earlier today had been reading a Russian magazine.

Bree turned uneasily in her chair searching the bar for the man in the suit. She wondered if he had those same dark eyes that had been haunting her all day. But only the co-eds remained at the bar. The biker was gone as well as the suit he’d been talking to.

Bree felt a hand rest on the back of her chair. Someone lightly stroked the edge of a thumb across her bare back. He had come up on her blind side. He moved around then and stopped next to their table.

The Russian!

He spoke in the same deep, velvety accent Bree had heard earlier.

“Eez-vee-nee'-tye, ladies. Good evening, I am Ari Petrovic.” He flattened his hand over his chest and made an elegant bow.

Bailey and Cathy gazed up smiling like fools. He was striking. Bree would give him that but nothing else.

Under the table she nudged Lora’s leg with her foot. The red-head frowned, pursing her lips in shorthand for ‘What!’

Bree scowled, jerking her head toward the stranger, hoping to send a nonverbal message to Lora. Then he reached in front of her and picked up her glass.

“Please allow me to introduce to you a nectar of such gods as you have never known here in Canada.”

Petrovic slipped off the jewel-cut ceramic cap and poured clear liquid into Bree’s glass, placing it in front of her, holding her eyes with his own just a little longer than necessary.

The girls cooed that they’d never heard of Jewel of Russia as he added a jigger to each glass. Bailey pulled a chair over from the next table and insisted he sit down and join them.

As they introduced themselves, Petrovic stood again, taking each woman’s hand into his own and pressing a kiss onto the back of it. He saved Bree for last.

“And you are?” he asked, holding out his hand expectantly.

Bree sat on her hands. She nodded, flashing a hesitant smile. “Bree,” she said briskly, withholding the rest of her name as well as her hands.

“I see.” He lowered his hand and looking only slightly disappointed, taking her snub with irritating good grace. “Like Cher, perhaps. Or Madonna.”

Petrovic sat down again and raised his glass to them. “Nah-zda-roe-vee-ah".

“Cheers!” They responded.

The guy was smooth as a wet weasel and Bree didn’t trust him a bit. His vodka was good, though, clean tasting and slightly sweet. She sat back in her chair, arms crossed and holding her glass close to her lips, keeping him from constantly refilling it as he did the others. She watched them laughing and flirting but seldom spoke herself.

One by one they each made their pilgrimage to the loo. When Lora excused herself, Bree jumped up and went along with her. As they returned to the table, Lora was ahead of her by a few steps when someone came up behind and latched onto Bree’s elbow.

Naturally, he had frightened her, and she was tired of his games. She jerked her arm out of his grasp and stood facing him. “What do you want!”

The droning beat of the music pounded in time with her quickened heartbeat.

“I must speak with you alone,” Petrovic said, his face in the shadows where the subdued lights of the club didn’t quite reach. “You may be the one,” he said.

She stilled, wondering what that meant as his dark eyes searched her own.

With a hand so quick she hardly saw it, or perhaps she’d had too much of the Russian’s Jewel, she felt Petrovic’s fingers touch the back of her neck.

“Your tattoo,” he said, sliding his hand from her neck, down and off of her bare shoulder.

Self-consciously, Bree reached back and covered the tattoo her fingers. “What about it?”

The design was only a small one, about the size of a quarter. Usually her long hair covered it, but tonight she’d decided to wear it up to show off her new opal earrings. Naturally, a stalker with a tattoo fetish had noticed.

“When did you get it? Why did you choose that particular design?”

“It was graduation night. A bunch of us were…. Wait, this is none of your business. I don’t know what your agenda is, comrade, but let’s get something straight--.”

To her utter humiliation Bree teetered on her five-inch heels, not used to wearing such impractical footwear. Petrovic steadied her with a hand to her waist, which she immediately batted away.

“You were saying?” he said, edging provocatively closer.

The man definitely had some undulating waves of sexual energy radiating off him.

Get a grip, Gabriella.

She forgot what she was saying. Bree closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth to speak.

His mouth closed over hers before she knew what was happening. For a few delirious seconds, Bree lost was sure she lost consciousness. How she managed to stay upright was anyone’s guess.

Petrovic lifted his head. “I look forward to learning your place in the Balance.”

Then he disappeared.

~~~~~~

Rigo stepped back, hiding himself in a crowd of people, wondering how the stranger had gotten away so quickly. The threat was over now, at least. The man was gone. Rigo covertly watched Bree return to her table.

Earlier, he had moved in closer when the man had joined Bree and her friends, but had until this moment remained a discrete distance away. He wished the GPS chip on Bree’s pendant contained a microphone, but that kind of surveillance equipment cost too much for his small budget.

Rigo had smiled to himself at the way Bree remained cool when her friends were overly friendly to the stranger. But when the man had followed Bree and Lora, Rigo moved again and kept the ladies’ room door in sight. He’d nearly dropped his drink when the man had suddenly reappeared behind Bree and pulled her into the shadows. Only his years of experience as an undercover cop had kept him from leaping to her defense.

He had watched them closely, trying to anticipate the man’s next move, but Bree had appeared to be holding her own. Then the stranger kissed her and simply vanished into thin air. Well, he supposed, that was a good thing.

Rigo caught the waiter’s attention, this time requesting a double. Stalking Gabriella Santiago may have its benefits, but it wasn’t going to be easy watching her with other men. Fortunately, hardship was as familiar to José Carlos García Domínguez as his own face in the mirror, no matter what his name was today.