4. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled…
THE GREATEST TRICK THE DEVIL EVER PULLED…
Rafael was waiting in the garage when I pulled in to park.
What a fucking compliment! “You’re such a gentleman, thank you!”
I’d already forgotten how tall he really was. Looking up at him made me briefly dizzy as I climbed out of my seat. No way this man could ever ride in the Fiat. Probably weighed more than the whole car.
“When you were late, I worried you had changed your mind,” Rafael said, not quite chiding.
I glanced at my phone. 12 minutes past 8pm; hardly late at all, for once. “I’m sorry! Traffic was ass. There was a bad accident on the 101.”
“I am glad you were not involved in it, but you do not owe me an explanation.” Moving stiffly, he led me to a brightly lit elevator.
Was his tension from anxiety over my mild tardiness, or genuine worry about my wellbeing? Or anticipating murder?
The inside of the elevator was all brass and mirrors in that distinctive Deco style.
I surreptitiously eyed Rafael as we ascended.
Same low ponytail, same all-black clothes.
Same mystique. His eye slid to me, but he said nothing.
When the door opened on the top floor, he ushered me out into the antechamber.
My boots thudded on marble. I’d expected a hallway, but apart from a locked stairwell entry leading into the turret, there was only one door.
Recessed alcoves held subtly iridescent art glass vessels in a familiar style, and geometric fans of crown molding adorned the transition from wall to ceiling.
A frosted Lalique pendant chandelier lit the space.
Rafael patiently watched as I took it all in with greedy eyes.
The door to his apartment was a grand affair, bound in a similar patinaed copper as the building’s facade. It swept upward into a pointed apex several feet taller even than Rafael himself. Red and black—he made a stark contrast against the soft grey and white of the marble chamber.
“Do you always wear solid black?”
Rafael paused, unlocking his front door. “Black is easy when all the hues are the same. Easier when it all comes from only two tailors.”
“Points for that. Most men don’t notice.”
“Do I seem like most men to you?” he harrumphed and ushered me inside.
My jaw dropped. Paintings lined the white walls of the foyer from the floor to a 20 foot+ ceiling. Mostly portraits in a myriad of styles and media. The windows comprised the only free spaces. Light skipped across visible brush strokes—these were all originals.
Shamelessly, I full-on gaped. “You’re an art collector, too?”
“Perhaps not as shrewd a collector as I could be. I only purchase art that moves me and have never resold a piece.”
That must have been original Tiffany glass in the antechamber. Damn!
He kicked off his boots and set them on a low rack by the door, gesturing for me to do the same. “Please, the streets of San Francisco are paved in shit. Dog and otherwise. These slippers should fit you, but I have others if they do not.”
Thankfully, I’d worn matching socks for once, and the house slippers fit like a charm. My boots looked like miniatures next to his. Above the rack, just beside the door, hung a cobalt glass evil eye charm.
I drifted through the gallery, lingering on an Indian woman in oil pastels; sad beneath the bright aquas and oranges. Her eyes contained multitudes. “Why portraiture?”
“It sounds pretentious, but portraits condense an entire life into a moment in time. The choice of that moment fascinates me. I have other art, but I like keeping these here together.” Rafael studied the portrait as well.
I squinted. “Do you ever use contractions? You have kind of a formal manner of speaking.”
He smiled faintly. “I learned English primarily from antiquated books, but it is a deliberate choice. If I speak too quickly, people cannot understand me.”
My belly clenched. “I didn’t mean it as a dig! English is such a contradictory language.”
Rafael waved it off. “I did not take it that way. Do you like cay?”
“Yes, I love chai!” I wiggled at the thought of a latte.
He chuckled. “Turkish tea, not masala chai, to be clear.”
I stopped wiggling. “Oh, I’ve never tried it, but I’d like to.”
“Please make yourself comfortable. I will bring it to you.”
The next room was significantly cozier. Dark wood trim over mustard yellow walls with comfortably worn leather furniture. Antiquated music players lined the walls: a victrola, a polyphon, several more I didn’t recognize. A record played softly. Not one of his, though I’d half-expected it.
The art here was creepy, but not quite edging into horror. Lots of black, grey, and red, but those paintings didn’t completely cover the walls. Instead of overwhelming, it was contemplative.
Rafael joined me bearing a tray with two tulip-shaped, handleless glasses filled with a rich, reddish-brown tea.
He gestured for me to sit. I sank into the buttery-soft leather sofa.
Not far to sink; it was taller than I was accustomed to.
He handed me a glass and saucer with a teaspoon and two sugar cubes, and sat in the equally soft-looking chair across from me.
My southern upbringing weighed heavily on me. “What’s the etiquette?”
“Hold it by the rim so you do not burn your hands.” He demonstrated. “If we were in Türkiye, I would refill your glass until you rested your spoon across the top, but you can just tell me.”
Awkwardly, I copied him. Amusement glittered in his eyes as he watched me try to drink without spilling tea on my cleavage.
The tea was strong but not bitter, so I stirred in one sugar cube. “This is really good. Thank you. Do you drink a lot of tea?”
He smiled over his cup. “Mostly reserved for hospitality these days, though that is rare enough. You Americans have gotten to me with your coffee-drinking habits. Better for my insomniac lifestyle, anyway.”
I nodded, glancing around the room. At least there’s no Saturn Devouring His Son. “You must be a fan of Goya’s black paintings.”
“You know your art, and I am indeed. Sadly, museums are loath to part with those originals.”
My back straightened. “Oh, you got money-money.”
Rafael expelled a huff of amusement. “Writing scores for successful franchises provides a comfortable wage, but I got lucky with some investments a while back. My little palace here is my only true extravagance.”
I wanted to kick myself. “God, I need to invest in a muzzle for myself. That was a rude thing to say. I’m sorry. My southern mom would be horrified at my lack of manners.”
“I like your bluntness. Too many people tiptoe around me.”
Thank god for that. “Was the building already like this when you moved in?”
“It was in dire need of repair when I bought it.” Rafael caressed the dark wainscoting by his chair.
I’d never been so jealous of a wood panel.
“Solid bones, and the café was still operational, but the rest was a disaster. The studio I worked with at the time told me I was crazy, both for moving away from LA and for buying this place. The previous owners were asking an absurd price for the amount of work it needed. Now, it would be considered a steal.” He huffed at the absurdity of his words.
“I take it you don’t ever plan to sell.”
“Someday my desiccated corpse will be found huddled over my piano.” He curled his long fingers into claws, raising them to his face, and I laughed.
“It took years of research, labor, and far more money than it should have, but I am grateful I acquired this place before Art Levenson could defile it in the name of progress and sell it to the fucking Livelys.”
“Yeah, he would have ruined it for sure.”
Art Levenson was the developer responsible for the modernization of far too many gorgeous old homes and buildings; stripping them of all their personality.
Strict historical building codes kept the outer facades intact, but the insides were fair game for the predation of tech bros trying to impress each other with their boring lack of taste.
Rafael set his empty glass down and gestured to the side table on my right. “Your book is interesting.”
A paper pad and pens rested there. Next to my book. Which was extensively tabbed. How had I missed that?
“Oh, fuck.” It slipped out of my mouth. “I’m scared of that much annotation.”
“Relax, I very much enjoyed this window into your psyche.” He smiled. “There is a ferocity in you crying out to be expressed. Confidence you do not carry on the surface. And a darkness you seem almost afraid to embrace, so you project it onto the dragon character.”
“Damn. Talk about reading. Nobody’s ever clocked me like this before.” I squirmed in my seat.
“I knew you had hidden depths. The book only confirms my suspicions.” That eagle-eyed stare pierced straight into my soul. “I like your sense of humor and your creative depravity. The notes are on the parts I enjoyed, and only for you. I remember everything.”
Everything?
Rafael’s face hardened. “You are considering testing me. Asking for a page number.”
“I…was, but I have a feeling that’s like the height question. You get it a lot, and it’s annoying. I’ll just trust you on your memory.”
His expression brightened with relief. “I knew I liked you, Elaine.”
“Did I pass another test?” My fingers itched, but I didn’t pick up the book. “Am I allowed to ask how your memory works? Is it photographic?”
“I have very strong recall, but my echoic memory—sound memory—is distinct. I read your book aloud to store it away.”
That beautiful voice read all my words aloud? Oh no, holy shit, that means he read the smut out loud too. My ‘creative depravity’. I made an impressed noise while internally freaking out.
“You blush easily. How charming.”
Between the amusement in his eyes and that sensual bass curling around me, I wanted to slide off the sofa into a puddle on the floor, but I stammered out, “I’d make a terrible poker player.”
He would be excellent at poker. I have no fucking idea what he’s thinking.
Rafael gave me that secretive cat smile. “Speaking of playing; may I play something for you?”