Broken Dream (Dark Angel) Page 2

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ the stranger asked. He was closer now – tall, dark-haired, out-of-this-world handsome – and I did a kind of double take.

  It couldn’t be … surely not!

  ‘No, I’m not Jack Kane,’ he confirmed as if he read what was going on inside my muddled brain. ‘A lot of people make the same mistake. I’m Charlie Speke, his stuntman double.’

  My wrist ached and I could still feel the imprint of the mugger’s boot in the small of my back. My jacket and jeans were caked with snow. ‘The guy in the hat back there – did you see him?’

  The stranger nodded.

  ‘He stole my bag and my phone.’ I broke down and sobbed helplessly.

  Then the Jack Kane lookalike took my arm and led me to the carousel entrance, where the female operator was busy locking a metal grille. ‘Stand here in the porch,’ Charlie Speke told me. ‘Take a deep breath and tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘The guy came out of nowhere, grabbed me from behind. I was looking for my boyfriend. I’d lost him in the crowd, back by the volleyball courts. He’ll be waiting by the gates. I have to go.’

  ‘Slow down,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Jeez!’ The carousel worker had locked up, glanced at Charlie and made the usual mistake.

  ‘Nope,’ he said with a smile and a quick shake of his head. ‘I’m not him. I’m nobody.’

  The woman checked out his thick, short jet-black hair and hazel eyes under strong, straight brows, his small, neat ears, angular jaw and high cheekbones. ‘You got to be kidding,’ she challenged.

  ‘If only,’ he shrugged. ‘But believe me – I’m nobody. If I’m Jack Kane, where’s my security team? Where’s my helicopter?’

  ‘Got you,’ she agreed – an everyday, middle-aged woman in a dark-blue coat and black boots, not the type to be overly impressed by celebrity in any case. She glanced my way and saw the tears. ‘You OK?’

  ‘It’s cool, I got it,’ Charlie assured her and she nodded then headed for the walkway, taking the opposite direction to the one I wanted to go.

  ‘What’s your name?’ He was helping me to brush the snow from the back of my collar.

  ‘Tania. Tania Ionescu.’

  ‘Tania, I’ll come with you, make sure you’re safe,’ he offered, making small talk as we walked. ‘You were in the park to watch the filming? Did you get a good look at the living legend? I guess you saw the first Siege movie? How did you rate it?’

  Then, when I’d calmed down, he asked me again about the guy who had stolen my bag. ‘Can you recall any details about how he looked?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What he was wearing, how tall – that kind of thing?’

  ‘Shorter than me, maybe only five eight. He had one of those hats that hunters wear, with the ear flaps. A dark leather jacket.’

  ‘White? Black?’

  ‘He looked mixed-race.’

  ‘And he took your wallet, your money, everything?’

  I nodded miserably.

  ‘But your boyfriend is waiting for you at the entrance to the park?’

  ‘Let’s hope,’ I said with an anxious sigh.

  ‘So we’ll soon find out.’

  Stuntman Charlie was right. We were past the Wollman ice rink, almost at the gates. In the street beyond I could see the horse-drawn buggies waiting by the sidewalk, blowing steam into the cold dusk air.

  I picked up speed, certain that Orlando would be there. It was still pretty crowded on the sidewalk, and messed up by piles of dirty snow, puddles of slush, overflowing trash cans, clouds of exhaust fumes.

  ‘You see him?’ Charlie enquired.

  I shook my head, felt my heart falter. ‘Maybe he’s still back by the reservoir.’

  ‘You remember his cell phone number?’

  ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t help. His battery’s dead.’ I was in a rush to get away, ready to retrace my steps.

  ‘Whoa, Tania. let’s think this through. We’re talking about eight hundred and fifty acres of parkland for your boyfriend to get lost in. It’s a no-brainer – you could be running round there in the dark for hours like a headless chicken. It’s better if you head back to your hotel and wait for him there.’

  By now my pulse was racing again. I was listening to Charlie’s idea partly because it was plain common sense and partly because I dreaded going back past the dark angel carousel. ‘You sound like my dad,’ I joked feebly.

  He pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘He’s Romanian.’ I lowered my voice a couple of octaves. ‘“Running like headless chicken.” That’s how he talks.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘So going back to your hotel is a good idea?’

  I didn’t answer as I looked around for Orlando one last time, stepping aside as a family of shoppers bustled by loaded down with bulky Bloomingdale’s bags. A cab pulled up in a nearby bay.

  ‘Where’s your hotel?’

  ‘Way down in TriBeCa. It’s a small B&B.’

  ‘So take this cab,’ Charlie told me, striding ahead and opening the door.

  ‘I don’t have any money, remember.’

  ‘Give me the address.’

  ‘86 Hubert Street, just off Twelfth Avenue.’

  ‘You hear that?’ Charlie asked the cab driver, taking bills out of his wallet and handing them over. ‘This covers it, right?’

  The driver nodded, glancing from Charlie to me before he took the money.

  ‘Problem solved.’ Charlie held open the door of the cab.

  ‘But I can’t … I mean, why would you do this?’ He was just a guy walking through Central Park after a day’s work.

  ‘Let’s say it’s good for my karma,’ he grinned, and as he did this the Jack Kane similarity sent me weak at the knees. I’ll describe him again: hazel eyes that always seemed to find the funny side of any situation, plus perfect teeth and a quirky smile that puts a dimple in one cheek, which actually and coincidentally is one of the features I love most about Orlando’s face – his dimple, his Irish smile.

  ‘I want to pay you back,’ I gabbled, leaning out of the window as the cab driver pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ my knight errant replied, striding off.

  ‘Lucky you,’ my driver grunted as he pushed into the gridlocked traffic. He was looking in his overhead mirror, probably wondering what I’d had to do for my free taxi ride.

  What could I say? I sat back and closed my eyes.

  2

  No Orlando, no phone, no money – it was so not good. But as the cab driver turned into Hubert Street, pulled up outside number 86 and I climbed the brownstone steps, I did actually begin to feel the band of anxiety loosen. The windows of my B&B glowed with a warm yellow light, there was a Christmas wreath on the door and a welcoming smile from my landlady as I walked into the cosy lobby.

  ‘Had a good day?’ she asked. She was straightening the Persian rugs in the hallway, turning on more lights.

  ‘Until I went and lost my boyfriend. After that, not so good.’ And I told her about the mugging, the loss of my bag and the fact that Orlando hadn’t showed up yet. ‘I was hoping he’d already be here.’

  Mrs Waterman shook her head. She was small and slender, a widow in her fifties with a smart haircut and Botoxed brow.

  ‘He’s not?’

  ‘No. Sorry, honey, I haven’t seen him. But don’t worry – he’ll be here.’

  I nodded and took the small elevator up to the third storey, found the old-fashioned brass room key in my jacket’s inside pocket and turned it in the lock, still secretly hoping that Mrs Waterman was mistaken and that Orlando had made it back to the hotel before me.

  I opened the door on our quaint room with its quilted bed throws and pretty floral drapes. Be here! I silently urged.

  But no, the room was exactly the way it had been when we left it early that morning, with Orlando’s clothes unpacked and laid neatly at the end of the bed and my stuff scattered everywhere.
I sighed then turned on the TV.

  I watched Fox News on politics, international unrest, bad weather in Maryland then a showbiz item about the on-location filming of Jack Kane’s next movie. They showed the crowds in Central Park, Jack’s helicopter and the briefest through-the-window glimpse of his wife, Natalia Linton, staring straight ahead as the chopper rose into the sky. Then there was follow-up stuff about the paparazzi harassing Natalia and the kids in the hotel lobby the previous day, footage of her in dark glasses trying to ignore the cameras and the avalanche of questions as they hassled her about rumours of her husband’s latest affair with his current co-star, Angela Taraska.

  I channel-hopped and tried not to look at my watch. If it got to eight p.m. and Orlando still hadn’t showed up, I decided I would use the phone in my room to call home and ask my parents what to do next. Not very adult or independent, I agree. But in an emergency Dad never panics. He has the coolest, most practical of brains. And Mom has travelled all over the world – in her time she’s lost luggage, cell phones, companions, maybe even boyfriends before she met my dad.

  Seven forty-five p.m. I had fifteen long minutes to wait. Seven fifty came and went. At seven fifty-five I heard Orlando’s key turn in the lock.

  Suddenly it was as if all my Christmases had come at once.

  I threw myself at him and clasped my arms round his neck, held him as if I would never let go.

  ‘Hey, Tania,’ he breathed, kissing the top of my head. ‘Take it easy. Nobody died, did they?’

  ‘You idiot!’ I cried, flipping from relief into anger and pummelling his chest. ‘What happened? Where did you go?’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I was there, in exactly the place you left me. I waited for ever. I didn’t move from the spot.’

  Orlando winced and caught me by the wrists. ‘Ouch, that hurt.’

  ‘Ouch!’ I retaliated. He’d grabbed my sore arm. ‘You didn’t come back,’ I sobbed into his chest.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ he told me when he understood my distress and saw the bruising on my wrist. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘A guy jumped me. He stole my bag.’

  ‘When? Tania, are you OK?’ Now he held me at arms’ length and looked into my eyes. ‘Jeez, I’m beyond sorry. Sit down, tell me what happened.’

  We sat on the bed and I began at the beginning, telling him everything, including the bad moments with the shape-shifting stallion, which is where he interrupted me.

  ‘The spirit stuff has started over?’ He frowned deeply and let his shoulders sag.

  ‘Yes. No. Maybe. What can I say?’

  Orlando shook his head then took a deep breath. ‘Wait. This guy was attacking you, right?’

  ‘He dragged me into the bushes at the back of the carousel, stomped on my wrist and put his foot in my back, right here.’

  ‘Poor baby. You were scared out of your mind. And that’s when the horse thing happened?’

  I nodded. ‘I just looked up and he – the stallion – came to life. You know how it is.’ Carved masks jump off walls, painted forests are real, men in wolf cloaks are transformed into wild beasts. It’s happened to me so often that I’ve stopped thinking how weird that must sound, written down like this.

  ‘Wait … wait!’ Orlando insisted. ‘Maybe it doesn’t mean what you think it means.’

  ‘It’s not my dark angel?’ I asked in a tiny voice. My bottom lip quivered; I felt five years old.

  ‘No, baby, it’s not,’ he said, slamming the door on the psychic stuff. ‘You were under pressure, you lost control and your imagination went into overdrive – end of story.’

  Hold it right there! Orlando’s over-hasty protests plus my own sixth sense told me that I hadn’t got it wrong. I always know when the fallen angels are gathering. I won’t see them right away, might not identify them when I do, but I definitely sensed they were here in New York.

  But Orlando’s arms were round me, protecting me and persuading me to override my intuition so I chose the easy way out. ‘You’re right,’ I whispered. ‘I got rid of my dark angel for good when Turner Lake broke its banks.’ In late fall, when the whole army of them shape-shifted into wolf men and fell howling into the flood.

  ‘I’m here. You’re safe,’ Orlando promised.

  I so wanted it to be true.

  We turned down the lights and threw back the quilt. The bed was soft and narrow, all the better for moulding our bodies together and feeling the warmth, the smoothness of our skin.

  ‘I love you,’ I murmured, my lips against his chest so that the words blurred.

  Orlando tilted my chin and kissed my mouth.

  We were gentle and slow, cocooned in cool white sheets until he peeled them back to free our limbs. Then he leaned back and rested on his elbow, blocking out the soft glow of the bedside lamp. His face was in shadow – I could just make out his dark hair falling forward over his forehead and the gleam of his grey eyes.

  ‘In Dallas,’ he began.

  I leaned in and kissed him.

  ‘In Dallas I try to store up these moments in my memory and replay them – exactly the way you look, the shape of your body, the way your hair is spread out on the pillow, the angle your collarbone makes …’

  ‘And?’ I said, kissing him again.

  ‘Sometimes I can do it, but other times it all just fades. The image goes and it feels like I’m losing you.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I told him. There was no distance between us; my heart was always his.

  We slept sweetly, Orlando on his back and me on my side with one arm resting on his stomach. All night long we hardly stirred.

  It was still dark when we woke.

  Here’s one of the differences between us – Orlando always clicks straight into action, launches into the day, while I lie half asleep with a warm, fuzzy, floaty feeling, longing for ten more minutes in bed.

  ‘You cancelled your bank cards, right?’ he asked.

  ‘Hmmm. What time is it?’

  ‘Seven thirty. Visa. Amex. Tania, you called your bank?’

  Slowly I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was wearing his jeans but his belt was unbuckled and he was still naked from the waist up. I carried on gazing at him and feeling happy.

  ‘I guess you didn’t.’ Sliding off the bed, he unhooked his phone from its charger. ‘We need to report your stolen cards. What time does your workshop start?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’ The thought of making it uptown to the Lincoln Center in less than ninety minutes brought me fully awake. Day one of my three-day course was on transferring old 35 millimetre film to a digital format. We would finish at one thirty, leaving the afternoons free.

  ‘So we need a small miracle to get you there on time.’ Orlando had his phone pinned to one ear. He grinned as he watched me jump out of bed and head for the bathroom.

  ‘I can do it!’ I yelled. ‘Five minutes in the shower, five to dry my hair, five to put on make-up, five more to get dressed.’

  ‘Really? I never saw you get ready in under an hour.’

  ‘Watch me.’

  Five minutes later I was towelling myself dry and experimenting with the controls on the hotel hairdryer. ‘What are your plans for today?’

  ‘Number one – to buy you a new phone.’

  ‘So sweet,’ I murmured, finger hovering over the On switch. Orlando was more together than me over practical stuff and he enjoyed fixing this kind of problem.

  Gently he took the dryer out of my hand and put me well behind schedule with a three-minute kiss.

  ‘Number two on my tourist to-do list is take pictures from Brooklyn Bridge. Number three, visit the Flatiron and Empire State …’

  ‘Meet me outside the Lincoln Center, one thirty?’ I checked as he handed over twenty dollars for emergency spending.

  OK, so it was more like thirty minutes before we made our way to the elevator, but still impressive. I was wrapped up in scarf, hat and gloves, planning our subway route as we exited into the
lobby.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ Mrs Waterman told us from behind her desk.

  We thought she’d made a mistake until she pointed to Charlie Speke waiting by the front door.

  ‘Whoa!’ Orlando cried.

  We caught sight of Charlie in profile, hands in pockets, scanning the rules of the B&B pinned up on the wall.

  ‘No – it’s not …’ I began to tell Orlando. ‘It’s his stuntman double, the guy who paid for my taxi fare – I think.’ My voice tailed off. Really, the resemblance to Jack Kane was mind-blowing.

  ‘Hey, Tania!’ Charlie’s greeting was warm and relaxed. ‘And you must be the missing boyfriend, Orlando?’ he added as he came across the Persian rug to shake hands. ‘Glad you finally showed up. Listen, I can see you’re all fired up and ready to go but I’m glad I caught you before you left the hotel. I have something for you.’

  ‘Dude!’ Orlando still couldn’t take his eyes off Charlie’s face.

  ‘Sorry.’ Charlie clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘I’m always pissing people off this way.’

  ‘No, no problem.’ Swallowing and trying to act normally, still Orlando couldn’t help shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Do you ever – I mean, have you?’

  ‘Faked it? Pretended I’m really him?’

  Orlando nodded.

  Charlie gave us his dimpled Jack Kane smile. ‘I’d be lying if I said no. Sometimes with girls I meet in a bar. Just at first – maybe for a couple of minutes before I fess up. It’s so wrong, huh?’

  ‘No,’ Orlando assured him. ‘Dude, anyone would.’

  ‘But hey, here are the passes Natalia wanted me to give you.’

  ‘Passes?’ I took what Charlie was offering and read the print on the top card. ‘Siege 2 – Crew’, with a bar code beneath.

  ‘These get you past Security,’ Charlie explained. ‘It’s like an admission into the non-public areas. Natalia’s idea.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What did we do?’

  Charlie found my amazement funny. In fact, he seemed permanently amused. ‘It’s not what you did, it’s what you had done to you. I met up with Jack and Natalia last night at their hotel. Me and a few other guys on the crew, we all got together for drinks in their private suite. I happened to mention the story about you and Orlando watching the shoot and how you two got split up. When Natalia heard about the attack, she was kind of upset. Natalia’s like that – she hates violence of any kind. So she said why not try to put it right and give you special passes for today?’