Vampires Gone Wild (Love at Stake #13.5)(25)
Author: Kerrelyn Sparks

“If there are no objections?” Stellan said to the other men in the room.

Slowly Mason put the paper down and folded it in thirds. “None from me.” He turned to Mr. Ralston. “We’re going over the designs with the steelmaker today, aren’t we?”

In moments, Ralston and Blackwell were in deep conversation, Angelina’s shopping expedition forgotten.

“It’s settled then,” Angelina said. She dabbed the corners of her mouth and stole a look at Stellan.

Mrs. Ralston didn’t miss it. “You’ll not go out with this young gentleman unattended, Angelina,” she said. “Mr. Blackwell may condone it, but I do not. Think of the press . . .”

“Gerald will drive us,” Angelina cut in. “But really, Mother, it’s the twentieth century. Women are . . .”

“As capable as men, yes, I know. Emancipated whatnot. Take Gerald to chaperone. That would suffice.” Mrs. Ralston knit her brows. “Be back by dinner. Six o’clock sharp.”

ANGELINA WAS BEAMING. The Emporium on the corner of Market and Fifth, two blocks down from the Call Building, was one of her favorite stores. It had everything from garden tools to lingerie, hot coffee, books and sheet music, furniture, horse harnesses, and china teacups. Most important, it catered to the arts, with a section of brushes, paints, and canvases, stage props, costumes, and the latest in photographic equipment. She smiled as she led the way up to the second floor and toward the back corner, where the scent of linseed oil, fine leather, and boar bristles was welcoming. As soon as the shopkeeper spotted her party, he gave a frantic wave. “Miss Ralston! What a comforting sight. I read all about it in the papers! Are you quite alright?”

“Mr. Higgins, thank you. I’m fine, but my camera was lost. I must replace everything.”

“Such a relief to see you alive and well,” he said. “Gave us all a shock.” He hefted a thick catalog and opened to a bookmarked section. “I can order in exactly what you had before, but you might like to consider some new innovations. “A plastigmat lens, for example . . .”

Angelina was lost for some time in the catalog. The Plate Series D was an improvement, indeed, and it sported a price tag to match. “Ninety-seven dollars and fifty cents?”

“Plus shipping, but you get what you pay for, as I am sure Mr. Ralston knows. It’s superior quality. Aluminum body, nickel frame, mahogany inserts, and fine leather cover. Two tripod sockets.” He tapped the picture. “Nothing surpasses Eastman Kodak, and a woman of your talent deserves the best.”

A woman of my means can afford the best, I’m sure you mean to say.

Stellan, who was studying the photographs along the far wall, chuckled.

“I’ll take it.” Angelina smiled. “How soon will it arrive?”

“The tripod is in stock. The rest will be sent as soon as I telegraph the order through. Call back late next week. We should have it by then.”

She sighed. “That long?”

“I’m afraid so, unless you’d like to rent in the interim? A similar setup for, say one dollar a day, with your tripod and plates?”

“Done!” She signed the various documents Mr. Higgins pushed in front of her and nearly jumped out of her skin when Stellan appeared at her side as if from nowhere.

“You’ve found what you were looking for?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “I believe I have, but you must see something over here.” She stopped herself from taking his hand. “This way.” Angelina went to the visual arts display and looked on as he studied the range of oil paints, tube upon tube, mounted in fans of colors on the wall.

“Extraordinary!” He leaned in very close and motioned her to do the same. “Look at the subtle shifts. From yellow ochre to sienna to gold. Like the sun.”

She quivered, wondering if he could hear her heart pound. “I love the names,” she whispered. “Terra Rosa, Prussian Green, Quinacridone Magenta . . .”

“These are the colors of daylight, but your photographs are of the night, the shades of gray.”

“I capture the truth of light,” she said. “What is seen in the absence of color.”

You would love my world then . . .

“Pardon?”

He stared at her blankly, and in her nervousness, she reached out to touch the indigo tube at the exact same moment he did. Their hands collided and seemed to entwine of their own accord. She pulled back. “Pardon me . . .”

Gerald cleared his throat behind them, and they both straightened. “Are you ready to proceed, Miss Ralston?”

“Quite.” She looked to Stellan. “Join me for late lunch? The clam chowder on Fisherman’s Wharf is beyond superb.”

“It would be a pleasure.”

Gerald frowned but hoisted the camera gear and followed them out of the Emporium.

Fisherman’s Wharf was across town, across being a misnomer. They drove up steep inclines, streets rattling with cable cars and all manner of traffic, and down such severe slopes that if the brakes failed, there would be no saving them. Angelina let it all rush by as she sat in the backseat, chatting with Stellan. “Do you want to stop in Chinatown?” she said, her face lighting up. “It would make an exotic background for a portrait of you, Mr. Fletcher. I shall try the camera today.”

“Is Chinatown wise, Miss Ralston?” Gerald said from the driver’s seat. He made no apology for eavesdropping. “The quarantine has only just been lifted.”

She shrugged. “I suspect that affair was motivated more by politics than good medical practice, a heinously racist move by Governor Gage.”

“As you say, Miss Ralston.”

She glared at the back of Gerald’s head.

Stellan spoke before she could say more. “I agree he’s not taking his custodianship seriously, at least not in favor of American-Chinese civil rights.”

“Thank you.” She nodded to Stellan. “Far from helping, it appears Gage is thwarting all advancements.”

“Still, is it wise?” Gerald let his protest hang.

As they crested Telegraph Hill, she gazed out at the East Bay. “Very well. The fog’s rolling in anyway.”

“It will be a cloud sea about us,” Stellan said.

She smiled. “We’ll take photos here then.” She gestured out the window. “While we still have the sunlight.” Her eyes danced. “I will capture you yet, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Perhaps.” Stellan smiled.

“Are you shy of being photographed?” she asked.

“Not by you.”

Gerald parked the Ford, and he and Stellan made to unload the newly rented camera gear. Angelina elbowed in before they could get very far. “I’ve got it,” she said to both men. “I need no assistance, thank you.”

STELLAN WAS CAPTIVATED as Angelina moved here and there, testing the light, feeling the wind. She chose a gnarled old oak as the backdrop and had him stand beside it, his hand resting on the trunk. The light dappled through the branches like ripples in a tide pool. The touch of the wood was solid as reef.

“You like trees?” Angelina approached him to straighten the fall of his coat.

“I like all living things.”

She paused. “What a splendid and unusual response. Are you a humanitarian?”

“You could say so, yes.” He was lost in her dark eyes and the gentle floral scent that rose from her body. He memorized her every movement, comment, and instruction, letting her fill his mind completely.

“With the coat over your shoulder, I think.”

He obliged her.

“Perfect. Can you hold that?”

He didn’t answer but instead studied the tree with its twisting branches that reached for the sky, dark arms against the glimpse of blue.

“You’re a very good subject,” she said, sliding in a glass plate. She had him strike different poses until Gerald pulled out his pocket watch and cleared his throat, a practice that was beginning to make Stellan’s upper lip twitch.

“One more,” Angelina said, and she turned to Gerald. “It’s all set. Just shoot when I give the word.”

Gerald’s face became even more dour as Angelina stood on the other side of the trunk and placed her hand on it as well. The sensation, through the tree, jolted him. He could hear her heartbeat through the living wood.

“Now, Gerald,” she said.

They were meant to be looking at the camera, but somehow their eyes found each other’s and remained engaged until Gerald, having taken the shot, asked them if that would be quite enough.

“To the wharf?” he whispered before she could move away. “For lunch?” If he didn’t get a full breath of sea air in his lungs and fog on his face soon, he didn’t know how he would continue.

Angelina touched her neck, feeling the edges of the dressing. “Yes, to the wharf!” she replied, and gathered her camera gear. He carried the tripod back to the car while she speculated on how the shots would turn out. Best not think about that . . . They jumped in the backseat laughing, while Gerald’s posture became even more rigid than usual.

Chapter Four

5:30 P.M.

Tuesday, April 17, 1906

THE WHARF REVIVED him. Angelina revived him, and relief flooded his body. The fog formed droplets on his lashes, and the lull of the waves below made it possible to relax though he longed to strip off and dive headfirst into the sea. They sat across from each other at a small table outside the fishmongers’. The aromas were heavenly, a mixture of salt air, whitecaps, and fresh fish. Colored lanterns hung on strings overhead. They radiated bright, glowing auras that turned Angelina’s hair red as starfish. Stellan took full mouthfuls of the chowder. “Delicious!”

“Not too salty for you, Mr. Fletcher?” Angelina looked up from her bowl.

“I enjoy the salt, Miss Ralston. You can be sure of that.” His left hand rested on the red checkered tablecloth.

Angelina laid her gloved fingers on top of his. “I’m so glad you do.” She pulled back immediately, as if she’d touched a hot stove.

Heat rushed through his body from the contact. “I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t enjoy in your presence.”

She laughed, a light sound. “I’m sure you exaggerate, sir.”

For moments uncounted, he basked in her presence. The distraction and bustle of the wharf receded until all he could hear was her, the rhythmic flow of her breath, and, unfortunately, Gerald’s incessant throat clearing. The man stood over them, his look admonishing.

Angelina turned to the valet, her eyebrows raised.

“I believe we must leave at once, Miss Ralston, if we are to arrive on time for dinner.” Stellan watched her response. It was a shrug at best even though Gerald made it sound as if they were breaking universal laws with their impromptu repast. The man was actually getting his watch out, again, and throwing them both accusatory looks.

“Shall I bring the car around?” he asked in a flat voice.

Angelina dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “We’ll walk, thank you.”

“It would be more expedient if I . . .”

“We’ll walk fast.” She cut in. “If you go start the car, we’ll not lose a moment. You know how long it takes to crank over in the cold.”

Gerald’s frown lines creased. “Very well.” He left at a clip, apparently wanting to set an example.

Stellan rose, as Angelina did, but instead of heading for the car, she went to the edge of the wharf. He joined her, and they stood side by side, listening to the water slosh against the pilings.

The lanternlight made extraordinary patterns on the surface.

“How beautiful,” she whispered, and her whole body shivered.

“You’re cold.” Stellan took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Shall we go?”

Yes, do hurry, Stellan. You’re missing all the fun.

Stellan’s blood froze. Salila? Where are you?

I am having quite a time entertaining the Ralstons and that delectable Mr. Blackwell.

“No!”

“Pardon me?” Angelina turned toward him.

“Gerald is right. It’s best we return home with all haste.”

ANGELINA DIDN’T HAVE time to ponder the change that had come over Stellan. Their easy intimacy and the pleasure of the day had suddenly evaporated, and he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. She inquired again to no avail and decided to let it drop. Whatever had assailed him on the wharf would come out, or not. A person was due his privacy. She knew she needed her own. And why would he want to discuss his personal feelings in front of the enormous ears of Gerald anyway? She clasped her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. I’ve been too forward.

Never. . .

She stared at him, but he didn’t acknowledge her until they were home.

“My apologies, Miss Ralston,” he whispered, when they reached her front door.

It flew open before she could respond. “Dinner is already served, Miss,” Jeanie said behind the butler. “Shall I help you get ready?” They were ushered into the foyer.

“I’m sure my tea dress will do tonight, Jeanie. Better that than arriving any later.” The look on her maid’s face told her something was quite out of the ordinary, but she stuck to her decision. “Shall we, Mr. Fletcher?” Angelina offered him her arm, and they headed for the formal dining hall. Nothing could have prepared her for the scene they walked in on.

The room was a din of conversation, laughter mostly, and much of it coming from Mason and her father. Mrs. Blackwell and her mother seemed quite stiff, if anything, and it didn’t take her long to discover why. Between her fiancé and the esteemed Mr. Ralston was a woman in a provocative evening gown, a gold-and-black affair that plunged far lower in front and back than even the latest fashion from Paris demanded. She had shimmering hair done up high on her head with a few curling strands falling down her flawless white cheeks. Her face was extraordinary, with full lips and feline eyes. The air around her positively zapped and crackled.