Love Wears a Mask

Love Wears a Mask

Chapter Two: Love is not fleeting

Hermione sighed, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing down the blue flower-print sundress she wore, leaning back in her chair and gazing apathetically across the dimly-lit dining lounge at the Palm Coast resort. She was exactly three hours into her "Southern Californian adventure," and things had gone from bad to worse ever since she'd stepped off the plane. She was startled out of her reverie by a surprisingly refined British voice, which came from somewhere over her head.

"Excuse me," the voice said, "is this seat taken?"

Hermione looked up to meet the gaze of the most attractive young man she'd ever had the privilege to visually devour. His finely sculpted face was a vision of high cheekbones and chiseled features, his hair was made of fine, silky brown waves just waiting to be touched, his physique muscular enough to be inescapably masculine but slim enough to appeal to Hermione's sense of aesthetics. But his eyes were the crowning glory of a near-perfect masterpiece, twin pools of liquid silver that threatened to capture her soul...

"No," she managed to say, hoping she sounded more self-possessed than she felt. "No, of course not." He grinned at her almost shyly, causing her heart to turn over within her stomach, and took the chair opposite her. She smiled back, wondering why on earth he'd come over. Oh, well, she thought. I'm not about to complain. Oh, please don't let me throw up.

"It's nice to see someone else my own age," he said, answering her unspoken question. "Amateur golf tournaments in Southern California don't tend to attract many teenagers. Especially such lovely young women as yourself....I'm afraid we haven't introduced ourselves?"

Hermione dared raise her eyes again to meet his, the mercurial orbs sending a spark of electricity that jarred her, though in a not entirely unpleasant way. She caught her breath, then gave him the most confident smile she could muster. "No, of course not. I'm-" she stopped. Hermione Granger had never been good with boys, or particularly smooth. This was her chance. She used the first thing she could think of. "Candy. Actually, I'm not. Candy, that is. But that's my name." She winced inwardly. Smooth, Hermione, smooth! She laughed lightly and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "But they say I'm just as sweet."

"That much is obvious," the stranger laughed, his eyes following the smooth arc of her hair over her creamy, bare shoulder, then tearing themselves up to her face as though shocked by their own forwardness. "My name--my name is Ocard, Candy." Then, looking over his shoulder to the half-empty dance floor where a slow, rhythmic salsa was playing, he glanced back at her, his eyes suddenly almost mischievous. "Do you dance?"

Hermione had always been fond of dancing, having had a few lessons when she was younger. She'd always been embarrassed to use it at Hogwarts, though. After everything that Harry and Ron had done to her after going to the Yule ball with Victor, she couldn't imagine what they'd do if they saw her break into a salsa routine. However, she thought, this wasn't Hermione. She was Candy now. And Candy liked to salsa. Her lips curled upward. "I do." Let him ask if he wanted to ask.

She should have known that such a response would be too predictable for this mysterious new acquaintance. Rather than asking for a dance, as any conventional person would do, he stood suddenly, but with a fluid grace that gave her some clue as to his skills on the dance floor. His hand snaked forward across the table, grasping her own gently but firmly and spinning her gracefully out of her seat and into his arms. "May I have this dance?" he queried in a husky, sensual voice, somewhat belatedly in Hermione's opinion.

She caught her breath in her throat at the shock of being at such proximity to him. She was pressed tightly against him, and she could feel his toned chest on the other side of the filmy material. "I suppose," she breathed tartly. The next moment, she found herself dipped low in his strong arms, and then they had made it out onto the dance floor. She was being swept away by the music and by the rhythm of his step, her hips swaying with his to the beat of the accompaniment. The crowd of dancers seemed to part around them, allowing their dancing to become increasingly complex as he guided her through a series of intricate steps, and then she was held, once again, in that firm embrace, as they swayed gently in time to the drum.

"Well?" he asked, a pleased smile curving those firm lips as he surveyed her, obviously appreciating her responsiveness to his guiding hand. She took a breath to reply, not sure what she planned to say, and then she felt a subtle change in his grasp around her waist and looked up to find the silver eyes gone cold and staring above her head at a spot near the door.

"Ocard?" she asked, concerned with this sudden alteration in his mood.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice suddenly rushed and lacking the gentle sophistication that had marked it earlier. His hands released her, leaving her suddenly empty and alone, and he took a hesitating step away, turning back momentarily, the obvious indecision in his eyes paining her.

"What is it?"

"I must go." And without further explanation, he was gone.