Ghosts of Manhattan Read Free Page B

was.

    Ghosts. New York was full of people like that. So were his parties. People who drifted through life as if it didn't matter, as if it were simply something that they had to do. Get up in the morning, pass time, sleep, fuck, die. Even Gabriel Cross was a member of that illustrious set, as much as he hated to admit it. But Celeste was not, and her allure had been unavoidable, her effect on Gabriel predetermined from the outset. He had been ensnared, and for the rest of that night he had lain awake in the stifling summer heat, drunk on whisky and desire, replaying the sound of Celeste's voice over and over in his mind.
    The next night Gabriel had returned to the club by himself in search of the jazz singer. He'd found her haunting the bar; drinking orange juice laced with cheap, illegal gin. He'd bought her drinks, offered her cigarettes, watched her as she brushed aside the other men who each lined up to make a play for her attention. At first she'd seemed amused by his presence-the confident interloper-intrigued by the fact that he had returned to the club so soon after his previous visit, this time without the pretty embellishment on his arm. But Gabriel had seen where the other men had tried and failed. He wouldn't make the same mistakes. Not this time. So, instead, he had simply offered her a final cigarette for the evening, before retiring. He didn't leave his name or his number. He didn't need to.
    A week later he had found her playing cards in his breakfast room with three other girls whose names he could never remember. His party was in full swing; it was dark outside, but drunken men strutted loudly on the lawn by the light of the moon, and women laughed gaily as though being treated to the height of theatrical endeavor. All around them the house was full of bustle, of noise and tension and sex and booze. Of people looking for a way to force some feeling into their lives, or else to numb the pain. But when Celeste had turned to smile at him, he'd wanted nothing more than for them all to disappear. He'd wanted the world to stand still again, like it had a week before, the night he'd first watched her open her mouth to sing.
    He'd fucked her that night at the party, hot and fast and urgent. And in the morning, as the sunlight streamed in through the window to dapple the pillow where she had lain, he knew then that he was in love with her.

    He looked up. She was watching him now whilst she gently rolled the end of her cigarette around the rim of the cut-glass ashtray. He turned to meet her gaze. "Have you read the papers?"
    Celeste shrugged. "It's not news, you know, Gabriel. Not real news. It's just hearsay and opinion. It's what people tell each other to make the time go by."
    Gabriel smiled. "But what about this `Ghost'? Did you hear about that? The crazy vigilante who burst in on that bank job and killed all the crooks? Now that's news."
    Celeste shrugged, pursing her lips. "Yes, I suppose it is. But I don't know why it's so surprising. It was only ever a matter of time before someone tried to take the law into their own hands. Crooks and vigilantes, they're just different sides of the same coin. He's as bad as the rest of them."
    Gabriel nodded. "Perhaps you're right. The papers certainly share your opinion. But I can't help wondering if the guy is actually a hero. He saved people's lives."
    "And took others. He caused that woman's death. The hostage."
    Gabriel fingered his cigarette case before turning it over, flicking the catch, and withdrawing a cigarette. He pulled the tab, and met Celeste's penetrating gaze through a brief wall of smoke. "Perhaps ... but I'd still be inclined to blame that on the crook who put the knife in her throat, rather than the guy who tried to save her."
    Celeste looked as if she was about to speak, but then she turned to watch Henry, the valet, enter the room through another door. On a tray he bore a plate of toast and eggs, with a Bloody Mary on the side. He smiled genially when