Barbie & The Beast

by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  “I’m glad you approve of my looks. However, what do you mean by near to perfection?”

  “Nobody’s completely perfect, are they?”

  “I guess not. Just so you know, though, my answer to your question is that I didn’t think about your being a ‘random find.’ I liked what I heard and wanted to meet you, that’s all.” Back was that strange light in Darin’s eyes, the one that took them from green to gold to shadowy. His lips upturned as he leaned back from the table, away from the candle. “Something in your voice suggested you’d be right for me. I went with the notion.”

  “Psychic, eh? For real?”

  That hadn’t come out anything like what Barbie meant. Had she used a cynical lilt? Had she babbled? She put a hand to her head to feel for brain leakage and offered her date an apologetic smile.

  She was saved by the server, who appeared tableside. With his puffy white sleeves restrained by black garters, presumably so the fabric wouldn’t drop into the sauce, he set down a large platter, then silently withdrew. What ever was on that dish smelled heavenly: onions, green peppers, and garlic wrapped around a mound of brown.

  As hungry as she was, Barbie didn’t take her eyes off her date. You never knew where Darin would end up if you lost sight of him. Her heart couldn’t take any more closeness at the moment. Any more random touching and she was a goner.

  “You know,” she said thoughtfully, with another sip of wine, “although I’ve been drinking this stuff, my glass isn’t empty.”

  “A sign of very good ser vice, don’t you think?” Darin asked.

  Did he have laryngitis? His voice was becoming more and more strained. Maybe he was a vampire, and the garlic from the appetizers was getting to him! Alas, more likely the difficulty in her hearing had to do with the wine. Frigging lightweight.

  She gripped the crystal stem of her glass tightly. “Yes, but if someone keeps filling my glass on the sly, how do I know how much wine I’ve had? I think the room might be tilting.”

  Why hadn’t she noticed anyone refilling her glass? Because Darin Russell was a Barbie magnet, that’s why. Screw Blaine. Heck with Ken.

  “Time to try some of this dish—to dilute the effects of the alcohol,” Darin suggested. “By the looks of it, I’d say the chef has outdone himself for you.”

  The server returned from out of the blue to dole out some of the delightful-smelling concoction. Barbie waited until Darin’s plate was also filled, then she sniffed at the steam rising from hers. She glanced up, saw that Darin’s gaze was zeroing in on her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You sniffed at it.”

  “Oops. Sniffing is not quite proper etiquette, is it? It’s just that what ever this is smells delicious.”

  As Barbie dipped her fork into the meal, she barely noticed that she didn’t have to eat with her fingers. She barely noticed that the meat looked like lamb, one of her favorites, because Darin had put his face close to his plate and was copying her action. The moment seemed somehow removed from time.

  The soft Gypsy music in the background, the scent of the lamb, the sparkling everything, and that glorious hair of Darin’s falling around his face as he leaned over his plate to sniff in a decidedly animalistic fashion—it all was, Barbie found, faintly disquieting. Also, incredibly fascinating.

  She set down her fork, no longer hungry. She couldn’t have chewed if she’d wanted, not with Darin there. What was it about him that she couldn’t put a finger on? What lay beyond her reach? She could hardly breathe with Darin’s eyes on her, burning each inch of her that they took in. His attention made the wine seem harmless in comparison, and the savory lamb forgettable.

  “What?” she said again, finding that Darin was no longer grinning. He wore a new expression, an almost pained one. This particular rearrangement of his features produced a pang in Barbie’s pan ties, a pang that was a distinct precursor to a state described glibly by her college roommates as being horny. Her date stared at her with those luminous green eyes beneath that dark mass of hair, and she wanted to. . .

  Yep. Horny, all right. Already her hands were advancing toward him on the tablecloth, moving independently of her will.

  Stop! Stop, I say!

  Her fingers detoured, paying heed. Sort of. They climbed up the stem of her wine glass instead, closed around it, and began rubbing up and down, slowly, suggestively, shockingly. She couldn’t stop herself. Seduction Barbie had entered the room.

  A nebulous giddiness came on, as though someone had dropped silly pills into the wine. Barbie felt like laughing. She really did feel like dancing on the tabletops. All of sudden she didn’t care why Darin had asked her out to dinner, only that he had, and that they were connecting in some extremely hot and sensual way that conversation played no part in. Theirs was a connection that even his supernaturally great looks had little to do with. It was something more elemental.

  Strong fingers closed over her wrist. The rapidly beating thing in Barbie’s chest fluttered. Darin had hold of her! Darin’s heat coursed through her, over her, hotter than lava.

  Wait! Could anything be hotter than lava? Yes! And hotter than the hundred-year-old alcohol, too. Darin’s fingers on her wrist were like nothing she had ever encountered. It occurred to her that if he didn’t remove those fingers in the next two seconds, she’d shout, To hell with dancing on the tabletops, and demand from Darin a more intimate performance. Something involving the exchange of bodily fluids. While the violins strummed on.

  “Perhaps some water?” Darin suggested, eyes locked on hers.

  A swim? A shower? Kinky, Barbie thought, swallowing hard.

  “I want. . .” Slurring big-time, she pressed her lips together. Okay, the lip-closing wasn’t entirely due to the slurrage, but because Darin’s fingernails, long and sharp by the feel of them, were raking her skin.

  Barbie shot to her feet, stared at her wrist. Talk about suggestive! Talk about erotic! No, she didn’t want to talk about this at all. She wanted action. She tipped forward, caught herself with a hand on the table. Holy crap! She was drunk as a skunk!

  “Are you all right?” Darin asked nicely enough, but he looked hungry. Not the food kind of hungry, either. There were dark flecks in his eyes. There were amber rings around those dark flecks. His pupils were huge. They were animal eyes, similar to a lion’s or a tiger’s, and they were following her movements as though she might be dessert.

  “You’ll be all right,” he promised.

  “I’m n-not so sure,” Barbie stuttered.

  What an understatement. She was sure she would not be all right. She was completely unstable. She’d ingested a gallon of wine and had eaten nothing. Darin was a god in human form, had kaleidoscopic eyes reminiscent of a four-legged predator, and had fire in his fingers—fingers in serious need of a manicure. Was she nuts to want those hands on her? All over her? This equaled “not all right” if the rules she’d been given governing female dating were worth the paper they hadn’t actually been written on.

  “Right there with you,” Barbie thought she heard Darin mutter, though she couldn’t be certain. The music had grown louder, probably in direct correlation to her wine intake. Darin’s arm trembled as he eased it around her shoulders to steady her.

  Maybe, Barbie thought, maybe—hopefully—he’d just had too much to drink, hence the intensity of his concentration. Maybe . . . she wasn’t ready for this.

  She teetered when drawn closer to his fiery aura. The room revolved. Darin’s face seemed to change shape in and out of the shadows, sort of like Elastic Man’s.

  Ridiculous! Barbie closed her eyes, then reopened them. His face was there in all its godlike beauty. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth.

  “I think perhaps the wine might have been a bit much. I’m sorry,” he apologized, saying the exact thing Barbie had been about to say. Only, Darin’s voice made the words beautiful. They were like low vibrations drifting over the bare skin of her neck. Like silk being dragged very slowly and sensuously over naked bo
dy parts. His voice was stirring up thoughts that reeked of sex and innuendo. Spasms of longing pierced Barbie to the bone.

  “I’m still fully par. . .par. . .partiffficating,” she insisted, realizing only then that the plates on the table wouldn’t stay still. Whoop, whoop, whoop. Head spin. Stomach whirl.

  Darin’s arm tightened more protectively around her, and a twinge hit Barbie, a realization as powerful as the longing she felt. There was no flaw in this guy. Not a single one. She was tipsy and he was going to protect her. She had poured the wine down her own throat, and he was going to take the blame. Truly, she was staring at perfection in human form, both inside and out. Or trying to stare at it, if only he would stand still. If only the room would stop spinning.

  “Shame,” Darin said for the second time in two days, holding her so close that she couldn’t look up to see his lips move.

  Had he just suggested “doing it” under the table? Of course not! Pure Barbie imagination. Though he might just as well have suggested it, for all the rippling and buzzing going on between her thighs.

  “W-what’s a shame?” Barbie stammered, tongue twisting in her mouth with a desire to lick his soft white shirt. She stared wide-eyed at the mutinous wine glass.

  “A shame. . .that you can’t sample more of this food. We’ll box it up, shall we?” Darin said.

  He had meant to say something else, Barbie knew. That unsaid thing lingered in the air, mingling with the already-present heat. Darin had something on his mind. But what? They were so close, not even breathing space between their bodies.

  “You’re sending me home?” she asked disbelievingly.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “Calling the date off?”

  “Keeping it on track.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I have to protect you.”

  “Beast,” Barbie said.

  “If you only knew,” Darin whispered.

  The room twirled again as Barbie turned her head. Her chin bumped Darin’s chest, all six foot two of him and smelling better than the lamb. Barbie lifted her gaze, slowly, and though the room temporarily ceased to dance, Darin’s eyes sure did. Those eyes looked right through her, down deep inside of her, haunting, calling, challenging.

  You with me, Barbie? he said.

  But his lips hadn’t moved.

  You enjoyed the feelings of wildness in the cemetery, the voice inside of her head prodded.

  Nonsense, Barbie told herself. She was sloshed, that’s all. There was no voice inside of her head. Darin couldn’t get in there. He was too darned big.

  The abandon. The scent of damp grass in the night, the voice suggested.

  Okay. Okay. His suggestions were correct. As incongruous as it might seem for a high school teacher with a normal life, she had enjoyed all those things. She suddenly craved adventure, just as she craved the safety of Darin Russell’s arms.

  Well, not safety, exactly, she amended. There was danger in Darin’s embrace, as well as the hint of comfort. There was danger in investigating a magnetism like this between strangers who hadn’t even exchanged two hundred words, total.

  “It’s a question of addition,” she said aloud, without realizing it.

  “Adding up to what, Barbie?”

  “Four letters.”

  “What do those letters spell?”

  “Lust.”

  Of course, she wasn’t so tipsy that she didn’t recognize the word and the ramifications of her admission.

  “Full-on lust,” she repeated. “Pure animal magnetism. Woof.”

  Behind Darin’s expression lay a sense of urgency that caused the air in the room to electrify. The music became a distant hum. The tables melted away.

  “Come, my lovely Barbie doll,” he urged, his mouth brushing along her hairline in a way that made Barbie’s hips undulate. “The food will be waiting by the time we get outside.”

  “Food?” Lordy, Barbie wanted to be the food. She had made a joke about it earlier, and now might get her wish. They were going outside. They were leaving the crowd, going someplace private.

  Taboo!

  She was weakening!

  She was drunk!

  Darin was still staring. Could he read her mind, her thoughts? Really read them? Wasn’t that a flaw? Extrasensory perception was a drawback, right? A huge advantage for him? Could this be fair?

  “Then what?” Barbie asked, barely managing the question, since her nipples were straining against Darin’s jacket in a way that made her gasp through partially parted lips: “What will we do when we get outside?”

  “I thought we might start by breaking some rules,” Darin said.

  Rule breakage! Although her legs were weak, Barbie nonetheless wanted to shout, Bring it on! Not Rebel Barbie. Not Seduction Barbie or Adventure Barbie, either. This was Ms. Barbie Bradley, teacher. This was what her very soul wanted. It all seemed so shocking. So promising. Yes. She longed for this. She wanted to be his dessert.

  Turning precariously, Barbie wobbled a first step. Darin had a firm hold of her elbow. Willing herself to keep it together—and to maintain some distance between herself and this man, even if measured in millimeters, at least until they were free of the restaurant—Barbie made for the door.

  Yes, she had to retain some dignity here, even if she was about to become part of her date’s meal. Even if the Barbie Bradley she had always known and liked was, just this once, taking a vacation from mental acuity.

  Good thing Angie isn’t here, she thought as she passed between the other tables. Good thing no one knew about this potential moral slippage. Good thing she was slightly sloshed.

  And just for the record, Yo-frigging-ho.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darin, Graveyard Guy, police department consultant. . .had a Porsche. A black Porsche tricked out with darkly tinted windows and a Blaupunkt stereo system, though there was no sound at the moment. The Porsche’s dashboard appeared to have every single gadget known to man, all of them shining in various hues of bright. The car’s interior was tan, pliant leather—with a surprising couple of slasher-style rips on the passenger seat. Barbie was not too sloshed to notice this.

  “What happened to the up. . .up. . .upholstery?” she asked, head lolling back as the Gypsy valet shut her door behind her and Darin slid into the car.

  He’d had to have had a lot of dinners at that restaurant. His Porsche had been kept in a special garage in the back alley. A porte cochere led from the restaurant to the garage so that he wouldn’t get wet if it rained. Those were definite perks.

  Also, Barbie noticed, moving her right foot around, there were no S-and-M shackles obvious in the Porsche. Noting this, she relaxed a bit more as Darin eased the car into gear and maneuvered it onto the street. The vehicle purred like a tiger as he stepped on the gas.

  “The rips?” Barbie repeated, unable to hold her head upright while driving at Mach 2 and having ingested a bottle of wine.

  “Dog,” Darin said, both hands curled tightly around the steering wheel.

  “Shame,” Barbie said. This earned her an affectionate if fleeting smile from the hunk. Not merely pleased, but truly affectionate.

  The drive took no time. Although Barbie had a bit of trouble emerging from the sporty, low-built car in her tight skirt without flashing Darin royally, she managed. Still woozy and teetering slightly, she flinched when he again took hold of her arm.

  Zing! Another lightning bolt of lust struck her nether regions, and from nothing more than his helpful hold, as if elbows now were directly connected to the body parts below. So, Barbie wondered, approaching her apartment building, what would happen if Darin wanted a good-night kiss? If a touch to an upper extremity was this good, what might happen when their lips met? Who knew how the gods of attraction might react? How did you one-up a zing?

  Or, what if he didn’t try for a kiss? Well, she would fix that. Hormones were in motion. There was no stopping hormones.

  Darin’s lusciously musky scent fil
led her nostrils as they entered her apartment building hallway. If he smelled this good, Barbie just knew he’d taste even better.

  They were beside her front door in no time, Darin’s exotic eyes shining like night-lights focused on her. Zing! And right on the tail end of the zing, as if surfing the afterburn, came a sudden and unwelcome remembrance of Rule One.

  Rule One on the list of rules governing dating behavior stated firmly that first dates should be left at the door. Outside of it. As Barbie now recalled with a wince, this rule had three exclamation points after it in every book she’d ever seen. The information this rule was trying to get across? Don’t be easy. Translation, don’t act like a slut, even if you are or have ever desired to be one. Practice discipline.

  But this rule, Barbie thought, grasping for straws of exemption, had obviously never encountered female hormones on the rampage. This rule, Barbie decided, did not take into consideration the fact that things had changed in the last several de cades. But darn it all if Rule One didn’t conjure up the fact that there must be a Rule Two.

  Rule Two. Rule Two. Geez, what was Rule Two? How could she think, when Darin was looking at her that way? As if he’d devour her when she said the word, and maybe even if she didn’t. Could it be the damned rules worked best in dousing the flames of sexual desire through the mere act of trying to remember them?

  Nibble away! her hormones were shouting. Go to it, Darin! Nibble away!

  Rule Two. . .Oh, just make one up! Rule Two (creative, if not actual): if your date is a true gentleman, he will leave you with the doggie bag.

  There. Not so serious. Not involving hormone and testosterone levels, either. She’d sidestepped a land mine. Darin had suggested breaking some rules, so let them get to that. Rule breakage, mouth to mouth. Or, oh God, Barbie thought now, unable to keep her thoughts from evolving, maybe his plan to break rules meant that he would take the doggie bag? The rat!

  Then again, maybe Darin’s promise of rule breakage actually meant what she’d first thought it might mean. Rule breakage as in sharing other things. Sheets, for instance.