That was not often in evidence, with her father, but it was there. Always there, somewhere, beneath the doctor’s surface. Sharon remembered, once—she’d been twelve at the time and her mother was still alive—coming out of a movie theater with her parents in a rough part of Chicago. Two young men had moved toward them. Their purpose? Impossible to know, but there had been that sense of aggressiveness about their movements.
Their purpose would never be known because her father had gone through an instantaneous transformation. Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde—or was it the other way around? Sharon could never remember. One instant, a courteous and sophisticated professional man in early middle age; the next—
Sharon could remember being far more frightened by her father than the two young men, even though none of his—anger? pose? who could tell?—was aimed at her. You got some kinda problem, motherfuckers? James Nichols was not a big man. But, in that moment, his entire upper body had seemed to swell, his face jutting forward, the muscles in his neck like stretched cables. If he’d had hackles, they would have been raised. The beast below, filling the man.
The two young men had lost whatever purpose they’d had, immediately. They hadn’t run away. Not quite. But Sharon was sure they’d set a new Olympic record for the fifty-yard walk, if there was such an event.
She looked back at Sanchez. He was still just studying her, silently, through hooded eyes.
Yes. Oh, yes. But there is that one great difference, isn’t there?
Sharon’s eyes went back to the window, moving across the seascape of Venice below. For all the surface glitter of the city and its undoubted beauty, it was ultimately tawdry. Even foul, in this time and place. It was a world with many wonders, to be sure. But it was still the world that had destroyed Hans Richter. A world she loathed, hated and despised, when all was said and done.
Yes, that difference. James Nichols had come into a world which, however uncaring it might often be about its underbelly—and a big, foul underbelly it was, too—allowed individuals from it to claw their way out. Even sanctioned it; even praised the act of clawing. James Nichols was known to publicly joke about his “close encounter with that downstate institute of learning I don’t think I’ll get into the details about”—and the joke invariably elicited laughs from the men who heard it. Men of a different background and a different color, but it mattered not at all. Always, beneath the laughter, there was that genuine respect. Even admiration.
There would be no such respect and admiration for Ruy Sanchez. Not in this world. The trajectory of his life mattered not at all. The origin was enough. He was tolerated for his skills, and accepted because he had the good grace to cover his origins with the requisite lies. But there would always be certain limits, certain boundaries—and, always, the silence of a man who really couldn’t even understand the source of his own bitterness.
How odd it seemed to Sharon—shocking, even—that he should extend those limits to her. Would see her as a suitable object of his lust—his world would accept a seducer, and enjoyed its salacious gossip about nobility—but . . . nothing further. Such a gulf there was between them. The difference in age was the least of it.
The gulf itself drove the decision. In this, too, Sharon Nichols would use anger as her tool.
She turned to face him, squarely, her hands pressed to her thighs. “Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz—or whatever your real name is, and how about telling me some time? I’d actually like to know—and . . . that’s a run-on sentence. Sorry. Weakness of mine.”
She took a deep breath. “There is only one human being in this universe who will ever decide whether you belong in my bed. In whatever capacity. One-night stand—never mind; I’ll explain that some other time, I’m sure you can figure out—ha! you!—the gist of it, anyway—or lawfully wedded husband. That person is me. Understand that in the marrow of your bones, or get out of my sight and don’t come back. Comprende?”